I’ve cried multiple times a day, every day, for more than a week now.
Not because of heartbreak or tragedy, but because my system is metabolizing something profound.
These tears are different; they feel ancient & precise as if there’s a new intelligence to them.
I feel exposed and awkward when the tears arrive uninvited (and often at very inconvenient times), but there’s less resistance to whatever holy unravelling this is.
I know this because my nervous system is responding differently. There’re no alarm bells, no drama, or shut down, and I’m not scrambling to fix or interpret anything.
These tears come quietly and don’t beg to be hidden or explained. They aren’t fragile, full of despair, or hot with frustration and sadness as they have been before. They contain a deeper exhaled wisdom – one that’s generational, collective, and cosmic.
It’s like my soul is doing math trying to calculate what belongs to me, what belongs to my lineage, and what belongs to the wider field of transformation we’re all being dragged through.
The whole thing is exhausting, disorienting, and liberating. I feel like a walking paradox.
On one level, I’m clear. Grounded. Sovereign. Rooted in myself in a way I’ve never felt before. Some days I feel electric, creative, powerful, and turned on by life.
On another level, parts of me are catching up to my emerging identity. Some days I feel like I’m stuck in purgatory, moving through molasses.
To me, that’s the real initiation: living in the juxtaposition, leading from the in-between, knowing that this discomfort isn’t a red-flag…but a rite of passage.
Before the next level of growth there’s a rupture - an undoing of everything built from fear or force. I can’t override the parts of me that are still grieving, releasing, and catching up, and I can’t force the timeline.
There’s nothing left to do but surrender.
This surrender isn’t a giving up, but a laying down. A generous and powerful offering of control at the altar of truth, knowing that the space between effort and ease where everything real begins to form.
And the deeper the surrender, the more generous the return. The energy of abundance is attracted to softness. Its nature is allowance, not force. The fruit only ripens after the tree lets go.
I’m learning to trust that the tears are the work and that slowing down is the medicine. I’m learning to rest in the belief that I’m being asked to become something larger, not smaller. To know that the discomfort of this slow, non-linear pace isn’t something to fix - it’s divinely aligned - and it’s something to honour.
My whole body is tuning to a new rhythm. Through the tears, I can feel my cells reshuffling, re-patterning, and realigning themselves into a new frequency. Something deep inside me is done with proving my readiness to rise. It knows that the abundance I’m seeking won’t find me when I’m rushing – only when I’m rooted.
I’m out of moves and too tired to resist or rush, so I’m moving slowly and on purpose. I’m letting my nervous system set the pace instead of my calendar, and desire lead instead of pressure.
Some call this a sign of weakness, but I can assure you it’s not.
It’s a reclamation of my sovereign power.
I might look quiet on the outside, but this stillness isn’t stagnation. Internally, I’m in a sacred preparation. Quietly listening for the voice of my own knowing and gathering my energy so that I have the capacity to effortlessly receive the blessings of my destiny.
Flourishing, sustainable abundance never arrives through force. It responds to presence.
So I surrender.
And I keep crying.
And I let that be enough.
I feel this…mentally, emotionally and physically.