I can see my reflection on the computer screen as I type. A strikingly tender background to the formulation of my thoughts.

I see a woman learning how to return to her center and leave it less frequently. I see a woman scorned by hypervigilance and shaped by a desire to serve. I see a woman who has moved from being fed up with her own shit into a season of alchemical power.

Years of hypervigilance has led to one of the most profound realizations I’ve had in a long time.

I constantly feel like I’m walking on eggshells… and I’m the one laying them out.

Each eggshell an illusory barrier to being burdensome.

If I place them, I won’t have to suffer the discomfort of others formulating boundaries against me. If I do not disturb the peace, I will always be likeable. If I’m careful enough, I will always be seen as I wish to be seen. If I’m never inconvenient, I will always belong.

That’s the thinking at least. And this thinking has cost me. A lot. It feels like the root of chronic tension and inflammation. It feels like dis-ease.

I have tolerated, accepted, forgiven, and even admired the inconvenience others seem to unabashedly display. Whenever I encounter someone who is chronically late, loud, uncommunicative, and in the way, I naturally feel irritated but there’s also a sense of freedom that I envy.

I never let myself be an inconvenience.

But aren’t humans inherently a bit inconvenient? From birth, we are inconvenient. We are these wiggly, helpless little beings who fully rely on the care of others.

I’m sure most parents would argue that caring for their child is purely a gift and an honor, which I respect, and also squint an eye at because I also don’t know a single parent who hasn’t been, if even briefly, run ragged by their child, whether it’s a long night of crying, an ungodly dirty diaper, or their unwillingness to eat their dinner… they’ve been inconvenienced many times.

But just as a parent welcomes the inconvenience of their child, perhaps we can embrace the occasional inconvenience of others and our own inherent convenience… perhaps I can embrace my own.

Perhaps I can begin to gather proof that I am still lovable, can still belong, and still be liked even when I let myself soften into inconvenience.

And surely, by allowing myself to be inconvenient, I will feel the sting of someone’s disappointment eventually (that’s mostly what I’m avoiding in the first place). Perhaps I can let this build my tolerance for discomfort and foster a new kind of resilience. And perhaps I will realize that even the most intricate eggshell laying will not protect me from others viewing me through their own tinted lens that may still carry stains of annoyance, distaste, and disappointment. The lens others peer through is so far beyond my control, the eggshells begin to lose their glimmer entirely.

As I’ve written about before… we need each other. And because we need each other, we will naturally inconvenience the people we keep. Being in community, being a parent, loving a partner, having a family, and being a friend is not always convenient. Sometimes it is hard. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do, like pick someone up from the airport, leave the party early, miss something we want to go to, tend to illness, and set our opinions aside. But the gift of that inconvenience is connection (which we need… did I say that already?).

And perhaps the gift of allowing myself to be occasionally inconvenient is a deeper connection with myself.

No eggshell can compare to the priclessness of that.

There’s a lot of spiritual jargon that will have you thinking that you have to be fully resolved internally in order to have the external experiences you want to have.

“If you want to experience ________ you must first find it within yourself.”

I think this takes away from two key things:

1. The natural whimsy and magic of life that will sometimes drop a blessing in your lap amidst your least internally-resolved chapters of life.

2. The irreplaceability of having new experiences through connection with others that help us rewire our inner world and solidify our sense of Self more than any amount of meditation or plant medicine will ever do alone.

I’m not saying “don’t do the inner work,” but I am saying the inner work is not where the buck stops, and sometimes it’s not even where the buck begins.

Sometimes life throws us a new partner, an enlightening conversation with a stranger, an unexpected friendship, etc., that cracks open a door to new internal perception and experience that we may not have been able to do ourselves.

My question for anyone stuck in a rabbit hole of inner work is:

Are you remembering to live?

I’m currently taking a training on the STAGES Matrix (a model of ego development that begins with childhood, but tracks evolution and integration of development through adulthood as well). There are 12 stages in the model, (1.0, 1.5, 2.0, 2.5, etc. up to 6.5), and as one moves from one stage to another, there are confusions at each stage that must be cleared up before entering the next. Especially in our early developmental years, these confusions are cleared up by having new experiences with our caregivers.

Anyone who knows even a little bit about human development and trauma, knows that our early childhood experiences heavily influence our experiences in adulthood. And thus, our need for new experiences through connection continues into adulthood.

But, the western culture of individuality, hustle, and productivity is seeping into the way spiritual concepts are spoken about and practiced.

The truth is: we need each other, and we need to be LIVING OUR LIVES, not just working on ourselves.

Have you ever just let yourself spiritually and developmentally plateau and let life work on you instead?

