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Domestic violence is a global human rights crisis, crossing every border, culture, religion, socioeconomic status, and generation.

While anyone can experience abuse, women and girls are disproportionately affected, with the World Health Organization estimating that nearly one in three women worldwide have experienced physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime.

Yet domestic violence extends far beyond physical harm. It includes psychological, emotional, verbal, sexual, and financial abuse, coercive control, intimidation, isolation, threats, stalking, and manipulation.

Some of its most devastating forms leave no visible scars.

Abuse can quietly dismantle a person’s autonomy, dignity, sense of safety, and trust in themselves and others. Behind these global statistics are millions of human beings carrying wounds that may remain unseen, unheard, and unacknowledged for years, even decades.

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Globally, an estimated 840 million women (nearly 1 in 3) have experienced physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence or non-partner sexual violence in their lifetime, a figure that has remained largely unchanged over the last two decades.

CDC: Intimate Partner Violence

48.4% of women in the United States have experienced at least one form of psychological aggression by an intimate partner in their lifetime (CDC NISVS).

Domestic Violence and Psychological Abuse — NCADV

In the European Union, an average of 43% of women have experienced psychological violence by a partner since age 15.

EIGE: Psychological Violence

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October has been Domestic Violence Awareness Month, yet a month of awareness does not heal the life-altering wounds that have been created.

Wounds are not only bruises and scars; they are often unseen by the human eye. Psychological, emotional, and verbal abuse do not leave marks that are visible. Many women are holding the fragments of the trauma they have experienced together by very flimsy threads.

Abusers take no accountability, change the narrative, and lie to protect their ego and social persona.

The primary experience of being abused is feeling destabilized, off-center, confused, questioning everything, the truth of what happened, yourself… whilst being acutely aware of the impact that resides in your body.

Ask Any Woman…

Ask any woman who has been having flashbacks or panic attacks years after leaving. Ask her how her trust in people has been shattered, as well as her confidence and self-trust.

Ask her how often she apologizes for things she has not done. How she reads the mood of a room, watches facial expressions, senses the slightest shift in someone’s tone of voice, always anticipating what might come next.

Ask her how a love she believed in became anything other than love. And about her fear of loud noises, doors slamming, voices raised.

Ask her how she second-guesses herself, feels apprehensive about asking to be listened to, acknowledged, cared for, and respected.

Ask her what it feels like to no longer trust her own memory, her perceptions, or her judgment. To have been told repeatedly that what she experienced never happened.

Ask her about the exhaustion of constantly being on alert, even when there is no longer an immediate threat. How safety can feel unfamiliar, and peace something she is still learning to trust.

Ask her how it feels to have her character questioned, her story rewritten, and her reputation damaged by the very person who harmed her.

Ask her about the loneliness of not being believed. Of watching others continue to embrace, admire, and defend the person who abused her.

Ask her what it has cost her to survive. Her health, friendships, finances, opportunities, years of her life, and parts of herself she is still trying to reclaim.

Ask her how difficult it can be to say no, set a boundary, express anger, or ask for something she needs without fearing the consequences. Ask her if she feels she can have her needs met, sincerely and safely.

Ask her how it feels to be expected to forgive, forget, and move on when the person who caused the harm has never acknowledged what they did.

Then ask yourself: have you truly listened?

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For survivors of domestic violence, coercive control, and abuse, the effects have often been compounded by not being believed, being told to move on, get over it, or being questioned about why they did not leave sooner.

None of these responses is supportive, and they do more harm.

Humans have fundamental needs for connection, love, belonging, safety, certainty, and significance. When someone betrays, warps, or dismantles these, the effects will reveal themselves.

And this is where awareness must become action.

Believe women.

Stop questioning why she stayed, why she didn’t leave sooner, why she didn’t speak up, or why she is still struggling years later.

Stop protecting the reputation of abusers at the expense of those they have harmed. Stop demanding that survivors prove their pain, justify their experiences, or make their trauma more palatable for others.

Listen without judgment. Acknowledge the harm. Hold abusers accountable. Support women in finding safety, accessing resources, and reclaiming their lives.

And when a woman tells you she has been abused, do not become another person who silences her.

Believe her. Listen to her. Stand beside her.

Domestic violence does not end when the relationship ends. And our responsibility to those who have survived it does not end when October does.

image from Pinterest

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poem:

all poetry
should be read
naked

skin to skin
undressing slowly

no barriers
no sheath

lay them aside

allowing the words
to enter
as creation
itself

weaving
magic
through each reader
quintessentially

conscious impregnation

beyond structural
and societal barriers

to germinate
in the womb
of the psyche

to take root
within
any fertile place

a garden
laden with heart nectar

to blow the mind
orgasmically
soul scripted

awakening
discernment
and challenging
archaic narratives

to ignite action
where needed

as the garden is tended

the space
between the words

the breath
between the gasps

a rhythmic crescendo

we melt
into the afterglow

~ Lulu Trevena

© 2026 Lulu Trevena | Live Life With Wonder
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission

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What is happening in the world right now with men and women?

Somehow, as a young girl, I had this innate knowing that intimacy and partnership were sacred. A delicate weaving of two beloveds.

Not simply two people choosing to share a life, a home, a bed, or children. But two souls meeting in a place of reverence, where something exquisite could be cultivated between them. A living, breathing union that nourished both, without either having to diminish themselves to belong. You may call me a dreamer, but the knowing within me has remained solid.

I had never seen that kind of sacred union anywhere in my world.

Neither was it a fantasy I had witnessed on TV or the big screen. And yes, I was enamoured with Elvis Presley movies and Gidget movies I watched in my teens. But mostly, Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie were favourites. Perhaps there was something about the magic, the mystery, and the feminine having access to powers beyond the ordinary that delighted my young heart.

Maybe watching the Sonny & Cher Show first showed me how differences could blend. Their public affection held a sweetness that gave me hope. Yet the sacred inner union I carried was rooted in ancient wisdom.

What I knew seemed to come from somewhere deeper than observation. It was not something I had been taught. And I have always sought that. It lived within me as naturally as breath, long before I had the language to describe it.

My Astrological Sun sign is Gemini, which traditionally represents the balance of masculine and feminine. And the only one that depicts both masculine and feminine. Gemini is the zodiac sign ruled by The Lovers tarot card (Major Arcana VI), which emphasizes duality, communication, and choice, rather than solely romance.

Governed by the planet Mercury and the element of Air. Together, they symbolize the mind’s ability to weigh opposing perspectives and integrate them into a unified whole.

Many have tried to convince a Gemini that it means a split personality; it is the opposite: it is about balance, harmony, and unity. Gemini represents the union of polarities, the balance of masculine and feminine energies, mind and matter, or the mortal and the divine. It is also the first sign of the zodiac in the traditional sequence, represented by humans rather than an animal. The symbol, two upward parallel lines joined at the top and bottom, also implies the sign's duality and unity.

Two distinct energies, neither needing to overpower or consume the other. Each retains its own essence, yet can create something greater together.

Perhaps this is why the dance of masculine and feminine has always fascinated me. Not as rigid roles or expectations, but as living energies, each bringing its own gifts to the union.

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When I met my husband, it felt like home (yes, familiarity is often how we choose our partners… like family… mainly the unhealed qualities).

But I also felt seen as myself in my late 20s, protected and adored. Much of the conditioning women received, even in the 90s, was to centre and prioritise the man.

I clearly approached relationships differently, and was a new-thought woman… exotic, he said once! And yet, there was a comfort in feeling chosen. A sweetness in feeling that I could rest in another’s affection, that my femininity could unfurl without having to remain vigilant, responsible or strong in every moment.

Yet that did not last long.

And I would not come to receive it as a generous, consistent gift, let alone rely on it.

There is a particular ache in having tasted something that resonates so deeply with your natural knowing, only to discover that it is not being cultivated. That the early tenderness does not necessarily mature into devotion. That being chosen is not the same as being cherished, consistently, through the seasons of life. That deep ache became unbearable.

And perhaps even more painful is the gradual realization that the person beside you may not share the same longing to deepen what exists between you.

In those early days, I enrolled us in an event which incorporated Tantric principles, some 35 years ago.

I remember the eye gazing exercise, which I welcomed: sitting opposite one another, letting our eyes meet and stay. Not looking at but looking into each other, with a soft gaze. The vulnerability of being truly witnessed without words, without performance, and without somewhere else to direct our attention… moved me deeply.

And the breathing practice, cycling our breath through our bodies, mine and my partner’s, in a circular pattern. Imagining the breath and energy moving between us, a continuous exchange, giving and receiving, through the centre of our bodies, connecting crown, heart, and genitals.

I remember the intimacy of simply being present, eyes meeting, breath connecting. No words required. An invitation to feel rather than think, to experience connection beyond the physical. The simplicity of breath becoming something intimate, alive and expansive.

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Tantra: I remember being told, was… making love to the moment.

Those words landed somewhere deep within me.

Since those days, of course, people have come to think tantra is mainly about sex, yet it is far more. And yes, the breath practice is a beneficial one to be used during lovemaking and sexual connection.

But Tantra is about life and life force, energy, connection, and expansion. Truly ‘making love’ as a form of ecstatic presence in the moment. Bringing our awareness, vitality, and a connection to all that is, in ecstatic union.

To be so available to life that the ordinary becomes extraordinary. To meet another through breath, touch, tenderness, curiosity and presence. To allow the body to be more than something that performs or provides pleasure, but a sacred vessel through which we experience connection at a depth that is unexplainable.

