She can come, too

I’m feeling super anxious.

My mind is spinning, my heart is racing, and the story I keep telling myself is that I’m not doing enough. I’m not good enough. That somehow, no matter how hard I try, I’m still falling short.

And then, somewhere in the midst of the noise, I hear a soft whisper in the wind.

Sit on the rock. Write.

So I follow the invitation.

I find myself sitting on a rock, watching our burn pile slowly transform. Dead branches and fallen leaves become smoke and ash, the remnants of what once was. Almost immediately, my mind begins thinking about what I could do with the ash. How I could gather it, mix it into the compost, and eventually return it to the earth.

Even here, my mind wants to make something out of what remains.

But as I sit and watch, I begin to see something more.

The cycle.

Life. Death. Rebirth.

And suddenly, I find myself thinking about the last version of me.

The woman who worked so damn hard just to stay afloat. The woman who stretched herself to make ends meet, to hold everything together, to figure out where we were going and how we were going to get there.

The woman who kept showing up, even when she was exhausted. Who kept trying, even when she didn’t have all the answers. Who carried so much uncertainty while doing her best to create a beautiful life for herself and her family.

And you know what?

She did a really damn good job.

The tears begin to fall.

Something shifts in my energy. My body softens, even if only a little. And for a moment, I stop trying to fix her, improve her, or become something beyond her.

I simply witness her.

I see how hard she worked. I see how much she carried. I see the love beneath the striving and the fear beneath the need to keep everything together.

And I feel compassion for her in a way that I haven’t fully allowed myself to before.

There is also a part of me that feels guilty.

A part of me wonders whether, in my desire to grow, expand, and step into a higher vibration, I have somehow been leaving her behind. As if the woman I used to be is something I need to outgrow, discard, or kick to the curb in order to become the woman I’m meant to be.

I pause.

I sit with her for a few moments and begin to speak to her. I allow her to be fully witnessed, in all her rawness. No need to make her pain meaningful. No need to turn her struggles into a lesson. No need to rush her into the next version of herself.

Just space for her to be.

And somewhere in that quiet, I realize this isn’t goodbye.

This is an invitation.

An invitation for her to come with me.

I don’t need to abandon the woman who brought me here in order to become the woman I’m becoming. I can take her hand. I can let her walk beside me, while allowing myself to lead in a new way, hand in hand with Spirit.

I can show her that we don’t have to do everything the way we’ve always done it. That we can soften. That we can receive. That we can trust. That we can be nourished, too.

That she no longer has to carry it all alone.

And maybe, for the first time, I can begin to offer her the very things she spent so long trying to create for everyone else: love, compassion, safety, and space to simply be.

I can still feel the work ahead of me.

I feel it in the places where tension continues to live in my body. In the places that still grip tightly when I’m asked to lean into the unknown. In the parts of me that want a plan, a guarantee, a clear sign that everything is going to turn out okay.

I am still learning how to trust.

Not just trust when I can see the next step. Not just trust when things are unfolding the way I imagined they would. But trust when I don’t know. When the path is unclear. When I can’t yet see how everything will come together.

Trust that I can meet what comes.

Trust that I don’t have to force every outcome into existence.

Trust that life can unfold without me holding every single thread.

And what I’m realizing, more and more, is that perhaps the work is simpler than I make it.

Perhaps it begins with slowing down.

With stepping away from the noise long enough to hear what is happening within us. With noticing the tightness in our chest, the tension in our shoulders, the racing thoughts that seem to demand our attention.

What if these moments aren’t always asking us to push harder or do more? What if they are invitations to pause, to become curious, and to reconnect with what we need?

Our bodies are constantly responding to the world around us. They carry our experiences, our fears, our hopes, and the things we haven’t yet found the words to express. When we slow down enough to notice, we may begin to recognize the patterns that shape how we move through our lives and the ways we might begin to change them.

Sometimes, the next step isn’t another strategy, another goal, or another version of ourselves to strive toward.

Sometimes, it’s sitting on a rock.

Sometimes, it’s watching a fire burn.

Sometimes, it’s allowing the woman we once were to finally be seen.

And sometimes, it’s remembering that transformation doesn’t require us to reject what came before. Just as the ash returns to the earth and becomes part of what nourishes new growth, our past selves can become part of the very foundation from which we grow.

Nothing is wasted.

Not the struggle. Not the uncertainty. Not the versions of ourselves who did the best they could with what they had.

We can honor who we have been while making space for who we are becoming.

We can release what no longer serves us without rejecting the parts of ourselves that helped us survive.

And we can learn to trust that there is room for both the woman who fought to keep everything afloat and the woman who is learning how to let herself be held.

As hard as some of these moments can be, I continue to feel such deep gratitude for this human experience.

For the lessons that arrive in unexpected places. For the land that calls me back to myself. For the whispers in the wind. For the moments when I remember that I don’t have to have it all figured out.

And for this life I’ve been given, in all its messiness, beauty, uncertainty, and possibility.

Today, I am grateful for the rock beneath me, the fire before me, and the woman within me who is finally learning that she doesn’t have to leave herself behind to grow.

She can come, too.

In Peace, Love and Service,

Rebecca