Slowly, I feel myself letting go —
losing the identity I’ve always known:
the caretaker, the responsible one, the considerate one,
the kind one, the homeschooling mom,
the partner and business wife,
the teacher at the local studio,
the morning practitioner held by ritual,
the online community member shaped by shared daily depth.
So many roles I’m being asked to release.
Not because it’s been too long,
and not because they stopped working.
If anything, they worked too well, for too long—
well enough to keep me stuck.
And contrary to my habit of holding on out of loyalty,
I’m being asked to let go while things are still good—
before bitterness, resentment, or exhaustion take root.
It feels premature, and yet deeply right.
In that unraveling, I feel grief.
A profound sadness.
As if I’m laying down the things I love
and dressing myself in faith—
trusting that if they are truly mine,
they will return.
Maybe not in their familiar forms,
but in new expressions,
ones that can meet me at a higher octave—
a higher rung on this circular staircase
of ascension and consciousness.
That is where I am.
That is where I’m going.
And I hope the parts of my life I cherish
will meet me there anew.