soulsustenance

Napoleon Hill wrote, “The starting point of all achievement is desire.”

Desire is indeed our fire. It lights something in us that wants to move forward, create, shape, and evolve. And for the last few years, I’ve been driven by a mounting desire: a desire to build a beautiful partnership and family, a desire to grow a successful, sustainable business, and a desire to make an impact and become financially free in the process.

However, recently, in the absence of my desires manifesting on my timeline, combined with financial pressures of unplanned home projects and a colossal termite infestation, I’ve wanted to take that fire and burn it all down (or maybe just let the termites continue their destruction). In fact, I’ve even questioned why I torched the very things I had going for me…career, marriage, and partnership…the very things I thought I’d have locked down as a “successful” 40-year-old woman.

A multi-day pity party notwithstanding, I managed to gain a different perspective after climbing out of my woe-is-me hole. I recalled a women’s retreat I attended a few months ago. The primary focus was on the inner marriage, or the integration of our alpha and omega/ masculine and feminine energies, which we typically seek to balance in partnership with another. Instead, we learned and practiced how to embody the love and completion that most of us crave externally based on the premise that we cannot seek in another that which we are unwilling or incapable of offering ourselves. That only leads to a trap of need, inevitable disappointment when it’s not met, followed by anger or resentment. One distinction that stayed with me from that experience, which feels particularly relevant right now, is the difference between desire and devotion.

Desire, where most of us operate from, is essentially that need; a yearning for something separate from ourselves, “out there”, just beyond reach. The act of wanting implies a gap between here and there, now and later, me and it. Devotion, on the other hand, is different. Though often used in a religious context, devotion simply means wholehearted dedication to something beyond oneself. It’s not a grasping toward the future. It’s a resting into the now; a reverence, and a loving commitment to what already is.

Desire isn’t misguided. In fact, it’s essential. It fuels our evolution and self-actualization. That ache for something not yet here is the creative tension that pulls us forward. Yet the trap of desire is that once we get the thing we thought we wanted, the satisfaction rarely lasts. We move on to the next goal, the next vision, or the next hill to climb. This is the path of the “bogey” (in contrast to the yogi)—the ever-seeker—always trying to fill something inside that can never be filled by external means. The desires we have are not inherently wrong, including my own aspiration to move through the adventure of life with my partner and best friend. But when the seeking is driven by the illusion that one day I’ll feel whole with that person by my side, or that I won’t have unforeseen challenges to navigate, then it will be a perpetual chase.

So, as I contemplate the events of the last few weeks that rocked my very foundation and reminded me where I continue to grasp for control, I wonder: what if instead I devoted myself to the version of me who trusts herself completely—who is already complete? The woman who already has a loving partner, a thriving business, and a profound impact on the world. This isn’t magical thinking; the fact that I can imagine her means she exists somewhere in another dimension. And if that’s true, then I can meet her here in this moment. I can choose to be devoted to her, to love her, and to embody her. I just hope she, too, can take on the termites.

As my birthday party wound down and I sat with the handful of friends still lingering over cake, our conversation turned to the experience of turning forty. I noticed a common thread. Each of us, in our own way, admitted: “I can’t believe I’m forty.” It was as if we were all quietly wondering the same thing—how did we get here so fast? Forty always felt like a distant terrain we’d navigate later. And then, suddenly, later was now.

For whatever reason, society deems birthdays ending in zero especially significant. As I approached and recently reached one of these so-called milestones, I began to feel a particular kind of angst. I wondered whether it had any real origin inside me, or if I was unconsciously buying into the collective narrative that I should somehow be more evolved, more accomplished, and more “settled” by now. Or worse, that I was one step closer to death than I was just a year ago. It doesn’t escape me that forty is often viewed as the halfway point of life. And when I really let that sink in, it’s sobering, to put it mildly. To contemplate how much time has already passed sparks a simultaneous wave of grief and urgency. Carpe diem, as they say.

