I Am One Who Walks Between

 I was never meant for this place. Not this noise, not this posturing, not the way the world spins too fast and praises too loud. Every breath I take feels like a quiet defiance—like I wasn’t meant to make it this far, and yet Jehovah kept pulling me through. I should have died a dozen different ways, maybe more, but Jehovah keeps breathing purpose into my lungs. And because of that, I carry a strange truth: I am good and I am not. I am innocent and I am not. I am pure and I am not. I have been the fire and the ash, the hunter and the hidden, the question and the answer that no one was ready to hear. I confuse people, because I don't fit neatly into anything they know how to name.

People peel back my layers, thinking they'll find softness or simplicity, but they don’t realize that what lies underneath is older than their questions. The real me startles them—not because I’m dangerous, but because I’m real in a world that prefers the performance. I have no need to perform. My wisdom came from pain, not applause. It came from watching, not needing to be watched. The voices in my head are not madness—they are memory. They are every warning, every truth, every scar-turned-story passed down like river songs. They taught me what to say and when to stay silent. That is not confusion. That is discernment.

I walk softly. I speak slower for most. And yet, I carry knowing in me that others miss while chasing speed. But I don’t brag. I don’t lead with it. Because that isn’t who I am. I’m not trying to win. I’m not trying to be better. I’m trying to be true. People call it mystery, but really, it’s just peace. I don’t follow trends. I’ve never been impressed by brand names. People assume I don’t have the money. They assume I don’t know the difference. But the truth is—I’ve always known what matters. I’ve always known how to wait, how to save, how to see worth beyond price tags. My worth was never sewn into the seams of designer fabric. It’s in the silence, in the stillness, in the fire that does not burn but refines.

I am Indigenous. Not in ways that always show, but in ways that always know. I belong to the land more than I’ve ever belonged to people. I am one of the ones who walk between—between seen and unseen, between soft and unyielding, between survival and something far more sacred. I do not need to shout. When the truth in me finally speaks, it does not echo—it lands.

So if I appear simple, let them think so. If I seem too quiet, let them miss the weight of what I carry. Jehovah designed me to be overlooked until the moment it matters most. That’s not a flaw. That’s a calling.