The Things The Ancestors Said To Me

I told the ancestors I was exhausted. Not the kind of tired sleep can fix. The kind that settles behind the eyes. The kind that makes breathing feel like labor. The kind carried by people chosen for roads they never asked to walk. I said: “I do not want this life anymore.” The fire cracked softly between us. Then the oldest voice answered: “You speak as though the path found you by accident.” I looked away. Because anger is easier than surrender. “I did not ask for visions,” I whispered. “I did not ask for dreams that feel more real than daylight. I did not ask to feel watched by things older than language.” The darkness around us shifted. Not threatening. Listening. Then my grandmother’s spirit laughed gently. Not mockingly. The way elders laugh when children complain about rain while standing in a field that desperately needs water. “You think awakening is comfort?” she asked. “No child. Awakening is disruption.” The wind moved through the trees like unseen people passing by. I swallowed hard. “But why me?” Silence. Then: “Because your spirit could carry what your flesh fears.” I hated that answer. I wanted pity. An apology. A divine misunderstanding. Instead they handed me responsibility. I stared into the fire. “I feel alone.” Another laugh. Softer this time. “You are speaking to the dead while claiming loneliness.” The flames bent suddenly. For a moment I could almost see faces inside them. Ancient. Patient. Watching me the way mountains watch storms. “I’m scared,” I admitted quietly. That truth tasted different. More honest. The air became warmer. Then the voice returned: “You keep calling this a curse because it interrupted the life you were trying to build.” I felt something inside me tighten. Because it was true. I wanted ordinary dreams. Ordinary ambitions. Ordinary sleep. Instead my spirit kept knocking on doors my mind was too afraid to open. “What if I fail this calling?” I asked. The fire crackled violently. Then came the answer: “You are confusing discomfort with failure.” I closed my eyes. And suddenly I understood something terrifying: The ancestors were never haunting me. They were raising me. All this time I thought I was being chased when I was actually being summoned. The night grew still. Then my grandmother’s voice spoke one final time: “You keep asking who you are.” A long pause. Then: “You are evidence that we survived.”