How open can we really be to new experiences if we have our heads buried in self-help books, never leave our meditation cushion, and never stop the plant medicine trip?

More importantly, how can we integrate any of this inner work if we aren’t reentering the world and living in reciprocity with our environment?

I say this as someone who has fiercely sought constant evolution through the plethora of self-help books I can see out the corner of my eye on the bookshelf right now, and who also fiercely seeks evolution through relationship.

My years of cutting off non-serving friendships, burying my nose in these books, learning how to meditate, and going so inward that I convinced myself I didn’t belong in the place I had chosen to live, were jolted by an unexpected relationship.

That relationship, to this day, was one of the most formative experiences of my life. Sure, I was able to conceptualize a healthy relationship through all the books I was reading, but I needed to practice what that looked like in the 3D, beyond my inner illusions of feeling resolved.

Because the truth is, after feeling like I had figured myself out and that the solution to the rest of my problems was picking up and moving to a new city, this relationship showed me that the new experience I needed to flourish into a more authentic, centered Self was in the flesh and bones of a real, warm blooded connection, in the town I was already in, as the version of self I already was.

Flash forward to now, and I’m experiencing another formative relationship (also at the precipice of me thinking that I don’t belong where I’ve chosen to land and that there must be more for me in a new city) that is imprinting a sense of relational safety, devotion, and care that I have never experienced before and could not have cultivated all on my own.

But now, I have a somatic and mental blueprint of it. The likelihood of me being able to cultivate these experiences internally are much higher now that I’ve received the blueprint through experience. And, now that I’ve received this blueprint, I’m not going to rush off to a lonesome trail of attempting to cultivate this fully within myself, not needing anyone else to do it for me.

No. I’m okay with needing other people. I’m going to let this relationship work on me. I’m going to let this love wash over me as I live in it and through it.

After all, isn’t it a bit egotistical to think that we don’t need others? To think that we are fully self resourced? Feeding that delusion amplifies the very symptoms that bring people to spiritual work in the first place; loneliness, depression, isolation, confusion.

We need each other.

We need nature.

Go touch some grass and give someone a hug.

I giggled as I wrote the subtitle for this article.

“Day 60 of 100 Days of Writing” … more like “Unknown Number of Days of Writing Inconsistently but Trying My Best to Post 100 Pieces of Writing Anyways.”

I have voices telling me that it’s pointless to count anything towards this 100 day challenge anymore. I have been completely removed from the initial consistency of it, but I am gathering valuable information about what happens when I take a pause.

The fear of irrelevancy starts to eat me alive.

As if my existence is only relevant if I’m actively leaving a digital footprint. As if my life beyond the screen isn’t contributing to what I offer in the digital realm whenever and however I make my return.

What I do know (and what feeds the fear) is this: building trust with an online community requires consistency, honesty, and a willingness to show up.

But what happens when life takes us on a detour? When our bandwidth is stretched too far to include our creativity? When we simply cannot hold it all?

Does the progress we’ve made diminish? Do we lose credibility and relevancy? Or is none of it really as big of a deal as my brain is trying to make it out to be?

The chapter of life I’m in is connecting me with the tenacity and grit I need to hold the life I want, and I am in a fierce building and experimenting phase.

I feel like the Universe is handing me brick after brick, seeing how I construct it all together. Not as a test, but because I have asked for an abundant life, and thus, I am receiving the elements of such a life.

But right now, I feel like I went a little nuts in ordering how many bricks I need for the cathedral I’m building. As if the Universe were Home Depot, offering a plethora of supplies for the vision I hold, and I went in and audaciously asked for every brick they had in the store.

The Universe’s job is not to ask me if I can handle all of these bricks; it simply gives what I open my arms to. And now, I must sort through it all and decipher which bricks will actually lay the most sturdy foundation.

If I look too far ahead to what I want the top layers of the cathedral to look like, I will miss the importance of building a foundation that can hold those upper layers.

If I get caught daydreaming about the stained glass windows or the soft couch I want inside, I will lose the precious attention required to build the walls that can contain these finer details.

I must do the sorting, planning, and building of the layer right before me. And some of that sorting, planning, and building has asked me to temporarily set the content-creation-brick aside to figure out where it truly fits and what shape it needs to be, rather than forcing its placement.

The process that precedes the formation and placement of this brick is the process of clarifying my role, my service, and what I can actually commit my energy to, and that is where I am now.

This part of the building process is uncomfortable because it asks for a step back, for a reevaluation of things I thought I was certain of. It asks me to slow the momentum I had built.

But a slowing of momentum is not stopping. I do not need to get stuck on this brick and I will not get stuck on this brick. I have glimpsed the cathedral, and I will build it.

