There’s a particular theater
in the adult who refuses adulthood—
a polished résumé, a curated tone,
and then, at the first flicker of truth,
confetti of feelings thrown like chairs.
Accountability enters quietly.
It does not bang on tables.
It takes a seat, smooths its jacket,
and says, “Let’s begin.
Some people hear that as thunder.
Once named, the weather changes.
Barometric pressure drops.
A storm of deflection,
lightning of accusation,
a rainfall of “you made me—”
as if cause were a person
and not a choice.
Let me be clear, kind, and without apology:
I am not a paramedic,
not a physician on call,
not a precinct,
not a hotline for every unattended alarm.
I am not responsible
for regulating your nervous system
When it insists on reenacting childhood
with a credit score.
Tantrums, at this age,
arrive in better tailoring—
But the choreography is familiar:
stomp, spin, deny, repeat.
A masterclass in misplaced urgency.
Emotional intelligence is not an accessory.
It is not a scarf one tosses on
for brunch and optics.
It is a practice—
unsexy, daily, exacting—
a willingness to say, I did that,
and mean it.
I keep my voice measured
not because I’m timid,
But because precision is merciful.
I offer clarity once, perhaps twice—
I am generous, not infinite.
After that, I chose architecture:
a door, a hinge, a threshold
that understands closure.
Exit, stage left.
No applause necessary.
No encore requested.
Just the soft, decisive click
of a boundary honored.
If what you’re seeking
is an emergency-level intervention,
You may find it in the steps
of the nearest emergency room—
fluorescent, staffed,
expert in triage.
I wish you steadier weather.
As for me,
I return to rooms that keep their chairs,
to conversations that hold,
to a life where storms are studied,
not performed.
Poise is not the absence of feeling.
It is the discipline of placement—
knowing what is mine to carry,
and what is not.
Curtain, please–
Copyright © 2026 Sherley Delia | All Rights Reserved.
Healing Majestically 