A Story Of Enligthenment

This is a story about enlightenment.

Not about becoming enlightened, but about remembering what has always been true.

Once upon a time, there was a kingdom so vast and fertile that people said even the air carried a sense of safety and peace. At the heart of that kingdom lived a king, and his son, who was ten years old. The boy was curious, lively, and full of questions. He moved through the palace as if the world were safe, because to him, it was.

One afternoon, when the light was heavy and golden, something happened.

One day, the boy went outside to play.

No one remembers exactly how far he wandered, or how quickly the familiar paths disappeared behind him. What is known is that, without realizing it, he entered the woods and became lost. At first, he thought he could find his way back. But the farther he walked, the more the landscape changed. Trees thickened. Light dimmed. Directions dissolved.

Fear arose.

He called out, but no one answered. As night approached, panic settled into his body. Searching for safety, he descended—into the ground, into caves, into places where he could hide. He kept moving, driven not by curiosity anymore, but by terror. He did not know where to go. He only knew he could not stay still.

They searched for him. The kingdom searched everywhere. But he had gone too far, carried by fear into places no one thought to look.

Along the way, he encountered people who mistreated him. He learned harshness before kindness. Scarcity before abundance. His path became one of constant danger, of hunger, of never feeling safe. Little by little, the safety he once knew disappeared from his body, and with time, even the memory of the kingdom began to fade.

The boy grew up in scarcity.

He was treated harshly. Spoken to as if he were worth little. He was told, again and again, that he did not deserve much, that he should be grateful for scraps, that expecting more was dangerous. Trauma settled into his bones. His body learned fear before it learned rest. His nervous system learned vigilance. His mind learned lack.

With time, he forgot.

Forgot the sound of the palace. Forgot the smell of abundance. Forgot the way safety once felt. He learned to hide. To stay small. To survive. He lived as if the world were something that could take everything away at any moment—because it already had.

Years passed. Then decades.

By the time he was forty, he no longer remembered being anyone else.

He lived like a poor man, not because he was one, but because that was the only life his body knew. He inhabited caves, narrow rooms, and tight inner spaces. He expected danger even in silence. He survived on little, believing little was all there was.

And then, one day, without warning, something cracked open.

It was not dramatic. There was no lightning. No voice from the sky. Just a moment—quiet, unmistakable—when something inside him recognized itself.

He discovered the truth.

He was the son of the king.

At first, it felt impossible. Like a story meant for someone else. But the more he listened, the more something ancient stirred in him. A familiarity. A knowing that did not come from thought.

The kingdom still existed. It always had.

When he returned, trembling and unsure, the gates opened as if they had never closed. And there, standing exactly where he had always been, was his father.

The king did not ask questions.

He did not ask for explanations.

He did not ask where he had been.

He smiled.

He embraced his son with a joy that felt older than time. There was no blame. No disappointment. Only relief. As if the king had never doubted the return, only waited for it.

A celebration was prepared. Music filled the halls. Food overflowed. People gathered, not to judge, but to welcome. The son stood there, overwhelmed, unable to understand how nothing was wrong with him—how it had never been his fault.

That was the first shock.

The second came when he began to see himself through the eyes of the kingdom.

He was told of his nature. His royal nature. Not as a title to earn, but as something he had been born into. He could command, yes—but also receive. He could give—but without losing himself. He could occupy space. He could rest.

All of this felt unreal.

He walked through the palace as someone who still expected the ground to disappear beneath his feet. His body did not trust the abundance. His hands still tightened around imaginary losses. His breath remained shallow, as if danger were hiding behind the curtains.

People said, “You are safe.”

He believed them.

And still, his body hesitated.

Because knowing does not immediately erase memory.

Little by little, he learned again.

His posture softened. His breathing deepened. He needed to repeat it to himself: *I am safe now.* Again and again. And with time, the body began to listen.

The clothes of royalty felt strange at first, almost heavy. He worried he didn’t deserve them. He feared being seen. Inside, he still felt poor, even while surrounded by gold. This was not dishonesty. It was the past loosening its grip.

He learned to receive. Slowly. Carefully. Receiving had once meant danger. Now it meant balance.

He learned that giving did not require sacrifice. That service could come from fullness. That authority did not need force. That safety could be shared.

No one rushed him.

The kingdom had waited forty years. It could wait longer.

And one day—without a clear moment of arrival—he noticed he no longer questioned his place. He no longer tried to prove anything. He no longer wondered if he belonged.

He lived from the center of himself.

And in that living, there was relief.

Nothing to fix. Nothing to chase.

There was recognition.

This had never been about becoming someone else.

And there was permission.

To take time. To integrate. To let the body catch up to the truth.

This is what enlightenment is.

Not becoming enlightened.

But remembering who you are,

and allowing life to grow naturally

into that remembrance.

His royal nature has always been present.

Even if he didn't know it.

He was always the son of the King.

Not because he changed,

but because he remembered

and stopped hiding from what had always been true.

By Katiana