Part of the artist’s discipline is choosing to pick back up, to resume momentum after a pause, to not entirely lose oneself in the questioning of who they are and where they’re going, but to recognize it as divine redirection and formation of their creative path. To be willing to admit that this very questioning may in fact amplify the magic of what they have to offer if they just. keep. building.

Can we really enjoy the present moment with the fear of loss looming over it?

If we sense time as a burglar,

stealing seconds of our joy,

fanning the flame of urgency,

can we really fill each moment to the fullest?

Wouldn’t at least one thread of our awareness

be dipped in the elixir of doom,

soaking the edges of each moment

with an almost imperceivable dread?

This is no way to experience time.

What if time were your friend?

Wouldn’t you want to let it work its magic

without inhibiting all that it can bring

through the ways it expands and contracts and snaps and rolls?

Wouldn’t you admire its inherent mystery?

Wouldn’t you want a softened relationship with it?

Of course, we are not guaranteed tomorrow.

But the fear of this possibility will eerily zap your seconds quicker than time itself ever would.

Voiceover for those who want to listen along.

“It must be me. There’s something wrong with me.”

I watch a droplet of water traverse the silver hair on his chest. A fleeting moment of internal silence as I watch it slowly navigate the safest terrain I’ve rested my head upon.

I have never felt more at home.

“Why must you ruin it, you annoying bitch.”

Can he hear me? This voice is booming, he must at least feel the shift in my inner weather.

He does.

He strokes my face.

He asks me.

He knows.

He doesn’t flinch.

He stays.

I cry.

It hurts different this time. I am just removed enough from my trauma’s telltale to feel the ache of jumping to the assumption that I am

broken

wrong

gross

disillusioned

not enough.

Holding compassion for this voice feels near impossible. It is an unintentional saboteur of love.

It is standing in my way.

GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

Let me nestle into the haven of devotion this human is offering me.

Let the bones of my body soften under his loving gaze.

Let my wounds be sealed by the clarity of his choice.

He wants to be here. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, and I believe him.

So why don’t you, you torturous, wounded, vindictive, voice?

Why can’t you stop? Why can’t you just go away? Why can’t you just…

Oh.

I see now.

I am speaking the same language of your original wound.

I treat you like unwanted baggage. Heavy and in the way.

But you’re a protector. You love me. You want me to feel the safety of this devotional haven, you’re just afraid it will be taken from me, and that I will be left alone on the side of the road again.

I see now. I hear you.

I’m with you, there. On the side of the road.

That was fucked up, wasn’t it…

I’m with you. I love you.

I understand your efforts.

I will take your hand as we traverse the terrain of new love. I will stroke your face and kiss your tears as the ferocious wind of the unknown lashes your face and your throat swells and screeches with the warning of what has been.

And we will stay.

We will open.

We will soften.

We will not flinch.

We will become the safe haven of devotional trust.

I do not know what is next,

and for the first time, it feels insane to try and figure it out.

To take away the gift of the mystery

feels like scorching myself with unnecessary

and ultimately unobtainable certainty.

Too rigid to hold the magic,

certainty is suffocating.

Not knowing is breath.

Optional listening: The Cold by Exitmusic

The undertow of hopefulness carries a wisdom I’ve followed into every love story that has shaped the vessel of my heart.

From wisdom’s birds-eye view, the wounding has made everything richer.

Abandonment has lead me to the overwhelming sweetness of this moment in time. Starved by the emptiness of fantasy, the feast of being tangibly chosen is like a curated meal for the parts of me who writhed in agony after years of feeling unmet and unseen.

I bow to my wounding in gratitude for how tender and new this feels. To feel this experience radiate through my entire being is a gift that may have missed the tender grip of appreciation had it not been a missing piece all a long.

“Just one wise toe on the ground,” I whisper to my hopefulness. “But feel it all.”

There’s a spaciousness within me from all that has fallen apart. Desolation has carved me out for the fullness of what’s arrived and yet to come.

It has chiseled my awareness to keenly look uncertainty in the eye and keep one wise toe on the earth, one knowing finger on the pulse of my path, one listening ear to the heartbeat of my desire. The rest of me free to dip and dive in the titillating Now.

I have longed for a tether, forgetting I am my own. Discrediting my knowing, demonizing my wishing, drowning in the emptiness carved by my wounds, not feeling the spaciousness they’ve brought until now.

I will stretch this tender time, delve into the smallest of moments. I will pull it apart so I can be in its empty spaces. I will let my skin be flushed by the fluttering of my heart.

I will let the eyes of this lover see me through and through and through; a fearless gaze into the window of my heart. Unafraid of what he might find, knowing he cannot take, I keep the door unlocked, welcome mat out.

Come inside.

