But the words felt less solid than they once had.
Because somewhere underneath, there was the memory of being present. Of having seen enough to know that the moment had not been empty of choice, even if the choices had been narrow, uncomfortable, or costly.
This did not lead to constant self-examination.
It did not lead to confession.
It did not lead to reform.
Most people simply carried it quietly.
They acted. They adjusted. They repeated mistakes. They sometimes did better. They often did not.
But when they looked back, fewer moments felt completely foreign, as if they had belonged to someone else entirely.
Life still happened quickly.
Pressure still narrowed options.
Fear still distorted judgment.
Yet the idea that one was merely a passenger became harder to sustain for long.
And that was the lasting change.
Not awareness at every step.
Not responsibility accepted in every case.
Just the slow erosion of the belief that one had never been involved.
