There’s something stirring in the collective—a remembrance, a hunger.

Recently, Timothée Chalamet spoke candidly about his desire for “the pursuit of greatness.” And what moved me most was how he spoke of not just in terms of actors but greats in other professions—-athletes in particular—-but the implication is that this includes performers, artists, legends at the top of their genius.

It reminded me of when I witnessed Carlos Santana live in Las Vegas. Watching him channel that level of mastery was like watching divinity in motion.

For most of my life, I felt like I caused disruption just… by being in the room.

When people got close to me, especially quickly, things would start to shift for them.

They’d hit an emotional edge, confront an old wound, or face a truth they’d been avoiding.

And then one of two things would happen:

We’d either grow closer through it—or they’d disappear.

I’ve written before how I believed this made me a “walking trigger.” I carried that label with a mixture of guilt, confusion, and quiet self-blame.

Most people think they’re here to manifest things:

Money. Love. Freedom. A life of ease.

But that’s not really what they’re after.

They’re reaching—sometimes blindly—for something far deeper.

They’re reaching for remembrance.
A reawakening.
A return to the truth of who they are.

Because underneath every desire is the soul’s hunger to know itself as Source/God.

When I first opened my marriage, I remember reading stories from people in the polyamory world who would say things like:

“I’ve always been poly. Even as a kid, I didn’t understand why love had to be limited to just one person.”

And at the time, I thought—wow, that’s beautiful.

But I didn’t relate. At all.

I didn’t grow up feeling that way.

I didn’t feel like polyamory had always been my truth just waiting to be discovered.

We've all heard it: Every moment is a choice between fear and love.

It’s quoted in spiritual circles like scripture. It sounds right. It feels right. But lately, I’ve realized—through a beautifully unexpected mirror—that it’s not the full truth.

Most of us were introduced to the idea of a “sacred pause” in the context of emotional regulation.

It goes like this:

Something triggers you. Your chest tightens. Your jaw clenches. You’re about to react.

And then—you remember…

Lately, something unexpected has been happening in my body.

I’ve been in a constant state of creative flow—building, writing, designing, channeling—and I feel deeply, wholly… satisfied. Not just intellectually or emotionally, but erotically. My libido is quieter than usual. Not gone, just… at peace.

And I’ll be honest, it caught me off guard.

"I enjoy showing up for you.” That was their response after doing something generous for me.

And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.

Not because it was unexpected—this partner is already soooo generous—but because of what the phrase stirred in me. The part of me that has, for so long, equated asking with BURDEN.

For the last 20 years or so, I had a tradition.

Each year on my birthday, I would choose someone who had meant a lot to me in the previous year and I’d buy them a gift and write them a heartfelt letter—something that honored how deeply they had touched my life.

At some point, I stopped buying the gifts.

I was wrong. And it’s important I say this.

For years, l shared the common belief that you never fully “heal” your core wounds—especially those of abandonment, rejection, and unworthiness. That these traumas would always linger in some form, coloring how you relate, attach, grieve, or fear.

But I can’t say that anymore.

Have you ever noticed how two people can experience the exact same situation yet interpret it completely differently? One sees it as punishment; the other as a gift.

The difference? Sovereignty.

When you operate from sovereignty, you anchor yourself deeply into the belief that you are the Creator, rather than the victim, of your reality.

We've all been there—feeling judgment, anger, or resentment toward someone, convinced that they're the source of our discomfort. But what if these emotions are less about them and more about unacknowledged parts of ourselves?​

Consider this: every person we encounter acts as a mirror, reflecting our beliefs about ourselves and the world. This perspective suggests that our external interactions highlight internal truths we might overlook.​