In these moments, the body is not separate from the soul. It becomes an exquisite expression of it. An energetic resonance.

And how delicious to imagine two people consciously exploring this together, not seeking an outcome, but delighting in the unfolding. A mutual curiosity about what becomes possible when both are willing to be fully present.

I remember years later sharing with my then husband how wonderful it had been to use that practice during intimacy since learning it. How it had enhanced my multiple orgasms and my heart connection to him.

He went blank.

As if he had no idea what I was referring to.

It became apparent that he had not carried that teaching forward or used it for himself.

I remember the feeling of that moment. Not simply disappointment, but the sudden awareness that something I had been enriched by, something I believed we had shared, had lived very differently within each of us, for numerous years.

For me, it had become part of the way I experienced intimacy. A living practice, woven into my body, my pleasure and my connection to him. A big part of how I mothered and moved through the world.

For him, it seemed to have remained an event we had once attended, nothing more.

There was a vast valley within that realization. A loneliness. Not the loneliness of being physically alone, but of discovering that an experience you believed was shared had been carried, nurtured and remembered by only one.

Now that I am divorced after a 30-year marriage, I can see clearly that we were not aligned on many things.

Let alone in willingness and curiosity to deepen intimacy, partnership or explore sacred union as I had desired. As I knew was possible. We weren't aligned on what would have been a pathway to expansion in so many ways.

I can see how much of my own longing I carried quietly. How often I held the vision of what was possible, hoping that one day we might meet there together.

Yet sacred union cannot be sustained by one person’s devotion.

One cannot breathe for two.

One cannot create mutual intimacy through longing alone, no matter how much love, patience or willingness is offered.

This has been a painful yet liberating understanding.

Mutual intimacy also requires safety. Safety is essential for women in all environments, as so many of us have grown up with hypervigilance around our bodies, our sexuality, and the spaces and places we move through.

For many women, this vigilance is not merely a thought. It lives in the body. It breathes with the body.

In the tightening of the belly and the holding of breath. The subtle bracing of shoulders and the pelvis that contracts rather than softens. The nervous system that remains on alert, even when the mind desperately wants to believe all is well.

Our bodies are our greatest messengers.

They remember when our boundaries were crossed, when our needs were dismissed, when our tenderness was not received. They remember the moments we silenced ourselves to maintain peace or abandoned our own knowing to keep a relationship intact.

And they also remember the sweetness of being met.

The expansive exhale that comes when we feel safe. The rippling warmth that blooms through the chest when we are genuinely cherished. The softening of the belly, the opening of the heart, the natural awakening of sensuality when there is no pressure to give, perform or prove. The opening of our whole feminine essence.

Our bodies hold deep discernment and embodied wisdom that require deep communication and an active commitment to partnering.

Not just at a surface level, but with a deep sacredness to connection, communion and unity.

Safety is not simply the absence of danger. It is the presence of trust, consistency, emotional availability, tenderness and care. It is knowing that your vulnerability will not be used against you. That your no is respected as deeply as your yes. That your body belongs to you, and your opening is an invitation, never an obligation.

For a woman to fully surrender into her feminine, she must first be able to trust herself. To know she will not abandon her own boundaries or silence her own truth for the promise of love.

And with another, there must be a willingness to honour that trust.

I doubt many men truly understand this.

Not because they are incapable, but perhaps because many have never chosen to explore the profound relationship between emotional safety, feminine embodiment and the depths of intimacy available to them.

And I wonder how many women have learned to accept so much less than their bodies and hearts have always known is possible. I ponder the times I have accepted less.

Now, every cell in my body aligns with partnering for bliss, ecstasy and growth.

Not a constant state of bliss, nor the fantasy of a life without disagreement, challenge or human messiness.

But a partnership where even the difficult places become invitations to deepen. Where differences do not automatically create distance but can open doorways to greater understanding. Where repair is as sacred as pleasure, and tenderness is not withheld when life becomes uncomfortable.

The sum of two is much greater than two.

I have felt glimpses of this expansive energy. Moments where the boundaries of the ordinary soften, and something beyond the individual seems to become available.

At times, I have also touched this in myself, which has had nothing to do with another. It’s a remembering, that which is part of my natural knowing.

A sense of wholeness that does not require another person to complete me. A deep inner meeting of my own masculine and feminine… my strength and softness, my direction and receptivity, and my ability to hold and to be held. Power, mystery and intuition infused with practicality, all embodied within me, with an inner compass to guide me wherever I need to go.

This is an important distinction I have come to cherish.

I do not seek another to make me whole. I am whole. I have always been whole.

I seek a union where two whole beings willingly bring themselves into an exquisite dance of partnership… communion… devotion.

I truly believe that the masculine and feminine are designed to be entwined, and that between them, a higher energy becomes accessible.

An alchemy. Of energies swirling and intermingling, consciously chosen.

Not one consuming the other, nor one sacrificing their essence to maintain the connection. But a living exchange where each is strengthened, expanded and nourished by the presence of the other.

Sex is not merely a physical act.

The physical body is magnificent, yes. The skin, the breath, the warmth, the exquisite sensitivity of touch. The waves of pleasure, the deliciousness of desire, the orgasmic release that can ripple through the whole being… I celebrate all of it.

Yet sexuality can also become a doorway into something far more profound. What sacred texts have alluded to for centuries.

An opportunity to meet another beyond the habitual patterns of doing and achieving. To become deeply present, to listen with the whole body, to allow pleasure to arise rather than be pursued.

To make love not only with our bodies, but with our attention, our tenderness, our curiosity and our willingness to be seen, all the way seen. This kind of nakedness has a sacredness that has little to do with removing clothing.

It is the unveiling of ourselves. Standing naked in our divinity, far beyond the body.

Many philosophies and historic texts have woven stories of sacred union and Hieros Gamos, the sacred marriage, and I have come to understand this as first found within.

Then with another.

The inner marriage, where I no longer ask my feminine to abandon her softness to survive, nor my masculine to become hardened in order to protect me.

Where I cultivate my own safety, honour my own desires, hold my own boundaries and remain devoted to the life force moving through me. Where my receptivity is not weakness, my sensuality is not something to be earned, and my tenderness is not an invitation to be taken advantage of. Or taken for granted.

I can be vulnerable, soft and sovereign. Devoted without closing off parts of myself. Open in all the ways that feel desired by me.

And always connected to my feminine superpower of discernment. From this place, I can meet another without handing over responsibility for my wholeness.

One truth I believed in was that the masculine, the father, would protect his mate, the mother of his children, as his sacred provision.

I carried an image of partnership where protection wasn't control, but unwavering care. Where the masculine stood beside the feminine, not above her. That he protected life itself, and his woman honourably. That the woman who had carried and birthed his children, nurtured a family and contributed to the life they created together was honoured and cherished.

Not confined to a role. But recognized. Supported. Respected. Protected in the places where life can leave us vulnerable.

I learned that the title of husband or father does not automatically bring the qualities I had associated with those roles. And that was a deeply painful truth to face.

For years, I tried to communicate, to build bridges where perhaps only I was willing to, to understand and be understood.

I can honour the life we shared, the amazing children we brought into the world, the experiences and the growth, without pretending that my deepest needs for sacred partnership were ever met.

Both truths can coexist.

Some may say this kind of union isn't possible.

Perhaps they have not experienced it. Perhaps life has taught them to be cautious with their longing. Perhaps the very idea of such intimacy feels too vulnerable, and too far beyond what they have known.

Yet I have made a conscious effort to look for it and build that bridge on a physical foundation, so it matches what I have always had anchored in me. Not as a fantasy to escape into, but as a lived reality to consciously cultivate.

Through honest communication, emotional maturity, embodied awareness, curiosity, sensuality, trust and the daily choice to turn towards one another. Not simply when it is easy, or when desire is heightened, but in the ordinary moments that make up a shared life. With deep loving-kindness that does not need to be begged for.

The willingness to listen. The celebration of one another’s lived experiences and growth. The courage to speak truthfully, and the tenderness to repair after hurt. Because when one partner is hurt, the partnership feels it.

In the delicious possibility of continuing to discover someone, even after years of knowing them. As the greatest journey for two people to take. And yes, willingness married to devotion is required.

Not devotion to an idealized version of another, but devotion to the living relationship. To the continual unfolding of two sovereign beings who choose to meet, in all the messy moments.

I am no longer that young girl who held an inexplicable knowing of sacred union.

And yet, she is still here.

Her knowing was not at all foolish. Her longing was by no means too much. Her vision did not become less sacred because it was not realized in the marriage she lived and upheld.

I have travelled through the exquisite and the excruciating. Many paths along the road through motherhood, marriage, disappointment, heartbreak, and the dismantling of a life I once believed would be mine forever.

I have sat in the dark places of my own anguish and learned to hold myself with an unwavering tenderness I once sought from another.

And something extraordinary is still present… my longing has not died.

It has become more discerning. Deeply, wildly, soulfully embodied.

Less willing to bargain with what my soul and body know to be true. I do not need to be rescued, completed or convinced of my worthiness. I know the richness of my own company. I know the sacredness of my own body. I know that pleasure, intimacy and love are already alive within me.

And too, I desire the exquisite experience of sharing this with another.

From abundance, not from emptiness. From delicious devotion.

Not to lose myself in another, but to meet someone who delights in the fullness of who I am, as I delight in him.

A union where the feminine is cherished, the masculine is honoured, and both are free to express their humanity, vulnerability, strength and tenderness.

