In the Eye of the Storm: Finding Breath Inside the Void

Two weeks ago a single envelope changed everything.A letter from the passport agency landed in our mailbox and detonated a chain reaction of old survival stories — fear of money, control, safety, and worth. Since then, it’s felt like standing in the middle of a demolition site while trying to remember how to breathe.

Every surface in our home tells the story: half-filled jars of oil for Mama’s Market, boxes from last season’s porch stands, leftover décor from the Equinox gathering I hosted because Spirit said yes — but that still cost me money to put on. The clutter is a mirror of the ways I’ve tried to force flow, to prove my worth through effort. My hips, legs, and feet echo the same truth, aching under the weight of a lifetime spent hustling to survive.

I thought life after Tony’s stroke would be different — light, fluid, divinely orchestrated. I imagined that if I trusted the Universe and served love, abundance would meet me halfway. Instead, the last two weeks have felt like the eye of a storm that won’t pass. My creative endeavors are on pause while old stories replay in a loop so vivid my body can’t tell memory from the present.

The heartbreak runs deep: another canceled trip to Ireland, undone by a tax tangle I thought I had resolved back in 2021 with help from Senator Hassan’s office — but nothing was truly resolved at all. Because I believed nothing could stop us this time, I didn’t buy trip insurance, and now the money we spent is simply gone.The lingering tax tangle feels like a mirror for the larger systems we all live inside — slow, imperfect, and driven by the same survival patterns I’m learning to release. It’s another reminder that the personal and the collective are never separate, and that every old story returning now carries a lesson in sovereignty.

I’ve been asking myself again and again: Was I ever enough? As a mother, as a creator, as a woman devoted to love and truth. Each resurgence of fear presses into my bones like an old bruise I can’t stop touching. I ache to glean the lesson, to understand what life itself is trying to show me.

Before the bombs fell, a message from a trusted spiritual guide lit my path:

“A collective is anchoring the codes for attracting money because I exist. Play. Rest. Create. In that order. Any urgency that shows up in your body — release it back to Source.You are unraveling abundance being tied to matrix toxicity.Trust the transition.”

I still believe those words, but lately it feels as though the matrix has me by the ankles, dragging me back into survival.Part of me longs to surrender fully to the experiment of faith; another part scans job boards and wonders if it’s time to write a résumé—something remote, something real—so I can keep watch over Papa and honor our caregiving duties while Tony works outside the home.That tension, between trust in the unseen and responsibility in the seen, is where this journal begins.

Every surface telling the story of how I tried to earn what was always meant to flow.

Of Bones & Breath is my field notebook from the void — a living record of what it means to stay awake while everything familiar is collapsing. I’ll be documenting, in real time, the highs and lows of remembering love: the fear, the faith, the clutter, the clearing, the moments when the body speaks louder than belief.

I don’t have answers. I have breath. I have bones. And I have faith that both remember what the mind forgets:that even in the wreckage, life is rebuilding something holy.