Listen to me. This may save your life.
There is a spirituality that seems “untouchable” - always calm, always wise, always unemotional. Never angry.
Like pristine pottery - smooth, symmetrical, untouched by chaos. Beautiful to look at. But lifeless in the hands. No cracks, no fingerprints, no blood.
Just repressive silence posing as peace.
And beneath it, a terrible fear:
Fear of mess. Fear of grief. Fear of being fully human. Fear of intimacy.
I know. I hid there once, too. I thought peace meant rising above heartbreak, longing, trauma.
Hiding out in “Pure Awareness” … like a zombie.
But life did not let me escape. Grief came anyway. Shame. Rage. Doubt. Not to punish me, but to finally liberate me.
True peace did not come from avoiding my humanity. It came only when I turned toward it. When I let myself be cracked open.
When I surrendered, and found God in the wreckage.
I do not seek a polished spirituality anymore. Not the kind that bypasses trauma. Not the kind that mistakes emotional numbness for wisdom.
I seek trembling. I seek the body, the nervous system, the sensuality and raw truth of each sacred moment.
In the end, life shatters every dogma, even the dogma called “Pure Awareness.”
What remains is the holy mess. Grief. Longing. Rage. Connection. The utter, utter beauty of the unresolved.
You are not here to be perfect. You are here to be utterly fucking real.
You are here to lose the answers and feel your way through. You are here to weep your way toward the Beloved, in mad devotion to life.
Even your deepest human wound is not a mistake. Don’t bypass it.
Flood it with the elixir of warm merciful attention and breath.
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