Where we can be lovers, companions, explorers and witnesses to one another’s evolution. Where the sacred is not something we visit occasionally, but something we weave into the very fabric of our unique lives…

…What the married woman longed for. And the divorced woman will not bargain for.

I sincerely thank my maiden who knew and has kept that knowing alive throughout my life.

The woman I am today chooses consciously. With my heart open, my feet firmly on the rich, abundant Earth, my body vibrant with its own wisdom, and my feminine essence sacredly present. I welcome this as I bring it into reality.

I remain devoted to sacred union.

As I have been cultivating it within myself.

And now, deliciously, I am ready to weave it with another.

“Love is for all. Love has no gender” - unknown

Beautiful Gifts

All About Lulu

Images from Pinterest

My Mum, Nola, died at 58. This weekend was the 36th anniversary of her death. My Grandma Tot died at 104.

I remember feeling that I was now carrying on my matriarchal lineage. And my five biological sisters. Yes, my lineage also includes aunts and female cousins.

And I felt the calling. At a soul level.

I think I always did, from a young age. Something woven into my divine soul blueprint that has guided me throughout my life.

This coding relates directly to women and sisterhood. Over the years, it has become clear that it includes dismantling the societal competitiveness that has insidiously hooked us all.

Matriarchal essence is non-competitive. It is inclusive.

I know without a shadow of a doubt that I am not at war in any way with the women of the planet… my sisters. And that same programming that has pitted us against each other, or caused wariness, has also put each woman at war with herself, her body, her emotions, her choices.

It is clear to see that this broken patriarchal system, which hurts all of us—children, women and men—is a divisive one. Created to destabilize and control us.

All systems do this to different degrees.

Each individual's divine essence is already within them from birth.

And much of life undoes this innate, magnificent essence. We fumble around in the dark, trying to prove what is already there.

We all have amnesia.

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This weekend, I walked into a room with about 160 women from all over the world to find… sisters. Sisters with pain and passion, sisters with horrific lived experiences, sisters tired and needing an ear, a shoulder, a hand to be there for them. And all of those were generously given. Caring, present women, that became a sisterhood naturally.

But even more exhilarating was seeing sisters love themselves in all the ways they desire, need, and want. Unabashedly. Audaciously. And Wholistically.

With reverence, I witnessed the unravelling and the blossoming. All was welcome… our outward appearances, our inner demons, the deep wellspring of our hearts and our wise wombs.

All of this felt electric, and we celebrated it in the portal we found our way to. The constellation of women was divinely orchestrated. I spoke of this with some sisters at lunch.

I know the world feels on fire at the moment, and burning is a good thing. The burning off the dross and the distortions, so that which rises has phoenix energy.

So, in the lineage I am carrying, I will continue, one step at a time. Seeking other sisters who have been called, and together we rise, knowing we have companionship on the journey.

We are not here to compete for the light. We are here to remember that we are the full radiance of the light, as well as the darkness and the depths. The playful, the joyous, the sensual, the sovereign. All of it. All of us.

Lulu's Website

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all photos are the authors

The Women’s Event:

Magnetic: The Map to Your Inner Muse, annually led by Dr Amanda Hanson.

Dr Amanda's Website

I was talking with a dear friend a while ago when I mentioned the term “giving our two cents’ worth.”

I don't personally use the term, and as we spent time together, I found myself wondering about it.

What is the value of two cents?

Two cents.

Is that of great value?

No!

My question in our conversation became: If we want to add our opinion or perspective, don’t we want it to have value?

Does it not seem odd that we would use a term that indicates such a low value for our opinion, our thoughts, our lived experience?

Perhaps instead we could say, “Let me add value to this conversation, from my experience, beliefs, understanding, and perspective.”

Other definitions state, “two cents’ worth” means an “unsolicited opinion,” which made me wonder even more about how we communicate with one another.

In general conversation or discussion, we speak, and the other responds. There is a flow. We listen, ask questions, share, clarify, acknowledge, debate, and connect. If we do not directly ask someone for their opinion, does that automatically make what they offer unsolicited? Or is sharing our perspectives simply part of the natural exchange of being human together?

Do we say what we mean?

Is what we say valued?

Does it get understood?

And perhaps more importantly, how deeply do we value what another person is expressing?

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Every person has opinions and judgments on a whole array of subjects. It is the nature of being human.

We arrive at conversations carrying our experiences, beliefs, wounds, joys, histories, cultures, families, and everything life has taught us so far. Naturally, we will see things differently.

Yet how much time do we spend truly listening and enquiring deeper into someone else’s perspective?

Do we listen to learn, or are we distracted and already preparing what we want to say next?

Do we speak to be heard?

Do we sometimes hold back from adding our opinion or perspective because we fear judgment, rejection, or being misunderstood? And if we continually hold back, does some part of us begin to feel less important, less heard, less valued?

Many of us carry wounds associated with not being listened to, seen, valued, or understood. Perhaps this is why conversations can sometimes touch something much deeper than the actual subject being discussed. A disagreement may not simply be a disagreement… underneath, an old voice may whisper, You’re not listening to me. You don’t see me. What I think doesn’t matter.

I believe we all truly want to be understood and valued. And when we are not, or when we are completely misunderstood… it can hurt to the core.

Perhaps this is where the real value of conversation lives.

Not in everyone agreeing. And not in proving that our two cents are worth more than somebody else’s. (I don’t plan to use that term myself, still.)

But in bringing our perspective forward with enough confidence to know it has value, while remaining open enough to recognize that another person’s perspective has value too.

Maybe our words are worth far more than two cents. Perhaps another person’s words are too.

And what might change if we entered our conversations remembering the value of both?

image Australia 2 cent coin, and USA 2 pennies

Image from Pinterest, unknown artist

Perfection and procrastination are married to each other. Perfection says, “It isn’t ready yet; it needs to be perfect.” Procrastination says, “Then let’s wait,” spoken for the tenth time. Together, they can make standing still feel like wisdom.

Both offer a payoff.

If we never begin, we cannot get it wrong. If we never share what we create, we cannot be rejected, judged or scrutinized. We get to stay with what is familiar, even when the familiar no longer fits who we are growing into or dreaming up.

But there is a cost.

We hold back on our ideas, our voices, and our desires. We can spend so much energy preparing for life that we miss the experience of living it.

We stay in that dead-end job or unfulfilling relationship, often complaining and resentful. The cost gets even heavier over time.

What might we discover about ourselves if we allowed a first attempt to be imperfect?

We are meant for more than maintaining the status quo. Change is constant; thinking we have reached our full capacity or capability doesn't serve us. And playing small feels more like being stuck or fading into irrelevance, and I don’t want that for anyone.

In the words of Mary Oliver, “What do you plan to do with this one wild precious life?” These words have reignited my low embers and restored my inner flame more than once. Thank you, Mary!

We are here to explore, to risk being seen, to learn what gets cracked open when we stretch beyond the edges of what we already know. Until we move in this way, we have no idea of the outcome.

I have noticed in my own life that the outcome can exceed our wildest expectations quite often. That’s the magic.

I recently wrote about willingness and decision, and I find myself circling back to them here. Expansion asks us to be willing to move beyond what is familiar, then to decide, again and again, to take the next honest step, however small… before we feel completely ready.

Think of how we celebrate a baby’s first step. We cheer with delight, even when they plop straight back down on their bottom. We don’t wonder whether they looked silly or did it well enough. We simply encourage them to try again.

I wish more of us (and I am speaking to myself also) could sincerely offer ourselves that same exhilaration and encouragement. We cannot know where the next step will lead, but we can take it without demanding that we look graceful, skilled or certain.

Maintaining a beginner’s mind is always helpful. Enthusiasm gives a boost of energy, unmistakably.

And when we hear ourselves worrying about what others might think, we can remember whose opinion matters most: our own.

Did we show up, fully? Did we give our dream, and the part of us longing to be expressed, a chance to grow? Will we devote ourselves to caring for that dream, tending to it sincerely?

This is where our agency lies: in how we show up for what longs to be expressed through us. It is for us, through us, and that is where the gold is. It is all about you, in the most honouring of ways.

Take the next aligned step. Do it in the next 60 seconds. Just one step.

Then another. And another.

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Image from Pinterest: Broken Heart Glasses by @ariel.the.tattooer at @brightsidetattooak in Anchorage, Alaska.

The words on the screen reached into my chest and took a stranglehold on my heart. I shook my head in disbelief and brought my right hand up to my face, lowering my head. The weight in my head and my heart felt unbearably heavy as I read the text again.

The words cut sharply from the screen.

This time, I thought it was going to be different.

And there it was… the wake-up call. I keep expecting a different result, while disappointment rides in the lead car.

Giving people the benefit of the doubt has often felt like the most soulful and kind approach for me. Truly being present and sincere with others inside this crazy, messy life we all live.

And that has bitten me in the butt more than once.

Especially when people show you who they are, and they don’t intend to change. The saying is: believe them the first time.

Please do not ever think that your care, your kindness, or your willingness to give someone the benefit of the doubt reflects anything… and I do mean anything, about you being naïve, easy to manipulate, or somehow deserving of their inability to be reciprocal in kindness.

Because it doesn’t.

It has taken me decades to learn this. Perhaps I am a slow learner.

I am recovering from my people-pleasing tendencies. I’ve been a fawner, and I’ve gone into freeze often too. These were survival strategies learned early, when they served a purpose. They helped me navigate what I did not yet have the wisdom, power, or agency to navigate any other way.

They crossed over into adulthood with me, carrying their own heaviness and pain.

But I am not there anymore.

I have had to grow my discernment to a whole new level and bring the focus back to me, as my prime duty of care.

