Born of Fire

We all like to think we know who we are.
That when the time comes—if ever—we’d know what the right thing is.
That we’d protect our children. That we’d walk away. That we’d stay calm. That we’d rise above. That we’d put our children first.
But what if the right thing isn’t always calm?
What if noble doesn’t always mean quiet?

There are moments in life—raw, reactive, and unscripted—where the binary of right and wrong blurs.
Where walking away isn’t an option. Where standing still feels like a betrayal.
Where something deeper—older—takes over.
And in those moments, it’s not about what looks noble.
It’s about what feels true.

A few weeks ago, I was tested.
All exits were blocked.
And in the absence of logic, something ancient in me rose up.
Not because I thought it through.
Not because I had a choice—or at least that’s how my inner self saw it.
There was no calculation. Just instinctual action.

I moved.
I tucked my daughter in a hidden corner.
And I walked toward the centre of the storm—to protect people I barely knew.
Not because it was safe.
Not because it was smart.
But because something in me refused to look away.

And later, when the adrenaline faded, shame tried to sit beside me.
What if I had been hurt? What if she had seen it all?
What kind of mother puts herself in harm’s way when her child is watching?

But that’s the thing about fight or flight—
it’s not a decision you make with your mind.
It’s a code written by every moment that came before.

Every scar.
Every act of silence you vowed never to repeat.
Every buried scream.
Every time you weren’t protected and told yourself, next time, I will be the one who stands.

You don’t choose.
You just are.

And that’s what frightened me.
Not what I did—but how quickly I did it.
How natural it felt to shield my daughter with one breath and step into the fire with the next.

But maybe that’s not shame. Maybe that’s memory.
Maybe that’s a life lived with a deep sense of justice so ingrained, it overrides fear.
Maybe that’s a woman shaped by her own survival, choosing not to look away.

And still—my daughter saw me.
She saw me respond, not freeze.
She saw me move toward something I couldn’t ignore.
And maybe that will become part of her code too—not violence, never that—but the instinct to stand.

We say we have agency over our actions, and for the most part, that’s true.
But there are thresholds.
Moments when the body answers before the mind can catch up.
And in those moments, we meet the version of ourselves we didn’t script.

It’s confronting.
It’s unedited.
It’s not always graceful.
But it is honest.

And maybe that’s where the wisdom lives.

When the absence of logic and the presence of danger collide, you don’t perform.
You return—to something primal.
To something that doesn’t care what people will say.
To something you didn’t plan, but somehow always knew.

To know you were born of fire.

We often glorify peace. But sometimes, peace isn’t an option.
Sometimes, protecting something sacred means becoming the storm.
Not to harm.
But to interrupt.

And when the dust settles, you’re left with yourself.
Your actions.
Your instincts.
Your truth.

But you’re also left with every moment you needed someone to step in.
To stand up.
To do the ugly, necessary thing—
and no one came.

And that’s when you understand:
You weren’t just reacting.
You were answering.
You were standing in the space where others once stayed silent.
You stand reborn into the person you needed—
the one you had to become, alone.
The one you had to birth yourself into.

That’s when you know:
You were born of fire.

I’m not sure I’ll ever make perfect peace with that moment.
But I know this:
I didn’t disappear.

I became.