About a month ago, I woke up with an unmistakable urge to revisit a meditation I hadn’t practiced in months.There was no reason.

No goal.

No plan.

Just a whisper:

Do Dr. Joe’s Body Electric Meditation.

So I did.

Every day.

Sometimes twice a day.

A week later, my friend Michelle called.

“Are you going to Dr. Joe’s Advanced Follow-Up Retreat in Denver?”

The moment she asked, I already knew the answer.

The very next day, I registered.

Only later did I discover the theme of the retreat:

The Electric Multiverse.

An entire week centered around the very meditation I had inexplicably felt called to practice.

Including a live, embodied version called Body Electric Dance.

Coincidence?

Maybe.

Or maybe this is what I’ve been learning over the last several years.

Intuition rarely shouts.

It whispers.

And the more I listen, the more life seems to meet me there.

Three years ago, I attended my first Advanced Weeklong Dr. Joe retreat.

I walked into that retreat hoping to save my marriage.

I had become captivated by the possibility that, if infinite realities exist, perhaps there was one where my marriage healed.

I wanted to become the version of myself who could step into that reality.

Instead, I left carrying two seemingly contradictory truths.

One part of me believed my marriage could still be saved.

Another part knew, with absolute certainty, that it was already over.

I still don’t know how to explain that paradox.

When my husband and son picked me up from the airport, they immediately noticed something different.

I was glowing.

I assumed they would think it was because I’d just experienced an incredible week of meditation.

Instead, my husband looked me straight in the eyes and asked,

“Did you meet someone?”

He thought my happiness came from another man.

My heart dropped.

Looking back, I think a part of me knew then.

Not because of what he asked.

But because he couldn’t imagine that kind of joy coming from within me.

Even then, I wasn’t ready to let go.

I spent two more years trying to save something my soul had already let go of.

This year’s retreat felt different.

Not just because my divorce had become official, but because I had unexpectedly begun dating someone new.

Two days before leaving for Denver, my divorce became official.

For the first time in seventeen years, I walked into a retreat as a single woman.

While I was there, I ran into someone who knew me and my family.

She smiled and said,

“You seem so much more youthful and energized now that you’re on your own.”

I laughed.

Because she was right.

The first few meditations were frustrating.

I couldn’t settle.

My attention wandered.

I kept trying to recreate the mystical experiences I’d had before.

I wondered if I’d somehow lost the ability to go deep.

But the truth was, my mind wasn’t in the meditation.

It was back home.

Before leaving for Denver, the man I’d recently started dating and I had an important conversation.

We both sensed there were areas where we weren’t fully aligned.

We agreed that after the retreat, we’d each make a list of our nonnegotiables and compare them.

We cared about each other.

We genuinely wanted to know whether we were building from the same foundation.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that conversation.

Eventually, I relaxed.

My body softened.

I felt peaceful.

Then, later that week, during another Body Electric meditation, something happened that I have never experienced before.

The sensation of my physical body slowly disappeared.

I could still feel what Dr. Joe calls the electric body, but I had no awareness of where my physical body ended.

Then something even stranger happened.

I became aware of Dr. Joe’s voice.

The music.

The faint light slipping beneath my eye mask.

I knew those sensations were there.

But I couldn’t make sense of them.

There was no sense of time.

No sense of space.

No orientation.

I wasn’t asleep.

I wasn’t dreaming.

I simply existed as awareness.

Without a body.

I wasn’t frightened.

Just profoundly confused.

Where have I been?

Slowly, what could have been seconds or minutes later, awareness of my body returned.

Then it happened again.

Twice during the same meditation.

I had entered beautiful theta states before.

But never anything quite like this.

My body had dissolved.

And somehow I felt more expansive than I ever had before.

As extraordinary as that experience was, it wasn’t what stayed with me.

Years ago, I might have measured the retreat by the mystical experience alone.

This time, I knew better.

What stayed with me wasn’t what happened during the meditation.

It was the decision I made afterward.

I’ve stopped measuring transformation by extraordinary experiences.

The deepest changes rarely announce themselves.

They’re quiet.

They’re subtle.

You don’t notice them until you find yourself making different decisions than the version of you who walked in.

The most important one arrived during the final walking meditation.

I had no idea that one walk would make the truth impossible to ignore.

The conversation we’d had before I left for Denver kept echoing in my mind.

We had agreed to make our lists of nonnegotiables after the retreat.

I admired the way he approached relationships.

He was deeply committed to growth, especially when it came to emotional intelligence.

He was self-aware.

Reflective.

Willing to do the work.

But as we walked, we were invited to connect with the future version of ourselves.

To walk as if she already existed.

At first, I tried to imagine her.

Then something shifted.

I stopped imagining.

I started feeling.

I felt what it would be like to walk through life with my beloved.

Not someone who shared all my interests or believed exactly what I believe.

But someone whose heart was devoted to exploring consciousness.

Someone who approached life with wonder.

Someone who believed there was something sacred unfolding beneath ordinary moments.

I could feel the expansiveness of that relationship.

Two people walking through life side by side.

Not because we were trying to fix each other.

But because we were endlessly curious about becoming.

It felt so real that, for a moment, it wasn’t something I hoped for.

It was something I already had.

I could feel us walking through an airport after another retreat, excited to compare what we’d experienced.

And that’s when I realized something that changed everything.

If I could feel that love so completely...

If my heart and body already knew its frequency...

Then it had to exist as a possibility.

I wasn’t asking for too much.

I wasn’t chasing a fantasy.

I was recognizing something my soul already knew.

That’s when the relationship I was in became impossible to ignore.

Not because there was anything wrong with him.

But because I had just experienced, with every part of my being, what was true for me.

It wasn’t that anything was missing in him.

It was that I discovered something essential in myself.

Spirituality isn’t one part of my life.

It’s the lens through which I experience all of it.

It’s how I make meaning.

It’s how I understand suffering.

It’s how I remember that there is something greater than myself.

I don’t need someone who shares my teachers.

I don’t need someone who shares my practices.

But I do need someone who shares that orientation toward life.

I don’t want a relationship where I have to translate my soul.

Before the retreat ended, we spoke.

I didn’t wait until I got home.

The warmth we’d shared just days earlier had disappeared.

There were long pauses between our words.

The weekend getaway we’d planned after my return never came up.

Finally, he asked,

“Did you get the clarity you were looking for?”

I took a breath.

I knew the answer before he finished asking the question.

“Yes.”

We never made our lists.

We didn’t need to.

Somewhere during that walking meditation, I had already received my answer.

It wasn’t easy.

But it was clear.

I wished him well.

And I let him go.

Not because there was anything wrong with him.

There wasn’t.

He is a wonderful man with many qualities I admire, and I genuinely hope he finds someone who cherishes all that he has to offer.

The miracle was finally trusting the whisper.

It whispered through a meditation.

It whispered through a phone call.

It whispered during a walking meditation.

For years, I’d looked outside myself for certainty.

And this time...

I trusted what I already knew.

If this resonated with you, share it with someone who needs it. If you’d like to follow my journey exploring hypnosis, healing, and becoming, subscribe below. And if you’re curious about what hypnosis could do for you, send me a DM. I’d love to chat.

I wrote this essay a few weeks ago, but laryngitis delayed its debut. My voice still isn’t completely back, but yesterday my divorce became official, and it suddenly felt like exactly the right day to share it..

Who Do You Think You Are? It’s a question that shows up whenever our lives begin to outgrow the identities we’ve been wearing.

Usually, it isn’t asked by someone else.

It’s whispered by the voice inside us that gets nervous whenever we start becoming someone we haven’t yet learned to recognize.

It’s been a while since I’ve written here. Life has been moving at a pace that has left little room for reflection, which is usually my favorite part. Thankfully, it’s all been for good reasons.

Over the last few months, I completed my hypnotherapy training and became a licensed hypnotist through the National Guild of Hypnotists. It feels both exciting and ordinary. For a long time, I thought becoming someone new would feel dramatic. Instead, it has been surprisingly quiet.

It has looked like showing up after work to study. Recording hypnosis scripts late at night. Practicing on friends. Learning to trust my intuition. Watching my own nervous system soften. Discovering that the woman who believed she had to earn rest, prove her worth, and carry everything by herself could, in fact, learn another way.

The techniques mattered.

The certification mattered.

But learning to trust myself mattered most.

Which brings me back to that question.

Who do you think you are?

Who do you think you are... calling yourself a hypnotist?

Who do you think you are... charging for your work?

Who do you think you are... believing you can help people?

For me, the answer isn’t about pretending to have all the answers. It’s about recognizing the thread that has connected my entire career.

For more than a decade, I’ve helped children and families find their voices as a speech-language pathologist. I’ve spent years studying communication, nervous system regulation, connection, and the remarkable ways our brains learn and change. Hypnosis doesn’t feel like a departure from that work.

It feels like a continuation of it.

Hypnosis works with the part of us that already knows how to change. The part beneath the proving, overthinking, and striving.

Only now, I’m working with adults, too.

I’m especially drawn to women who have spent years overfunctioning, overperforming, taking care of everyone else, and believing their value lies in how much they can carry. I know that story because I’ve lived parts of it myself.

Hypnosis has given me something I didn’t know I was missing.

Permission.

Permission to receive.

Permission to rest.

Permission to trust myself.

Permission to come home to who I already was beneath all the striving.

Maybe that’s what real transformation is.

Not becoming someone else.

Finally feeling at home in yourself.

So yes... this is my way of saying I’m open for business.

Even writing that sentence makes me smile a little.

It also makes me want to hide.

Which probably means it’s exactly the sentence I need to write.

After I finished the first draft of this essay, my brain immediately got to work.

I needed a website.

An online scheduler.

Systems.

Everything had to be in place before I helped a single person.

I could feel my body contract.

My shoulders tightened.

Helping one woman suddenly didn’t feel like enough. Somehow, I had convinced myself I needed to build the whole business before I was allowed to begin.

Then I laughed.

Here I was writing an essay about having the courage to become visible before feeling completely ready, and within minutes, I was trying to earn the right to be seen by becoming more ready.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

That voice probably isn’t going away.

The difference is that I notice it sooner.

I smile.

Then I choose differently.

So this time, I’m choosing differently.

I’m pressing publish before everything is perfect.

Because that’s the very thing I’m inviting my clients to do in their own lives.

There’s another homecoming happening, too.

Yesterday, my divorce became official.

With it came something I hadn’t fully anticipated: the return of my maiden name.

Fabiola Alvarado.

Seeing those two words again made me unexpectedly emotional.

For a long time, I thought this season of life was about becoming someone new.

Now I think it has been about remembering the woman I never stopped being.

Maybe the answer to Who do you think you are? was never something I had to invent.

Only someone I was finally ready to come home to.

Maybe you’ve been asking yourself the same question:

Who do you think you are?

If something in this essay resonated with you, and you’re curious about what hypnosis could look like for your own life, send me a DM here on Substack. I’d love to explore whether we’re a good fit.

And if you’d like to follow along as I write about identity, healing, hypnosis, and the beautifully messy process of becoming, I’d be honored if you subscribed.

