Standing barefoot in the space between who you’ve been and who you could become.

I could stay here, perhaps. Some would say I’ve made it. But my higher self has invited me to expand—not from pressure this time, but from devotion to what I know I’m capable of.

There’s something eerily quiet about standing on the edge of your own evolution.

It’s not the loud, cinematic breakthrough you might expect. No swelling soundtrack. No lightning crack across the sky. No random crowd of almost friends, cheering you on from the bleachers.

Just silence.

Stillness.

And you.

Standing barefoot in the space between who you’ve been and who you could become.

It’s nauseating at times. Mostly frustrating. Others might call it terrifying, uncomfortable, even depressing—depending on who you ask, and how they carry the weight of their world.

Anyway, it’s where I’ve found myself—again.

Sigh.

But the strange thing is, it doesn’t feel like collapse.

If anything…

I can look around and see all the places I’m winning. I’m growing. I’m doing the work. I almost have everything I once begged the Universe for. From the outside, nothing’s crumbling.

And yet on the inside, it feels like I’ve circled back to the same irritating starting point. Not because I’ve regressed, exactly—but because I’ve arrived at a new threshold.

One I know I’m capable of crossing.

But instead of an upgrade, what do we see? Me. Still here. Toes curled over the edge. Hesitating. Kicking my feet. Looking everywhere except straight ahead—even though I’m literally daydreaming about what lives there right now.

Talk about ironic, right?

And not the funny kind—the cruel kind. The kind that gives you front-row seats to your own self-sabotage. And instead of choosing differently, instead of taking the next step—you pull back the covers and invite self-sabotage into bed. Let her whisper familiar lullabies. Tell yourself it’s fine. That maybe now’s not the right time.

Not forward, but back.

Back into old patterns. Old coping strategies. Old ways of relating to a world you thought you’d outgrown. Not because the edge was too much—but because the fallback is addictive. Tantalising. High dopamine, low effort. This little minx promises ease. Instant gratification. A hit of something—anything—that doesn’t demand expansion.

And in that moment, she wins.

You slip back—not all at once, but gradually. A slow retreat into the familiar. And now, once again, you’re watching the threshold from a distance. Knowing it’s still there. Knowing you can return to it.

And in some strange way, that brings comfort. You’ve walked this path before. The loop back is well-worn, marked by all the versions of you who almost made it. It’s familiar terrain. Predictable. Safe.

But let’s be honest—just because it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s where you want to stay.

Because the threshold? It’s still there. Waiting. And the wild part? You know there’s more beyond it. You can feel it—the next layer, the deeper magic, the life that’s been whispering your name.

That’s the part no one tells you about growth.

That even when your life is steady, safe, and full—you can still find yourself circling. Still feel the ache of almost. Still plateau. Still spiral. Still rage. Still fall back into old ways and wonder why the hell you’re here again.

Not because something’s broken.

But because something’s ready to transform.

It’s taken me years—actual, patient, gritted-teeth years—to build the kind of inner safety that lets me move (more often than not) through the full spectrum of myself.

From bottoming out in grief to riding waves of full-body joy.

Yet these days, most of my life is made of ordinary moments. Spacious. Simple. Anchored in a baseline of peace and fulfilment.

But what I’m working toward now?

That lives in the expansion beyond that.

The next layer isn’t just regulation.

It’s alchemy.

It’s will.

It’s my damn ninja way.

And yeah—maybe that clicked during a 20-episode anime fight arc that had me sobbing into my rice noodles (shoutout to my husband for the emotional initiation).

But listen, it landed. That bloodied, relentless refusal to give up. That slightly unhinged, wildly hopeful, delusional dreamer energy that says:

I will become more than what I was handed.

That cracked something open in me.

Because the real turning point isn’t when life gets easier. It’s when you stop waiting for it to. When you stop bypassing discomfort or curating a softer path—and instead, show up to the one that’s yours.

Naruto: Hard work is worthless for those who don’t believe in themselves.

Which is to say… you can’t fake the crossing. You can’t cheat expansion. You either believe it’s possible, or you don’t.

That’s the version of me I’m remembering to listen to. The refusal to settle. The heart that won’t be placated. The spirit that rises, again and again—even when it seems futile.

Because the truth is, there’s a seduction to staying stuck.

To staying who you’ve been.

It’s one we don’t talk about enough.

Stuckness makes a home in the body. In the mind. In the nervous system. It tucks itself into your fascia. Coils behind your ribs. Hums beneath your skin. Shows up in the clench of your jaw, the pressure in your lower back, the tightness in your chest—the weight you know you wouldn’t be carrying if only—if only—you could move, move, more your way the fuck through it.

But that’s not all, is it?

It shows up in your bitterness. Your frustration. Your disappointment. In the way you snap at the people you love, even when you don’t mean to. In the impulse to reach for the scroll, the snack, the glass, the fix. Anything to avoid sitting with what’s beneath the surface.

It hides behind your overcommitting. Your under-sleeping. Your endless to-do lists you keep rewriting but never quite begin. The continuous tick of not enough that seems to run in the background no matter how much you accomplish.