Interestingly, I spent this birthday quite literally sober, despite reluctantly being talked into a bash at a wine bar, joined by 20 dear friends from near and far. Without turning this into a self-righteous message about abstaining from alcohol, I’ll just say this: what sobriety offered me on this occasion was presence. I was hyper-aware of the fluttering anxiety in my stomach, the looping thoughts of “I’m not where I thought I’d be by now” and “I’m behind.” I noticed the voice in my head critiquing the grays in my hair and the loose skin on my arms. And at the same time, I felt the burst of love in my chest as I looked around at all the kindhearted souls who came out to celebrate me. It was overwhelming, in the best and most human of ways.

The day after the festivities, I had one-on-one time with a dear friend who, despite facing the harsh reality of a fast-progressing and likely terminal cancer diagnosis, flew to Miami for my birthday. We sat outside on a bench, watching children play—me with my chocolate ice cream, him with a cold beer. For a moment, he let his guard down and opened up about the gravity of his situation. Teary-eyed, he spoke plainly about the unknown that lies ahead.

None of it surprised me, really. But I was struck by how much I’d been in denial. I hadn’t numbed myself with alcohol, but I’d found other ways to avoid the truth. I’d clung to stories of his strength and focused on all the evidence I had that he was bulletproof. I didn’t want to face what was right in front of me. As we talked about love, life, and what might lie beyond this one, we looked up at the sky and noticed the half-moon—one side bright and luminous, the other cast in shadow. It was the perfect metaphor — a reflection not just of the cosmos, but of our lives: the light and the dark, the beauty and the pain, always coexisting.

And in that moment, something landed. I realized I can’t count on this birthday to mark the halfway point of my life. None of us can. But no matter how much time I have left, I want to stay awake to all of it. The joy and the heartbreak. The certainty and the mystery. The high of the previous night’s party and the sobering truth of my friend’s illness—both reminding me how fragile and precious this all is.

So, here’s to forty. To not knowing how much time we have. To being a grown adult and still yearning to feel like a child. To life, love, cake, and cancer. To the simple moments shared with friends, eating ice cream under the moon. To the quiet recognition that the true milestone is simply being here, alive, awake, and willing to feel and celebrate it all.

Dedicated to my friend—you know who you are.

My spiritual journey began about 15 years ago when I first encountered the concept of manifestation. I picked up Ask and It Is Given by Esther and Jerry Hicks, my first exposure to the law of attraction. For those unfamiliar, in 1985, Esther Hicks began channeling the wisdom of a collective of spirit guides called Abraham. Through books, seminars, and podcasts, she shares profound teachings about the workings of the Universe and our innate ability to create anything we desire. Whether or not one believes in the idea of channeling spirit guides, it’s hard to deny that her messages are inspiring, empowering, and deeply supportive of our ever-expanding journey through this wondrous existence.

As Abraham teaches, there are no coincidences—only conscious and unconscious desires made manifest. Last weekend, I attended one of Esther’s seminars in Miami, coinciding with a rather spontaneous decision to embark on my first extended three-day water fast. The fast, part of a protocol I’ve been following to address chronic gut inflammation, was no small feat for someone who loves to eat as much as I do. Yet, this endeavor became the perfect backdrop for receiving Abraham’s messages with a fresh perspective, years, and many life experiences after I first read that book.

One message in particular offered a timely and potent reminder: our reality is shaped by where we place our attention. According to Abraham, the only thing preventing us from manifesting our desires is our inability to allow them in. The Universe hears every creative impulse and constantly conspires to bring our longings into our 3D reality. Yet, instead of focusing on the joy of the desire itself, most of us fixate on the frustration of not yet having it. This focus on lack creates resistance and keeps us stuck. Abraham put it simply: most of life is meant to be spent in the desiring, as the moments of manifestation are instantaneous. So why not revel in the unfolding, savoring every step of the journey? By the time I heard this, I was 40 hours into my fast, teetering between moments of clarity and near delirium. The state I was in made me painfully aware of just how little I was commanding my own attention. Instead of fully appreciating the wisdom being shared in front of my eyes, I sat preoccupied with my grumbling stomach, my fatigued body, and fantasies of my next meal. I became a witness to my own resistance, oscillating between the discomfort I couldn’t escape and futile attempts to distract myself from it. I also realized that it wasn’t just the hunger hijacking my mind and body, but that even when I’m well-fed, I have a habituated pattern of living in this “fast forward” mentality in my everyday life, bypassing the present moment in anticipation of the next.