Me first.

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For decades, I would have thought this a selfish approach. I no longer do.

I have been tossed under the bus by people whose care I depended on. I have been left to bleed out in pain, without even a Band-Aid offered, by people who are my blood kin, or who had declared themselves my ride or die.

That shit hurts. There is no soulful bypass around it.

People can be so self-focused that it perpetuates an aloneness, an alienation between us. And when you have met someone with openness, sincerity, vulnerability, and care, only to discover they are unwilling, or perhaps simply uninterested in meeting you there, the ache is real.

No, I have not given up hope in the goodness of individuals.

But now I discern by their actions, not only their words. And if my level of vulnerability isn't met, I don't offer it again in the same way.

How I have been dependable to myself in this way is picturing myself bleeding, and they’re a shark.

It does not serve me to keep putting myself at risk!

Nor does it serve me to rewrite their actions as if they don’t know what they are doing.

People the heck know.

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And yes, some people even get off on psychologically tormenting another person, which is sick AF. Others will simply keep taking for as long as you keep giving, with little thought of reciprocity.

I know the difference now.

My wisdom now is not in pretending otherwise. Discernment is not about trying to change the scene as it unfolds, as if mid-scene I can grab the script and do a rewrite. Nor is it about trying to change the person.

It is staying aware and letting people show me their character, while I keep my rose-coloured glasses tucked safely in my handbag.

It is staying focused within myself… and stepping back a little whilst viewing what is happening through a wide-angle lens.

Not scrambling to explain it away. And not immediately searching for the wound in them that might excuse the wound they are creating in me. I advocate for myself and will not abandon what I know in order to preserve what I hoped was true.

Being mindfully watchful. Wearing my big girl panties and not allowing my wounded inner child’s wishful thinking to get too up in it, reaching for her coloured crayons instead of her red marker.

I soften as I see what is being shown to me, listening to the words, and seeing the actions clearly.

Seeing where they align, and where they absolutely do not.

But mostly, watching myself stay in my body, tending to me first, not being pulled this way or that. Fully anchored in my knowing, protecting my boundaries and honouring my wisdom.

Responding, not reacting. Present, not hallucinating or fantasizing.

All the living, loving parts of me, in detail and clarity.

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I take a slow breath and close my phone, shrug my shoulders, and roll my neck side to side; those simple movements feel good, nourishing.

Lulu, you see it, well done, glides through my thoughts.

Giving someone the benefit of the doubt can still be part of who I am. I do not need to become hardened to become discerning. I have no desire to close my heart in order to protect it. My tender, dreamer heart serves me at a deep level, and I have reverence for that part of myself.

But I no longer hand someone endless access to my tenderness simply because I can understand why they behave the way they do.

Understanding is not permission, nor is compassion consent. I ally myself first and foremost.

Discernment, I am learning, is one of the deepest ways I can love myself.

I can remain tender, hopeful, and believe in goodness. I can keep my heart open without leaving myself unprotected at its door.

My tenderness is not the absence of wisdom.

It is wisdom that now knows where it belongs.

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poem:

has anyone
ever told you

that you are unloveable?

intentional unkindness
meant to lacerate

a blunt weapon
with a sharp edge

the saying

sticks and stones may break my bones
but names will never hurt me

is BS

because words do hurt

words enter you

words can become
a form of mind control

especially when spoken
by someone you thought was safe

someone you trusted

someone whose mouth
you never thought
you needed protection from

and when a man
you thought loved you

says

you are unloveable

it is meant to diminish you

to collapse your self-worth

to make you question
your own value
your own lovability

targeted syllables of cruelty

and when that cruelty
is used to reduce you
because you are a woman

it is misogyny

words spoken by someone you trust
have a way of slipping past

the places
you might otherwise guard

and when repeated

they can become a voice
you mistake for your own

unloveable…unloveable…unloveable

until one day
you cannot remember
who said it first

only that somewhere
inside you

you began
to believe it

words can linger

long after the person
who spoke them

has left the room

or your life

Dr Emoto photographed
water crystals

after water was exposed
to different words

harsh words

kind words

a single word
a simple phrase
different formations

whatever you believe
about the crystals

you know

what words can do
inside you

you have felt them

the visceral contraction

the burning sting

the sentence
that lodged itself

somewhere in your body

words

carry weight

they can wound

and can heal

and sometimes

a single sentence
can live inside you

for decades

so

taste
your words
before they leave your lips

© 2026 Lulu Trevena | Live Life With Wonder
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

images of my own

poem:

she called me

the house with a mermaid
adorning the living room wall

at first, she wore
the face of Día de los Muertos
apt, in many ways

this abode
masterfully crafted
by a skilled creative
as his own

and quietly
she became mine
we became each other’s

for four short years
I have unwound myself
within her walls

a sanctuary found
a homecoming
worth celebrating

our relational knowing
etched deeper
than human fragility

something timeless
unmeasurable

a yoked bond
strong foundations
hugged by reclaimed wood
whispering tales of yesteryear

eclectic generosity
in every room

my inner muse
called forth
before I knew
I needed her

beauty and whimsy
sprinkled lusciously

mermaid depth
watching over me

in time
she softened too

more feminine
demure
allure

from inside
to outside
joyous colour extends

upon an outer wall
a mural I invited—
dandelions
and tiger lilies

their messages found me
after they bloomed

dandelion:
transformation
resilience
the power of manifestation

tiger lily:
fierce confidence
courage
passion
an unbridled
resilient
life force

held here
cocooned

as if divinely orchestrated
the messages keep weaving

the house
the mermaid
the flowers
me

living with art
living as art

surrounded
by what calls me
home

© 2026 Lulu Trevena | Live Life With Wonder
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

Note: In this article, I am talking about self-help in a general sense. I am not referring to experiences of trauma or abuse, which may require specialized care and support.

* There is something just beyond the periphery of my mind that has a weight to it, an insatiable irritation, an itch. I try to push it out of my thoughts and refocus my direction, placing my attention on what I want to grow. As the catchphrase goes: Where attention goes, energy flows.

But it is persistent. So, here it is.

Is the self-help industry really helping?

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How much healing do we really need? Are our lives a collection of doing, healing, hustling, evolving—to get where, really? Is karma real? Do we arrive carrying some ancient blueprint—ancestral stories, soul agreements, biological patterns, karmic imprints, divine design?

Can we alter that blueprint? If we can, what does that actually require?

Does consciousness genuinely want to evolve, or does the human organism mostly want to feel safe? Is the way we have set up society, and our standard life path, a ‘good enough’ life to live?

And how much agency do we really have within that life? Are we part of a divine plan already in motion, participants in something larger whose trajectory we cannot fully see? Or is free will truly ours—no holds barred—with an immense capacity to change course, alter outcomes and create a life radically different from the one our conditioning, biology or circumstances might predict?

Perhaps it is not one or the other. Perhaps there is some mysterious meeting place between destiny and free will, between what has already been set in motion and what remains ours to choose.

How much of our life is given to us, and how much of it is ours to create?

Does the ‘self’ really want help, or does it simply want to alleviate some discomfort and plod along in its naïve bliss?

I remember very clearly that, before I did any healing work over four decades ago, life held a kind of naïve bliss. Perhaps naivety is part of the lure. An innocence exists before we begin looking for ourselves.

As children, before the cognitive mind has fully developed, we inhabit an almost enchanted reality. We live close to sensation, imagination and immediacy. In healthy families, many of our needs are met before we even understand ourselves as beings who have needs.

In those earliest years, we have not fully individuated from the parent. We have not yet become the object of our own relentless observation.

We simply are.

Gradually, a boundary forms between me and not me, where once there was only belonging. The separate self emerges. And perhaps this is the first great wound. Or perhaps it is the first great miracle.

Separation gives birth to Self.

And with separation comes perhaps one of the great existential prices of human consciousness: we know that we exist.

Then, eventually, we know that we will die.

Why am I here? Who am I?

These may be among the oldest questions carried within the human psyche. Across cultures, continents, and millennia, we have painted them on cave walls, encoded them into myths, prayed them to gods, carried them into temples, written them into philosophy, and whispered them into the darkness.

And now, perhaps, we type them into search engines and buy another book.

Humans have always sought meaning and understanding, most often through suffering. Long before self-help became an industry, we had shamans, healers, elders, philosophers, priests, mystics and storytellers. We created rituals for birth and death, rites of passage for transformation, gods to explain the inexplicable and stories to help us endure what could not be changed. Recorded history has tried to give us this knowledge.

Perhaps the impulse to heal is ancient.

But the industry of perpetual healing is not.

So here is where I am questioning self-help, not to get an answer per se, but to unravel some of the hooks. And to ask: if self-help works, shouldn’t we need less of it by now?

I wonder whether somewhere along the way we have confused self-awareness with self-surveillance. Every wound examined and every trigger diagnosed. Every uncomfortable emotion potentially evidence of something unresolved. Every relationship mirrored back to us or seen as part of a longstanding connection to our childhood and our parents or caregivers.

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What if some discomfort is simply the price of being human?

The nervous system seeks safety and familiarity.

The psyche constructs and protects identity.

Culture tells us who we should become. Families hand us stories before we have language to question them. And somewhere inside all of this lives the mysterious awareness we call I.

So which part of us is asking for help?

The relentless narrator asks: Am I enough? Am I doing life correctly? What is wrong with me?

Yet beneath all our methods, modalities, and magnificent attempts at becoming, the ancient question remains:

Are we here to endlessly improve the Self… or to finally know it?

