Impeccable With Your Word

When Truth Rises

Before the words, there was an image.

A bird—part beast, part beauty. 

Feathers fractured like gems. A diamond for a beak. 

Wild, but deliberate. Armored in light. 

Head tilted upward, as if remembering something true.

That image stayed with me.

It reminded me what impeccability might look like: 

Not perfection, but clarity. 

Not silence, but resonance. 

Not shrinking, but standing—glistening and grounded.

The world blurred into soft green, spilled silver. The noise dissolved. And only what’s real remained.

This is what it looks like to rise. 

To hold your shape. 

To turn pain into something faceted—something that catches the light.

Lately, I’ve been circling a truth I’ve tried to soften, delay, or rewrite.

A truth wrapped in a simple line from The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

• Be impeccable with your word.

• Don’t take anything personally. 

• Don’t make assumptions. 

• Always do your best.

They sound simple. But living them? That takes spiritual grit.

Especially the first one.

To be impeccable with your word means speaking with integrity. 

Saying only what you mean. 

Using your voice in the direction of truth and love.

Sounds easy when life is calm, when your voice is steady. 

But what about when it’s not?

When your heart whispers one thing 

but your mouth says another—just to keep the peace.

I’ve been there. 

Sometimes, I’m still there.

And then come the moments that shake everything.

When you speak truth—clearly, calmly— and it’s still met with distortion, deflection, or silence.

That’s when I remembered: 

We get one life. 

We either heal, learn, and rise— 

or stay stuck in the mud. 

Overexplaining. Apologizing. Waiting.

But waiting for what?

To be met in the light? 

To stop begging for care, honesty, presence?

Sometimes, speaking your truth means accepting this:

If I have to shirnk to be loved, it’s not love.

Because love doesn’t ask you to disappear. 

It meets you, expands with you. 

It invites your fullness.

Just like the lotus—rooted in dark waters, but always rising.

You either walk inside your story and own it, or you stand outside of your story and hustle for your worthiness. — Brené Brown

Eventually, even the most willing hearts grow tired

of earning what should be freely given.

And that’s when the story starts to shift.

Suddenly, you’re no longer seen—but recast as the problem.

Because some people would rather rewrite the truth than face it.

They reshape reality—not always to hurt you,

 but to protect themselves.

Instead of truth meeting truth, you get chaos. 

Confusion. Silence. Blame.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

You can’t be impeccable with your word 

and protect someone else’s illusion at the same time.

I think about the moments I asked for something simple— honesty, presence, care—and was met with silence.

Or when I said “I’m fine,” 

even though I was quietly unraveling.

Not because I didn’t know what I needed— 

but because I was afraid the truth would cost me everything.

And maybe… it did.

But here’s the catch: 

Not because I said it wrong—

but because I finally said it right.

Maybe they just weren’t ready to hear it.

I’ve learned not to assume why. 

We all have our buried truths. 

All I can do is speak mine.

With clarity. Without expectation. 

And trust that truth—no matter the cost—sets you free.

A friend told me:

Reg, you have to be impeccable with your word. 

You can’t just say it—you have to walk it.

It landed gently—but it stayed. 

A mirror I wasn’t ready for.

Because I have been speaking. 

I’ve asked for what I need. 

I’ve shown up with honesty and grace.

But fear is sneaky.

It creeps in afterward. 

Makes you soften, shrink, second-guess.

But this is what I’m learning:

Being impeccable with your word 

isn’t just about speaking your truth— 

it’s about standing in it.

Even when your voice shakes. 

Even when you’re met with silence. 

Even when the ache is louder than the ask.

I’ve broken down more than once.

And the life I worked so hard to protect? 

It came undone.

Still—I’m here.

Rooted. 

Returning.

Not just to myself, but to this agreement as a way back to honesty.

Because something had to change.

The part of me that softened the truth to keep the peace? 

She was tired.

Tired of saying “It’s okay” when it wasn’t. 

Tired of saying “I understand” when I was the one aching for clarity.

Tired of making my voice easier to hear, 

instead of letting it carry the weight of my truth.

But the truth—spoken honestly—will always reveal where you stand.

And sometimes, it’s not about finding better words.

It’s about believing: 

I am allowed to take up space.

To speak. 

To feel. 

To ask.

Not perfectly. But clearly.

Even if it’s not received.

Even if my voice trembles.

Even if silence follows.

Because silence isn’t always about you.

That’s the second agreement: 

Don’t take it personally.

It’s hard.

Because being ignored feels personal.

But this agreement calls for something deeper:

A separation between who you are 

and how someone else responds.

Their silence doesn’t reflect your worth.

Your truth doesn’t lose value just because it isn’t answered.

It’s not detachment. 

It’s devotion.

To your voice. 

To your knowing. 

To your wholeness.

Even when the echo is silence.

At the start of summer, I said I wanted this season to be intentional. 

Present. Awake. Lived all the way through.

I didn’t know it would mean being this honest.

So maybe it’s not about the perfect words.

Maybe it’s about letting your voice finally match your heart..

Even if it shakes.

Even if you’re met with silence.

Because peace doesn’t come from avoiding conflict— 

it comes from honoring truth.

Not just saying it—but standing in it.

 Living it.

And maybe, just maybe— 

that’s where everything shifts.

May love lead the way, 

~ Regina

Because being impeccable with your word doesn’t mean shouting to be heard—it means letting your truth rise, even if it floats softly through the air like a whisper <3