The Rite of Witnessing

I used to hate being interrupted.

It felt like erasure.

Like the ache I was finally brave enough to speak

was being talked over by someone who didn’t care.

But now I see it differently.

When someone interrupts me—especially when I’m in my truth—it’s not rejection.

It’s resonance.

It’s their ache rising up to the surface because my field makes them feel safe enough to let it speak.

That’s what happened with a friend.

I was telling him my story,

and he stopped me—

because his own grief needed a witness.

And instead of being upset,

I felt honored.

Because now I understand:

When you’re interrupted by someone mid-transmission,

it’s not always disrespect.

Sometimes, it’s their soul recognizing you can hold them.

Because you’ve been there.

Because you’re not afraid.

Because your frequency says:

“It’s safe here. Speak.”

It’s a shift from seeking to being.

From chasing to anchoring.

From needing a witness

to becoming one.

So now, when it happens?

I smile.

Because I know:

I’ve been seen.

And now, I’m seeing back.