I had a dream the other night that would have sent me into a spiral of pathologization a few years ago. Luckily the language of my dreamer is far less foreign these days. Even when my dreams are frightening, with willingness and patience, I can usually see what lies beneathe the horror.

Forewarning, it’s gruesome.

I’m walking along an interstate following people I can sense that I know, but who are visually unidentifiable. There are four lanes separated by concrete barriers. We’re approaching the scene of an accident, but the vehicles are nowhere to be seen, there are only bodies and items strewn across the interstate. We’re walking slowly. There is no panic or chaos, just observance. In my periphery I can see people standing over the bodies, appearing to be helping, but there is no urgency, just observance. I’m approaching two bodies in my lane. I walk carefully to avoid stepping on them when one of them moves - almost like someone in deep sleep, they adjust, exhale, and resettle. I feel no panic, but overwhelming compassion. I think of the lives these humans had up to this point, the family members who will miss them, the grief of who they didn’t get the chance to become. As I continue walking, I get the somatic sense that this is too much to take in and I wake up.

This dream did not feel like “parts of me that are dying.” It felt like collective grief and horror being processed through my psyche. If you believe in the collective unconscious, this makes sense.

The eeriest part of this dream was the calm observation. I was not panicked. I was not shattered. I was collected, compassionate, and observant.

To be an artist, a mental health professional, and a community leader in this world amidst our current collective experience is like walking through the blood stained interstate. Honestly embodying these roles asks one to stare the horrors of the world in the eye with a ferocious desire to shine a light upon the shadows. Not to fully eradicate the shadows, but to illuminate where we are needed most. To hold its gaze long enough to heed the call of action.

I will have clients facing horrors that I cannot fix. There is desecration in this world that I cannot solve. There are shadowy nightmares of my own life that perplex me. Perhaps not everything can be, or should be, solved, fixed, or healed. Perhaps the horror is what feeds the souls of dharmic leaders. Without it, perhaps our art does not carry the same weight.

My shattered heart spills its tender insides all over the confines of my bed.

I watch helplessly as the final pieces of a wavering foundation crumble. I wail in the final breath of agony,

and the birds chirp outside.

I feel like all the air in my lungs has been squeezed from me,

and the sun shines through the clouds.

I feel like I’m dying,

and the birds keep singing.

We exist in the sacred grey at all times, living in the threshold of life and death. Nothing is as black and white as we wish it to be.

A child is born, a final breath is taken. Celebration abounds in small corners of my neighborhood as desecration stains the streets of cities all over the world.

An eternal “both, and” that begs us to loosen our grip, to sacrifice our fear of impermanence.

Sacrifice means “to make sacred” - how might we make our fear sacred?

How might we reach just beyond the agony of impermanence to see that it is what makes it all so sweet.

The bitter sting of a sweet nectar, always pressed to our lips. Most are unwilling to swallow.

Impermanence is inevitable, yet we stand firm in our denial.

No matter how many times we turn our backs, it continues to tap our shoulder, turning us to face its most brutal forms - excruciating deaths, unexpected separations.

I don’t think Impermanence wishes to only be seen this way, for it is also woven into the breath of freedom as we leave behind the confines of a life, relationship, or job that restrained our most authentic expression.

It is woven into the heartbeat of a child as they thud their way through learning to walk. It is the warm glow of fall leaves and the budding of spring flowers.

Impermanence’s gift is preciousness. Perhaps in return, we offer up our fear; a sacrificial exchange for participating in this wild, unknown life.

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Recommended listening while reading: Elegy for Peace by Felix Rösch

The dust of a wretched week is settling and the eerie stillness of desolation is affording me deeper listening.

I can hear and feel every string of my soul-chestra in a way I’ve never been able to before. Today’s tuning drew me to the forest; the birthplace of my inner chorus.

Plans abandoned, I wandered to the perfect tree. A tall, sturdy cedar, with the energy of an old, dear friend. I placed my palm to it’s trunk, leaning, giving it some of the lingering weight of my grief.

Immediately it spoke, but not with words. A shared knowing - palm to bark, breath to branches, feet to soil.

Then, a whisper:

Trust your path, pave the way. Trust your path, pave the way.

But what if I waver?

I waver, too. Don’t you see? My branches sway, fall away, and decompose. But they are not all of me. I am my trunk, my roots, my crown, and the ecosystem surrounding.

You have branches too - parts of you that waver, that get taken by the winds of change, soaked by the tears of the sky, ripped by well-meaning passersby. Some of your branches may need to fall away, but look below… they feed the soil. They never really die. They play a regenerative role. They contribute to the heights you can grow.

Heights to which I must speak; do not fear the darkness enveloping your roots. There are nutrients there, lurking in the shadowy depths of the underground. This is how you remain connected.