Not delicate tears. Full-body sobbing beside a confused boyfriend who was trying to comfort me while quietly realizing something was very wrong.

I remember him asking softly, “Are you okay?”

And the truth was, I had no idea.

I had wanted the experience. I was attracted to him. I had chosen it consciously. Yet the moment it was over, shame crashed into me like a wave I couldn’t control.

Looking back, I feel for him now. He had no framework for what was happening. And honestly, neither did I.

At the time, I thought leaving religion would free me from guilt surrounding sex.

Instead, I learned that beliefs can leave the mind long before they leave the body.

I grew up Catholic, though we moved away from the church when I was around 10, so it’s been a long time since I’ve been immersed in those teachings. What I remember most clearly is the message that sex outside of marriage was wrong.

My mother had both my sister and me out of wedlock, which carried a tremendous amount of shame in the family. And yet, sex itself seemed to hover everywhere beneath the surface. I grew up in a huge family full of celebrations, drama, laughter, and alcohol. People were clearly having sex outside of marriage, but the unspoken rule was: cover it up quickly and make it “right” as soon as possible.

I remember attending the wedding of a cousin who was young, maybe in her late teens, visibly pregnant beneath her dress. Everyone knew why the wedding was happening. The message was clear.

Sex outside of marriage was condemned publicly, yet privately everyone still seemed to revolve around it.

My mother didn’t follow that script. She brought me into this world outside the confines of marriage, and before I even took my first breath, I was already forming inside an atmosphere of shame, fear, and stress.

What an entrance into this world.

When we moved to the United States, my family began studying with the Jehovah’s Witnesses. The celebrations stopped. Everything became even more conservative than before. Once again, the message was unmistakable: sex belonged inside marriage only. Masturbation, or what I now call self-pleasure, was considered sinful.

My aunt, who helped raise me, was actually fairly open when talking about sex during my teen years, but even then, the message was clear: good girls wait.

As a teenager feeling the natural surges of sexual energy moving through my body, I repressed them completely because I didn’t dare break the rules. The thing about me is that when I believe something, I go all in.

I even chose to be homeschooled in high school because, looking back now, I think there was a part of me that didn’t want to live in constant temptation. It felt easier to stay devoted to my religious beliefs if I removed myself from the environments where attraction, desire, and curiosity were constantly being awakened around me.

Looking back, I realize I learned very early on how to disconnect from my desires because they had been deemed sinful.

At that time, I fully devoted myself to my religion, even when it meant shaming parts of myself that were completely natural and human.

Fast forward to 19.

I met a guy I was deeply interested in. He wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness, though bless his heart, he even came with me to a meeting to understand my world. I wanted to be intimate with him, but I also didn’t want to betray my beliefs. Eventually, I decided to move out of my family’s house, and in doing so, leave religion behind. I thought that once I left, I would finally be free to enjoy intimacy without guilt.

I was wrong.

What should have been a beautiful experience became a cycle of guilt, tears, and confusion neither of us knew how to navigate. Eventually, the relationship collapsed under the weight of shame I still carried inside my body.

We stayed together a little longer, but things shifted after I met one of the most significant people in my romantic life.

Love at first sight.

I was instantly, wildly, almost irrationally in love and lust with him.

He was ten years older than me, divorced for about a year, emotionally jaded and unavailable, and at the tender age of 20, I thought he was the man of my dreams. In many ways, he felt like a soulmate. My soul recognized him immediately.

And then something unexpected happened.

For the first time, sex felt free.

The connection between us was unbridled. Passionate. Deeply magnetic. He once told me he had never experienced that level of desire before. And strangely, with him, the guilt disappeared.

We moved in together quickly, swept up in the intensity of it all.

But not long after, something happened between us that fractured the trust we had built, and once trust left, passion slowly followed. We spent the next five years trying to recover what had been lost, trying to force something back to life that had fundamentally changed.

Then came my marriage.

A completely different kind of love.

He felt like my knight in shining armor. Romantic. Safe. Thoughtful. Love letters and tenderness. There was sexual chemistry between us, yes, but it wasn’t the same wildfire I had experienced before. And after the birth of our son, about four years into our marriage, even that slowly faded.

We spent the next fifteen years trying to make it work.

Trying to revive something neither of us fully understood how to reach.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I found tantra.

Ironically, I came to it trying to fix my sexless marriage.

Tantra became the vehicle that allowed me to reconnect with the parts of myself that had gone dormant.

In all honesty, I have not formally studied tantra with a teacher yet. I’ve read books, listened to podcasts, and taken courses that introduced me to different practices and perspectives. And yet, even with this limited knowledge, tantra has profoundly changed my life.

Through practices that invited me to slow down, breathe, feel, and listen to my body instead of overriding it, I began going deep into the places where years of cultural and religious conditioning had settled like sediment. Shame. Guilt. Fear. Suppression.

Things I didn’t even realize I was still carrying.

For most of my life, sexuality felt split from spirituality. Desire was something to control. Something dangerous. Something that could pull me away from being “good.”

Tantra challenged all of that.

Not by teaching me to become more sexual, but by teaching me how disconnected I had been from myself.

Before tantra, I unconsciously viewed spirituality and sexuality as opposites. One was “pure.” The other was dangerous if left unchecked.

But tantra, at least as I’ve come to understand it, leaves nothing out.

Not the light. Not the shadow. Not the beautiful parts of being human, nor the messy ones.

It invites you into loving awareness of all of it.

It doesn’t ask you to transcend the body. It asks you to fully inhabit it.

To stop splitting yourself into categories of worthy and unworthy. Sacred and sinful. Spiritual and sexual.

For the first time in my life, I began to understand that my sexuality was not separate from me. Not something to suppress, fear, or overcome in order to be “good.”

It was life force. Pure. Innocent. Sacred. Something that had existed long before shame ever touched it. The same energy that creates art, movement, longing, connection, birth, and love itself.

And underneath all the shame I had carried for years, there was actually grief.

Grief for how long I had been disconnected from myself.

The work has been wretched at times. Physically exhausting. Emotionally painful. There were moments where I felt grief moving through my body that felt older and deeper than I could explain.

But it has also been the most liberating work I have done in my entire life.

It taught me that I did not have to reject parts of myself in order to be spiritual, worthy, or loved.

I tried inviting my husband into some of these practices with me. Not necessarily tantra itself, but the deeper conversations around embodiment, intimacy, emotional connection, and presence.

But our paths were moving in different directions by then.

So much of this journey became a solitary one.

And somewhere along the way, solo tantra became less about fixing my marriage and more about finally coming home to myself.

The more alive I became, the more obvious it became that my marriage belonged to an older version of me.

Or maybe more truthfully, the marriage could not survive the version of me that was finally coming alive.

What parts of yourself did you learn to disconnect from in order to be loved, accepted, or “good”?

But this is life.

So here I am, in all my congested glory. 😄

Last week, my body slowed me down in a way I couldn’t ignore.

Which is interesting timing, honestly.

It didn’t happen during the separation. Or the move. Or while I was busy holding everything together.

It happened now.

Right as life has actually started feeling good again.

At first, I thought it was just seasonal allergies.

But within a few days, I was exhausted in a way that felt disproportionate. Puffy eyes. Headaches. Crushing fatigue.

One afternoon, I came home after my first visit and slept for six hours.

Another night, despite feeling tired, I went to my new dance class I had just started the week before. And somehow, by the end of class, I felt amazing.

That should’ve been my first clue that something deeper was going on.

Because it wasn’t just about dancing. My body was looking for relief.

For movement, music, connection, dopamine. For a few hours where I could feel fully alive instead of depleted.

At the same time, I had also been eating a ridiculous amount of sugar while internally criticizing myself for it, which only made me feel worse.

By Friday, I finally brought all of this up during hypnotherapy training. I told my instructor how confused I felt. How much resistance I was experiencing around the work I was supposed to be doing. How frustrated I was that “just allergies” were kicking my butt this badly.

None of this surprised her.

She shifted into coaching mode and said she can usually spot an overfunctioner by how easily they extend grace to everyone else while offering almost none to themselves.

She was right.

Just moments earlier, I had been criticizing myself for all the sugar I’d been eating. Knowing full well sugar depresses the immune system, I was basically shaming myself for trying to comfort myself while exhausted.

Then she told me about something called “let-down sickness.”

The idea that after years of holding everything together, the body finally senses enough safety to lower its guard... and suddenly all the exhaustion, depletion, and emotion we’ve been outrunning starts surfacing.

Apparently, the body gets very good at pushing through while stress hormones are running the show. You learn how to keep functioning anyway. Until one day your body realizes the emergency is over.

And once it finally feels safe enough, it crashes.

Sometimes that looks like fatigue. Sometimes migraines. Sometimes a cold that shows up the moment vacation starts.

Her words hit me hard. Because she was right.

I had been riding such a high lately with dancing. Flooding my system with movement, music, connection, dopamine, joy.

Somewhere along the way, dancing stopped being “just dancing.”

It became grief processing. Embodiment. Community.

Proof that I could still feel fully alive inside my own body.

And in the absence of dancing, I unconsciously reached for sugar. Another little dopamine hit. Another attempt at comfort.

Not because I’m weak or lack discipline. But because nervous systems will always try to move toward relief. And instead of offering myself compassion, I was criticizing myself for needing comfort in the first place.

The more I sat with it, the more I realized this wasn’t really about allergies.

This was a body that has spent years being “fine.” Years being capable. Years adapting. Years surviving.

There’s something especially tender about living alone when you’re sick.

No one is automatically there reminding you to slow down. No one telling you to go back to bed. No one making the soup.

You become the one mothering yourself.

The one noticing the exhaustion in your own eyes. The one deciding your body deserves care instead of criticism.

And maybe that’s what surprised me most about all of this.

I thought because life had started feeling joyful again, I was somehow past the hardest parts.

But maybe joy and grief can exist in the body at the same time.

Maybe dancing brought me back to life.

And maybe once I finally started feeling alive again, my body realized just how much it had been carrying this whole time.

So now I’m curious...

What might change if we responded to our exhaustion with compassion instead of criticism?

I almost didn’t stay.

We walked into the country club and I felt it immediately. You know that feeling when a place just doesn’t land in your body?

Yeah… that.

I leaned over to my friend and whispered,

“I kind of wish I could leave.”

But I couldn’t—we had driven together.

And honestly, she’s the reason I’ve been in all these rooms lately.

She’s in her mid-60s, grew up in Oklahoma. Country dancing is in her blood.. And then three years ago, she picked up Latin dance and never stopped.

Now here we are, both driving farther than everyone else to get to these dance spots and saying yes.

And I think that’s part of it.

I’ve been saying yes more lately.

Even when it’s inconvenient.

Even when I’m not sure it’s “my thing.”

Especially now.

Because in this season—separation, divorce on the horizon—I keep coming back to the same question:

Who am I now?

For a long time, that was easy.

I’m a Latin dancer.

Salsa. Bachata. Cha-Cha. That’s where I feel at home.

So walking into a country club to dance 2-step, waltz, country swing?

Not exactly where I saw myself.

But I stayed.

And then she goes, “Want to try ballroom too?”

Of course she did.

