Glass Ceiling Records – BTS – An Unexpected Morning

Behind the Scenes- Glass Ceiling Records

I woke up this morning already crying, though I didn’t know why. Not the cinematic kind of crying, not the kind with a clear story or a clean cause. Just a sudden, uninvited overflow. My system was vibrating before my mind was even awake enough to name it. And when I tried to make sense of it, everything around me became a potential hook—an ad, a dog wagging its tail on the news, a stray thought. None of them were the reason, but my mind kept asking, “Is it this? Is it that?” as if the feeling needed a place to land.

The truth was simpler and stranger: the emotion arrived before the narrative. A pre‑story sadness, a wave without a source. And because I didn’t have a container for it, it spilled everywhere. I tried to breathe through it, but even that felt like lying to myself. My body rejected the idea of “calming down” because calm wasn’t true yet. My nervous system has always been allergic to pretending.

Then the longing hit—the kind that comes from the oldest part of the body. I wanted to be held. Not metaphorically, not spiritually, but physically held by another human being. And the ache of not having that in the moment made the crying sharper. It wasn’t despair; it was biology. It was memory. It was the part of me that has survived so much without ever having a soft place to collapse.

But something in me knew that forcing myself to “be productive” would only make the ache louder. So I turned toward the one thing that has never betrayed me: music. I let myself write the rupture‑song that was already forming in my chest. A song about survival without sanctuary, about walking through fire without ever finding a safe place to land. The moment I gave the feeling a container, the intensity began to drain out of me.

The song came out raw and honest, with a choir of inner voices echoing the old scripts—“That’s not what your life meant though.” “You’re not that special.” “What were you expecting?” But I put them in parentheses, literally pushing them to the margins. For the first time, the ghosts didn’t get the main stage. The truth did.

And when the song was done, the crying stopped. Not because I forced it, but because the emotion had finally completed its arc. What remained was the memory of the feeling, not the feeling itself. A soft imprint in the fibers of my body, but none of the voltage. My system had emptied itself honestly.

I put on Sun Salutation—a four‑minute piece I wrote long ago without realizing it was a somatic reset disguised as music. And as it played, I felt myself rise. Not in triumph, but in coherence. My body felt solid again. Present. Rational. Spent, but not exhausted. Like I had survived a storm and was now standing in the clear air on the other side.

And then came the revelation I didn’t expect: the ancestors had been crowding the doorway all morning. Not ominously, not dramatically—just without structure. They were trying to speak into an unprepared channel. And my system, porous and unguarded, got overwhelmed by the noise. The moment I realized this, I laughed. “Could you all form a single‑file line or something?” I asked them. And the relief in my body was immediate.

That’s when the deeper truth landed: if I give them a safe place to land, they will hold me. Not flood me. Not overwhelm me. Hold me. The ancestors aren’t chaotic; they’re enthusiastic. They just need a container. And I realized I’ve needed one too.

For the first time since my ex left, the idea of routine didn’t feel like invasion. It felt like support. I understood that I’ve been waiting for the right moment—not resisting structure, but protecting myself from adopting it before I was ready. And today, something shifted. I stepped out of one phase and into another.

So I’m building a morning ritual now. Not a schedule. Not a productivity hack. A threshold. Wake the body. Tend to it. Move it. Hydrate it. Then open the channel intentionally: “One at a time. I can hear you better that way.” And when I sit at my workstation, I won’t begin with tasks. I’ll begin with welcome. “What stories am I hearing? Who wants to go first?” Creativity before productivity. Relationship before output.

And as I write this, I feel curious. Interested. Engaged. Willing. Connected. The pushback that once protected me has dissolved. The fear of being forced to ignore my inner world has eased. I’m not bracing anymore. I’m building a life that can hold me, the way I’ve held everything else.