Bravery is immersed in your roots. From the darkness, you reach the sky. The shelter of your canopy will aid many weary travelers.

Root down, stand tall, trust in the falling away. Trust your path, pave the way.

Palm to trunk, breath to branches… “Aho, Cedar.”

Aho, sweet child.

I lost a dear friend to suicide this week. A human brimming with determination, kindness, and discipline. Someone who taught me that nothing was impossible deemed his circumstances too impossible to endure.

I have no idea how to make sense of this, and perhaps there is no solid form of sense to be made, but rather moments of felt-truth that weave through debilitating waves of grief. Because I reached my own moment of insanity this week. An overloaded nervous system can convince you there is no way out. So as difficult as it is to map how someone like him took his life the way he did, I understand in a limited way.

The pain of this loss struck the jugular of grief within me. Every lingering pain I have not fully felt, flooded my system. In 72 hours, I have touched a full range of human emotions. I thought my heart had grazed every edge of my inner experience already. I was wrong. There is more. Infinitely more.

I wrote a few months ago that I think grief may be a permanent bystander to every experience we have in this human life. This feels painfully true right now, but I am also feeling the potency of grief as a teacher.

Grief is mysterious. At times it is alarmingly present; in other moments, it slithers into the breath of a giggle, almost imperceivable, yet not truly masquerading.

You think you know it’s form, it’s sensation, it’s sound, it’s smell, and in an instant, it transforms. It is equally everything you know and everything you don’t, and I don’t think it ever leaves us.

Perhaps we are born with the grief of our ancestors swirling in our DNA. Perhaps we are the alchemists of their grief and our own. Perhaps grief rides through the canal of our mother’s womb as we take our first breath, embarking on our mortal human journey.

I don’t say this to be grim or to portray grief as a dark passenger to fear, but rather to normalize it’s presence and help us remember that it is perhaps one of the most unequivocal manifestations of the mystery of life that we can actually feel, no matter how momentary and strange, no matter how senseless and formless.

One thing that has continuously been reflected to me this week by my friends is how this will strengthen my medicine as a counselor. Touching the sharp edge of grief, beyond it’s illusive presence in textbooks and training videos, will allow me to move more directly with the heart of a client’s experience. It will remind me that there is no right answer, no correct way to grieve, and how it feels for that to be true.

Equally, I am brought back to the truth of why I am pursuing this line of work. It is not to change or fix anyone, but to walk with them through their own remembering process. To shine a light on their strengths, to be with them in the crumbling, to be a lighthouse of hope when they cannot find it for themselves, and to remind them that there are gifts naturally woven into the other side of the darkness they endure.

That may sound like a lot of fluffy words for what will frequently and simply be a deep practice of meeting clients exactly where they are on a moment to moment basis, but it is the heartbeat of what I will be doing.

I will follow this heartbeat of purpose with the determination and discipline of Shea; my sweet friend. I will breathe life into his legacy by facing hardship head on, transforming impossibility into possibility. I will heed the call of potential and make it tangible. I will move with the impenetrable kindness he exuded and always remember to giggle at the absurdity of life, because laughter was a gift we frequently shared.

And as an ode to the mystery of life, I welcome grief as a teacher, in all of it’s forms. No matter how momentary and strange. No matter how unbearable and unmovable. No matter how senseless and formless.

I open my heart to living as fully as I can as a prayer for those who felt they could not.

In loving memory of Shea and in prayer for his family, friends, and community. We love you.

I listened to a podcast today that resonated so deeply, I teared up multiple times. She said that after taking some field notes from avoidants, she learned they don’t leave because something hurts, but before it hurts. This lead her to realize that, on the flip side, her nervous system is oriented towards staying in pain, frequently longer than she needs to. She said “maybe I’m a masochist” and I cackled because seriously… am I a masochist? Feels like an accurate and hilarious explanation for my repeated entanglement with men who lack any ability to meet me in the ways I need, and my willingness to overstay my welcome in expired connection.

I’ve been spending time attuning to the voice of my inner hopeless romantic and trying something new: not blaming her for my heartache. Because her desires aren’t wrong. She is not broken. Her needs are not too much. They are reasonable and beautiful, but simply stuck in the confines of a world that tells her bare minimum effort is a rarity.

This part of me is actually quite awe inspiring. She manages to stay connected to the sometimes imperceivable magic of life no matter how many times the ground crumbles beneath her. If it weren’t for this part’s persistence, I’d be a cynical masochist and that’s… way less funny.

I have a natural frustration with this part because, as much as I love her orientation to magic, she feels disconnected from reality. But that’s where Highest Wisest Natalia gets to enter the scene. This part can continue frolicking the field of romance while I steward an orientation towards the reality being presented, so her magic will be honored by the right person.