And somehow both nights, a bunch of Latin dancers showed up. Which helped. I had people I knew. I could drop into something familiar whenever I wanted.

But I’m really glad I didn’t just do that.

I danced with new people.

And it was… interesting.

2-step felt steady and grounded.

Country swing? Total opposite. Messy, playful, kind of a free-for-all.

Same “category,” completely different vibe.

Then ballroom.

Way more structured. Intentional.

I ended up in a private tango lesson with a former instructor and… yeah. That one got my attention.

Sharp. Controlled. A little intense.

I was into it.

And then—because apparently she wasn’t done pushing me—she pulled me into a West Coast swing class.

That one?

I was lost.

Not “oh I’ll pick this up” lost.

More like…

what is even happening right now lost.

The timing felt off in my body.

The connection felt different.

I kept trying to find something familiar to anchor into—and there was nothing.

Just the music, the lead… and me trying not to overthink every step.

That one humbled me real quick.

But here’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.

All weekend, I kept hearing:

“You’re so easy to lead.”

And I had to laugh a little.

Because in Latin dance, I’ve heard the opposite.

And I think I finally get it.

When I don’t know what I’m doing… I don’t anticipate.

I’m not trying to guess the next move or get ahead of the lead.

I just follow.

And apparently, I’m really good at that.

Which made me pause.

Because… where else in my life am I not doing that?

Where am I trying to control things because I think I already know how they’re supposed to go?

Where am I getting in my own way by anticipating instead of just responding?

Being a beginner again brings that up fast.

It’s humbling.

A few weeks ago, one of our friends brought his roommate to a Latin social. He had never danced before.

I showed him the basic bachata step and danced with him throughout the night to make sure he felt included.

He ended up liking it enough to take classes.

Now we’re in the same class.

When he comes to socials, the funniest thing happens. He’ll hear a song and ask:

“Is that bachata?”

And someone will say,

“No, that’s salsa.”

Or, “That’s merengue.”

Or sometimes, “Yes—go dance!”

This weekend, that was me.

Standing there like,

“Wait… what is this? Foxtrot? Rumba?”

Same confusion. Same curiosity.

To this day, he says he feels most comfortable dancing with me… because I was the one who taught him the basic.

And I just—

kind of melt.

Because that’s how it starts, right?

Not with perfection or knowing everything.

Just one person saying, “I’ve got you. Start here.”

And it hit me—

You can be a beginner and experienced at the same time.

Just depends on the room.

In one place, I’m the one teaching someone the basic step.

In another, I’m the one trying to keep up.

Both are real.

And then today, after bachata class, it came full circle in the best way.

One of my classmates told me he saw me dancing salsa the night before.

He had told a group of people I was an incredible dancer… and then asked if I’d teach him.

I literally laughed.

Because in my head, I still feel a little rusty.

Like I’m just getting back into it.

And here he was seeing something in me I wasn’t even fully claiming.

That stayed with me.

Because maybe this is what’s shifting.

Not that I’m becoming someone completely new.

But that I’m learning to hold more.

More range.

More versions of myself.

The part that knows what she’s doing.

And the part that has no idea.

The one who leads.

And the one who lets herself be led.

I almost left that night.

Instead, I stayed.

And somewhere between all those dances… something clicked.

I’ve been doing this same thing in other areas of my life.

Using my breath to expand my capacity—to sit with more sensation, more emotion, without trying to fix it or rush through it.

And this weekend?

It felt like I was doing that with my body.

With movement.

Letting myself stay in something unfamiliar long enough for it to start making sense.

Not forcing it or mastering it.

Just… staying.

Expanding what I can hold.

New rhythms.

New patterns.

New ways of moving.

And maybe that’s what this season is really about.

Not picking a new identity.

But loosening the edges of the old one.

Making room.

Because I don’t think I’m trying to figure out who I am anymore.

I think I’m learning how to become someone who can hold more than one version of herself…

and feel at home in all of them. 💃

What part of you is ready to expand… if you stopped trying to stay in just one version of yourself?

So that’s what I did, without ever questioning it.

I didn’t realize I could stay with it.

Lately, I’ve been living with an energy in my body I don’t fully know how to explain.

It’s not just sexual. It moves, it rises, and at times I can feel it reach all the way into my chest—like a warmth that spreads and lingers there.

And instead of releasing it, I’ve been staying with it.

Letting it build and circulate, then using it—in my workouts, in my writing, sometimes just to move through my day with a different kind of presence.

It feels like I’m living with a current running through me—energizing, creative, and honestly… joyful.

I don’t know exactly when it started, but somewhere between letting go of a marriage that was no longer in alignment, starting to dance again, and actually living inside my body instead of just thinking about it, something shifted.

I didn’t force it or follow a perfect routine. I just came back to myself—and this is what was waiting.

And yes, there are small ways I’ve been meeting my body daily.

I’m giving myself space to feel more, to follow sensation instead of shutting it down, and to stay with that energy without immediately needing to release it.

It’s not that I don’t release it.

It’s that I don’t rush to.

What I’m realizing is that this energy was never just about sex. That’s simply the only place most of us were taught to put it.

No one ever told us we could keep it.

And once you realize you can, you start relating to your body differently.

Some traditions, like tantra, have always known this—

that this isn’t just energy meant for release…

this is life force energy—eros—something your body can move, expand, and create with.

And once you feel it that way, it changes what you do with it.

I had learned this before—through tantra. But knowing something and actually feeling it in your body are two very different things.

This is the first time it’s felt real.

There was a time I felt completely disconnected.

By the end of the day, I was done in a way that wasn’t just physical. I’d move from one thing to the next, barely noticing myself, then collapse into bed and start again.

Looking back, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just living in a way that kept me out of touch with my body.

What changed wasn’t one big thing. It was a series of small shifts.

I stopped overriding what I felt and started paying attention to what actually felt good—even in small ways.

I gave my body a language again.

For me, that was dance.

There’s a moment, in the middle of a song, where I stop thinking about the steps. My shoulders drop, my hips soften, and my breath deepens without me trying.

I’m not performing or getting it right.

I’m just in it.

And then it started showing up elsewhere.

In my body, in quiet moments, in the middle of my day.

That’s when it clicked—this wasn’t just about dance.

I slowed down in small moments—just enough to notice.

Standing in the shower a few seconds longer and actually feeling the water hit my skin.

Pausing mid-step and noticing how tense my body was, then letting my shoulders drop and feeling that immediate shift.

I stopped forcing connection where it didn’t feel right.

That alone freed up more energy than I expected.

And without realizing it at first, I stopped rushing past sensation.

There were moments where I would have immediately tried to distract myself.

Instead, I started working with it.

A lot of that came through meditation—learning how to sit with sensation without needing to change it right away. And breathwork, which helped me follow the energy as it moved—rising from the lower parts of my body into my chest.

Other times, it’s subtler.

Just sitting with it long enough to feel my body expand slightly, like it’s making more room. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just letting the energy circulate instead of cutting it off or rushing to release it.

And the more I did that, the more things shifted.

Not just in my body… but in how I moved through my life.

Even at work, I notice it.

I’m sitting on the floor with a toddler, being silly, making sounds, completely present—and there it is again.

That same aliveness.

No effort. No trying.

Just being in my body.

Now when I look back, I can see that I didn’t follow a formula.

I removed what was disconnecting me.

I added more of what made me feel alive in my body.

And I stayed long enough to notice what was already there.

Most of us were never taught what to do with this kind of energy.

So we learned two options: shut it down or release it.

But there’s another way.

You can stay with it.

You can work with it.

And when you do, it doesn’t just stay in one place—it moves, expands, and starts to shape your life.

Because this isn’t just energy you feel.

It’s energy you create with.

The more I’ve allowed it to move through me, the more I’ve noticed something shifting.

I make different choices.

I follow what feels alive instead of what makes sense on paper.

And slowly, the life I once thought about—the things I hoped for—are starting to take form.

Opportunities show up.

Conversations change.

Relationships shift.

Not because I forced anything, but because I’m moving from a different place.

And that’s when it really clicked for me.

I didn’t need to learn how to feel more.

I needed to stop rushing past what I was feeling.

Because when I did…

this energy wasn’t something I had to manage anymore.

It became something I could live from.

I’m not doing anything extraordinary.

I’m just not rushing past what I’m feeling anymore.

I’m living from it.

Two nights ago, my son and I went for a hike at his favorite trail.

The evening felt… easy.

Mid-70s, the sun still warm but softening, a light breeze moving through the trees.

It wasn’t crowded—just enough space to hear ourselves think.

We were walking across the bridge when he looked over at me and said,

“There’s something different about you.”

He paused, like he was trying to find the right words.

Then he said it.

“You look… happier.”

And the thing is—he was right.

This felt different.

Quieter.

Steadier.

Like something inside me had finally unlocked.

As we kept walking, he started telling me about school.

His friends.

His frustrations.

His wins.

Just… talking.

And something about it felt so familiar.

Like a version of us I hadn’t felt in a while.

Before everything shifted.

It felt like old times.

Like putting on your favorite cozy sweater and realizing it still fits.

And in that moment—surrounded by nature, the creek running beside us, birds chirping, squirrels darting through the trees—

my heart felt so full.

Full of gratitude.

For this small, quiet miracle unfolding right in front of me.

The last three months haven’t been easy.

Our interactions as a family have been messy, emotional, stretched thin in ways I didn’t know we could stretch. There were hard conversations. Tension. Moments where it felt like everything was unraveling at once.

Somewhere along the trail, something unexpected happened.

He said,

“Ever since you guys split up… it’s like everyone is becoming a better version of themselves.”

I stopped for a moment, taking that in.

He went on to explain that he and his dad are eating healthier now—something I had been trying to encourage for so long. Something that used to turn into discussions… and sometimes arguments.

“And then you moved out,” he said,

“and it’s like something just clicked.”

No resistance. No pushing.

Just… change.

He told me his dad is doing better.

He said he feels better too.

And I couldn’t help but notice the irony.

The very thing I had been trying to hold together…

only found its rhythm once I let go.

Then he shifted the spotlight back to me.

He’s been watching me dance.

Like really watching.

The joy.

The way I light up when I talk about it.

The way I lose myself in learning something new.

So much so that he decided to record me while I practice my new bachata choreography.

And let me tell you—this choreography is no joke.

I recently joined an all-women’s bachata group. Over the next four months, we’ll be learning a full routine with the goal of performing it.

It’s been a long time since I’ve challenged myself like this.

I was part of an amateur dance group in my 20s… but that version of me feels like a lifetime ago.

And now here I am again.

Starting over.

Forgetting steps.

Laughing through it anyway.

It’s stretching me in every way: physically, mentally, cognitively. There are moments I feel completely out of my depth.

And still…

I know something is happening here.

Something that, in a few months, will feel like a before and after.

Not just in how I dance—but in how I move through life.

And then—out of nowhere—he asked:

“Are you going to start dating?”

I blinked.

Because… what?

This was not a conversation I expected to be having with my 13-year-old.

But there he was. Calm. Curious. Open.

So I met him there.

I told him the truth.

That right now, I’m not looking.

That I’m enjoying my space.

My energy.

My life as it is.

