If you could ask a soul—really ask it, in that quiet space beneath all the noise and justification—what have you changed your mind about?
The question itself is an act of archaeology. Because change of mind isn’t simply revision; it’s a small death. To genuinely change one’s mind is to admit that what you once held as truth was something less. That the version of yourself who believed otherwise was, in some essential way, wrong. And souls don’t enjoy being wrong—they’d rather be consistent, even if consistently mistaken.
So when you ask a soul this question, you’re really asking: When did you betray your former self? When did you let go of a certainty that once defined you?
Some souls might confess they changed their minds about people—believed someone irredeemable, then watched them transform. Or trusted someone completely, only to discover the slow truth of betrayal. These changes carve canyons in the inner landscape.
Others might admit they changed their minds about themselves—thought they were brave, discovered they were merely untested. Believed they were kind, then faced the moment when kindness cost too much. Assumed they knew what they wanted, then found themselves in possession of it, empty-handed in a different way.
The most profound changes are often about what matters at all. The soul that once measured worth by achievement wakes one day measuring it by presence. The one that sought certainty learns to live in the fertile soil of not-knowing.
What have you changed your mind about? What former truth have you laid to rest?
Bhyllabus l'énigme 
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