This part is easily appreciated by most men. I think she mirrors a feminine innocence they can identify with, but that requires a particular degree of willingness to admit they also carry hope in their back pocket. To my frequent demise, I am drawn towards men who have hope burning a hole in their back pocket that they continuously ignore and allow to scorn others through their unwillingness to acknowledge it.

I’m an advocate for discernment, but where is the line between wisely yielded discernment and fear-formulated rigidity?

I could spend another 15 years wishing my whimsical heart would crack open an avoidant man’s heart, but I think I’ll keep frolicking, discerning, and stewarding myself in the direction of connections that can properly honor, admire, and foster this magical orientation of mine.

Hello, Mr. Algorithm, how may I please you today? I’ve been paying close attention to the games you play.

You haven’t strayed far from the rules we’re already expected to abide. Perhaps if I dumb myself down I will catch your stride.

You like a quick hit, something fast, hot, and ready. Easy to digest and label, not slow and steady.

Say less, show more, be politically ripe. An appeal to the masses for a quick highlight.

Do you like me more when I dilute my words? What is depth anyways? That shit is for the birds.

Tell me, Mr. Algorithm, what’s trending today? I could sell myself short like an internet slave.

You like that, don’t you? When I fit in your box? I could be anything you want, and everything I’m not.

You’re not playing with a fool, I know this game all too well. I was 13 when I learned my body was something to sell.

I just thought you’d be different; a safe space to share. But you’re just like the rest, only wanting me bare.

But not bare in the way I long to be received; you don’t want my soul or my heart to be seen. Unless it’s filtered with key words at the right time of day; extra perks if I’m willing to pay to play.

As tiring as you are, I do not fear my own flame; you will not stamp it out with your trivial games.

I fear for the young, developing under the harshness of your gaze, trying to piece together who they are in your impossible maze.

I fear for the girl with a dream in her heart, who learns to be less than who she is to get a head start.

So I will bare my soul, I will share with Kali’s rage, so these girls know they do not have to succumb to your cage.

May my art be a prayer, a lighthouse for becoming. May it land before the eyes of the depleted and numbing. May it spark a remembering of their own inner flame, so they awaken to the poison of your algorithmic game.

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Voiceover for those who enjoy listening along - this one sounds nice with headphones :)

In the quietude of having nothing to ponder, I can sense the sturdiness of my spine.

Each vertebrae stacked more sufficiently by choosing not to waver, not to hunch, not to shrink in an effort to be palatable.

From centeredness, I’ve spoken. From truth, I’ve clarified. And thus, there is nothing left to ponder. Nothing to question. A rootedness simultaneously brand new and familiar.

Is this the woman I’ve been all along? Beneath the second guessing, fawning, and spiraling? Have I always been this way?

In the quietude of having stood compassionately in my truth, I can sense the roots of my being traversing the fertile soil of the earth. Nutrients of wisdom, no secret to my soul, have pulsed behind the swirling overthought.

Of course I have always been this way. I simply forgot where to source my wisdom.

Drinking from the readily available fountain of fear, I forgot to root down and drink from deeper wells.

The nectar of remembering seeps into my skin, nourishing my bones. A new spinal fluid; tenacious, bold, and resiliently kind.

I am the woman I have always been.

Voiceover for those who wish to listen along.

Like moths to a flame, the anxious-avoidant dance lights both lovers on fire, seeming to frequently end in an ashy demise.

But does it always have to be this way?

I can’t help but wonder, if we were to slow down enough to see ourselves in the flame, to peer behind and around the delicate tendrils of the flame, perhaps it could be kindled and kept alive.

Just as moths to a flame, I believe we are unconsciously drawn to the environments and humans that create the perfect conditions for growth. In Carl Jung’s words, this is individuation. Our innate orientation and drive towards wholeness.

But “perfect conditions for growth” do not equate to gentleness and ease. Those are necessary elements for longevity, but it is friction and imbalance that awakens the need for adjustment in the first place.

And so, the telltale of coexistence of light and dark endures.

If we were to gaze delicately and willingly into the flame of the other’s eyes, perhaps we would find a golden shadow; gifts previously unseen and unawakened in our own being. Threads of expression longing to be embraced, but repeatedly scorned out of fear and uncertainty.

It takes two to tango, and herein lies choice, for the dance becomes a chase when one moth is unwilling to peer into the flame and embrace the golden thread. The chase ends in ashy demise as the willing and peering moth is allured into believing they must dive in alone.

The dance of willingness is not impossible, and yet, probability feels bleak. I feel like a willing moth, flittering around my own flame; peering inward does not daunt me, but peering alone certainly does.

