There are moments in life when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
And then there are moments when it feels like everything is finally falling into place.

Sometimes those moments are the same moment.

This is the paradox at the heart of awakening, especially the kind of awakening that doesn’t just touch your mind or heart, but burns you open through your relationships, your desires, your very identity. It’s the kind of awakening that shows you who you are, by first showing you all the ways you've forgotten.

In my own journey—and in the lives of those I guide—I’ve come to see this process in layers. What began as a descent into chaos was, in truth, the beginning of coherence.

I heard something on a cooking competition that really stuck with me.

A judge was tasting a dish—something with apples—and said, “There’s no relief.”

What they meant was that everything in the dish was cut to the same size, cooked to the same texture, and seasoned in the same way. Because of that, every bite felt the same. There was no contrast. Nothing to break it up.

That word RELIEF landed hard for me.

Because in life, we often think of contrast as a disruption. We’re wired to seek safety in the predictable. The nervous system likes routine, and knowing what’s coming next.

Imagine you signed up for the ultimate immersive experience.

Not just any game, but a high-stakes, soul-stretching, choose-your-own-adventure challenge that would take you to your edges, and unlock every single one of your dormant powers.

You didn’t come here for easy.

You came here for epic.

Think about it:

People sign up for game shows and reality competitions where they eat worms, brave haunted houses, or live for months in the wilderness… all for the thrill of what waits on the other side.

They know there’s a payoff.

They know they chose the challenge.

And that’s the part we forget when we enter this 3D reality.

For years, I’ve struggled with the term "personal work" or "inner work."

Not because I don’t believe in growth.
Not because I’m bypassing discomfort or pretending evolution doesn’t require deep presence and devotion.
But because the word WORK—even when used spiritually—carries an old energetic residue.

It implies effort, struggle, repair, like there’s something wrong with me that needs to be fixed.

It echoes capitalism, and worth tied to productivity which feels transactional, linear, and heavy.

And the truth is: My expansion no longer feels like that.

Messy? Yes.
Intense? Of course.

But at its core, it has always been a form of creation.

There’s a hidden art to receiving that most people miss—

Not because they’re incapable of it, but because they’ve trained their nervous systems to skip right over it.

I’m talking about the tiny blessings.

The still-warm coffee handed to you just the way you like it.
The unexpected green light when you’re running late.
The text from someone who sees your magic.
The way your skin feels after you oil it with reverence.
The dollar in the street.
The goosebumps from a song lyric that feels like it was written just for you.

When you’re only looking for the “big” manifestations, you miss the whole point of the game:

To BE someone who knows how to receive.

I was driving—just a regular day—when a single sentence changed how life played out after I heard it.

I was listening to a spiritual podcast, and the guest said:

“If you think of 'perfect' as a point on a spectrum, then it’s just as likely that life could become double perfect as it is that it could fall apart.”

I pulled the car over.

Something in me rewired on the spot.

Because until that moment, I didn’t even realize I had been living in quiet anticipation of "the other shoe dropping."

I had just met someone I deeply connected with. It was going so well it scared me. My trauma-trained nervous system whispered, "This won’t last. Don’t get too comfortable."

Imagine a crystal-clear satellite channel full of your favorite music, soul-expanding conversations, next-level love, wealth, success, and erotic fulfillment—beaming through the cosmos in perfect frequency.

This is your highest timeline.

It’s not a reward for being good enough, healed enough, spiritual enough, or selfless enough.

That’s the myth of victim consciousness: that you must suffer first, improve your value or “do the work” hard enough before you get to receive.

Abundance is not something you earn.

It is a signal that exists.

Now.

I used to dislike New Relationship Energy.

Most people romanticize it—the butterflies, the rush, the mystery. But when I studied this from a somatic lens, NRE expressed as tension.
Anxiety in disguise.
A loop of “Do they like me? Am I lovable?” that wouldn’t quiet down until there was some external proof of consistency—like a weekly date or label.

Back then, what I called NRE was really a trauma response dressed in platform heels and lipstick.

But as I stepped into sovereignty—into creator consciousness—everything changed. I stopped outsourcing my safety and my worthiness.

I stopped needing the other person to anchor me.

I experienced some unexpected chaos recently. A flurry of miscommunication, drama, and destabilization stirred up in my external world.

Part of me wanted to take the bait and fall into old patterning—to fix it, solve it, respond...

But I know that chaos in my external reality is reflecting unresolved chaos in my internal reality, so I got quiet and listened for the echo...

A younger memory resurfaced. Of a mother who didn’t know how to connect unless there was turbulence. Whose own childhood was saturated with violence, unpredictability, and emotional instability. Where chaos equaled connection—because at least someone was present.

And suddenly, I saw the pattern with fresh eyes.

For most of my life, I wanted my mother to admit to what had happened to me.

I wanted her to say it out loud that my childhood had been riddled with abuse, that her choices (or her silence) shaped so much of the shame I carried, that my pain was real and not exaggerated. I spent years either pleading for acknowledgment or steeling myself against the reality that it might never come. And every time she told her version of the past... sanitized, selective, drenched in denial, it felt like another violation.

Like my experience was being erased.

But then something changed.

It wasn’t that she finally came around.
It was that I did.

There came a moment in my awakening when I realized:
We’re not all living in the same reality.

There’s a stage in the healing journey where things get subtler, gentler—yet still powerful.

You’re not actively digging through shadow anymore.
You’re just living. Creating.

And suddenly—something opens.

That’s what happened to me this weekend.

I’ve been deep in edits for The Temple of I, Book 3 of the Hieros Codex I’m writing. These books are designed to be energetic activations. Every time I return to them, I’m pulled through another layer of my own healing, integration, and expansion.

I rarely realize it's happening in the moment anymore, but the shifts are still very real, and embodied.

By the weekend, I was deep in a grief I couldn’t name. It didn’t come from a single event. It just was—an aching, quiet sadness without story.

For most of my life, I have met people where they were. It was part of what made people feel safe with me.

I could sense what someone needed—softness, reflection, permission—and shape myself to deliver it.

But I’ve come to see that I wasn’t just meeting people where they were out of love, I was doing it because I was conditioned to believe I had to be smaller to BE loved.

That belief was formed early—like so many of ours are.

If I was too radiant, too much, too intense, it might cost me connection.

So I learned to dim. To adjust. To make myself palatable.

Even in my sacred work—as a healer, mystical guide, or as a bridge to a person’s next level self—I carried that trace of smallness with me.