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.

Your relationships are echoes of your Inner dialogue.

It’s not them.
It’s you.

Specifically, it’s the way you speak to you.

I know that’s a hard truth to hear, especially if you’ve been hurt, dismissed, ghosted, misunderstood, or betrayed.

It’s easier to point outward.

It’s harder to own that every person in your life is playing out a conversation you are already having with yourself.

Not consciously, of course.
But energetically.

You are the Creator of your reality. So if your inner voice is still cruel to you when you’re sad, overwhelmed, needy, jealous, or scared…

I grew up hearing that addiction was a genetic trait.

My grandfather was an alcoholic.
My grandmother too.
My uncle died of it.

By the time I was four, they were all gone —

leaving behind only stories, warnings, and the silent fear that it might be in my blood too.

So when I grew up and never got into drugs, or alcohol, or food addiction, I thought I had beaten it.

I thought I had outrun the inheritance.

But the truth is, I was addicted. Just not in the way anyone ever warned me about.

For a long time, I described myself as a “walking trigger” because, even in my youth, my presence had a way of activating hidden fears, old wounds, and unprocessed emotions in the people around me.

I know juuuust enough about Tarot to describe this impact on others as the Tower— the card of sudden upheaval, destruction, and forced transformation.

It felt accurate.
It felt like people had to survive me.
Oof.

But what I see now — and what feels so important to name — is that even that description carried the last remnants of victim-consciousness inside me.

This past year, I learned something that changed everything:

if you don’t do your own energetic hygiene, someone else’s energy will do it for you.

Not on purpose, of course. Most of the time, people don’t even realize they’re leaking—or siphoning.

But before I knew how to tell the difference between my energy and someone else’s, I was constantly absorbing feelings, doubts, fears, and projections that didn’t belong to me. I just didn’t know it.

They felt like mine.
They sounded like my inner voice.

But they weren’t.

There’s a reason so many people resist the idea that we create our own reality.

It’s not because they don’t believe in manifestation.
It’s not because they don’t want to feel powerful.

It’s because they’re still stuck in an old paradigm that says if something painful happened, someone has to be blamed—and if they take accountability, they fear that someone is them.

It’s not hard to see where this comes from. We’re raised in a culture obsessed with blame.

We’re trained to identify the villain.