Spirituality. But Make It Real

You know what’s spiritual?

Not your Himalayan salt lamp.

Not your cacao ceremony in a borrowed language.

Not your “I’m doing the work” tote bag.

It’s how you respond when someone sees straight through you and doesn’t flinch.

It’s how you stay when your nervous system says run.

It’s the moment after you send the text — not the mantra you muttered before it.

Spirituality is not a lifestyle brand.

It’s not an aesthetic.

It’s not vibey fonts on Instagram telling you to protect your energy while you’re actually avoiding your truth.

No.

Real spirituality?

Will probably inconvenience you.

It’ll mess with your schedule. It’ll show up as the person you were not expecting to love.

It’ll rip your heart open in the middle of a fucking Tesco and ask,

“Still awake?”

And you’ll say yes.

Not because you’re enlightened.

But because you’re done pretending you’re not here for it.

I don’t want your vision board.

I want to know how you hold your centre when someone misreads your love as pathology.

I want to know if you can not explain yourself when the field is loud and no one else can hear it.

I want to know what you do with power — not the job title kind, the frequency kind.

I want to know if you can be fully seen —

and not shrink.

That’s spiritual.

Not your morning routine.

Not your alignment calendar.

It’s the uncurated moments —

the silent ones.

The split-second where you don’t abandon yourself.

The grin you give someone who doesn’t quite know why they trust you — but they do.

The way your presence rearranges a room before you’ve said a word.

You can’t buy this.

You can’t post your way into it.

You become it —

by remembering you already are.

So if you’re spiritual?

Cool.

But tell me how you treat the cleaner.

Tell me how you handle someone else’s tenderness.

Tell me how you sit with discomfort when it’s yours and no one’s clapping.

That’s the practice.

No crystals required.