For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be alive—not conceptually, not philosophically, but viscerally. I am no longer observing life from a distance or narrating it through thought. I am inside of it. I am feeling it move through me.

That was the real tension I was living inside. If I allowed the truth of who I am—what I feel, what I know, what my soul is asking for—to lead my life and be fully expressed, I feared people would misinterpret it. I feared they would mistake awakening for instability.

As I attuned to the early morning sunlight filtering through the windows, the playful aliveness of the kittens, the stillness and spaciousness of the mornings, something inside me recalibrated. As I felt the energetics of clean sheets against my skin, the warmth of the shower, the grounding weight of a coffee mug in my hand, the scent of a meal I was lovingly preparing, the glow of the fireplace, the quiet perfection of a single rose—my internal frequency changed.

In that moment, I felt magnetic—fully aligned, fully available. Any experience I wanted felt possible. Every expression of myself was accessible. I could be soft or fierce, creative and abstract or linear and concrete. I could embody the feminine and fluid, or the masculine and structured. I could move freely between all of it. Each expression felt equally true, equally satisfying. There were no limits—only choice.

“The mozzarella sticks were that good—you wanted more?” he asked, setting the plate down on the table. He was one of the cooks at the small diner where we were eating, stepping in to help while the lone waitress rushed between too many tables.

I slammed on the brakes and forced the car to a stop. I leapt out, leaving the door hanging open, and ran through the snow toward his body. I had seen him from the road—someone I loved deeply—lying lifeless on a snowbank on that frosty Friday morning.

It is that kind of morning 

curled into the couch,

wrapped in a blanket,

eyes resting in the quiet dance of fire.

I had a vision come through that was so clear, so alive, that I tried to push it away. And then it came back.

The way energy does when it knows itself.
The way truth doesn’t negotiate.

It was as if it said, “You can play hard to get if you want — I’m not leaving.”

For most of this lifetime, I struggled to receive.

Love.
Blessings.
Gifts wrapped in paper and gifts wrapped in moments.
Soft words.
Open arms.
Even the simple grace of a door held open.

Receiving made my body bristle. My skin would prickle, my chest would tighten, and something ancient inside me would try to flee. It was as if my nervous system didn’t recognize being met as safe. I felt the energy before I felt the meaning — and the energy felt like too much.

When I was a child, my father would hold me, and my entire being would relax. My little body knew it didn’t have to hold itself up in those moments. I can still remember pretending to fall asleep just so he would carry me to bed—just so I could stay in that feeling a little longer.

That longing to be held has lived inside me for as long as I’ve known myself.