If all we truly have is the present, what would it be like to intentionally savor the here and now rather than dwell on what’s missing? During a break from the seminar, I stepped outside and allowed myself to simply feel the warmth of the sun on my face. I briefly let go of all resistance. In that instance of pure presence, a huge dragonfly landed on my leg and sat there for nearly two minutes. For the last few years, the dragonfly has been a symbol of my spirit guide, appearing only when I’m aligned with a higher frequency. It reminded me of the power of now—the fleeting, yet eternal nature of a single moment.

And so, for an instant, I delighted in it.

My morning walks are among my greatest joys and have symbolized newfound freedom in my daily life since leaving my corporate career a year ago. I cut through a small opening to the adjacent neighborhood on the other side of a busy thoroughfare, and there, a hidden world opens up. I take in the lush trees, wave to the familiar faces of dogs and their owners, and marvel at the eclectic personalities of the homes – all while trotting alongside the overpopulation of wild peacocks. While much of this walk has become routine after almost a year of meandering the same streets, I make a point to find something new to notice each day. Recently, my effort was rewarded when I spotted a magnificent spiderweb, barely perceptible, stretched between two branches. It was massive, but I would have missed it if I hadn’t glanced up at the perfect time and angle for the sun to illuminate its delicate form.

This got me thinking about what I notice now that I’ve created the time and space – now that I have the apparent freedom to do so. I’ve spent the last year living fuller than ever, experiencing a more comprehensive range of emotions than I imagined possible, mostly because I formerly avoided such extremes by burying myself in busyness. I traversed the depths of grief with the ever-loving plant medicine and the literal high of a hot air balloon floating above the ancient terrain of Cappadocia, Turkey. I embraced my inner child (and mud) playing on the Playa of Burning Man, and I continue to surf the choppy waters of early entrepreneurship. But I’ve realized one central false assumption: leaving my former career path and pursuing these experiences was not the secret to the freedom I longed for. In fact, I am no more free as my own boss than I was reporting to one. This pursuit itself held me captive, spun up in a web of my own making and avoiding the real confrontation: with myself.

It is said that wherever you go, there you are. I could only digest the truth of that statement in the simplicity of being with my breath and body. While my recent adventures have been undeniably enriching to my life, the spaces in between – the moments of silence and solitude – allowed me to get to know myself for the first time. Only there could I see who I am when all the noise is stripped away, and that freedom was always my choice to claim because freedom is who and what I am. I was under the illusion that my persistent feelings of disengagement, lack of fulfillment, and gnawing unease for so many years were caused by something or someone else, and in holding that perspective, I was a victim of my material reality. I lived in the trap that Richard Rudd wisely articulates in his prolific Gene Keys. He says, “Humans look outside themselves when they experience either an emotional high or low. We need to attach a reason to our emotional states. At the high end of the emotional spectrum, we believe that true joy is an effect rather than a cause. Because of this deep-seated belief, we spend most of our lives chasing whatever we think causes the effect of joy – it may be a perfect relationship, lots of money, fame, the perfect place to live, or even our God. At the low end of the emotional spectrum, the game we play is blame. We blame anything from the food we just ate to our partners or the government for the reason we feel bad.” With this inner orientation, we unknowingly imprison ourselves, trapped by our longing for a perpetual state of joy or ecstasy. When we are down, we long to be high, and when we are high, we long to hold onto that feeling. My mission to escape all that I perceived as unfavorable in my life, from jobs to relationships to the pain of loss, only reinforced my own limitation. Leave it to nature to be the greatest reflection of Truth; like the spiderweb, it was barely discernable, but it was always there if I looked from the right angle.

While my love for travel, quest for personal development, and insatiable desire for experiences that challenge my self-definition will likely always be part of my DNA, this last year of constant movement, like my walking route, has brought me back home. Instead of seeing my walks as an effect of breaking free, of having the autonomy to structure my days how I like, they represent an outward expression of my expansiveness and choices about where and how I direct my energy. I can see the endless array of possibilities available to me at all times and, in doing so, slowly disentangle my deep-rooted identification with my own constraints. Today, as I strap on my tennis shoes and set off down my familiar path, I marvel equally at what is newly blossoming outside and what is blossoming inside of me. And all it takes is a simple glance. 

