You’re Not Broken—You’re Remembering Truth (Flash Fiction Short Story)

© Lyn Lomasi; Owner/Shaman/Master Creator at Brand Shamans Content & Creators Community LLC

The first time I heard silence, I thought I was dying.

It wasn’t the kind of silence where nothing was happening. It was the kind that stripped me bare—louder than any screaming, more honest than any mirror. And it came after a full-body breakdown I pretended was just “burnout.”

I had just screamed at my daughter for spilling juice on the couch. Again. She looked at me like I wasn’t me. Like she didn’t recognize this woman with shaking hands and dead eyes.

I didn’t either.

I cleaned up the juice. Apologized through a lump in my throat. Then, I  locked myself in the bathroom, slid down the wall, and whispered to the tile, “What is wrong with me?”

But the tile didn’t answer.

That night, after everyone went to bed, I stood barefoot on the porch, holding a mug I didn’t drink from. I wasn’t crying. Not anymore. I’d already cried so much I was dry. Just still.

And then the silence came.

Not just outside—inside.

Like my spirit finally told everything else to shut up so it could speak.

And what it whispered shocked me:

“You’re not broken. You’re remembering.”

I felt it in my stomach first, then my spine, like a pulse waking up.

You’re remembering… what matters.
You’re remembering… who you are.
You’re remembering… who you were before survival buried your soul.

The next morning, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I moved slower. Softer.
My daughter hugged me and said, “You feel safe again.”

She didn’t say I looked happy. She said I felt safe. Kids know. They always know.

And something cracked open right there. Not in a sad way. In a holy way.

Like my soul had been under lock and key, and I finally said the password.

Silence. Stillness. Truth.

I started talking to my ancestors again.
Not in a ceremonial, dramatic way.
Just quietly. In the kitchen. While stirring rice.
Like:

“Grandma, I’m sorry I’ve been so loud. I’m listening now.”
“Who was I before I learned to perform pain as strength?”
“Why does healing feel like grief and grace at the same time?”

I didn’t hear words. But I felt answers.

In the way the light came through the window.
In the way my kids giggled on the floor.
In the way I stopped needing validation from systems that never loved me anyway.

This is not a comeback story.
It’s a remembering story.

The version of me that always knew peace was possible was still in there. She just got buried under deadlines, shame, guilt, fear, pressure, and pretending.

Not broken. Just buried.
Not lost. Just quiet.
Not gone. Just waiting.

If you’re reading this and you feel like you’re crumbling, here’s what I want to tell you:

You are not broken.
You are remembering.
And your soul is so proud of you for showing up again.

Even when you’re messy.
Even when you fall apart.
Even when the people around you don’t get it.
You’re not here to perform perfection.
You’re here to embody truth.
So take a breath.
Feel the silence.
Let your spirit speak.
You’ll hear it.

Right underneath the noise, it’s been there the whole time…

“You’re not broken.
You’re remembering who the hell you are.”

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