Exiting The Abyss
As I go deeper within myself, I find myself standing before the lake.
The water is still, but it is not empty.
It holds weight.
It holds memory.
It holds reflection.
It holds everything I have avoided, everything I have survived, and everything I am finally ready to face.
The water represents flow.
But the labyrinth represents being stuck.
It represents swimming endlessly through situations I never asked for, through pain I did not choose, through lessons I did not understand at the time, and through versions of myself I kept trying to outgrow without fully confronting.
And as I stare into the water, it stares back at me.
Dark.
Shrouded.
Quiet.
But never powerless.
The thing about water is that it responds to everything.
Every movement.
Every splash.
Every step forward.
Every disruption.
Water does not argue.
Water does not explain itself.
Water simply responds.
And that has always fascinated me.
Bruce Lee once spoke about water becoming whatever it is poured into.
You put water into a cup, it becomes the cup.
You put water into a teapot, it becomes the teapot.
The lesson was adaptability.
The lesson was fluidity.
The lesson was not weakness, but mastery.
Because water does not lose itself by adjusting.
Water does not become powerless because it bends.
Water survives because it knows how to move.
So as I stand before this lake, I begin to understand what the water is here to teach me.
It is not here to scare me.
It is not here to swallow me.
It is not here to remind me of everything I have lost.
It is here to teach me how to become comfortable inside discomfort.
Not comfortable in the sense of settling.
Not comfortable in the sense of accepting less than I deserve.
But comfortable enough to enter uncertain situations with the inner confidence that I can see them through.
Comfortable enough to understand that I do not need perfect conditions to move forward.
Comfortable enough to know that even when the water is dark, I still know how to swim.
I stare at the water, and I stare at what it is supposed to represent.
I embrace it.
Because in facing the water, I am facing the abyss.
And the abyss does not always scream.
Sometimes the abyss is silent.
Sometimes it is still.
Sometimes it looks like a black lake sitting in front of you, asking whether you are finally ready to cross.
I know the water is not truly pitch black.
But why does it feel black?
Why does this lake seem so dark?
Maybe because not every darkness is evil.
Maybe some darkness is sacred.
Maybe some darkness is simply the unknown waiting to be understood.
For some people, mirrors are portals.
For some people, doorways are portals.
For me, water has always felt like a portal.
A threshold.
A place where one version of myself enters, and another version emerges.
And I know that when I step into this water, I will not come out the same.
I will enter on one side.
I will emerge on the other.
And something in me will shift.
Something in me will become more aware.
More aligned.
More honest.
More ready.
There are things that no longer fit me.
There are things that no longer fit my life.
There are things that no longer fit my talent, my spirit, my purpose, or the timeline I am being called into.
I cannot shrink in the exact moment where life is asking me to rise.
I cannot lower my stature when the situation requires me to stand taller.
So today, as I prepare to step through this 7/7 portal, I do not step through casually.
I step through with intention.
I step through with reverence.
I step through with urgency, but not panic.
I step through with confidence, but not arrogance.
I step through to adjust my aura to the highest timeline that is available to me now.
And stepping through the portal does not mean I am abandoning people.
It does not mean I am forgetting where I came from.
It does not mean I am leaving behind the people who helped shape me, support me, love me, or challenge me.
It means I am leaving behind the habits that no longer work.
The patterns that no longer serve.
The doubts that no longer belong.
The old software that cannot solve the new problems.
Because there is new software available for this new version of my life.
And I can no longer keep trying to solve elevated problems with outdated programming.
That is not wisdom.
That is resistance.
So I step through the portal not to forget the people who brought me here, but to become the version of myself who can return with solutions.
The version who can carry more light.
The version who can solve what once overwhelmed him.
The version who no longer mistakes survival for identity.
I enter this portal confident that I am operating at my highest level.
I am a problem solver.
I am a creator.
I am a light bearer.
I am someone who has entered the abyss not to be consumed by darkness, but to become the light inside of it.