That for the first time in a long time, I’m not trying to fill anything.

I’m just… living.

Then I asked him something I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the answer to.

“Would you be okay with me dating after the divorce?”

He thought about it.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess with the right guy.”

We both smiled a little.

And I reassured him—he wouldn’t be exposed to anyone casually. That he would only meet someone who truly mattered.

And the conversation just… flowed.

And then, with that same curiosity, he asked what my “type” was.

He even added—very matter-of-fact—

that he wouldn’t want to meet someone who tried to win him over by spoiling him.

I smiled at that.

Not just because of what he said…

but because of what it revealed—

that he’s not just listening—he’s discerning.

I walked away from that moment a little stunned.

Not just because of what we talked about—

but how we talked about it.

The openness.

The maturity.

The mutual respect.

And maybe most of all…

The way he could see me.

Not just as his mom.

But as a woman.

As a human.

As someone becoming.

Healing doesn’t just happen inside of us.

At some point… it becomes visible.

In the way we move.

In the way we speak.

In the way we show up in a room.

Even our kids can feel it.

Even when they don’t have the language for it yet.

And maybe the most profound part of all of this?

He’s right.

We are all becoming better versions of ourselves.

Just not in the way I thought it would happen.

Not by trying harder or holding everything together.

But by allowing things to fall apart…

just enough

for something more honest to take shape.

I didn’t expect my son to be the one to reflect that back to me.

But in that moment,

I knew he was right.

Thanks for reading. If this touched something in you, send it to the one person who came to mind while reading.

Now I see…

I was being introduced to him in parts.

Not all at once.

But through encounters that each carried a distinct truth.

The Spiritual One — The Man Who Sees Beyond the Surface

He met me in awareness.

There was a depth to him. A presence that didn’t rush to fill space. Conversations felt expansive, like being invited into something larger than myself.

He reminded me that connection isn’t just chemistry…

it’s consciousness.

And I recognized that depth because I live there.

I sit with myself. I reflect. I question.

I listen for what’s underneath the words.

I’ve learned to stay when things feel uncomfortable.

To notice my patterns instead of running from them.

So when I say I desire a conscious man…

it’s not from longing.

It’s recognition.

The Romantic One — The Man Who Leads with Kindness

He was thoughtful in a way that softened everything.

He checked in. He noticed. He showed up—consistently, without needing to perform it.

There was an ease to him. A steadiness that didn’t overwhelm, didn’t disappear.

He reminded me that love isn’t just intensity…

it’s care.

And again… I saw it because I am it.

I’m attentive. I remember the small things.

I’ve done the work to regulate my nervous system.

To respond instead of react. To stay grounded in emotional moments.

I don’t bring chaos into connection.

I bring steadiness.

So when I say I desire a kind, consistent man…

it’s not because I need to be held together.

It’s because I already am.

The Sensual One — The Man Who Awakens the Body

And then there was the one who spoke in energy.

Magnetic. Alive. Fully expressed in his body.

He reminded me that attraction matters.

That desire isn’t something to suppress… but something to honor.

But the truth?

He didn’t awaken something new.

He met me in a part of myself I’ve been reclaiming.

Through my own practices, my own willingness to feel…

I’ve built a relationship with my body that is responsive, open, alive.

I’m not waiting for someone to unlock that.

I bring it with me.

So when I say I desire a man who is embodied, sensual, alive…

it’s not from lack.

It’s from overflow.

There’s another layer to this.

One people notice before I say a word.

I have a lot of energy.

Not the restless kind.

Not the kind that comes from pushing or proving.

Life force.

The kind that moves through me and wants expression.

My friends ask me all the time,

“How do you have the energy to go out so much?”

And the truth is…

It doesn’t feel like I’m generating it.

It feels like I’m plugged into something.

Like the current doesn’t start with me…

it just moves through me.

It fuels my life.

My movement.

My desire to connect, to dance, to experience.

And I’ve learned how to let it move… instead of shutting it down.

So when I speak of desire, of aliveness, of connection—

I’m not speaking from depletion trying to be filled.

I’m speaking from energy already in motion.

And then it landed…

I don’t have to choose between them.

Because they were never meant to be chosen individually.

They were mirrors.

Reflecting not just what I desire…

but what I already am.

Depth.

Steadiness.

Aliveness.

Not qualities outside of me—

but ones I embody.

This is where everything changes.

I’m not an average woman asking for something extraordinary.

I’m a woman who has done deep inner work…

and now desires a match for it.

Not perfection.

Not performance.

Alignment.

A man who is conscious because he’s done his own work.

Who is kind because it’s who he is.

Who is connected—to his body, his desire, his presence.

The same way I am.

The Life I’ve Built

And here’s the part that feels the most honest:

My life is full.

Not in a busy, overwhelming way…

but in a deeply fulfilling one.

I have a career that supports me.

Passions that light me up, like my hypnotherapy training.

A dance community that brings joy, play, and connection into my life.

And my relationship with my son… it’s changing.

And if I’m being real—

It doesn’t feel like expansion right now.

He’s 13.

We’re moving through a separation.

There are moments that feel tender, uncertain, even painful.

This isn’t the version of motherhood I imagined.

And still…

Something meaningful is happening here.

Even in the distance.

Even in the tension.

There is growth.

So no… my life isn’t perfect.

There are parts still unfolding.

Parts without neat resolution.

But when I step back and take it all in—

Life is still good.

So good.

Not because everything is easy.

Not because everything is healed.

But because I’m here for all of it.

The joy.

The ache.

The becoming.

And somehow…

that’s enough.

So a man with all of these qualities?

He would be beautiful.

Aligned.

Deeply received.

But he is not the missing piece.

He is the addition.

The cherry on top of a life that is already rich, already whole, already mine.

A life that holds joy…

and uncertainty.

Connection…

and distance.

And still—

I wouldn’t trade it.

Because this is the life that shaped me into the woman who can hold all of it.

The depth.

The steadiness.

The aliveness.

So I’m not searching.

I’m living.

And if our paths cross…

It won’t be because I needed him.

It will be because two full lives

recognized each other.

✨

What are you no longer willing to choose between?

There’s more to this story… if you feel like wandering further:

and then there are doorways.

In one my recent reflections, I’ve written about the man who showed me my heart is open. The one who came in like fresh air and reminded me that I can feel… deeply, safely, fully.

And more recently, I wrote about the one who reflected my sensuality.

Not because he created it…

but because he met me in a part of myself I had already begun to reclaim.

But what I haven’t written about—

until now—

is an experience that happened months ago.

One I almost kept just for myself.

Because it felt… sacred.

Complete in its own way.

Like something that didn’t need to be shared to be real.

And yet, now I see it differently.

Not as a standalone moment.

But as a piece of a much larger puzzle that’s been assembling itself in my life.

✨

He’s someone I had been studying with—deeply attuned, in a way you can feel in your body.

For nine weeks, I had only known him through a screen.

An online class.

Teacher and student. That was the container.

There was no storyline.

No flirting. No blurred lines.

Just learning and presence.

So when I found out there would be a live event, I was genuinely excited.

After weeks of experiencing this work through a screen, there was something about being in the same physical space that felt… different. Real. Tangible.

And when I arrived a few minutes late to the live event, I slipped in quietly, not expecting anything more than to observe, participate, and leave.

I didn’t get a chance to greet him beforehand.

No moment of recognition.

Until the end.

✨

He stood there afterward, greeting participants one by one,
offering a hug to each person who came up.

When it was my turn, I walked up, still holding that same internal frame:

Teacher. Student.

And then he looked at me and said,

“There she is… in the flesh.”

✨

It caught me off guard.

Not because of the words themselves…

but because of how they landed.

I felt seen.

In a way that felt immediate.

Like there was no gap between who I had been online… and who I was in that moment.

And then he hugged me.

✨

This hug… was in a frequency I had never felt before.

Not just warm. Not just kind.

Expansive.

If I had to describe it, it felt like my chest widened… like breath moved deeper without me trying.

My shoulders dropped on their own.

My body didn’t lean in or pull away… it just met the moment.

There was a steadiness to it.

An anchored presence that didn’t waver.

And inside that… space.

So much space.

✨

The hug felt like it lasted forever.

Not in an awkward way.

Not in a way that made me want to pull away.

But in a way where time… softened its edges.

And somewhere in the background, a small, very human thought flickered:

Is anyone else noticing this?

Because it did feel long.

Long enough that I became aware of how it might look from the outside.

He is married, after all.

And the last thing I would ever want is for something so clean, so grounded, to be misunderstood or reduced into something it wasn’t. I was aware how easily something this clean could be misunderstood.

But inside the hug… there was nothing to question.
Nothing in it felt personal.

No hidden charge.

No confusion.

Just presence.

Steady and expansive.

✨

This moment stayed with me.

I could have made it about him.

Created a story. Assigned meaning. Made it personal.

But I sat with it.

I let myself feel it… without rushing to make meaning.

And then…

the truth came through with surprising clarity.

✨

This wasn’t about him. Not in the way people might assume.

✨

It was a glimpse.

A calibration.

The universe showing me:

This is what it feels like.

Not the person.

The frequency.

✨

The kind of connection where your body opens instead of braces.

Where presence feels infinite instead of fleeting.

Where nothing is being taken… and nothing needs to be proven.

Just… expansion.

✨

And the message that came through was simple.

Settle for nothing less than this.

Not in the form of who delivers it.

Not in the story attached to it.

But in the feeling.

In the expansiveness.

In the way my body knew, without question:

this is safe… this is true… this is available.

✨

And from that place of clarity…

I knew I needed to keep things clean.

I would be continuing to study with him.

The container mattered.

So I did a cord-dissolving ceremony.

Teacher. Student. Clean. Intact.

Not out of fear…

but out of respect.

For the work.

For the dynamic.

For the integrity of teacher and student.

✨

And something beautiful happened.

The next time I joined class, I logged in a few minutes early.

For a brief moment, it was just the two of us before others entered.

No intensity.

No lingering charge.

No unspoken weight.

Just… teacher. Student.

✨

And that’s when it really landed.

I didn’t need to hold onto the moment… because it had already done its job.

It showed me what my body is capable of feeling.

What kind of connection exists.

What I am now available for.

And once you’ve felt that…

you don’t negotiate it away.

You recognize it.

And you move through the world knowing that anything less than that kind of expansion…

is no longer a fit. 💫

Have you ever felt something your body recognized before your mind could explain?

But it started on a crowded dance floor, with nowhere to hide.

The room is packed.

Couples move in tight circles, barely any space between them. There’s no room for big steps here—everything is smaller, closer, contained.

I step into the dance with him the same way I always do. Familiar. Easy.

But a few counts in… something shifts.

He begins to move me—him, us—in a way he hasn’t before.

He’s always kept things simple with me.
Basic turns. Clean patterns.

A few weeks back, he said something I didn’t think much of at the time.

“Let me lead you.”

I remember brushing it off.

Apparently… I was.

Until now.

Now he’s leading me through movements I’ve only seen in sensual bachata—the kind you practice, not the kind you casually throw into a social.

And somehow, I follow.

At one point, we’re completely in sync.
No thinking or hesitation. Just movement.