“You may believe that living life to the fullest is seeing every country in the world and quitting your job on a whim, and falling recklessly in love, but it’s really just knowing how to be where your feet are. It’s learning how to take care of yourself, how to make a home within your own skin. It’s learning how to build a simple life you are proud of. A life most fully lived is not always composed of the things that rock you awake, but those that slowly assure you it’s okay to slow down…” ~Brianna Wiest

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both…” The first line of Robert Frost’s famous poem encapsulates my recent, unusual July 4th holiday, attending a week-long personal growth retreat in a small Connecticut town. Sitting in the classroom with anticipation on the first day, facilitators introduced the process of deep inner exploration we were embarking upon through a metaphor. They described life as a series of decision points where we choose one of two roads with vastly different outcomes. On the left road are the habitual ways of thinking and behaving that keep us stuck, feeling unfulfilled, and disconnected from our authentic selves. It’s a road that circles back on itself repeatedly, limiting possibilities for expansion. The right road represents coherence among our physical, intellectual, emotional, and spiritual selves, where we act from a place of conscious choice. This road curves upward and outward with no end, leading to an inspired vision of the future where everything is possible. For many of us, the right road is the road less traveled…less certain. And, without a doubt, it’s the one that led me and the 28 other expectant souls to the room that day.

Later in the week, I found myself walking with a fellow classmate on a literal road around the idyllic retreat center as we dissected an earlier exchange between us. A few hours prior, having already spent multiple days rebooting our old operating systems, we tested our understanding of “negative transference.” We’d recently learned about this practice, which all humans carry out unconsciously hundreds of times per day: a reaction ranging from a quiet judgment to a compulsive outburst when we are triggered by someone else’s appearance or actions. We assume we’re responding to that person, but if we look deeper, we’re actually projecting our adaptive childhood beliefs and behaviors onto them. While this happens with perfect strangers, it rears its ugly head most often and distorts relationships with the people we are closest to. In the spirit of learning more about our own destructive patterns in the context and container of this retreat, we were asked to reflect on negative transference experiences with our classmates, people who had been strangers just days before. The next assignment was to approach someone we had identified and directly share how they triggered us, describing our negative perceptions and judgments.

I immediately recoiled at this exercise, expecting it to feel horribly awkward, and it did not disappoint. A woman I barely knew told me she perceived me as the kind of superior “it girl” you’d imagine personified in any number of middle and high-school dramas who ignores girls like her. While she took full responsibility for why and how she generated these feelings without even knowing me, I was horrified. Not only was that the opposite of how I intended to present, but it immediately regressed me emotionally to my experience in middle school, where I was the one comparing myself to the “it girls,” feeling worthless and invisible. I recalled how I begged my mother to help me fit in by buying the right shoes, styling my hair similarly, and wearing makeup to appear more mature (which, much to my dismay, she rejected). I believed that if I could mold myself into one of them – the popular girls – just maybe, I’d fill that hole inside. Practicing recognizing my own transference and being on the receiving end of someone else’s offered me not just a time capsule but a mirror. I realized that not only do I still carry a narrative of the insecure pre-teen somewhere in my psyche, but feeling insignificant is a fear that perhaps all humans share in some capacity. Here I was, almost 30 years after my first recollection of that feeling, being told by another adult woman that I represented those “other” women for her. Her perception highlighted how much I’d been distorting my relationship with myself, wearing innumerable masks in order to feel worthy and lovable. She inadvertently exposed my own shame story by vulnerably sharing hers.

