There’s a kind of spiritual theft no one wants to name.
Not the kind that feels mystical or cinematic—no glowing orbs, no soul contracts signed in blood.
I’m talking about the quiet, calculated act of dumping your karma onto someone else.
Of handing off your unfinished lessons like they’re a cursed heirloom.
Of saying, “Here, hold this,” while you walk away lighter, cleaner, freer.
But it’s not freedom.
It’s parasitism.
It’s siphoning someone’s blessings while dodging the consequences of your own choices.
It’s spiritual fraud dressed up as fate.
And the worst part?
It works.
For a while.
You get to bask in someone else’s glow, ride their momentum, wear their grace like a borrowed coat.
You convince yourself you’re healed, evolved, chosen.
But karma isn’t fooled.
It’s patient.
It waits until you’re comfortable.
Then it knocks.
Harder.
Because the work your soul was meant to do cannot be outsourced.
It cannot be skipped.
It cannot be buried without consequence.
What you try to bury will come spilling out toward you.
Twice as strong.
Twice as loud.
Twice as sharp.
The soul refuses to be cheated.
Truth doesn’t knock. It breaks the door.
Some of us have carried what was never ours.
Some of us have fed off what we didn’t earn.
And the reckoning doesn’t come with ceremony.
It comes like rot.
Like a blessing that curdles.
Like a mirror that won’t blink.
You’ll know it by the way your joy turns sour.
By the way your borrowed light starts burning holes.
By the way your own name starts feeling foreign.
There is no shortcut.
No charm.
No cleverness.
Only the slow, brutal work of becoming.
Of composting what you buried.
Of growing something that doesn’t taste like someone else’s grief.
Not mystical.
Not clean.
Just honest.
Just earned.
Just yours.