And I feel it.

This energy.

It catches me off guard.

He’s my social dancing friend. It’s always been easy, platonic, uncomplicated.

But this dance…

It sparks something.

I play it down, but he starts flirting—light, subtle, just enough to notice.

And I catch myself wondering:

What is happening right now?

A few songs later, I’m sitting down, letting my body come back to baseline.

He sits next to me.

He brings up the last social—the one where I barely left the dance floor with someone else.

The canyoneering guy.

Apparently… he noticed.

That surprises me.

It didn’t feel like anyone was paying attention.

And then he mentions another night—
the salsa guy.

I laugh, a little caught off guard.

I didn’t realize he had been paying that much attention.

He asks if there was anything going on.

I tell him the truth—that we’re just friends.

And I mean it.

But now I’m aware of something I wasn’t before.

That I’ve been seen.

The night continues, and we keep dancing.

Song after song.

Which is… unusual.

At socials, there’s an unspoken rule. You switch partners when the song ends. You circulate. You don’t stay in one place too long.

But we do.

And the more we dance, the more in sync we become.

At the end of the night, I tell him we’re getting better dancing together.

He agrees.

There’s a quiet acknowledgment in that moment.

Something unspoken, but felt.

As we walk to our cars, his friend asks if I’m going to the social the next day.

I say no—it’s too far of a drive.

He suggests I meet them halfway, and they could drive the rest of the way.

And then, almost seamlessly, his friend encourages us to exchange numbers.

He looks a little nervous.

I don’t think much of it.

At the next social, we find ourselves in a completely different kind of conversation.

We start talking about philosophy.
Then spirituality.

I tell him I live somewhere in between the two.

He pauses, then says he’d love to take me out for coffee and keep talking about it.

And we do.

There’s an ease and a depth to it.
Just enough flirtation to notice… but not define.

And just like that, something shifts again.

He asks about my experience dancing with other people.
If I’ve connected with anyone else.

What it’s been like to come back to the dance floor after so many years.

Not in a way that feels intrusive.
Just… curious.

Like he’s trying to understand something I haven’t fully named yet.

And instead of trying to figure it out… I just stay in it.

That energy follows me home.

Not just in my mind… but in my body.

There’s something alive in my chest.
Warm, expansive, and overwhelming.

And what surprises me most is… it feels different from other times.

It’s intense.

Like my heart is expanding faster than I’m used to.

And instead of trying to make sense of it, I go into practice.

I sit down and do Dr. Joe’s Heart meditation.

Breathing into my chest.
Slowing everything down.
Letting the feeling build without rushing to label it.

Then I run the microcosmic orbit breath—guiding that energy up my spine, over, and back down.

Not to control it.

Just to circulate it.

To let it move without getting stuck on one person… one moment… one meaning.

And that’s when it clicks.

This isn’t new energy.

This is familiar.

Just… bigger.

Stronger.

Expanding faster than I’ve let it before.

And I can feel myself learning, in real time, how to build a bigger container for it.

There’s a version of this story where I could follow the flirtation.
See where it goes.
Turn it into something more.

But there’s another version—the one I’m choosing—where I pause.

Not because it isn’t there.
But because I care about what’s already here.

The friendship.

And the way we meet on the dance floor without complication.

And more than that…

Because what I’m feeling right now doesn’t actually belong to him.

This fullness.
This warmth.
This quiet electricity in my chest.

It feels new.

But it’s not.

It’s my heart.

Opening.

After years of being closed… careful… guarded in ways I didn’t fully realize until now.

And there’s a part of me that wants to make it about him.
To point to something outside of me and say, this is why I feel this way.

To hand it over.
To let it belong to someone else.

But the truth is…

This isn’t something he created.

This is something I’m allowing.

My big, beautiful heart—softening, expanding, remembering what it feels like to be open.

And learning… to hold more of it than I ever have before.

And just as all of this is unfolding, I’m heading out of town for the weekend for a work training.

No social dancing.
No seeing him.

And that feels like a good thing.

Because I get to carry this energy with me.

This openness.
This expansion.

Let it move through the rest of my weekend…
without needing to attach it to anyone.

And for now, I want to stay right here—
learning how to hold it
without needing to give it away. ✨

What are you feeling right now… and are you letting yourself hold it?

It didn’t make logical sense, but I knew I needed to leave space—

for something I couldn’t fully see yet.

Not long after, hypnotherapy training came into my life.

And almost immediately, it started turning the mirror back on me.

Last week, we were in the car on our way to the archery range.

It was late afternoon. We had decided that once a week, we’d do something different-

something outside of our usual hiking spots.

A small but intentional shift.

Before we even got there, things felt… off.

My son asked me for money.

And he didn’t just ask once.

He stayed on it.

Pushing. Asking again. Not letting it go.

For about 20 minutes.

The old version of me would’ve handed it over just to move things along.

Instead, I said:

“If you want money, you can do yard work.”

He didn’t like that.

At all.

Then he shifted.

Started pushing back on the plan.

Even though we had already agreed that once a week we’d try something new…

now he didn’t want to go.

I could feel it in my body.

That familiar pull to soften.

To adjust.

To make it easier.

But I didn’t.

I stayed with the plan.

Then his tone changed.

He got louder.

More frustrated.

And I didn’t match it.

I stayed neutral.

At one point, he looked at me and asked:

“Are you going to cry?”

And I realized something in that moment—

Not everyone gets access to my emotions anymore.

Not like that.

Not when they’re not helping me hold them.

A little later, as we were driving, I told him about his new schedule.

That I’d be expecting overnight stays once school is out.

That I was giving him some time to adjust…

because I’m learning that it can take about three months

for a new identity to really take root.

That’s when everything shifted.

He got quiet.

I could feel him trying to make sense of something that didn’t match what he knew.

Then he looked at me and said:

“Are you okay, mom?”

“What is happening right now?”

And I felt it.

Not panic or guilt.

But something unfamiliar.

Because nothing was wrong.

I wasn’t upset.

I wasn’t emotional.

I wasn’t softening what I was saying or wrapping it in extra reassurance.

I was just… clear.

And that clarity?

Didn’t feel familiar to him.

I’m currently in hypnotherapy training.

And before I can help anyone else see their self-limiting patterns…

I have to see mine.

Not in theory.

In moments like this.

Because what I’m starting to see is this:

I’ve spent a lot of my life overperforming.

Not in obvious ways.

But in subtle ones—

Over-explaining

Over-giving

Over-accommodating

Trying to be the version of myself that kept things smooth—

people comfortable, connection intact.

Like after we separated, every time I went to the store, I’d ask the boys if they needed anything.

Almost every time, I’d hear:

“No, we have everything we need.”

And yet…

that same courtesy was never extended back to me.

And to be fair…

it wasn’t theirs to give.

But I can see it now.

It wasn’t about the groceries.

It was one of the ways I was overgiving—

anticipating needs,

offering before being asked,

filling in gaps that weren’t mine to fill.

And if I’m really honest…

it gave me the illusion that it was working.

That I was needed.

That I had some control over how things unfolded.

I used to call that caregiving.

But I’m starting to understand…

a lot of it was caretaking.

Caretaking looked like giving money just to end the tension.

Adjusting plans so things stayed easy.

Saying yes before I checked if it worked for me.

Offering… before anyone asked.

Caregiving is different.

It’s staying present without overextending.

Supporting what’s actually mine to support.

Letting other people hold their part.

It looks like saying,

“You want money? You can earn it.”

Keeping the plan, even when there’s pushback.

Not rearranging my life in the moment just because I’m being asked.

Even in my separation.

I chose the path of conscious uncoupling.

And there’s truth in that.

But I’ve started asking myself a question that’s been sitting a little heavier than I expected:

Was that choice fully aligned…

or was part of me still avoiding conflict—

the same pattern that had me overgiving just to keep things smooth?

Because when I look back, I can see it more clearly.

When I first moved out, I didn’t set up a room for my son in my home, per his request.

I told myself I was giving him space.

We had just moved to a new state.

Everything had already been disrupted.

And now I was separating our family.

The thought of asking him to move back and forth between homes felt like too much.

I didn’t want to cause more disruption—more trauma.

So I gave him what I called autonomy.

I wasn’t just giving him space.

I was avoiding the discomfort of holding my role.

But underneath that…

I think I was still trying to be the good one—

the one who didn’t create tension

so I could be chosen.

I thought that would build connection.

That if I stayed soft enough, patient enough…

he would respect me more.

But that’s not what happened.

Without structure…

without me fully stepping into my role…

something felt off.

Less anchored. Less clear.

And I could feel it in him.

So I shifted.

I set clear boundaries.

Not reactive or emotional.

Just… steady.

And something surprising happened.

His attitude shifted.

It was almost as if he felt the relief.

Like something in him relaxed because I had finally taken charge of the situation.

And then something else happened.

He started asking to see me on days that weren’t scheduled.

The old version of me?

Would have rearranged everything.

Would have tried to make it work.

Would have thought:

This is what I wanted… say yes.

But I didn’t.

Because I had already committed that time to training.

And for once…

I didn’t override my life to accommodate the moment.

Around the same time, Lex asked me to pick up cat food.

He told me the day and time he’d come by to get it.

The old version of me would’ve gone to the store.

Immediately.

Look—someone needs me.

Instead, I paused.

And I said:

“I’m not planning on going to the store for a few days.

Is this a new arrangement?”

Simple.

Neutral.

No over-explaining.

No immediate compliance.

Because avoiding conflict hadn’t been keeping the peace.

It had been creating ambiguity.

And ambiguity doesn’t build trust.

Clarity does.

Even when it’s uncomfortable.

There’s a line from my training that hasn’t left me:

If they don’t help you process your emotions, they don’t get to see them.

Because I’ve shared my emotions with people who couldn’t hold them…

and then wondered why I felt exposed instead of supported.

So now, something is shifting.

Not dramatically—deliberately.

I didn’t cry just because he expected me to.

I didn’t change the plan when he pushed back.

I stayed neutral… and let him have his reaction.

And I can feel it…

not just in me,

but in how everything around me is responding.

For a long time, I thought being a good person meant being easy.

Flexible. Available. Understanding.

But I’m starting to see it differently.

Being clear doesn’t make me less loving.

It makes me someone others can actually trust.

Including myself.

And this is just week one.

If this is what shifts in a single week…

I find myself wondering what the next three months will bring.

Not just in what I do—

but in who I’m becoming.

I’ll be sharing what unfolds over the next few months.

If this landed… you might already know who this is for.

This reflection is more intimate than my previous ones. I’m sharing something I’m still in the middle of—an experience that is deeply personal, embodied, and at times sensual. It may feel different. That’s because it is.

In a recent reflection, I wrote about turning down additional job opportunities because I felt called to leave that space in my life.

What I didn’t name then… is what was quietly returning.

My sensuality.

Which is almost funny, considering I’m currently celibate.

And yet… I feel more alive in my body now than ever before.

Not sexually, necessarily.

But sensually.

There’s a difference.

It shows up in small ways.

The way I linger in the shower a little longer than I used to.

The way music moves through me instead of just playing in the background.

The way I notice my own skin again.