And I wonder… when do we get to live?

Is there a place to arrive?

Perhaps there is no final shore, no bank to arrive at where we can finally drop anchor and simply be, 24/7.

We may have mistaken the journey for a crossing, believing a perfected version of ourselves is waiting on the opposite bank, waving.

Come, just one more wound. One more realization, one more layer. Then you will be free.

But what if freedom is not waiting over there?

What if she is sitting quietly beside us now?

And who is this "we" that wants so desperately to evolve?

Does the Self want help at all? Or is it just the little ‘s’ self that is restless?

Maybe it is the frightened human creature who wants relief, while the personality wants certainty and the ego wants a better story.

The soul may ask for none of these things.

Perhaps the soul simply whispers:

Experience this. Here. Now. That is all that is needed, Beloved.

Maybe that naïve bliss I remember existed because I did not yet know how many things I was apparently supposed to heal.

Every spiritual tradition is, in some way, humanity kneeling before the mystery of its own existence and asking:

What does it mean to be here?

And perhaps the most exquisite possibility is that the mystery has never answered because it was never asking to be solved. Perhaps healing is simply what happens when something within us is finally met with enough tenderness that it no longer needs to scream for our attention.

Enlightenment may not be somewhere beyond our humanness. Perhaps it is the moment we stop trying to escape it.

And in turn, the oldest question is not:

How do I become better?

But:

Can I be fully here for the brief, bewildering, exquisite experience of being me?

p.s. For me, healing has been a calling, an adventure and a worthy exploration of Self (& self). I am deeply grateful for where it has taken me and what it has revealed. Perhaps I’m not questioning the journey at all, but wondering when healing becomes living… and whether, perhaps, they were ever separate.

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BucketList to Australia 2027

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poem:

our life is a shedding
palms turned upwards
fist closed… grasping
has no place

shed we must
change is constant

roles, identities,
beliefs, wounds
ideas, perspectives
and dreams
(even people and places)
one by one

time leads us along the line
around the spiral
our sacred evolutionary process

like the snake
releasing its skin
notice first the restriction
the rhythmical movement
the cycle turning

as we find the opening
allowing our shedding
welcoming it
consciously
pleasurably
deliciously pleasurable

soft dropping away
delicious abandonment

every nutrient and nourishment extracted
every particle of light
potent life-force used
as sustenance
spent

left is
a beautiful artefact
a fossil exoskeleton
a casing
the outer wrapping
barren
its nectar given forth

© 2026 Lulu Trevena | Live Life With Wonder
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

images from Pinterest

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My Website

Collage created by Yasmina A. on Pinterest

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I met a new woman this morning; our conversation went deep, rich, and illuminating. I spoke about women connecting as trees do, through the pathways of mycelium. I wrote this after our coffee together.

*

There is a mycelium beneath us now. Rich red. Pulsing.

Woman to woman, root to root, womb to womb. A living network of remembrance.

For generations we were handed the story that another woman’s beauty diminished ours, her success threatened ours, her belonging meant there might be less belonging for us. Waving the man flag as a prize to obtain.

But beneath that old story, something has been growing, blossoming, and those glorious roots have been deepening.

Tenderly, soulfully and quietly. Connecting.

Competition is no longer the story we are willing to inherit or carry forward. We lay that weight down. We have agency and consciously acknowledge that at times, the wound might still surface; we tend to it with kindness.

The ancient roots of sisterhood are finding one another again. We are coming together as one.

We are healing the deep groove of the sisterhood wound… not alone, but through one another. One woman refusing to compete. Another woman celebrating a woman’s radiance generously. And another woman reaching beneath the old narrative and saying: Oh, Beloved One, I see you, all of you. I will not make myself larger by making you smaller.

Like the forest, we were never meant to survive as separate trees. Our strength has always lived in the invisible threads between us.

And the roots remember. The sacred fertility of women together.

The Sisterhood Mycelium… an unseen feminine network through which nourishment, safety, wisdom, courage, warning, grief, creativity, discernment, joy and belonging travel. And love.

Not a circle of women anymore.

A glorious forest.

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Calling life beautiful, in the minutiae of it all. There is a gift in this, a radical aliveness powering through us, asking to be expressed. Life is messy, the unknown wanders through every interaction and moment of reality. We try to convince ourselves we have control, and at times we may have some, but often the greater plan unfolds, with us both as passengers and spectators.

It may feel like there is no foundation, just a slippery slope. We do our best to hold on.

And perhaps this is where language reaches its own edge, when life becomes too vast, too mysterious, too alive to be contained by words.

Ineffable is the word we reach for when words themselves are no longer enough.

It rolls off our vocal cords with declaration. It speaks to an experience so profound, beautiful, mysterious, or sacred that language cannot quite contain it. I love words like this that are so visceral, they peel back the layers within us, as if something is birthing, like a miraculous conception. We can sense it, feel into it, perhaps even be changed by it… but the moment we try to explain it, something of its essence slips through our fingers, as our limited cognitive capacity searches to define it in human muggle terms, and we can miss the mark by a long shot.

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I can close my eyes and call forth such moments from my life, visualising myself present and fully in that feeling state. I trust the body to show me and bring this amazing recall. It is a blessing. You do it too, I believe.

There are ineffable moments in life: holding someone you love after a long absence where comfort and safety reign supreme; witnessing birth or death… the bookends of our human life, for which words cannot often convey the soulful honour they hold; standing beneath a vast night sky in awe and wonderment; hearing a piece of exquisite music that moves through the body, awakening its own orchestra, before the mind can fully understand. All of these bypass explanation. They arrive with expansion. An expanded fullness in the chest, tingling on the scalp, and our energetic field pulsing around us. The gaps within silence somehow say everything, in a language that feels drenched in goodness.

Perhaps the ineffable is an invitation not to name everything. Not to dissect every mystery or turn every experience into something understandable. Some things are meant to be encountered rather than explained… received reverently and allowed to remain wild around the edges.

There is something exquisite about admitting I do not have words for this. It is not an absence of understanding, but another kind of understanding altogether. The ineffable reminds us that life is larger than language, love deeper than definition, and some of the most meaningful things we will ever experience can only be known by the soul. I myself welcome more of that for myself and for all humans.

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Join me for the Pilgrimage & Bucket List Retreat to Australia. Information to delight you is below. August 2027 - 15 nights

Australia Retreat

When the fantasy dies, even though it had been limping along for years, pieced together with devotion, dinner parties, tears and vacations, shared history, and a fierce loyalty to what I believed we could still be, there is an immense reckoning.

As I started to write this, an intense pain landed in my chest, which caught me by surprise. It would not let me turn away, so I didn’t. This was not what I thought I was writing about this random Tuesday in August, years later. These words might just be for you. (and I needed to write them, just because)

Let’s admit that a marriage can be dying and still contain laughter. I could host gatherings and parties, place vases of flowers throughout our home, pour the drinks, travel somewhere amazing, take dozens of photographs, and celebrate birthdays, share a bed, and even make plans for next year… and still be quietly trying to breathe life into something that has been struggling for air.

I did that, and I was good at it.

Our home was curated for comfort and as a sanctuary; the double-layered rug in the center of the living room floor, with an antique Indian coffee table positioned on top and uniquely inspired, which had travelled with us over the oceans, reminded me of when times were simpler, warmer and yet longing was there then too. When I walked from room to room, the essence of love and beauty I infused throughout generously; to me, it was palatable.

I kept tending the possibility of us, believing that love, loyalty, history, and sheer devotion might somehow be enough to revive what was fading. I could take the smallest patch of green in a barren wasteland and imagine the oasis returning, flourishing and full of vitality. The golden sun shining down on us equally, and together.

Hope can be astonishingly resilient when it has devotion as its accomplice.

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And perhaps that is why, when the fantasy finally dies, the reckoning is so immense. I was not only grieving the marriage I had… I needed to grieve the marriage I kept believing was still possible. The one that was not a Hollywood love story, but a daily choice and devotion through all of the ups and downs of life, real and treasurable.

I watered what was parched, the deep grooves in the foundational dirt. I tended with dedication what struggled to grow; I remained devoted to the possibility of us, sometimes long after the evidence suggested otherwise. I believed in the promise, the potential, the sacredness of what we had lived through and created together. I held the light forward, unwavering. I eagerly looked up to the highest goodness above.

I didn’t give up easily. I ain’t a quitter. I loved, stayed, hoped, repaired, forgave, tried again, and kept reaching for the marriage I believed was somewhere beneath everything that had accumulated, heavily or absently, between us.

That was what my marriage was to me.

Not simply a relationship, but something I had devoted decades of my moment-to-moment life force to believing in, being attentive to, and living fully.

And when the fantasy finally died, I didn’t only grieve what was. I grieved everything I had faithfully believed it could still become.

And yet, one believer is rarely enough.

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I now see all the times the red flags were waving vigorously—warning, warning, warning—while nothing was going to move me from my stance of commitment. Staying meant devotion and loyalty. Staying meant never abandoning another, and I would not do that.

I believe I’ve carried the memory deep in my bones that, throughout human history, abandonment could mean death. If one were banished from the tribe, they’d have to fend for themself against the elements and surrounding wildlife, with death likely clutching at their ankles.

Yet somewhere inside that fierce commitment, I had learned to abandon myself. It had become second nature, almost invisible, while I stood proudly inside the identity of being someone who would never abandon another.

The irony is piercing now: I was so devoted to never leaving someone else that I kept leaving myself. Blatantly.