Unprocessed stress doesn’t disappear. It shape-shifts. It tucks itself into your tissues, your cells, your breath. It becomes a craving. A compulsion. A crash. A pattern you keep circling—no matter how many times you swear this is the last time. I mean it.

Because this is what happens when stress doesn’t get an exit. When your nervous system never completes the cycle. When the threat has passed, but your body hasn’t gotten the memo. So it stays ready—wired and worn out at the same time.

And because we don’t always erupt into breakdowns or collapse, we call it normal. We build lives around it. We mistake it for personality. We think, maybe this is just how I am.

But it’s not who you are.

It’s what you’ve been carrying.

Inertia becomes a love letter to unprocessed stress. It dresses up as habit. Pretends to be preference. Eventually, it starts speaking in your voice—softly at first, then all the time. Until life starts feeling like Groundhog Day, and you catch yourself wondering… will anything ever change?

Familiarity becomes safety. Not because it’s good. But because it’s known. And the body, in all its loyal brilliance, whispers: Let’s stay here. We like it here, don’t we?

It doesn’t ask if this place feels good. It only asks: Does this feel familiar? And if the answer is yes, it plants roots. Even in the discomfort. Even in the ache.

And you know what? Even though nothing bad happens here, nothing extraordinary happens either. That’s why the parts of us wired for survival cling to it—because survival never promised satisfaction. The nervous system doesn’t prioritise expansion. It prioritises staying alive.

So you loop. You stall. You convince yourself it’s not the time. Maybe Saturday. Sunday. Hey—Monday feels good, right? Start of the week energy always hits. Oh wait, we’ve got that thing, remember? Yeah, you’re right. Maybe after the weekend. Maybe next month. Actually—let’s not plan that far ahead. Hmm. You know what? I don’t really want to think about it right now. We’ll circle back.

And then suddenly it’s 1:15 a.m., and you’re writing pieces like this—not for the first time, and definitely not the last—hoping the reflection alone will be enough to unstick you.

Sometimes it does. Sometimes you tap into the space within yourself that can take a breath, reset, and rise again with renewed fire.

But other times, the pause becomes performance. A beautiful delay disguised as depth.

And yet… when I reflect on my own personal process, I also know I could stay here.

Because you know what? I’ve worked very fucking hard to get here.

And here IS beautiful.

It’s filled with so much love. A husband who holds me. A daughter whose spirit lights up entire rooms. A career where I’m cherished. A beachside home. Fresh water. Fresh food. Fresh clothes. Access to power. Enough. More than enough.

This is a life some people spend lifetimes building, that some people never reach.

I am not unaware of that. I am not ungrateful. I’m acutely aware of the privileges, and the sacrifices—mine and others—that have helped me arrive here. And I won’t slap a “but surely there’s more to life than this,” on it.

There is nothing wrong with this life.

In fact, there’s so much right with it.

And still, something deep in me whispers that there’s more I’m here to experience.

Not because this life is lacking—but because I’m not done yet.

Because maybe the “more” isn’t about what I collect or leave behind—but about how fully I say yes to what I came here to create. And the rewards that follow? Just sacred reciprocity between me and the Gods.

Thanks team. I’m claiming payment for the work I’ve done. And I know—you know—it’s already finding its way back to circulate through my community.

And I’m not just talking about money for the sake of status or aesthetics. Not the so-called “dream life.” You know the one—the version success coaches love to distil into six-step formulas and perfectly curated content calendars. The one people fight over in comment sections when they haven’t yet questioned their own fears or limitations around what life could look like.

Because when I talk about expansion—about crossing thresholds, claiming prosperity, or creating “the life you’ve always wanted”—your something more—I’m not talking about the glossy dream pumped through your phone screen.

It doesn’t have to look like buying a villa in Bali.

Or reclaiming your family farm.

Or quitting your 9–5 to launch a sourdough micro bakery out of your garage.

It doesn’t have to be having a baby.

Or making passive income from your phone on a beach in Portugal while casually dropping words like sovereignty and abundance codes.

(And honestly? I’m not ragging—every one of those things sounds incredible. But you get my point. That isn’t the only version of success, prosperity, or “next-level threshold” magic we’re allowed to dream into.)

Moving on from stuck. Expanding beyond safe.

Belly-crawling through the mud just to peek over the next ridge…

That can look like learning how to knit. Because you’ve been to the shops for three winters now and still can’t find the damn jumper that exists in your head.

It can look like finally getting your driver’s licence after after a lifetime of telling yourself you’re too anxious.

It can look like making your first risotto from scratch without Googling it first.

Or texting that person you’ve been meaning to ask out for coffee.

Or deleting the app you keep opening every time you want to disappear from your own life.

It doesn’t have to be epic to be life-altering. It just has to be yours. Your version of expansion might be subtle. Quiet. Unseen by anyone but you.

And that’s why I am on the hunt for mine, to claim it back and continue on beyond.

The last few days I’ve felt it—the weight of too-muchness. Not because I’m empty, but because I’m full. Full of ideas, visions, goals, dreams. Full of the ache of what’s trying to move through me. And yet, bringing it to life feels like trying to run through honey—thick, golden, slow. Too slow to satisfy the urgency building in my bones.