It’s subtle. But it’s unmistakable.

Recently, I was talking to a friend about some of the practices I’ve been returning to. Yoni egg work. Breast massage. A daily pleasure practice.

She paused.

“Wait… what happened to our spiritual conversations?”

I smiled.

“These are spiritual conversations.”

I’ve been returning to Tantra.

Not as something new… more like something I’m remembering.

Tantra is often misunderstood as something purely sexual, but what drew me to it was this:

It’s a path of being fully in the body… without separating what is sacred from what is human.

Which means nothing gets left out.

Not the body.

Not desire.

Not pleasure.

Not even numbness.

Everything belongs.

And I’ll say this too…

For years, I’ve had powerful out-of-body experiences.

In meditation.

In lucid dreams.

During what I can only describe as astral travels… sometimes even during incense journeys.

And I love those spaces.

There is something expansive, almost limitless, about leaving the body.

But this…

This is different.

Because as much as I’ve explored leaving my body…

I’ve realized how much I long to be in it.

Fully.

Present.

Alive inside of it.

That’s why Tantra calls to me.

Not because it takes me somewhere else…

But because it brings me back.

And for a long time… numbness was exactly where I was.

I found myself in a sexless marriage, trying to make sense of something I couldn’t quite name.

Lex would say, “If we could just fix this part of our relationship, we could fix our marriage.”

And logically, I agreed.

But inside… something didn’t line up.

Because it wasn’t that I didn’t want intimacy with him.

I didn’t want it at all.

I had zero desire.

And that was the part that scared me.

Not for the marriage… but for me.

I remember thinking:

Where did she go?

The version of me who felt alive, playful, turned on by life itself… not just by a person.

Was that just youth?

Was that gone?

Or had I lost access to something that was still there?

I didn’t feel broken.

I felt… offline.

Like a part of me had quietly shut down, and I didn’t know how to reach her.

And yet, there were moments… small ones… where I could feel something trying to come back.

On the dance floor.

Music moving through my body in a way I couldn’t think my way into.

Hips remembering something before my mind could catch up.

It wasn’t about being seen.

It wasn’t about anyone else.

It was the first time in a long time that I felt… inside myself again.

Not fully.

But enough to know she wasn’t gone.

Just waiting.

That question is what led me to a womb healing course.

Not because I fully understood it but because something in me said, start here.

There was a practice called de-armoring.

Not in a metaphorical sense.

In the body.

Over time, the body—especially the yoni—can develop areas of tension, numbness, or holding. Not always from one big event, but from years of subtle contraction. Moments where you brace, disconnect, override sensation.

That tension doesn’t just disappear.

It stays.

And in this practice, we begin to bring awareness back to those places.

Sometimes with breath.

Sometimes with touch.

And sometimes, with a crystal wand.

A curved tool designed to reach areas inside the body that are often inaccessible… including near the cervix.

That alone felt confronting.

And the truth is… it was painful.

A deep, intense sensation that stopped me in my tracks.

The kind of pain that asks you to leave your body.

But this practice asked the opposite.

To stay.

To breathe through it.

To soften around it.

To listen.

There were places that felt completely numb.

Others that were overwhelmingly sensitive.

And beneath both… something I couldn’t immediately name.

The instinct was to brace.

To escape.

But slowly, something shifted.

Sensation didn’t disappear…

It began to move.

And with it came emotion.

Grief I hadn’t processed.

Tension I had normalized.

Memories my body had stored, even when my mind had moved on.

It made me realize something I hadn’t fully understood before:

My body hadn’t been broken.

It had been protecting me—

from moments where I wasn’t fully there,

from saying yes when something in me felt like no,

from staying when I had already begun to leave.

And the pain wasn’t a sign that something was wrong.

It was a signal that something was finally being felt.

And somewhere in that process, even the way I spoke about my body began to change.

I stopped using the word vagina.

It always felt clinical. Functional. Like it belonged in a textbook.

Yoni felt different—

a Sanskrit word for sacred space… for source.

Not because it’s more spiritual.

But because it felt more whole.

Less like a part… and more like a center.

Somewhere in that process, I finally understood why intimacy had been painful for me.

Not just physically.

That realization didn’t fix everything overnight.

But it changed the way I listened.

Later, I was introduced to Kim Anami’s work, and I went deeper into practices like yoni egg training and pleasure-based embodiment.

I had been reading about Tantra for years.

Something about it always felt familiar… like I was remembering something instead of learning it for the first time.

But reading is safe.

Practice is not.

Practice asks your body to participate.

And that’s when things started to shift.

My desire came back.

Not in a performative way.

Not as something to fix a relationship.

But as a quiet, steady current running through me again.

And here’s the part that still lands softly and heavily at the same time.

The marriage didn’t change.

I did the work.

I came back into my body.

I felt alive again.

And still… it wasn’t enough to bring the relationship back to life.

Because what I was really recovering wasn’t just sexual desire.

It was my connection to myself.

And once that came back… I couldn’t unfeel it.

Now, I find myself in a different place.

Single.

Celibate.

And more connected to my sensuality than ever before.

Not because of anyone else.

But because I’m no longer split.

I don’t move between versions of myself anymore.

I don’t leave my body when I step into my work.

The woman sitting on the floor with toddlers, waiting for their first words…

is the same woman who lingers in the shower, who feels music in her hips, who honors her own pleasure.

There’s no switch.

Just integration.

And maybe that’s what this has really been about all along.

Not becoming someone new…

But returning to the body I once left—

and finally staying.

Tantra speaks of reaching different levels of consciousness. I’m only beginning to understand what that means.

Because for so long, I thought expansion meant leaving my body.

But now…

I’m starting to see something else.

That maybe the path isn’t out.

Maybe it’s in.

And these days, it looks like this:

music playing, bare feet on the floor, my hips moving before I even think about it—

not performing, not searching, not trying to get anywhere…

just here.

In my body.

And staying.

But what I really met was a decision.

And once I saw it…

everything else became clear.

I’ve been going Latin dancing once a week for the past few months, and somewhere along the way, it stopped being just dancing.

It became something I could return to.

A place where my body felt alive again.

A community that started to feel like mine.

There’s a core group of people I see regularly, but dancers travel in from nearby states, so there’s always movement—new faces, new energy, new people passing through.

Last week, I danced with someone who had driven in from about three hours away.

At first, it was just that—dancing.

He was a good lead. Attentive and present.

But as the night went on, we kept finding each other on the dance floor. Eventually, we sat down to talk, and something opened up.

We had similar interests. A shared love for the outdoors. He told me about canyoneering—rappelling down canyon walls—and I remember thinking, I wanna try that!

He had come into town for a canyon trip and decided to stay for the dancing.

By the end of the night, we exchanged numbers. He mentioned he’d be back the following week, and I thought I might be able to tag along with him and his friends on one of their canyon adventures.

We texted throughout the week.

It was sweet. Playful. A little flirty.

There was something I genuinely liked about him. A gentleness.

And what stood out most was how my body felt around him.

Calm when we talked.

Excited when we danced.

That combination felt… rare.

And maybe most notably, there were no complications.

He had been divorced for years. No kids. No entanglements.

Just a man living his life.

I found myself curious. Looking forward to seeing him again.

And that caught my attention.

Because over the past few months, I’ve met a lot of people.

I’ve danced with plenty of men—talked, laughed, connected in passing.

But I hadn’t been genuinely interested in anyone.

Not even a little.

This was the first time something felt different.

And what made it even more interesting…

he wasn’t my usual type.

Not at all.

And yet, there was still something there.

Not overwhelming or consuming.

Just… chemistry.

When I saw him the following week, he handed me something.

A small, heart-shaped rock.

He told me he had found it during the canyon trip I couldn’t go on.

Such a simple gesture.

And yet… it stayed with me.

There was something almost childlike about it—thoughtful and tender.

But as the night went on, something had shifted.

The spark wasn’t there.

Not because anything had gone wrong or because he had changed.

But because something in me had clarified.

At some point, I realized he reminded me of a family member.

And just like that, everything reorganized.

There was no confusion or internal back-and-forth.

He moved, naturally, into the friend category.

And what surprised me wasn’t the shift.

It was how clean it felt.

The real impact of that encounter didn’t happen on the dance floor.

It happened in the days that followed.

A question surfaced that I hadn’t fully let myself sit with:

What would I do if I actually met someone I wanted to date?

And the answer came quickly and clearly.

I wouldn’t.

Not like this.

Not while I’m still legally married.

I don’t want emotional overlap.

I don’t want blurred timelines.

I don’t want to build something new while something old is still in place.

And that’s when it landed:

The next step is divorce.

It didn’t come from heartbreak.

It came from realizing the life I’m already living doesn’t match what I’m still legally tied to.

The only thing that has kept me from moving forward isn’t emotional.

It’s practical.

Health insurance.

My current employer doesn’t offer it, and I’ve been covered under Lex’s plan. That’s not a small thing to walk away from.

So divorce stayed in the background—something to figure out later.

But now it feels different.

Not rushed.

Just… clear.

When Lex and I finally touched on the topic, he suggested waiting until January—giving me the rest of the year to get financially situated.

And logically, that makes sense.

But something in me knows I don’t want to wait until next year.

Not from impatience.

Just from clarity.

But here’s what stopped me.

Just a few days earlier, I had started thinking about it.

Not obsessing. Just noticing.

What would that conversation even look like?

How would he react?

I hadn’t said anything out loud.

And then, the next time I picked up our son, he brought it up.

Calm and matter-of-fact.

As if we had already been having the conversation somewhere else.

In that moment, I paused.

There was something about it—how easily it came up, how calm it felt.

Later, when I told a friend, she smiled and said,

“You know you did that, right?”

And I just sat there for a second.

Because it felt true.

Not because I forced anything or pushed the conversation, but because something in me had already shifted.

The decision had started forming quietly… and somehow, life met me there.

And that small heart-shaped rock stayed on my mind.

Because as much as this experience brought clarity about what needed to end…

it also showed me something about what’s still alive.

My heart isn’t closed.

Part of me had been afraid it might be.

That going through this would leave me guarded. Jaded.

But it didn’t.

If anything, it took someone with a quiet, almost childlike tenderness…

to reflect back to me that my heart is still open.

There’s something almost poetic about how this came through someone I met while dancing.

In movement.

In rhythm.

In a space where I’ve been reconnecting with myself again.

And instead of leading me into something new, he pointed me back to something unfinished.

He wasn’t a possibility.

He was a turning point.

Because nothing about that interaction was random.

I didn’t lose attraction.

I gained clarity.

I’m no longer just asking, Do I like him?

I’m asking, Does this match where I am now?

And that changes everything.

So now the question isn’t if I file.

It’s how I do it in a way that feels steady.

That might mean:

Finding a position with benefits.

Looking into private insurance.

Building income streams that can cover the gap.

Not as a delay.

As support.

Because this isn’t about leaving anymore.

It’s about letting my outside life catch up to what’s already true inside.

I thought I met someone interesting that night.

But what I really met was a decision that had already been forming.

And then, just days later, life reflected it right back to me.

Before I could even say it out loud, Lex did.

Calm and clear.

And that’s when I knew—

this was already in motion.