When I got married, I felt an exhilaration in the energy of two, amplified and worth far more than the number two. The world felt even more alluring, and bringing polarities together, that of the masculine and the feminine, would, as I believe, give stability to anything we would face. I saw a bright, deeply connected future.

I was succeeding at a level new to my own family of origin, yet I still carried a deep dependency within me… the accomplished woman and the conditioned girl living inside the same body.

I would defer to the man as if he had better answers, greater authority, more access to the highest and best ways of living. Men ultimately were in charge was an ingrained belief I did not consciously choose.

Which feels almost foolhardy when I think about it now.

I came from a family of women with strong hearts and minds. Education and learning were available to all, and often I saw the females apply themselves more diligently. I had already begun exploring healing modalities and understood that everyone had baggage, yet somehow, when it came to men, I overlooked it. As though their baggage was somehow lighter, their knowing more trustworthy, their authority more inherent.

The indoctrination was effective.

Here I am, even in my sixties, peeling back layers of patriarchy. We did not call it patriarchy in my youth. It was simply the way things were. Authority was respected, and men were in charge. I did not question it… when something was presented as the natural order of things, I didn’t necessarily recognize that there was anything there to question.

And underneath all of this was another belief taking root: that there were deficient aspects of me, while others—oh, oh, they—were shiny and pristine.

My pedestaling of others was already in full force. It had been, really, by the time I was a teenager. I had learned to look upward at others while quietly looking downward at myself.

As we know, the first seven years are important for human development in ways previous generations did not understand. Most lived by the idea of being a good person, working hard, and not questioning authority.

Boy, has life changed since then.

And it had to. As a society, we would not have evolved in many ways if changes hadn’t taken place. In the areas of human biology, development, consciousness, attachment, trauma, the brain, and neuroscience, we have increased human awareness more than I would ever have imagined growing up in a city in the sun-kissed country of Australia.

It was an idyllic childhood in many ways.

As children, we rode around on our bicycles through the neighbourhood and were allowed to simply hang out in the streets until dark.

We lived on the corner of Forest Avenue and Hartland Avenue. I remember imagining that I lived on the corner of the heart forest… the land of the heart.

We also had gates into our other two neighbours, which made our lives and families feel connected. Those gates were created specifically for connection. It was its own kind of community. We walked to school down the same road, right to the end of the street. Children came from house after house; we walked to school together, then peeled back off in the afternoon.

How could patterns not have formed in me?

The girl who would grow into a woman who deferred. Who pedestaled others and who believed others might hold something I was deficient in.

Those beginnings gave me so much that was nourishing: community, belonging, freedom, connection, strong women, right at the forest corner of the land of the heart. And woven through those same beginnings were beliefs I never consciously chose, quietly teaching me who held authority, where to look for answers, and eventually, how to leave myself while calling it devotion.

From humble beginnings, the nourishing and the distorted still vie for my attention, even today. Perhaps growing older is not about condemning the girl who learned those patterns, or the woman who carried them faithfully forward.

Perhaps it is about finally knowing which inheritance is mine to keep and which one I am ready to lay down finally.

And still, there are fractures that do not fully repair.

Not even with gold poured lovingly into the cracks, kintsugi-style, turning what was broken into something I can call beautiful.

Some things remain broken.

And no, I don’t believe time necessarily heals all wounds. “ Give it time" can become another throwaway line handed to us while standing bewildered in the rubble.

Time passes. That much is true.

Yet, time is not the healer; it simply gives us more room to learn how to live alongside what happened.

Perhaps healing sometimes is more about allowing, inviting in the rage and the incomprehension.

The How could you?

The How did this happen?

The What the fuck do I do with all of this now?

Perhaps there are moments when there is nothing to transform, alchemize, forgive, or cover in gold.

And I will grab whatever soft blanket is nearby, wrap it around myself, and gather all of me inside it… the furious parts, the bewildered parts, the broken parts, the parts still searching for an answer that may never come.

And as I cuddle myself in tenderly, no spiritual assignment nor demand to find the lesson yet. I simply allow it all to belong.

Because perhaps the fantasy dying is not an invitation to immediately build another one. Can I let the rubble be, not needing it to become anything specific? Perhaps there is no prize for being the woman who transforms her devastation most beautifully. I don’t know some days; I simply just focus on breathing.

I allow myself simply to be the woman who has rage and grief and gets lost at times in remembering.

Resting beneath the soft blanket with all the pieces of myself I once thought I had to improve, hide, transcend, or give away.

And this time, I simply stay, with myself.

Perhaps there is a particular kind of healing in that too: not becoming unbroken but refusing to abandon myself in the places where I broke.

I was so devoted to never leaving someone else that I kept leaving myself.

Maybe this is where another kind of devotion begins.

Not even the devotion that promises every broken thing can be repaired.

A quieter devotion.

The devotion of remaining beside myself. As my favourite person.

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Free Download:

Welcome Your Wise Woman

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Women are the backbone of humanity. And their backs are aching.

As a woman, much of my life has been spent focusing on others. I feel blessed and delighted to support and be of service. To me, this has been love in action. Yet there has also been a constant nagging feeling that this has roots in the societal programming of women… to be the one who supports everyone else.

She is often the last one to go to bed at night, doing one more chore, preparing things for the next day, locking the door, checking on the children, animals, and plants, and finally turning off the lights.

Last year, I designed T-shirts for women. Women who know. Women who have eagerly given, taken pride in this role, and who also know the sting of being taken for granted for the physical and emotional labour they contribute within their households and everyone’s lives. With little or no appreciation or generous gratefulness from others, instead another request for her precious time is expected.

This is an out-of-balance system. One that many women no longer choose to participate in because they recognize it as a form of self-betrayal. Having others’ needs above her own has become the default. Instead, they are reclaiming their sovereignty, knowing at their core that they deserve more. Now, it gets to be about them.

My T-shirts are that reminder:

It’s All About Me!

A crown decorates the statement, an elegant symbol of every woman reclaiming her worth, honouring her own needs, and remembering that she is worthy; her life and her desires are not to be shelved. She is taking her rightful place on her own throne, reclaiming and remembering her divine self, body, time, and soul.

She writes her new chapter into being, one moment at a time.

I have been writing myself into being for a while now. It is part of being a writer who consciously chooses the healing path, which I hold in deepest and humblest reverence.

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I lift my pen as a wand. The word spelling is not wasted on me; I am fully aware I cast my own spells with conscious intention, letting the light of where I am radiate while angling it gently forward to illuminate the next step or two. It reminds me that going backwards is of no interest. Staying in the same place and resting is okay for a time, but not somewhere I—or anyone—can remain for too long. Change is constant.

I am willing to discover my limitations and my growth edge as invitations, welcoming expansion as though it were a kind hand reaching out to me.

Please don’t get me wrong. I do love my comfort, and I want all of us to have comfort, or things that bring comfort, safety, and goodness into our lives. I make sure I prioritize receiving pleasure in the present moment.

Many people think pleasure comes from outside of us, often associating it with an interplay with another. Yet pleasure is available as a pure connection to goodness in each moment. It arises from within us and can be savoured fully, whether it is simply focusing on the breath, moistening your lips with your tongue, or wriggling your toes. When we truly feel the energy by embodying these simple movements, we awaken a spark of pleasure.

Every spark of pleasure is worth savouring.

This month I am exploring doubt in my own life. Yes, each day, for the whole month, I am on a journey of personal enquiry… not as a weighted subject, but as one to hold lightly, to turn over a few times, listening for messages, and to discover what doubt has to tell me. Where have I been stopped by doubt, and why? Where can I greet it with curiosity? What becomes possible when I allow its message and teaching to illuminate the way?

Self-enquiry requires us to suspend a fixed point of view and remain open to learning, reflecting on the patterns and roadblocks in our lives. It invites us to live with uncertainty, not knowing the answer, yet staying open to something new arising.

Engaging in self-enquiry isn’t about getting all your ducks in a row and tying pretty bows on everything, and it does not always lead to pleasure… by no means. That is why uncertainty is right there, creating a space whose depth is hard to measure. Nothing is signed or sealed, nor does it need to be.

It can be beneficial to have guides along the way. Our transformation can also come from the most unlikely places when we are willing to be present with ourselves through whatever topic is woven through our lives.

Whether it be death, health, sexuality, conscious relating, honouring our emotions, justice for ourselves and others, or peeling back whether the issue is our own, a projection, a learned way of being, or a generational epigenetic inheritance.

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What is knocking at the door of your life, seeking an audience, making a bid for recognition or relief?

Could you invite it into a process of contemplation?

Could you journal a sentence or two each day, for a whole 30 days? As we know, change happens with consistency.

Perhaps you think you are too busy to spend time contemplating something specific. Perhaps turning towards it would make all the difference.

Let me know: have you been ignoring something that is now asking for more of your attention, or are you harnessing your own inner intelligence to guide you forward?

It’s All About Me T-Shirt on Etsy

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When I was in my mid-twenties, I decided to sign up for a parachute jump. Freefall. Not tandem, which many try first and in which you are harnessed directly to the instructor. Perhaps I was at a place where I thought I needed to do something dramatic to help me redirect my life, as challenges were popping up in a few areas around the same time.

Let me mention straight up front: I have a fear of heights.

The pilots who fly for the parachute company at the drop zone are often heard saying, “Who would jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” They’re happy supporting multiple loads of students and seasoned jumpers daily, but they are clear they’re not jumping themselves anytime soon.

We met during the week in a local hall, in preparation for the weekend parachute jump—always weather-dependent—for the introduction and initial instruction. The class lasted a few hours; comprehensive instruction was given to the half dozen of us, including information about plane safety, equipment, body position, and handling the open canopy.