I long for the dance with a willing other. I long for the weaving of golden threads. And I do not find it listless to hover gently near hope; perhaps the illumination of my own flame will draw forth another who longs to brew the perfect conditions for growth.

Is my desire to be relatable and approachable dampening my confidence and dimming my light? Is labeling it as a “desire to be relatable and approachable” just a smarter way of saying I want to be liked?

I had to ask myself this today as I watched myself shyly giggle, hunch my shoulders, and lower my voice as I spoke about something I actually know a lot about.

I seem to have internalized a belief at some point in my life that to take up space as an intellectual, confident woman is to be unrelatable. Even unlikable. And it is most certainly tied to the friction I feel when I encounter women who do take up space in this way.

Women with firm boundaries, tall and strong spines, bold opinions, bright minds, and a blunt belief in self. These women put me in direct contact with a growth edge I’m not sure I want to outgrow. And yet, I can tell by the goosebumps I have as I write this, that my soul is begging me to lean into this.

It even arose in my dream last night - I was interacting with a woman who triggers this internal friction for me, but in the dream, the energy was soft and inviting. It was collaborative and sisterly. It felt like this part of me sending me a love letter: Lean into me. I am already within you.

As I begin to broaden my temporal horizon to the next decade of my life, I feel a new archetype awakening within me.

The Archer.

She is dialed, skilled, and direct. There is no need for her to shout over others or parade her presence; she stands firmly in her essence. Her steadiness eases every space she fills. She knows the hunching of her shoulders will cause her to miss her shot, but she does not stand rigidly at the mark. Grace imbued in her stance, she releases her arrow with confidence and trust that it will land exactly where it is cast.

The vision I hold of how I want to contribute to the world is clarifying; the sharpening of my arrow is now. As I grapple with the discomfort of being in a funhouse of growth edges, I know this is the very refinement I need.

If I want to build a cathedral, I must start with a foundation that can weather storms. If I want to hit the bullseye, I must not hunch my shoulders.

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The Universe sent me an angel today. An unexpected stranger at the yoga studio. I was heading out after filming some content, absolutely spent from the week. He made a short remark about how beautiful it’s been the past few days. Already mentally rushing out the door and completely disinterested in small-talk, I responded and continued gathering my things, but I felt a tug on the coattail of my heart… “slow down, be with this human.”

What unfolded was no small-talk. We chatted about the power of working with the subconscious mind, softening resistance to the life we know we can live, and allowing others to be exactly where they are.

He told me stories of his life, how watching The Secret changed everything for him, and how his unwavering belief that everything works in his favor is what affords him the happiness he exudes today.

After sharing a little of my own story and telling him I just turned 30, he spryly responded:

“Your life is just beginning.”

It rattled me enough to shake discontent from my bones. The aches and pains I feel as I enter this chapter are not signs of misalignment. They are growing pains. They are proof of calibration.

Orienting to the role of being a mental health counselor began 3 years ago, but is only just now taking tangible form. Orienting to the role of community leader and dharma artist began 6 years ago, and the form evolves every. single. day.

He said: “Think of who you’ll be and what you will have accomplished by the time you’re my age!”

Bam, hit with another gratitude dart. I feel so fortunate to have found a path of alignment so early in my life, and to have the resources, willpower, and support to continue choosing this path. I know it will continue to evolve, but (at least in this moment) that does not strike fear.

I am learning to find threads of joy in impermanence. And by the graces of this stranger-turned-friend, I am reminded of the importance of being exactly where you are, and being open to the possibility that any moment, every moment, is teeming with possibility.

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I’ve spent most of my life fawning into flexibility. Constant availability for others has felt like the safest way to ensure I won’t be left behind. But at what cost?

I had a vision that spooked me - I see myself, standing in a vast room. Knock after knock at the door brings everything I’ve ever forked my availability over to. The room fills quickly. A life-size Jenga of Responsibility begins to form as I squeeze and push things into corners, adjusting to ensure everything and everyone is comfortable and sound until… I am outside of the door. There is space for everything and everyone except for myself.

I refuse to be an outlier of my own prioritization. It is time to center myself in the room.

My practice with this began this summer. Overwhelming life events forced me into shifting some over-extended emotional availability with a friend, leading to an unfortunate bitter end. I wrote this during that time:

I am being forced to look at where and how I derive my self worth. Is it derived from productivity and output? Is it derived from how much I can give to others? How much space I can hold? How much I allow the external world to drink from my well?

Life has brewed the perfect storm for this. Everything is happening all at once. I’m scraping the edges of my capacity, my boundaries are being poked, and my needs are boiling at the surface.

What happens in the storm where creativity and productivity dwindle and my output is minimal? What happens when I can’t show up for my friends like I used to? What happens when the space I have for others needs to become space for myself?