Some people arrive to stay.

Others arrive to reveal.

💭 Have you ever met someone who wasn’t meant to stay… but came to show you what needed to change?

Lawyer fees.
Court fees.
Custody battles.

Her mind is spinning… and I can hear it in her voice.

I’m on the phone with someone close to me who may be separating from her husband.

Her husband handles all the finances, and now she’s getting a crash course all at once.

She’s worried she won’t be able to support herself.

It’s all too much.

And I found myself saying something I didn’t fully realize I believed until I heard it come out of my own mouth:

When we follow the guidance of our soul… things have a way of working out.

Not without challenge.
But in a way that supports the path we’re choosing.

It made me think about my own journey.

Because I made this decision in the middle of a separation—
when everything in my life already felt uncertain.

Last summer, when we moved to a new state, I made a decision that didn’t make sense on paper.

I chose to leave my school job.

The one I had built my life around for almost a decade.

The one with a guaranteed salary…
Benefits. Retirement.
Holidays and summers off.

Lex couldn’t believe it.

“You want to leave all of that… to drive around all day to people’s homes, without guaranteed hours or insurance?”

Well, when you say it that way, it sounds totally crazy.

And still… yes.

Because my soul was no longer happy in the school setting.
It wanted change.

And it wasn’t a gentle nudge anymore.

It was a demand.

So I chose Early Intervention.

A path that came with uncertainty.

My schedule wasn’t full.
My hours weren’t guaranteed.
My income took a hit.

There were moments when the questions got loud.

Will I be okay?
Do I have enough?
What if this doesn’t work?

And still…

I chose it.

Not because it felt safe,
but because something in me knew:

This is where I’m meant to go.

I didn’t know why.

I just listened.

What I didn’t expect was this:

Even in the uncertainty… things kept falling into place.

Not always how I imagined, but enough to keep building trust as I went.

I had enough clients.
Enough support from my company.
Enough confirmation to keep going.

And the best part, I gained the freedom my soul had been asking for.

I don’t get summers off anymore.

But I work four days a week… sometimes less.

I make my own schedule.
I can move clients around when I need to.
I start later in the mornings.
I finish shortly after my son gets home from school.

I never had this level of flexibility in the school setting.

And this kind of freedom feels…expansive.

Recently, I made another decision.

I left my Mondays open.

I didn’t fully understand why… I just knew.

And there was a part of me that reached outward for safety, so I went on two job interviews.

One of them was perfect on paper.

It was a great company with good people.
A clinic being built five minutes from my house.
It was ideal.

But taking that job would have meant filling the very space I had just created.

The same was true for the telehealth position.

It would have taken my Mondays and and my evenings.

And something in me said, NOPE.

Not because they weren’t good opportunities.

But because I wasn’t willing to give that space away.

Even before I fully understood why it mattered.

No guarantee that anything would fill that space.

And instead of anxiety…

something unexpected happened.

Opportunities started showing up.

I’m not saying every leap is meant to be taken.

And I’m not saying fear disappears.

But I am starting to see this more clearly:

Sometimes choosing ourselves doesn’t look like confidence.

It looks like uncertainty and questions.
It looks like something that feels scary and doing it anyway.

For a long time, I thought choosing myself would feel bold and empowering.

But lately, it feels quieter than that.

More like:

I’m listening.
I’m paying attention.
And I’m taking one step in that direction.

I don’t know exactly where this path leads.

But I do know this:

Leaving my school job was the beginning.

Not choosing those new opportunities—
the ones that would have pulled me out of alignment,
taking back the time and space I had just chosen for myself—

felt like a deeper kind of choosing.

And just this past week,

I said yes to something that did feel aligned—

I have a feeling it deserves its own story.

I stare at the text for a second.

He hasn’t initiated anything in weeks.

Just a few days before that, I realized something uncomfortable:

Both my personal and professional life were reflecting the same thing—

a part of me that still believed I’m not the one people choose.

My son had chosen not to have a room at my house.

One of my 2.5-year-old patients had chosen not to speak around me.

Different situations. Same story.

Once I saw it, something in me shifted.

The day after a session with my intuitive friend, when I realized this little girl had been mirroring my “I’m not chosen” wound, she spoke in full volume in my presence.

For months, she had stayed silent or whispered to others. Never to me.

Then, in our next session, she saw me and went into full panic mode.

Crying and shutting down.

In the past, I would have tried to fix it.

But this time, I didn’t.

I stepped back and coached the nanny instead.

We had a great session.

She started talking again. In full voice…with me in the room.

At the end, she grabbed a ball and started tossing it with the nanny.

Then… she threw it to me.

She was laughing and talking around me.

I just sat there thinking, what is happening right now?

It’s early, but the shift was impossible to miss.

And then… that text.

“Mom, wanna go for a hike?”

What I thought would be a short hike turned into one of those conversations that stays with you.

It was a spring morning that almost felt like summer.

The sun was warm, a breeze moving through the trees.

The parking lot was full, but once we got on the trail, it opened up.

For most of the hike, it was just us.

At one point, he asked how I’ve been feeling.

I told him some of my identities have been shaken… mom, caregiver, wife.

And in that space, something else has started to come through.

I’ve been writing.

I’ve gone back to Latin dancing.

Parts of me I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I asked him how he felt after I moved out.

He said the first few days were rough… but then he adjusted.

And then he said:

“Mom, I don’t wish you and dad were still together. I like it better this way.”

I did not expect that.

But as we kept talking, it became clear—

he feels like he’s getting the best version of both of us.

Later, he suggested we go out for my birthday.

He even agreed to dress up.

And then, almost casually, he said something that stopped me:

He’s ready to have a room at my house.

I’ve been sitting with all of this all day.

Trying to understand what actually shifted.

I don’t think it’s as simple as I healed something and everything changed.

But something did.

I stopped needing to be chosen.

With my patient, I gave space instead of pressure.

With my son, I showed up as myself.

And somehow… both of them met me there.

The moment I stopped needing to be chosen…

was the moment things started choosing me back.

And now I find myself wondering—

what else might shift?

Thanks for being here.

If this resonated with you, you can subscribe to receive more like this.

Something about the sharp lands in my system.

My work life is built around time—appointments, schedules, being somewhere at a very specific hour. I hold that structure during the week.

But on weekends?

I’m more of a 9:30-ish kind of girl.

Lex has always been someone who moves by the clock. I’ve always been a little more fluid with time.

But not being around it every day anymore… I notice it differently.

It almost startles my system.

And still I go.

Lex and my boy had asked me to go biking with them Saturday morning. I don’t have a bike rack on my car, so I can’t usually take my boy biking on my own.

This time, though, I drove separately and met them there.

I mentioned that with this gorgeous weather, it would be really packed—but my boy still insisted.

And as expected, it was a beautiful spring morning.

It was one of those mornings where everyone seemed to be out—families, young kids learning to ride, groups of cyclists training.

And lately, since writing about my abandonment story and asking myself the question, what does it mean to choose me?… I’ve started to notice something.

These kinds of moments—the small, ordinary ones I might have overlooked before—are starting to stand out.

This is one of them.

Being out on the trails made me think about how, in the past, when we were still a family, bike riding was one of those activities that brought us together. No matter what was going on in our lives, we could get on our bikes and somehow reconnect.

It was a reset for our family.

But today felt different.

The trails were packed with energy—exactly as I had imagined. And I actually love that kind of energy. I feed off of it. It energizes me.

But on a bike, my body interprets that same energy differently.

It became really clear how different my rhythm is from the boys’.

I want biking to feel joyful and calm. I want to stop along the way, take in the landscape, watch the river.

At one point, there was a beagle in the water, just having the time of its life. Pure, absolute joy.

I wanted to stop, watch, and share in that moment.

But the boys have a different rhythm.

They want speed. Distance. Momentum.

And instead of enjoying the ride, I found myself navigating around pedestrians, runners, and large groups of cyclists. It felt less like ease and more like I was slipping into a kind of fight-or-flight.

And the truth is, I learned to ride a bike in my 30s, and coming out of winter, I still feel like I’m finding my legs again.

So it wasn’t enjoyable for me.

And I could feel the old instinct rise— the part of me that would have pushed through anyway, just to keep the peace.

Especially for my son, who had been so excited to take me to the bikeable building in Downtown Bentonville.

But something in me has shifted.

At one point, I told them to go ahead without me so they could keep enjoying the ride. I didn’t want to bring the mood down.

I just wanted to stop… and enjoy the beagle in the river.

But somehow, the energy shifted anyway. It was decided the ride was over, and we turned back.

And just like that, something that once brought us together showed me how different our rhythms have become.

Not better or worse.

Just different.

And in that, I found something important—

An invitation to honor my own pace.

To savor life the way I want.

Like that beagle in the river—joyful, present, and fully in my own rhythm.

The boys took the bikes back home.

And because I had driven my own car, I stayed behind and went for a walk.

I slowed down. I took my time.

And I let it be mine.

By the time I made my way back… the beagle was gone.

Of course.

I’m starting to notice these moments more and more.

I’m curious if you’ve been noticing them too.

In Part 2, I wrote about how their mothers showed me something deeper… that my inner child was grieving the unconditional love I never received.

And now I’m sitting with a different question.

What does it actually look like to give myself that kind of love?

I want to say this clearly.

I was raised by my wonderful grandparents. I was always provided for. I had a home, food on the table, clothes on my back.

My grandmother adored me.

I am deeply grateful for the way my grandma raised me. She loved me in the best way she knew how.

And still…

not having my mother around left a mark.

She moved to the U.S. when I was only a few months old.

That absence imprinted something in me.

And underneath all of it…

I can see where this comes from.

I was never chosen by my mother.

So the questions remain.

What does it look like to choose me?

What does it look like to offer myself unconditional love?

When my son chooses his father over me.

When my patient speaks to her nanny the same day she meets her… but not to me, after months of working together.

When that happens, it’s not just a thought.

It’s a feeling in my body.

A tightening in my chest.

A drop in my stomach.

And almost instantly, a story begins.

She doesn’t feel safe with you.

You’re doing something wrong.

You’re not the one she chooses.

I notice the urge to fix it.

To try harder.

To be more engaging, more playful.

More… something.

Anything that might make her choose me.

And with my son, it hits even deeper.

When he chooses to stay at his dad’s, there’s a part of me that immediately makes it mean something.

He doesn’t want to be with you.

You’re not as fun.

You’re not enough.

It happens fast.

So fast that if I’m not paying attention, I start moving from that place without even realizing it.

And this is where it gets uncomfortable.

Because loving myself in those moments doesn’t come naturally… yet.

My instinct is still to reach outward.

To adjust and try to be chosen.

So choosing myself has to be intentional.

It looks like pausing.

Not trying to fix the moment.

Not rushing to fill the silence.

Not trying to prove that I’m worth choosing.

It looks like noticing the story as it begins to spiral…

You’re not enough.

You’re doing something wrong.

…and not following it.

With my son, it might look like taking a breath when he says he wants to stay at his dad’s…

and instead of asking him to reconsider, or trying to make it more appealing to be with me…

just letting him choose.

And staying with myself in that moment.