Seemed straightforward enough. I befriended a woman my own age. I shared with her that I thought it was an interesting thing to try at least once in my life; she said she was considering taking it up as a leisure activity and doing it regularly.

The weekend came. I drove out to the drop zone, about 35 minutes from the city, the landscape opening into rural pastures as my anticipation quietly built. In the prep room, we went over our body positioning again, lying face first on a table, hands arched up, and knees bent behind us, practising the freefall position.

Some part of me had me fooled. I thought doing this parachute jump might somehow address my fear of heights.

It didn’t.

We were given the go-ahead. Next plane load up.

There is no feeling like the rush of air when a plane door opens… words do not pair with it; terror mixed with exhilaration comes close. In free-fall parachute jumps, the instructor climbs out first onto the wing struts and then the student. Eyes looking at them, not down. Every cell in my body knew we were at 10,000 feet; the pilot had called it, and my chest altimeter showed it too. Yet it was all surreal. The little squares below were house roofs, yet they looked like postage stamps. The roads were visible, with tiny cars moving along them. It was real and unreal at the same time.

My fingers clutched the metal strut attached to the wing. I forced a smile as my instructor asked me to perform different actions to indicate that I was present and conscious. He started counting down from ten: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6… and, as you can imagine, it was essential that we went together. Once he released his hold on the plane, there was no going back to grab me if I had a false start, or suddenly decided to change my mind.

As he counted down, his hand furthest from the plane grabbed hold of mine, and before I knew it, I was floating… I was falling, but floating sounds more magical and less like something dropping at a noticeable speed that, in normal waking reality, did not register in my consciousness. A body sensation I had never felt before.

We did our pre-planned checks. I looked at the altimeter, then stuck out my tongue at my instructor to indicate I was aware of our altitude. I looked around me gingerly, with soft curiosity. I felt free. Fear was not present; wonder was.

In no time, he gave me the instruction to pull my canopy ripcord. I must have hesitated a little, as he stretched his hand towards me and we pulled our hands together. The jolt upwards was the reality check. I remembered I had just left a perfectly good airplane, and I was in the air with only fabric and cords packed into what seemed like a backpack on my back.

Oh yeah, I thought, I still have to steer this thing down.

It took me a few moments to visually locate the drop zone below and where I was to land. I was trying to recall the full instructions about flaring the canopy, to ensure the landing would be less jarring and rough. Those little dots moving on the road now had more substance; the cars distracted me for a moment.

I was getting the hang of the steering toggles and gauging which direction the wind was coming from, so as to flare into the wind for the best landing. As the ground rose up to greet me, I stretched my legs out in welcome, flaring my canopy. Thud, I hit with a jolt, the canopy above me still in a three-quarter-open position, enabling a grass drag for a few feet on my butt. Unfortunately, I had not faced directly into the wind but was on an angle, causing the drag.

I felt exhilarated by the feat I had accomplished and by the delight of being fully back on the ground, even if I was reclined rather than standing.

Back at the drop zone, my new friend said she was glad she did it, but never again. I was already putting my name down for another go-round the following week, which surprised me.

Driving home, I was on a natural high, music up, windows open, and feeling expanded. I pulled into a petrol station to fill up. When I went inside to pay, there was a selection of paperbacks on a carousel, and the one that caught my attention was called Your Right to Fly. I purchased it.

I continued with another five jumps, which led me to my dream job as a technical adviser with an international hairdressing company. As part of the interview process, they requested a prepared 10-minute presentation. I spoke about my first parachute jump. I learnt afterwards that this was what tipped the job in my favour.

BTW, I still have a fear of heights.

My last parachute jump came months later, this time as a tandem. Our main canopy malfunctioned, and my instructor had to deploy the reserve chute before we landed safely. I decided the universe had made its point. That was when I called my parachuting adventures complete.

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There are simple pleasures that bring us to a place of presence, calming our overactive mind and the part within us that is always on… a switch jammed in a position not conducive to beingness.

For many of us, we can bring that part back into balance through simple pleasures. Like patting our sweet cat or loyal dog. Listening to a piece of emotive music, meditating, or freely dancing. Looking at a mesmerizing piece of art or a glorious sunset. Anything that connects us with our body, dropping us into the present moment. Stabilizing us, bringing coherence and ease. Often, it means getting out of our own way and stepping out of the circling unconscious loops and thoughts in our head.

The research shows we have around 60,000 thoughts a day, and 90% of them are repetitive. That makes us realize we can become a little fixed, stuck, living as though we’re on perpetual reruns of a show we’ve already binge-watched a thousand times.

Enter my tea bar.

I created a little station, a sacred area in my home that brings me delight. Yes, I use the term bar, like a wine bar or spirits cabinet. These tend to offer some elusive pleasure for a time, with a mighty high proof resulting in a numbing effect or an out-of-body sensation… even if we justify it away. And perhaps what we simply yearn for are body-expanding experiences that leave us feeling grounded in wholeness.

My tea bar consists of teas… of course. There are canisters, aesthetically pleasing jars, and test tubes—a visual display for all to enjoy—plus a drawer filled with boxes, bags, and loose-leaf blends to delight any palate, refined or simple. My guests delight in the exploration it invites. Then there is the array of drinking vessels, each uniquely shaped, some with words inscribed and sizes just as varied. My tea bar is a treasure trove, an ancient portal of tinctures and potions to meet anyone where they are. It transforms an ordinary moment into a small ceremony.

Those who have visited my home for an event, a personal nourishing retreat, or a holiday stay have often contacted me afterwards to show me their own tea bar.

That warms my heart every time. For no matter how big or small, whether it is a whole allocated area, a single shelf, or a tray positioned just so, creating a sacred space for something that brings you wholehearted, simple pleasure is an honouring step in your own favour.

Something you create solely for your own pleasure.

Simple pleasures are important. Do not underestimate them. Gather them like jewels on a precious necklace, each one radiant and sparkling with its ability to bring a moment of delight into your day.

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Personalized retreats for one or two women are available by enquiry and thoughtfully curated to your unique needs. Please send me a message expressing your interest.

This is my 200th article here on Substack, on my publication, the home space of Pearl Lustre with Lulu, and I’m celebrating.

Thank you for reading my words, for sharing them, for leaving thoughtful comments, and for walking alongside me on this journey. Your presence here is precious to me.

Writers, artists, and dreamers are often led by something mysterious… a quiet muse that nudges us to create. Sometimes that creative current flows effortlessly, alive and electric, pulsing with nourishment that feeds us beyond the physical. Other times the current slows, stalls, or simply goes silent. I have known those moments well… sitting before a blank page or screen, waiting with an open heart. Hopeful, yet feeling the hollowness of empty space, as though my vocabulary had wandered off, leaving only stillness behind. And then, almost always, something arrives. I made a promise to myself to keep showing up here each week. That simple commitment has become one of the greatest joys of my life.

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Love is the thread woven through much of what I write. To me, love is far more than an emotion. It is a living, transformative force and a gift available to each of us, capable of changing how we meet ourselves, one another, and the world.

For many years, I have practised something I call sending love forward. Before a conversation, a gathering, a journey, a meeting, or even an ordinary day, I consciously send love ahead of me. I imagine the path ahead already infused with kindness, grace, and possibility. In my mind, I lovingly place smooth gemstones beneath my feet, one by one, creating a path where love arrives before I do. It is my way of co-creating with life itself, inviting whatever unfolds to serve the highest good for everyone involved.

Perhaps it sounds a little woo-woo. I’m perfectly comfortable with that.

The proof, for me, has always been in the living, and the unexpected gifts that show up when I do. This quiet practice has softened difficult conversations, opened unexpected doors, and reminded me that intention carries its own gentle power. And love, well, it makes everything better.

In many ways, it feels like prayer. A heartfelt offering sent from our inner world into the world before us. An invisible act of trust, and a way of saying, May love arrive before I do.

Recently, I came across a short video by Dr James Rouse in which he spoke about love at first sight… not in a romantic sense but as a way of meeting every person with an open heart. His perspective deeply resonated with me, and with my writing and the sending love forward practice I’ve cultivated for years. It inspired me to write this poem.

Happy 200^th article, dear beloved; stay tuned for more.