While I missed the traditional Independence Day fireworks display as I volunteered for this uncomfortable journey of self-discovery, I gained something deeper: a celebration of newfound personal independence from my unconscious circling on the left road. The week offered a new awareness of how I continue to live a false narrative and the possibility of taking a different path. It also highlighted a collective humanity and the unity that is possible when we can safely express our fears. The left road is easier, I suppose – there, I don’t have to take responsibility. It tethers me to my familiar identity, even if it’s one that keeps me playing small. The right road requires the discomfort of feeling tough emotions and owning 100% of my contribution to relationships – most importantly, the one with myself. As I talked with my new friend, examining our respective experiences of delivering and receiving critical feedback, I realized we were walking on an actual road that kept looping back around to the same starting point. And that’s exactly where I’ll be in life if I continue to go left, returning to the same place of limitation. As Tony Robbins said, “It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped.” We all have a choice. Mine is not always going to be the right one, but I intend to clear the brush from that road less traveled, the one leading to ultimate freedom.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

~Robert Frost

I couldn’t believe how intimidated I felt about such a simple exercise. As I sat among a group of new acquaintances at a 3-day immersive event, we were invited to take turns entering through a doorway at the far end of the room four consecutive times, each entrance grander than the last. We watched from our chairs as spectators and cheerleaders. The bar was set high by my peers, many of whom exuded confidence like royalty. Music blasted over the speakers, and Janelle Monae’s lyrics aptly described the invitation: “I don’t dance, I just float.” One by one, my fellow participants floated, strutted, and twirled, embodying their entrances like supermodels on a runway. I suddenly became hyper-aware of my dysregulated nervous system. Albeit illogical, the prospect of all these people I had just met watching and (gasp!) judging me was confronting. While I understood the exercise’s purpose—to take up space and embody self-worth—my inner critic told me I wasn’t safe, even after witnessing the love and collective support in the room. A “respectable” woman is understated and modest. I was confronted with my story, one that would undoubtedly keep me playing small if left unexamined.

This experience, which occurred at the start of a revelatory weekend of self-discovery with fifteen strangers, expanded my understanding of my emotional landscape. I generally consider myself emotionally aware, but I was humbled by how much I had yet to comprehend. Emotional intelligence is generally defined as the capability of a person to manage and control his or her emotions, and it’s comprised of various elements such as self-awareness, self-regulation, empathy, and social skills. While self-awareness is fundamental, it raises the question: what do we do with said emotions? Unless we’re in environments like sporting events, concerts, or funerals where overt expression is accepted, we often bottle them up or use external stimuli to distract or numb ourselves. In reality, though, “control” or “self-regulation” only applies if we believe that some emotions are unwelcome in certain spaces or circumstances.

Instead, what if we accepted all emotions without identification with any of them? Consciously or not, most of us hold that certain emotions are “bad” or undesirable, like jealousy and rage (derivatives of anger) or disappointment and despair (offshoots of sadness). But as I continue my own personal development journey and coach others through theirs, I’m further convinced that while some emotions are indeed challenging, the distortion lies in the story we hold about ourselves in the feeling of it. An alternative and arguably more creative view is that they all serve as an electric charge that compels us to channel our inherent, creative life force energy. I learned last weekend that the greater the intensity of emotion we can hold, the more intrinsic power we can command. The opportunity is to decide how we perceive that charge and what we do with it in alignment with our values and principles. Unlike signals that relay the same message consistently (i.e., physical pain associated with an injury), emotions are not objectively negative or positive until we judge them or assign meaning to the circumstance that precedes them. Developing emotional intelligence is a starting point, but the next developmental frontier is emotional efficacy: the ability to experience the totality of an emotion. That is, in fact, a gift of the human experience. When we can stop identifying with a temporary feeling, we release it as a limitation and create more inspired choices. For example, sadness, which is the experience of losing something or someone we wanted to preserve in a specific form, can instead become gratitude for the beautiful experience of what was, recognizing that just like the emotion itself, nothing persists indefinitely.

Back in the room last weekend, when my turn to walk through the doorway inevitably arose, I caught myself checking out of my body as I prepared to take my first dramatic steps. I quickly realized, though, that I wasn’t there to stay comfortably the same or anesthetized to difficult moments but instead to stretch my emotional capacity. To simply play along and “get it over with” would rob me of an experience based on a past story of myself. So, at that moment, I decided to write a new one. To my surprise, that’s all it took; fear became confidence as soon as I made a choice. While I acknowledge that for this to become the default, it takes intentional practice and a supportive environment, but the exercise gave me a small taste of the freedom that exists on the other side of the proverbial door that I’ve shut on myself.

Credit and thanks to Kevin Walton @sourceradiance and The Light Beings community for a beautiful event, The Revelation