Vachon Imagined

She declared herself a healer. Ah yes — enter the rose quartz, the linen robes, the softly lit Instagram stories about mercury being in retrograde again. I’m a healer, she said, which was funny when you thought about it, because the moment anyone declares themselves a thing, the universe immediately begins casting supporting actors to keep the performance alive.

After all, what is a healer without sick people?

That was around the time she began unraveling, almost playfully, the strange theater hidden inside the phrase I AM. Humans say it constantly, casually, innocently, never noticing the consequences trailing behind the words like loose thread.

I am depressed.
I am angry.
I am chosen.
I am broken.
I am called by God.

And once spoken long enough, the world quietly reorganizes itself around the declaration. The pastor says, I AM called by God, and suddenly an entire congregation appears to confirm the role. A shepherd is nothing without sheep. A follower cannot exist without a leader. Every identity drags another identity behind it like a shadow.

Relationship. That was the terrifyingly beautiful part.

Everything leaning against everything else for meaning.

The moment one says I AM, the machinery begins moving. Reality becomes eager to collaborate. Strangers arrive carrying confirmation. Lovers become mirrors. Enemies become evidence. Memories rewrite themselves to fit the script. The universe, theatrical and obedient, rushes to hand you your costume.

And eventually, if you are unlucky enough — or lucky enough — you begin to notice the pattern:

you are facing yourself the entire time.

Your own imagination. Your own actors. Your own stage directions. Your own consequences wearing different faces each year.

How horrifying.

How poetic.

And honestly, a little embarrassing.

Because suddenly every person introducing themselves starts sounding like someone pitching a character they accidentally got emotionally attached to. I’m an empath. I’m an entrepreneur. I’m a free spirit. Meanwhile the universe is somewhere backstage, exhausted, trying to keep up with the costume changes.

Maybe that was freedom after all — not becoming nobody, but holding identity loosely enough to laugh when the act becomes too serious.

To say I am without forcing the whole world to audition for a role in your play.