Love and blessings, Lulu

making, love at first sight, the best go-to hack

poem:

what if
the world doesn’t change?
…but we can
be the change

what if
love at first sight
was never reserved
for fairy tales
or soulmates
across crowded rooms?

what if
it was meant
for each moment
every single meeting
one to another?

your wife
lying next to you
your husband
tending the yard
the waiter
whose hands have served
in a hundred ways
the woman
whose eyes carry
a story
you’ll never know
the child
twirling
still remembering wonder
the old man
walking slower
than the world thinks he should

what if
before thought
or opinion
before seeing the other as separate
before building protection
or the old programming
reaches for the microphone...
love
arrived
first?

not romance
nor rescue
not aligned agreement
simply…
presence

a pair of soft warm eyes
a gentle breath
an open stance
a heart choosing not to harden
offering kindness
humility
grace

for years
we rehearse
the exhausting performance
of proving ourselves
defending our worth
protecting the tender places
inside us
as though love
had to be earned
through perfect timing
perfect words
and overgiving

what if
we began
a different practice
every day
with conscious choice

meeting every person
with love first

not because
they have earned it
not because
we know their story
but because
they have one

and in doing so
inviting something
to gently crack free inside us
not breaking…
like winter earth
making room for spring
something softer
fluid
honouring

strangers smile… sometimes
sometimes they don’t

yet every encounter
an opportunity
to lead with love
as a softening moves within us
we feel its nourishment

and perhaps
that is the miracle
the treasure
the gift

love at first sight
isn’t about
falling in love
it is about
cocreating with love
rising in love

seeing
the sacred
before the story
the soul
before the separation
the essence
and divinity
before the complexity

the world
doesn’t ache
from a shortage
of opinions

it aches
from a shortage
of courageous vulnerable hearts
willing
willing to look upon another tenderly
and silently whisper…
I see you

not to save you
fix you
or change you

simply
to witness
your humanity

one weary mother
an uncertain teenager
a neighbour
a server
one stranger
walking their dog
one lonely soul
pretending
they’re fine

meeting one heart fully
at a time

equally mindful of those
your heart holds close
in intimacy
partnership
in your home and family
those divine souls
that choose to be in your life
meet them
less with familiarity
meet them with exquisite knowing

what if
every encounter
became a quiet prayer?

held reverently
before you speak or react
before you decide
who they are...

pause, open, soften

ask gently
as if entering
the temple of your own heart…
what would love do now?

perhaps… it would smile
or… it would truly listen
perhaps… it would forgive
or… it would simply remain fully present

love
is an invisible language
no one hears it
everyone feels it
its energy transformative

because beneath
our names
and histories
our wounds
and victories
our politics
and differences
our certainty
and uncertainty
our fears...

we are all
waiting
for the same thing

to be fully seen
to be loved as ourselves

and when we are seen
through the eyes of love
we remember
what we have always been

worthy
unique
one of a kind
a precious heart
and soul

perhaps
this…
this ordinary
courageous
moment-to-moment
way of meeting life…
has been
love at first sight
all along

it connects us
to our humanity
and remembers us to ourselves

in ancient Tantra texts
there is a woven wisdom
which speaks of
making love to the moment
of being love
and meeting each moment as love

wholehearted presence
steeped in openness
and curiosity

…and you, beloved, hold the thread

~ Lulu Trevena

© 2026 Lulu Trevena | Live Life With Wonder
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

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poem:

I love the rumble in the sky
on many a summer afternoon
in Florida.

There is an exhilaration
that rises within…

the roar of thunder
rolling across the higher expanse,

the imminent rain
arriving with big thuds,
greeting the ground
and pavement
jubilantly,

then in sheets,

a blanketing curtain
stretching in every direction
I look.

It speaks of power,
of cleansing,
of purpose.

I welcome it.

Beautiful summer shower,
thank you for your gifts.

As a lover
of nature’s cycles,
and a humble witness,
I am filled with gratitude.

~ Lulu Trevena

© 2026 Lulu Trevena | Live Life With Wonder
All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.

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I have been feeling extra introspective and contemplative lately. Having a sudden health challenge or unexpected life circumstance can do that for you. I am still experiencing residual symptoms after being hospitalized in Scotland whilst travelling with severe vertigo.

I have noticed that when our physical body is compromised or weakened, it can crack us open in many ways. And even when we have the awareness that a breakdown is an invitation for growth and new perspective, this is seldom a graceful, linear process.

Often it isn’t really about surviving one terrible day. It’s about the moment life removes every place left to hide.

How often do we innocently skip over, or move something along hastily before learning the lesson, and truly recognize ourselves up close, stripped bare in an existential way.

Information is valuable, but transformation moves information into lived reality and experience. Transformation is embodied rather than merely understood, or as I like to say, innerstood, and this changes everything.

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In my life, I have been an overthinker, far more than I have ever kept score of. I can churn over something in my mind, like chewing gum, to the point of rendering it tasteless and into a greyish atrophied object. The processing or chewing over not bringing the reward I had hoped or anticipated.

There are days that politely ask for your attention. And then there are days that arrive like a demolition crew that were not scheduled on any calendar of choice.

Not a challenge, tapping you on the shoulder. Or a heartbreak that still has multiple sensitive ouch spots. Nor a disappointment, that churns your stomach.

Everything.

For me within a short window of time, life somehow found every place I’ve spent decades trying to protect. Or bring awareness to. All the places I had faced squarely, unravelled, and applied balm to soothe.

We, as humans, have a handful of core wounds identified throughout psychology, religion, and spirituality. They run through the whole human race like a sharp sword, cutting each of us in different ways. They wear different garments, different masks, and lead us toward individualized coping strategies. Yet beneath them all, there is a commonality.

The wound of abandonment.

The wound of rejection.

The wound of not being enough.

The wound of betrayal.

The wound of being unseen.

The wound of losing control.

Mine did not arrive one at a time, politely queuing at the door. They arrived together as a gang, a force, ramming the door and breaking it down haphazardly.

In Scotland recently, I had one of those days. Although the days leading up to it; with mechanical failures on planes, rescheduled flights, and luggage that never arrived… the compass had already set an uncharted course, different from the one we had anticipated.

The second morning thinking life was finally beginning to brighten, after a wonderful evening of exquisite food, heartfelt conversation, and the comfort of good company, I awoke in a completely different reality. One moment I was held by hope; the next, I was untethered.

To say I didn’t feel quite here would be a profound understatement.

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What began as nausea and dizziness rapidly spiraled into relentless vertigo. The room refused to cooperate with my feet, my body or gravity. My body, once familiar and dependable, no longer belonged to me. I crawled to use the bathroom. Hospitalization followed, and medical scans. There were whispered conversations, and grave faces. The possibility of a stroke.

In an instant, I was stripped of certainty.

The debilitation and absolute loss of control dropped me into the fast-moving stream of mercy. There was no canoe, or life jacket. No flares or rescue crew waiting on the shoreline. Just me, desperately treading water, gulping for breath in that panicked, drowning kind of way.

As if summoned by the chaos, many of my oldest wounds gathered around me with renewed force. Abandonment. Fear. Helplessness. Vulnerability. They circled like opportunistic predators, sharks gleefully reminding me of every place I had ever doubted my own safety.

My body had become unfamiliar terrain. Time was irrelevant. Every movement required surrender. Every breath became an act of faith. Trust had little footing.

There are moments in life when you can no longer rely on strength, strategy, or willpower. The only invitation is to receive. To be carried, allowing grace to hold you when you no longer have the capacity to hold yourself. And to surrender, not resign to the circumstance, but to open in deep loving surrender.

It is a humbling place.

By the end of it, I wasn’t asking, “How do I fix this?”

I was asking, “How much more can one heart hold?”

Perhaps you’ve been there too.

The body knows before the mind catches up. Sleep becomes elusive. The days a blur. Your chest feels too small for the ache it is trying to contain. And your thoughts race in circles, desperately searching for an escape hatch. Or a way to travel to a different planet.

The nervous system sounds every alarm, and you begin believing that everything is falling apart.

What if it is falling open? Or cracking because that is what is needed most.

We spend years believing healing happens in manageable, conscious stages… a gentle unfolding.

Sometimes healing arrives wearing muddy boots.

It kicks open every locked room you’ve carefully avoided. It refuses to leave until you’ve looked inside… in every room, corridor, under the bed and every drawer and corner of your inner landscape.

I’ve spent years supporting women through transformation, and there is one thing I’ve noticed again and again.

The breakthrough never asks permission. It usually arrives disguised as breakdown.

The psyche is wise, the body wiser.

It knows that what has been buried cannot be transformed while it remains hidden. So, it surfaces, and not because you are failing.

Because you are finally strong enough to meet it. Yeah, let that land.

In my weakened state, I would not have thought strength was standing close by, if not holding me up. I used to think my breakdowns meant I had somehow gone backwards.

Now I innerstand they are evidence that another layer is ready.

Healing isn’t linear… it’s spiral-shaped.

Life brings us back to familiar wounds, but never from the same level of consciousness.

Each return asks a different question, wanting our honest answer.

Can you soften?

Can you stop abandoning yourself while everything else feels uncertain?

There is a sacred threshold that few people speak about. It is the place after the collapse but before the clarity.

Nothing makes sense.

Nothing feels certain.

The old identity has dissolved. The new one has not yet arrived. This is uncomfortable territory. This is where the gateway lives. Not after the pain… inside it.

The breakdown is not the opposite of the breakthrough.

It is the doorway.

The body is in uncertainty. The nervous system thinks it is dying. The soul knows it is shedding.

Those are very different experiences.

I’ve learned not to rush this place anymore.

And absolutely not to decorate it with toxic positivity. Or bypass it with spiritual language.

Instead, I become exquisitely tender with myself.

I let grief have a chair.

I let anger speak.

I let fear shake through me.

And I breathe.

I place my hand over my heart. I remember that my job is not to become someone else. My job is to remain with myself. Perhaps that is what healing has always been. Not becoming better… but truer.

If your core wounds have all arrived at once...

If the universe seems to have scheduled every lesson into one or two impossible days...

If you feel as though your life is unraveling faster than you can stitch it back together...

Pause.

Before you ask, “Why is this happening to me?”

Try asking something infinitely kinder. “What is trying to be born through me?”

Because breakdowns rarely destroy who we truly are. They dismantle who we had to become in order to survive.

And somewhere, quietly waiting beneath the rubble...

is the person who no longer needs those old protections.

The breakthrough isn’t waiting on the other side. It has already begun. It began the moment life loved you enough to stop letting you live from your wounds and instead invited you to go directly to them… tenderly.

Stay with yourself, unwaveringly. Especially here, for this is the only moment in time we can ever truly be.

ps. I am open to the breakthrough any time soon.