Mary Bejarano Moore

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I was lying in bed this morning, somewhere in that in-between space where you don’t really know if you’re dreaming or already awake. The sheets still felt like a warm hug. My eyes were still closed. My body was relaxed and comfortable, not ready to move yet.

And then, in the middle of that silent, cozy moment, it came.

A sentence that felt like a message.

It landed in my head right before my eyes opened, the way certain phrases do when our minds haven’t had time to overthink yet:

“True wisdom comes to you when you let go of your inner yunque.”

Yunque…

I know that word. Yunque is Spanish for anvil — that heavy iron block a blacksmith uses to hammer and shape metal. Although in that exact moment, I didn’t even remember the translation.

It just popped in exactly like that: inner yunque.

Then I got up — it was about 6 a.m. — grabbed my phone from the nightstand with the intention of writing that sentence before I could forget.

As I was walking to the bathroom, my brain, without me realizing it, swapped the word “wisdom” for “freedom.” Suddenly it became:

“True freedom comes to you when you let go of your inner yunque.”

That one felt good too. So I wrote them both in my notes app on my phone. Both felt like truth.

In that moment, I started to wonder — what is the inner yunque?

My first thought was, maybe it’s just a fancy way of saying “inner garbage.” But immediately that felt wrong. Dismissive.

Something inside me stopped me from calling it that, like it was telling me that the things that make up the inner yunque… they’re not trash. They came from a real place, for a real reason. They’re more like leftover weight from earlier versions of ourselves. Versions that were just doing the best they could with what they knew back then. Versions that, in their own way, were trying.

So no — it’s not garbage. It doesn’t deserve that label.

What is it then? I kept asking mentally as I finished brushing my teeth and walked to the kitchen to drink my big glass of dandelion tea that I’d premade the night before.

The question kept circling in my head.

Still pondering, I made my way to the room where I keep my treadmill.

I opened my laptop, which I place on top of it right before I start walking, and started trying to make sense of this in writing:

Maybe the inner yunque is all the stuff we’ve bottled up over the years:

• The leftover resentment we swore we forgave, until someone brushes against that old wound and we snap without knowing why.
• The accumulated sadness we never expressed because “there was no time for that,” so now even a smell or a song makes us cry for no apparent reason.
• The old insecurities we thought we overcame, until a casual joke makes us feel unworthy of the air we breathe.
• The anger we’ve labeled “bad” or “wrong,” so we pretend it’s not there… for the sake of “staying positive” — but then a bobby pin falls on the floor and we explode like somebody just threw dog poop on our face.

I could go on. We probably all could.

To be honest, I do believe that the inner yunque — whatever it’s made of — is there for a reason.

It’s the weight that shaped us. The proof of a past we survived.

It becomes “bad” only when it sits inside too long, untouched. Until it rusts and hardens and keeps us from moving forward.

So maybe the message that dropped in this morning was simple:

Let go of the heaviness you’ve been carrying inside. Feel it. Face it. Process it. Release it.

Not because it’s garbage. But because it’s done its job — and now it’s time to let it go.

On the other side of that?
Wisdom.
Freedom.
Maybe both.

Maybe one is what we gain while we’re working through it. The other is what we feel when it’s gone.

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If this reflection resonated and you want to share your thoughts with me, email me at mary@marybejaranomoore.com. I read every email.

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I used to wake up at 4am to journal, meditate, or read something life-changing.
I used to inhale self-help books like they were oxygen and I was drowning.
I’d scribble mantras in my notebook like my life depended on it.

Back then, I felt like I was becoming someone.
Now? I feel like I’m just… getting through the day.

My old self would’ve rolled her eyes at this version of me — the one who snoozes her alarm more than she’d like to admit. The one who keeps whispering “What’s the point?” and can’t even finish a blog post without second-guessing every line.

I didn’t expect to feel like this — not after everything I’d worked through.

Some days, I wonder if I just imagined that whole phase.
Like maybe 2020 Mary was high on self-help and spiritual dopamine.
But I remember her. I remember the version of me that felt alive.
How certain I was that something was shifting.
That I was going to build something meaningful — something that felt like mine.

Now I’m just… tired.
Not depressed exactly (at least not anymore) — just… flat.
I’ve felt worse. This is just a weird limbo I’m learning to sit with.
Like someone pressed mute on my soul and I forgot where the remote is.

I still believe everything I believed back then.
I just don’t feel it right now.
And no one really talks about this part —
the quiet fog that settles in after the fire.
Where the spark fades but the dream is still somewhere in there, blinking in the background.

The “I know what I want but I don’t know how to reach it” middle.
The “I don’t want to give up but I’m too tired to try harder” middle.
The part that doesn’t look like failure, but doesn’t look like progress either.

I don’t have a motivational ending for this post.
No steps. No revelations. No phoenix-rising moment.

Just this:
I got out of bed today. I wrote this even though I didn’t want to.
That has to count for something.

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If you’ve been in this space too — where the spark goes quiet and you’re not sure what you’re doing anymore — you’re not alone.
If you ever feel like sharing your own muddy middle, you can write me anytime:
mary@marybejaranomoore.com
I read every message.

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For anyone who wants to create, but feels different every damn day.

I thought I’d have published a blog by now.

I really did.

But every time I sit down to write, a different version of me shows up.
One day I’m cracked open and deep.
The next, I’m whistling Pink Floyd while painting window trim.
And some days? I feel absolutely nothing at all.

So I don’t know what to say, because I never know who I’m going to be.
Am I writing to the people I said I’d help?
Am I writing to myself?
Am I writing just to feel like I exist?

I don’t know.
And I guess that’s why I haven’t posted a damn thing.

It’s not because I have nothing to say.
It’s because I feel too much.
Or sometimes too little.
Or everything all at once — and trying to make that make sense on paper? Not easy.

Also? I overthink.
Like, a lot.

I have a Trello board full of content ideas I haven’t touched.
Dozens of journal entries.
A blog that hasn’t been published.
A voice in my head that says, “Pick one thing and be consistent,”
and another that says, “Screw that, I’m tired.”

And still…
Even after all the starts and stops and “maybe later” days…
Here I am.
Writing this.

Because maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it just has to be true.

And here’s the truth:

> I want to create something that feels like me — even if “me” looks different every damn day.
> I want to write for the ones who are tired of trying to keep it together.
> And I want to make space for all of it — the numbness, the laughter, the grief, the karaoke, the paint-stained windows, and the sacred rage.

So no, I hadn’t posted a blog yet. (Until now.)
But this is me starting.
This is me choosing action over waiting for the perfect mood.

And if you’re reading this thinking “same,”
then maybe you’ve got something worth starting too.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.
It just has to be real.

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💭 What version of you showed up today?

💌 If anything here resonated — or if you’re also figuring it out one messy day at a time — I’d love to hear from you.
👉 mary@marybejaranomoore.com