I know what I want. I know—on a soul level—that it’s mine. I wouldn’t feel it this deeply if it weren’t meant for me. I know what needs to happen next. But the sheer gravity of what’s possible presses on my chest like the full-bodied weight of the moon—rounded, ripened, ready to crack me open again and again and again.

And then there’s the truth I hate admitting: I am capable. Fully.

I know how to follow through. Not just in waves. Not just when I’m inspired. I’ve already proven it to myself more times than I can count. I have the tools. The knowledge. The grit. The creativity. The support. I’ve built the foundation. I’m expanding my capacity every single day.

And that’s what makes it harder.

Because if I already have everything I need… and I’m still not doing the thing… then what’s left to blame?

Maybe nothing. But something in me still wants to point the finger inward.

It’s the part of me that wants to lick her wounds. The part that reaches for softness after a lifetime of hardness. She wants to be comforted. Pitied. Held. She likes to remind me of everything I’ve walked through, just to justify staying still.

And I get it. I really do.

But I know the liminal space all too well. The hallway of almost. I’ve lived there long enough. I know the rhythm of false starts. Of almost-decisions.

And you know what else I know? The pain of seeing a clearer, brighter, wilder version of yourself… and still saying no.

It’s a grief I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The slow heartbreak of self-betrayal.

So, for the hundredth time—and I am sure not the last—I’m choosing not to betray myself. The one I’m becoming. The one I already am.

This isn’t a grand declaration. It’s a renewal. A quiet vow to myself (that I had the freedom to share with all of you). A whispered yes to the hard iron will that refuses to die with dreams still inside her.

I’m not saying I’ll wake up tomorrow with it all figured out. But I am saying I’m done pretending I don’t see what needs to shift.

I’m done calling my hesitation anything other than fear.

And I’m really, really done pretending my potential is still in the post when it’s already sitting on my doorstep.

I’m not here for a life that’s fine. I’m not here to recycle old wins like they’re enough to carry me forward—to frame them on a wall and keep pointing, telling the same story on repeat. I’m here to build a life that breaks me open, stretches me past recognition, and shatters every watered-down version of myself I once settled for—then fills the cracks with something holy.

Not performance. Not survival. Holy.

The soul-rooted, sweat-drenched, spine-tingling kind. The kind that tastes like blood and God and freedom. The kind that leaves you trembling, whispering—this is what I came for.

Here’s what I’ve come to understand: dissatisfaction isn’t the problem. It’s the material standing in the way of intentions actualising.

Think of it like the forest floor. Dry leaves. Broken branches. Old narratives that no longer serve, but sit and wait. And they don’t disappear on their own. They must be broken down and composted. Or burned.

And that’s where I am. In the clearing.

Breathing into it. Writing from it.

Using the tools I’ve got—breathwork, reflection, art, nature, stillness, sacred rage, tenderness, love, connection—not to escape the discomfort, but to amplify it. To turn the volume up so I can finally listen. To stop bypassing the ache and let it speak. Let it lead.

Because I don’t want a life that’s digestible. I want a life that’s mine.

And if you’re standing on your own edge, wherever that is—I want to say this gently, but clearly: you don’t have to leap all at once. You don’t have to scorch the earth. You just have to move. Even just one step.

And yes—maybe after reading this you’ll feel like lighting a match and walking into your own metaphorical fire. I get like that too. Cough. Aries. But truly—even if it is just a sentence whispered in the dark—you do have to move.

You have to be willing to disappoint the version of you who needs everything to stay the same in order to feel safe.

Even as I re-read the first draft of this piece, tears slipped down my puffy cheeks. Not because I was trying to be poetic—but because the words are true. Because they landed in the place I usually try to outgrow before I write from it.

And there’s a part of me that feels exposed even admitting that.

Because when you’re building something, there’s pressure to lead from the mountaintop. To show up polished. Evolved. Already healed. Like the mess is a memory and the work is always retrospective.

But I’m not here to pretend I’ve got it all figured out.

I’m here to build something that feels like a cup of tea and a journal—not a stage.

To write from where I am, not where I think I’m supposed to be.

To follow my breath—even when it takes me into the middle, the muddy, the not-yet.

And the funny thing is… I didn’t breathe before I wrote this. I didn’t light a candle or open a portal. I didn’t sprinkle herbs or chant mantras. I didn’t journal. I just sat down and typed.

And when I read it back, I exhaled.

The biggest fucking sigh dude.

Something in me softened. Moved. Finally.

Thank God. Thank fuck. Thank the Divine.

Oh wait… my theory of God, life, and consciousness?

That’s me. I’m the Divine.

Turns out, I had it in me the whole time.

But deep down—I think I always knew that. Right?

Anyway, even though this piece exposes my not-having-it-all-together-ness… even though I feel the pull of my fear whispering that I might lose “authority” by being this in-process, this unfinished…

I’d trade all of that for the chance that you might exhale too.

If even one sentence let you feel seen.

If one line softened something that was holding its breath.

If something in you whispered, damn, me too—

Then it was worth it.

J x.

Anahera and I, September 2024, Image by Nathan Hall

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