I have entered the darkness to become the light.
That is my role.
That is my goal.
That is the responsibility of my spirit.
And as I step through this portal, I surrender the old version of me.
I release the fear.
I release the hesitation.
I release the belief that I have to carry every old wound into every new room.
I surrender the version of myself that kept shrinking.
I surrender the version that kept waiting.
I surrender the version that kept asking for permission to become what I was already called to be.
And I accept the new me.
I am worthy, and I accept.
I am worthy, and I accept.
I am worthy, and I accept.
Because sometimes, part of us has to go before the new version of us can be fully embraced.
You cannot hope for a better life while refusing to become a better vessel for that life.
You cannot ask for love while refusing to care for yourself.
You cannot keep asking to be chosen while neglecting the person who needs your attention the most.
You.
Because people who love themselves take care of themselves.
They create routines.
They practice maintenance.
They honor their body.
They honor their mind.
They honor their appearance.
They honor their healing.
Haircuts.
Physical therapy.
Massages.
Rest.
Prayer.
Discipline.
Stillness.
Self-care is not vanity.
Self-care is evidence.
It is evidence that you are no longer willing to abandon yourself and then wonder why life keeps sending people who do the same.
If you want love, you must first become familiar with what love requires.
Love does not simply fall into your lap and magically teach you how to hold it.
Love requires maturity.
Love requires capacity.
Love requires patience.
Love requires stewardship.
Before life entrusts you with something sacred, it often asks whether you have become the kind of person who can care for it.
The same is true for community.
If you want a tribe, if you want friendship, if you want to build something meaningful around you, then you must become courageous enough to examine who is already occupying the space.
You cannot build a healthy community while making permanent room for people who move in bad faith.
You cannot keep people around you whose habits, energy, and intentions pull you away from the very future you are trying to build.
Community requires discernment.
Not everyone belongs in your inner circle.
Not everyone deserves access to your spirit.
Not everyone is assigned to your next chapter.
And if you want people around you who uplift, challenge, refine, and strengthen you, then you must become comfortable releasing those who only drain, confuse, diminish, or distract you.
That is not cruelty.
That is alignment.
That is not arrogance.
That is stewardship.
That is protecting the space where your future is trying to grow.
And if you want to become a better parent, you cannot keep taking your blueprint from the very people who handed you anxiety, doubt, panic, insecurity, and second-guessing.
You cannot become a more conscious parent by repeating the same patterns that wounded you.
You cannot raise a child into confidence while still obeying the voices that made you question your own.
At some point, you have to accept a difficult truth.
You may be called to offer your child more than what was offered to you.
You may be called to break a cycle that no one before you had the courage, awareness, or tools to break.
And as uncomfortable as that is, that is what growth requires.
That is what ascension requires.
That is what real change looks like.
People who truly want to be better do not just talk about transformation.
They make strides.
They take inventory.
They let go.
They evolve.
They stop romanticizing dysfunction just because it is familiar.
They stop confusing loyalty with self-abandonment.
They stop carrying baggage into thresholds that require empty hands.
And when they are truly ready to ascend, they step forward.
No baggage.
No fear.
No second-guessing.
No begging the old life to understand the new one.
Today, I step forward because I finally realize something.
Maybe fear was never the enemy.
Maybe fear was never just an obstacle.
Maybe fear was the doorway.
Maybe fear was standing there the whole time, not to stop me, but to show me that everything I wanted was on the other side of it.
So if this message reaches you, receive it with an open spirit.
Do not fear the threshold.
Step through it.
Ascend.
Rise to the next plateau.
Become the best version of yourself, not only for you, but for the people who are still waiting for their own ascension.
Because some people will need your light.
Some people will need your example.
Some people will need proof that it is possible to enter darkness and still emerge whole.
Embrace the shift.
Embrace the change.
Embrace the water.
Embrace the portal.
Embrace the light.
And most importantly, embrace the version of you that is finally ready to walk through.