Even when it stings.

And here’s the part no one really talks about.

Sometimes, choosing myself doesn’t feel empowering.

It feels lonely and unfamiliar.

There’s a part of me that still wants someone to choose me.

But I’m starting to notice something.

The more I stay with myself in those moments…

the less urgent it feels to be chosen.

Not because it doesn’t matter anymore.

But because I’m not abandoning myself in the process.

I don’t have this figured out.

But I’m learning.

And for the first time, I’m starting to see what it might feel like to not wait to be chosen.

If you missed parts 1 and 2 you can read them here.

https://typebmagic.substack.com/publish/posts/detail/191201425?referrer=%2Fpublish%2Fposts%2Fpublished

https://typebmagic.substack.com/publish/posts/detail/191252131?referrer=%2Fpublish%2Fposts%2Fpublished

At first, I thought the trigger was the children.

But the more I sat with it, the more I realized…

it wasn’t their behavior that stayed with me.

It was something else entirely.

In Part 1, I wrote about how a little boy on the autism spectrum and a little girl with possible selective mutism mirrored back to me my abandonment wound.

They revealed parts of me that are still asking to be healed and integrated.

But here’s the thing.

In both scenarios, these children were behaving exactly as expected.

Autism can impact how a child engages socially and communicates. It’s not uncommon for a child on the spectrum to struggle with interaction.

And for a child with selective mutism, it’s also expected that they may not speak with people they don’t yet feel safe with.

So why did these moments stay with me?

Why did they hit something so deep?

The answer surprised me.

It wasn’t just the children.

It was their mothers too.

The little boy comes from a Spanish-speaking family. Both parents work. His mom works nights, so that one parent can always be home with him and his younger brother.

The little girl comes from a family living just a few blocks away. Her mom works remotely, and they have a nanny.

On the surface, these families look very different. Their resources are different.
Their day-to-day rhythms are completely different.

And yet…

there is something deeply similar between them.

Both mothers have made intentional choices to be present with their children.

And both of them love their children in a way that is undeniable.

The little boy’s mom is incredibly patient and attuned.

When I first started working with him, he was highly dysregulated. Big emotions. Big behaviors.

And she met him there every single time.

Not with urgency or frustration.

With calm, presence, and care.

As she learned more tools from the occupational therapist, she became almost intuitive in her responses.

A single glance, and she knew what was coming.

She would bring out the weighted vest, offer sour gummies for sensory input, or use deep pressure and squeezes.

She supported him. She helped him regulate.

She was masterful.

And I found myself in awe.

But underneath that awe… something else was stirring.

The little girl inside of me was grieving.

Because no one had ever cared for me like that.

I wasn’t just witnessing regulation.

I was witnessing unconditional love.

And my inner child felt the absence of it.

At the little girl’s home, I noticed something similar.

Yes, they have a nanny.

But the nanny isn’t raising the children.

The mom is.

She carries her infant son as he naps on her chest. She is present. Attentive. Engaged.

The nanny steps in when needed, but the emotional presence comes from the mother.

And with the little girl, it’s the same.

The same kind of steady, attentive presence.

Again…

unconditional love.

And again, I felt it.

Not with judgment or comparison.

But with an aching question:

Why couldn’t I be loved this way?

That question stayed with me.

And over time, it began to shift.

What would it look like to give myself the kind of love I needed back then?

.

If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.

A moment earlier she had been laughing with her nanny. The instant she notices me, her expression changes. She runs straight to her mom, pressing her body against her leg as if she needs protection.

She knows why I’m there.

I’m her speech therapist.

For the past few months, I’ve been working with her to support her expressive language. But despite our sessions together, she hasn’t been willing to talk when I’m around.

Then something unexpected happened.

The family hired a new nanny.

Naturally, I assumed it would take time for the child to warm up to her. Days. Maybe weeks.

Instead, her mom told me the child started talking to the nanny within hours.

The very first day.

It was the kind of moment that happens to all of us at some point. Someone else walks into a space where we’ve been trying so hard… and suddenly everything seems easy for them.

And I felt it immediately.

That tightening in my chest.

If she can talk to the nanny… why won’t she talk to me?

Before I knew it, my mind was doing the exact thing I tell my own child not to do when he feels like a teacher is picking on him.

I started internalizing everything.

What is wrong?

Why won’t she talk to me?

How can I make her feel safe?

Around that time, her mom and I had already started wondering if something more than shyness might be going on.

Selective mutism.

Selective mutism is an anxiety-based condition where a child is fully capable of speaking but becomes unable to talk in certain environments or with certain people. Many children talk freely at home but freeze in other settings.

It’s not defiance or stubbornness.

It’s anxiety.

With that possibility in mind, her mom and I came up with a new plan. Instead of encouraging her to talk, I would back off. No prompting. No pressure.

She could play with her mom. Talk with her. I would simply be nearby, joining the play when it felt natural.

Eventually I reached out to a small group of intuitive friends and asked if anyone would be willing to “tap in” and see if they could help me understand what might help this little girl feel more comfortable.

One friend wrote back saying she felt a strong resonance with my question and offered me one of her appointments.

We met earlier today.

The first thing she said surprised me.

She explained that the child actually feels comfortable with me during play. When we run around together or play games like hide and seek, the child is relaxed and engaged.

That was reassuring.

At least I’m doing something right, I thought.

Then I told her the part that had been bothering me most.

Every time I walk into the house, the child runs straight to her mom.

And that’s when the mirror turned toward me.

My friend asked a simple question.

“How does it make you feel when she runs to her mom?”

It felt like she dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

My heart surged. Tears started streaming down my face before I could even form the words.

It makes me feel not chosen.

Then I told her about the nanny. How the child had started talking to her almost immediately.

That detail felt like salt in the wound.

And there it was.

The old abandonment wound.

The same one that seems to surface whenever connection suddenly matters.

And the truth is, this wasn’t the first time I had experienced something like this with a patient.

Months ago I worked with a little boy on the autism spectrum. His mom decided to also take him to a clinic once a week in addition to our home sessions, so he could get used to a more structured setting.

For weeks, I would walk into the house and see the same look on his face.

Disappointment.

One day I asked his mom how things were going at the clinic.

She told me they were going amazing. He had two therapists there, and one of them was his favorite.

She said he would light up every time she walked into the room.

And the other therapist?

“Well…” she said gently.

“He looks like when I walk in.” I said, half joking.

We both laughed.

But I knew exactly what she meant.

At the time, I was taking a class with Suzy Miller and was already aware that children can act as mirrors for us. I recognized the familiar feeling immediately.

The I’m not chosen wound.

So I worked through it.

I stopped needing him to choose me.

And interestingly enough, shortly after that shift, he transitioned to the clinic full time.

Almost as if his work with me was complete.

Apparently, though, this wound still had another layer to reveal itself through this little girl.

My friend asked another question that led me to share something I’m currently navigating in my own life.

My son has been choosing to spend more time at his dad’s house.

Logically, I understand that this is normal. Kids go through phases. It has nothing to do with love.

But the younger part of me still feels it.

The part that quietly asks,

Why didn’t they choose me?

The conversation shifted toward how I can give my own inner child the love and reassurance she’s seeking. How I can remind her that I choose her.

But there was another insight that felt equally important.

We can understand that we are already whole and still acknowledge that we are wired for connection.

It’s human to want to be chosen.

It’s human to seek love.

But we also have to recognize when someone simply cannot give us what we’re hoping for.

And when that happens, the healthiest thing we can do is soften our grip and allow space.

Because the more we push for connection from someone who can’t meet us there, the more they tend to pull away.

I know exactly what she meant.

I’ve had friendships in the past where someone needed more from me than I could give, and the pressure slowly pushed me away.

And sitting there in that moment, I realized something uncomfortable.

I might be doing the exact same thing with both my patient and my son.

Trying so hard to be chosen that the energy itself might feel like pressure.

Which means the real work isn’t convincing anyone to choose me.

The real work is choosing myself first.

And maybe, just maybe, when that pressure disappears…

a little girl will feel safe enough to talk.

Toys everywhere. Clothes on the floor. Legos covering nearly every surface.

I’m a minimalist, and the moment I saw the room something in me tightened. Before I could stop myself, the commentary started.

Why so much clutter? Why isn’t anything put away? How can anyone live in a room like this?

The shift in his face was immediate.

He didn’t argue or push back.

He just shut down.

Days later, replaying the moment in my head, I realized something uncomfortable.

I had just done the exact thing I’d been criticizing on a television show.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been watching the reality show Love Is Blind.

If you haven’t seen it, people date and even get engaged without ever seeing each other. They fall in love through a wall, connecting only through conversation, and meet face to face after the proposal.

Then real life begins.

Season after season, the same scene unfolds. The woman walks into the man’s home for the first time, looks around, and within minutes the commentary starts. A remark about the mess. A complaint about the clutter.

You see the shift happen in real time. The energy tightens. Someone shuts down. Before long, they’re arguing.

And every time it happens, I find myself thinking the same thing.

Why are you criticizing the person you say you love?

It feels like watching someone push away the very connection they were just celebrating.

At the time, I couldn’t quite explain why that dynamic bothered me so much.

Then I started reading The Big Leap.

In The Big Leap, Gay Hendricks describes something called the Upper Limit Problem.

Each of us has an internal limit to how much happiness, love, or success we allow ourselves to feel.

When life exceeds that limit, we unconsciously create a problem to bring ourselves back down to familiar territory.

Someone gets a promotion and immediately gets sick.

A financial windfall arrives and suddenly the couple is fighting.

Things get good, and then something happens to disrupt it.

As I read that chapter, something clicked.

I realized I had just done this with my son.

Since moving out, our relationship has been a little hot and cold. Some weeks he comes over almost every day. We listen to music, make art, build things with Legos, and it feels easy and natural.

Other weeks he disappears into his own world and I hear the familiar line:

“I don’t want to come over tonight.”

I kept trying to figure out what was going on.

Then we took a trip to Los Angeles.

We had one of those trips where everything just worked. We spent time with family and friends, laughed a lot, and by the end of the trip he told me he wanted to spend more quality time together.

My heart felt full hearing that.

Days later, I stopped by his dad’s house.

I walked into his room, saw the mess, and immediately started criticizing it.

Later, the it hit me.

Days earlier he had told me he wanted more time together.

Things between us were in a really good place.

He had opened the door to more connection.

And the first thing I did when I stepped into his space was point out what was wrong.

Sigh.

For weeks I had been watching Love Is Blind, shaking my head at the women who walked into a man’s apartment and immediately started pointing out everything that was wrong.

Then I realized I had just done the same thing.

And instead of letting that closeness settle in,

I sabotaged it.

Not because the room was messy.

Because somewhere inside me, things had gotten too good.

I had reached my Upper Limit — that moment when we start pushing away the very thing we say we want.

I think we do this more often than we realize. Things start going well in a relationship, and instead of relaxing into the closeness, we find something small to criticize. A messy room. A habit. A comment.

Something that creates just enough distance to return to what feels familiar, even when what feels familiar is conflict.

The room wasn’t the problem.

My capacity to receive closeness was.

And it made me wonder where else in my life I might be doing the same thing.