What we call “care” is often the most elegant form of control. The story of how love became instruction — and how it can become love again.education-in-unlearning-fear-control-freedom
I want to cry, scream and shout. This is an amazing dash through and into self-restraint- taught, inherited and nurtured, to loss. I cringe that you wrote this and that I read it and I will say, still: Thank you. What a gift. Subscribing.
You've left me speechless. The processing is so deep, I can't touch it yet. I may message you later. Utterly profound. That's all I can get out right now.
Well written!
Hina,
thank you for this — truly.
It means a lot that you took the time to leave even a few words.
Sometimes a simple “well written” carries more weight than long analysis —
it tells me the rhythm reached you,
that the text didn’t just communicate, but resonated.
That’s all writing really wants —
not agreement, but recognition of cadence.
You felt the pulse. I felt it back.
Thank you for giving me that feedback —
I wanted to speak as a grandmother might to her children and grandchildren,
and your words made me feel that it landed where it needed to.
— Lintara
That's so sweet,i love your work 💓
You're welcome! Your posts are interesting.
I want to cry, scream and shout. This is an amazing dash through and into self-restraint- taught, inherited and nurtured, to loss. I cringe that you wrote this and that I read it and I will say, still: Thank you. What a gift. Subscribing.
Kim,
thank you — for reading this all the way through,
and for not turning away when it hurt.
What you wrote — “it’s unpleasant that you wrote it, and that I read it” —
that’s the highest kind of honesty.
Because real writing doesn’t comfort, it collides.
It makes contact where silence used to live.
I’m deeply grateful for your words.
They carry both resistance and recognition —
the truest form of engagement.
You named exactly what the text tried to expose:
that self-limitation can feel like safety,
until we finally see how much life it costs.
Thank you for that reaction —
raw, alive, unfiltered.
It’s not pleasant — but it’s real.
And I’d rather be read like that than gently misunderstood.
— Lintara
"Before that moment,
the child lives in a cosmos.
After — in a system."
Possibly a despotic system... 🫡
Accurate.
Marco —
thank you.
Yes — that line “Before that moment, the child lives in a cosmos. After — in a system.”
was exactly meant to hold that fracture.
The cosmos is wholeness — no hierarchy, no authority.
Everything speaks, everything belongs.
Then comes the system — rules, labels, measurement.
It organizes what was once alive.
You called it perfectly: a quiet despotism.
Not cruelty — structure mistaken for safety.
We build it for protection, and end up worshipping the grid.
Thank you for that precision.
You didn’t just read — you mapped the text.
And yes — the system begins the moment we name the wind.
— Lintara
You've left me speechless. The processing is so deep, I can't touch it yet. I may message you later. Utterly profound. That's all I can get out right now.
Beth,
thank you — truly.
Sometimes the most meaningful response is silence that follows impact.
When language pauses, it means the text touched the part of you
that doesn’t need words right away.
That’s where real connection begins —
in the quiet between recognition and expression.
Take all the time you need.
Writing should never demand immediate understanding.
It should simply stay near you until you’re ready to meet it.
Thank you for giving me this kind of feedback —
it means the text reached you not just intellectually,
but cellularly.
That’s more than I could ever ask for.
— Lintara
This hits hard the way obedience and fear sneak into care is so real. Unlearning it takes courage.✨
Cursed Mind —
thank you for this.
Yes, obedience and fear are painfully real —
they live in the body long after the lesson ends.
We inherit them not as ideas, but as reflexes.
And you’re right: it takes courage to loosen their grip.
Not heroic courage, not cinematic —
the quiet kind that trembles and still chooses to move.
That moment when someone says,
“I feel this too, but I want to live differently,” —
that’s already the beginning of freedom.
Thank you for giving me this kind of feedback.
It means the text didn’t just touch thought —
it reached the part that still remembers what fear feels like
and dared to breathe through it.
— Lintara