The Mitote and the Soul - Remembering Who You Are Beneath the Noise

You are born – whole, unmarked, infinite in potential. A tabula rasa. No thoughts of who you should be. Just presence. Just breath. But the world doesn’t let you remain that way for long.

Almost immediately, the programming begins. The noise. The stories. The slow, relentless drip of suggestion and conditioning. Through observation alone, your mind begins to absorb the expectations, fears, and beliefs of others like a sponge. What you see, you internalize. And this shapes how you come to understand reality – not as it is, but through the filter of inherited scripts.

Your soul – eternal, ancient, silent – however, sees everything. It watches this quiet enchantment with a knowing ache. It knows what you came here for – what you were meant to do, to become, to remember. But it cannot speak. Not yet. The mind has taken over, slowly but decisively. It has installed itself as the governor, the self-proclaimed authority over your choices, your perceptions, your identity. And because it has been fed by fear, by culture, by survival instinct, it has grown bold. It fabricates rational stories to justify why you must follow the programming. Why deviation is dangerous. Why conformity is safety.

Still, your soul remembers. It sees the wider path that your mind cannot. It recognizes the sacred opportunity you’ve been given in this lifetime. But it is powerless in a world ruled by the mind – especially a mind that has already allied itself with the enemy of truth: fear. A mind that has learned to suppress, repress, and silence the soul at all costs.

And so, the noise continues.

The voices of your family join in. They begin to shape you in their image – not always out of malice, but out of a desperate desire to correct their own unfinished stories. You become the canvas for their projections, the vessel for their unmet dreams. They want to see themselves in you. So they fasten their dreams to your shoulders and whisper legacy and duty in your ears. They want you to succeed, but only in ways they understand. They mistake control for love, and fear for protection.

Friends, too, pass along their fears and offer their doubts like gifts. They are not trying to limit you; they simply don’t want you to feel the price of coloring outside the lines: estrangement, isolation, the quiet exile of difference. They fear that if you think differently and move beyond the familiar, it will threaten the delicate balance of connection. They remind you that safety lies in the familiar. That it’s better to be understood than to be true.

And so, you shrink. You soften your edges. You acquiesce.

But the mitote – the collective fog of illusion – only grows denser. Other voices chime in: teachers, bosses, spiritual leaders, colleagues. Each adds their piece to the programming, staking their claim in your psyche. And your mind, ever accommodating, allows them in. It has evolved to seek belonging. For most of human history, to be outcast meant death. So even now, it obeys the ancient script: “Stay with the tribe. Disappear into the herd. Safety lies in sameness.” And so it continues the ancient tradition of choosing tribe over truth.

Years pass. Quietly, brutally. The soul watches in quiet pain. If it cannot speak, it will make you feel. And so, it sends signals: persistent restlessness, a dull sadness, an undercurrent of dissatisfaction you can’t quite explain. A subtle mourning for the life you’re not living. A longing for a truth that remains buried.

Then something shifts.

Perhaps through heartbreak, illness, aging, or simply grace – you begin to see. The fog thins. The illusion loses its grip. And for the first time, you recognize the great, tragic truth: most of what you believed about yourself came from fear, not love. Almost none of it was yours. The programming was never personal – it was inherited. And those who installed it were, themselves, victims of it.

You begin the slow, sacred work of unlearning. You forgive – not to condone, but to free yourself. You release. You scrub away the remaining streaks of the mitote – some are more stubborn than others. But the soul grows louder now. You begin to discern its voice from the static. You trust your feelings more deeply. You no longer dismiss them as irrational. You recognize them as the voice of your soul. And what once felt like foolish dreams now feel like sacred instructions.

The soul is overjoyed. It has waited lifetimes for this moment. It shows you visions, possibilities, a path that makes your heart race – not with fear, but with aliveness. You say yes. And in that yes, your inner child begins to stir, to smile, to play.

Even as others question you – how you’ll survive, how you’ll make money, how you’ll be understood – you don’t let their voices back in. You’ve learned the cost of betrayal, and you will not betray yourself again. You know now: the soul doesn’t understand currency, only alignment. And where there is truth, there will always be provision.

Just as you begin to rise, to align, to step fully into your calling – your body falters. The years of internal war have taken their toll. The stress, the suppression, the chronic disconnection from your truth – it all catches up to you. And in a cruel twist, the momentum halts. You are rushed to the hospital. Sirens scream. The lights blur. Time becomes elastic.

The doctors call your name like it’s a spell they hope will summon you back.

But other voices rise –

softer, deeper, beyond the veil.

They are calm.

They are warm.

They are home.

Your soul, now fully awake, recognizes them.

They have always been with you.

Your higher self.

Your guides.

Your ancestors.

They gather around, not with sadness, but with love.

And their message is clear:

“You remembered too late.

But you remembered.

And that is enough.

We shall try again in the next life.”

Cynthia A. Murungi

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