Do I carry the weight of shame and guilt on my back? Because I haven’t learned how to connect with my self worth in times of rest and receiving?

Do I become the villain in other people’s stories because I’m no longer convenient for them? Do I become the villain in my own story when my own needs shift?

And can I see how much love and support is around me even when I can’t derive my worth from the places I have before? Can I see the way life still longs to pour into me? And can I receive it?

This lesson is not fully integrated. Sorting out a work, internship, teaching, entrepreneurship, and social life schedule is making my brain feel like scrambled eggs. But, I am certainly revisiting this lesson from a different place in the spiral of growth.

Part of my responsibility is finding radical acceptance and gratitude - I chose this and I GET this. None of the things that currently exist in my life are here because someone forced my hand.

I chose to pursue my master’s degree. I get to pursue my master’s degree.

I chose this job. I get to work this job.

I choose to teach yoga because it’s part of my dharma. I get to teach yoga and honor my dharma.

I choose to continue on the path of entrepreneurship because if I don’t answer the call of my Daimon, it will eat me alive. I get to listen to this call because I’ve done enough work to know what it sounds like.

I choose my friends. I choose my family. I have family and friends I get to choose.

And, I still get to choose myself.

I am grateful to have a life so full, I get to say no to a few things.

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Last night, I dreamt of my mother’s hands. A warm invitation to rest my head on her chest like a child.

The presence of my ego, even in the dreamworld, is impeccable; I resisted the comfort and had thoughts of how inappropriate it would be to allow myself to receive that comfort as a grown 30 year old woman.

And yet, something softer in me still said yes.

I leaned into her as my head laid on her chest. Wrapping me in her arms, she whispered, “Lucky me.” Enough to make this grown 30 year old woman sob.

But my body did not fully soften. My right hand twitched and flinched - my dominant hand with which I do most things - write, hold, create, direct. My hand of action. It would not let me rest.

Skin to skin, caressed by the warmth of my mother’s hands, ear to her heartbeat, something softer in me still said yes.

My eyes closed, my breath softened to an imperceivable whisper. I was receiving. I was held. And then…

A jolt in my leg from an unseen force flipped my body around, shaking me from this unencumbered loving embrace. I stared, startled into the room. Mother’s presence calm and curious, as if she was asking, “what is it, my child?”

In my meditation this morning after writing down this dream, I sat with the dream in a way I’ve never sat with a dream before. I let the dreamscape arise in my mind and attuned somatically to the essence of my mother’s hands.

Each time I left to explore the scattered parts of my mind, I knew exactly where to return. Mother’s hands.

The energetic signature of this essence is unique and something I plan to anchor into as I navigate the very big waves of life I’m currently surfing. And this process of allowing the symbol and essence of the dreamscape to intuitively arise through the body induced an immediate creative project for the rest of the morning - the creation of a Dream Blooming Meditation (which you can access here).

While I didn’t sit in heavy contemplation and attempt to fully interpret the dream, the message feels clear - there’s a part of my psyche that is resistant to rest, receiving, and comfort in this chapter of my life because action must be taken. I am in a doing-era. And I’m okay with that. But, clearly, a softer part of me wants me to lean in and say “yes” to moments of non-doing, of being held and seen.

The beautiful thing about blooming a dream, is if you do it right, it’s message can inform the way you lead your life for weeks and months to come. The actual dream itself is only a seed. By meeting it with openness, curiosity, and a willingness to listen, it’s message begins to unfurl. A continuous and intimate revealing of the hidden parts of your psyche. It doesn’t get much more magical and mythical than that.

To my mother, who I’m sure will be reading this - please know it is the essence of your heart and your hands that are my safe haven as I become more of the woman I need to be in the quest of my greatest becoming. I love you.

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Bravery must be baked into the blueprint of our souls. If there was any soul-level choice in the manifestation of our being, this has to be true. Because the pain and peril we face as humans mandates bravery.

We are constantly contending with impermanence and change. We have no guarantee of a long life, or even an enjoyable one, and yet we come into form. Flesh, blood, and bones, a fragile entrance into a world with endless potential to shatter and rob us of our innocence.

It is brave to live, to love, to hope, to dream, to create, and this bravery takes many forms. It is not always a leap on stage before the eyes of the world.

Sometimes it is a silent choosing of self. Sometimes it is clicking “publish” or hitting record. Sometimes it is tending to a calloused heart, gently reopening to love. Sometimes it is emerging from bed to greet the sun after weeks or months of existing as a shell of self.

If you do not feel brave, I encourage you to ponder your definition of the term. To soften the judging eyes of the ego enough to find the finer details of bravery that exist in the essence of your being.

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