We don’t call distortion evil—because even the very idea of good and evil is a distortion. The word evil suggests malice, chaos, and forces bent on our destruction. It conjures devils and demons, ghouls and goblins, shadowy figures from story and myth. But those images distract us. They pull our attention outward, away from the true distortion at work in our lives. Distortion is quieter, subtler, more insidious. It is not a monster at the door. It is the current running beneath the floorboards. It seeps into our thoughts, our language, our relationships, our institutions—until it feels so normal that we forget it’s there. It becomes the “truth” we are taught to accept. But these are false truths.

When most people think of evil, they imagine a being—a shadowy figure with intent to harm, something with eyes and teeth bent on destruction. Distortion is not that. Distortion is not a monster. It is not a villain with a name. It is not even personal. Distortion is a parasitic frequency. It doesn’t have a body, but it attaches itself to ours. It doesn’t have a voice, but it echoes through our thoughts. It doesn’t live a life of its own, but it weaves itself through ours.

Many sensitive people in this world learned early on to toughen up, or harden, in order to succeed or merely survive. In learning to hide or emotions later in life we might have to relearn how to feel. How to reconnect with the very part of ourselves that was once wide open. But what if we didn’t have to return—because we never left? What if children were taught, from the beginning, how to stay connected to their hearts?

There Is a Structure in This World Not made of stone or steel, But of beliefs. Handed down like heirlooms. At its foundation is one idea:

“Softness is weakness.”

Not because it is— But because someone once believed it could hurt them. And so they built a fortress around their heart and passed that blueprint on. But it is time we honor softness and stop the ridicule

There was a time—not so long ago—when family was the sun, and everything else—work, dreams, even healing—revolved around it. You can still see this in many first-generation immigrant families. There’s a deep sense of unity, devotion, and moving as one.

In those households, love isn’t a performance—it’s the fabric. Elders are honored. Children are nurtured. There’s laughter around shared meals, late-night talks, and a willingness to stay together through the hard moments.

But somewhere along the line, the structure shifted.