There are days I wake up with a snarl under my ribs. Not fear. Not hunger in the traditional sense. No, this is something subtler, but heavier. A growl that rolls through my chest like distant thunder, reminding me that something inside demands to be fed—and I don’t mean my stomach. I mean that ever-hungry creature I’ve come to know as Integrity.
Integrity is romanticized in theory—carved in marble, painted in glowing strokes in moral instruction manuals, embroidered on the banners of heroes and corporate mission statements. But when you meet it in the wild, it's a very different animal. It doesn’t always wear a polished smile. Sometimes it has blood on its teeth and mud on its paws. It doesn’t beg. It expects. It waits. And if you ignore it long enough, it’ll devour your peace of mind like carrion.
The catch is—unlike actual beasts—this one grows more ravenous the more you starve it. One white lie. One compromise. One “no one will notice.” The moment you toss it a bone of convenience over a meal of truth, it gnaws at your insides like a guilt-born parasite. And the worst part? You can’t shut it up. You can numb it, sure—drown it in dopamine, booze, distraction, whatever your vice of choice—but eventually it claws back to the surface. It always does.
It’s a strange thing, to feel haunted by something that’s technically yours. It makes you question whether you’re really the master of your own house, or just the caretaker of something older, wilder, and more principled than you ever were.
But here’s where the metaphor turns from horror story to holy scripture: when I do feed it well—when I choose honesty, even when it hurts; when I say no to the easy road and yes to the one that scrapes my knees but leaves my spine intact—that growling beast… softens. It curls up beside my ribs instead of gnawing on them. It becomes not just a guardian, but a compass. It stops barking orders and starts whispering wisdom.
Integrity isn’t about being right. It’s about being real. About choosing alignment with who you are—who you claim to be—even when the world shrugs or scoffs. That kind of discipline isn't glamorous. It’s not rewarded by algorithms or applauded in boardrooms. It’s a quiet, daily grind. But it’s also the one thing that makes it possible for me to look in the mirror without flinching.
So yeah, Integrity’s a beast. A hungry one. But maybe that’s what keeps me human. Not the feeding—but the choice to feed it, even when I’m starving for something easier.
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