Standing at the Crossroads

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud

was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

~ Anais Nin

I have been feeling a growing restlessness. Old forms of expression no longer feel fully satisfying. Years of writings saved, but unpublished, are calling for exposure. But sharing my voice publicly is not a small pivot. It is transformation from private musings and reflections to public embodiment. After a lifetime of hiding, pretending to be less than rather than more, I am scared.

Private reflections are protected. They are raw and experiential. Intimate. Hidden. And forgiving if my thoughts don’t stand the test of time. Public embodiment asks something different of me. It asks for coherence under public scrutiny. Because once my voice becomes public I can no longer retreat into invisibility without feeling the cost of remaining tightly curled into a bud.

In the words of poet e e cummings – “it takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” It has taken courage to examine myself truthfully, and even more courage to share what I find. I am revealing my humanity, a humanity that is not always neatly packaged, not always pretty, does not always have the answers, and sometimes struggles to land. Revealing my humanity requires honesty, depth, discernment, presence, emotional literacy, and the courage to examine my struggles and claim my successes. But in so doing, you may see yourself in me, and together we can step more boldly into our fullness. And as I’m stepping into the third act of my life, I’m still becoming who I really am.

Twenty years ago I attended a workshop that opened the door to my becoming. In the opening moments the facilitator read the words of Marianne Williamson from her poem, Our Deepest Fear:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves,

“Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?”

Upon hearing those words, gut-wrenching sobs erupted from somewhere I did not yet understand. My embarrassment over my messy crying was not enough to stop them. They came from a soul-level yearning I did not know I carried.

Something inside of me knew –

The fear,

The concealment,

The longing,

The future unfolding,

The cost of shrinking,

and the inevitability of the emergence – long before my conscious mind could articulate the experience. I have spent twenty years exploring what those sobs have meant.

My body instantly recognized the battlefield of my childhood wounds - a childhood where being seen was dangerous, and where strength only unleashed the power of another. I learned to hide, to shrink, to turn away, to live in the safety of my inner world.

But I knew. I knew the day would come when I could no longer remain hidden.

For twenty years my mind, disguised as humility, has whispered, “If I do not fully reveal my magnitude, I will remain safe.” But the day has arrived when protection feels stifling, and the urge to sing my own song feels too overwhelming to ignore.

Twenty years ago I had a dream. I was alone in an attic – secluded, safe, and protected. Although safe, it was limiting and lifeless, and I had explored every inch. At the back of the attic was a staircase, leading to the freedom of a bigger world. I yearned to explore that world, but I knew there was a lion at the bottom of the stairwell guarding the door to freedom and preventing me from leaving. Passing beyond that lion seemed impossible, and I resigned myself to stay where I was.

Days passed and my boredom and yearning to escape the confines of my safety became so overwhelming that I was willing to risk the danger of the lion. To stay where I was, locked in the safe nothingness of the attic, was more than I could bear. I knew the risk of annihilation was worth taking for the possibility of more.

Very slowly I opened the attic door at the top of the stairs. It was a long and curving staircase and I could not see the bottom. I pressed myself close to the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible as I slowly inched my way down the stairs. Step by step I crept downward, unable to see the lion but able to hear it sleeping at the bottom of the stairs.

As I reached the lowest steps, holding my breath so as not to wake the lion, I finally saw the creature that had kept me locked in the safety of my emptiness. And what did I see? Not the ferocious lion I had imagined for all those years – but a small kitten sleeping peacefully at the bottom of the stairs. I stepped over the harmless creature and walked out the door.

Hiding has served its purpose. It has allowed me to develop

discernment,

integrity,

coherence,

humility,

wisdom,

groundedness,

and emotional depth.

But just like in my dream, the balance is shifting. The constriction that once protected me has become painful. And that is the crossroads upon which I stand.

My old forms of living no longer feel satisfying. A quiet restlessness has emerged. My work and avenues of self-expression no longer feel enough. My archives of unpublished writings, meditations, teachings, and recordings are weighing on me. Shrinking has become stifling, and the tension between depth and humility born of fear is becoming unbearable. The inner season is changing.

I am currently on retreat in my little camper, a refuge from the responsibilities of life. It’s where I feel nurtured, soothed, and my creativity comes alive. I spend my time in meditation, contemplation, and journaling, exploring the questions that always seem to appear.

Yesterday I grabbed one of the many black and white composition books I like to use when I write, choosing it simply because it had more blank pages remaining than the others. I poured out my frustrations and yearnings. Pausing in my writing, I became curious about what else I had explored in this notebook and was taken aback to discover it was the same one I had used when processing the ending of the life of my beloved border collie mix, Sage, only a few months before.

Sage came to me early in my professional journey and was beside me during every client meeting, every phone call, every class I taught, every shamanic journey I facilitated. He sat with quiet presence, and his steadiness steadied me as I offered that same steadiness to others.

It was while on my yearly retreat to Cape Cod last fall that I knew Sage was dying. I had known that he was slowing down. I knew that he was getting older. I knew that his time with me was limited. But it was the morning after we arrived, when he looked sleepily up at me from his bed on the floor but didn’t rise, that I knew.

I was devastated. I could not imagine life without my beloved companion, this gentle soul who had walked beside me, shared my breath, my silence, my laughter, my becoming. He walked beside me along the beaches. Hiked beside me through the woods. He saw into my eyes with knowing.

With my hands resting on his tired body, I meditated, wrote, and prayed. I moved through my disbelief, into grief, into denial, finally resting in the peace that transcends understanding. And from that place, I felt the truth. I felt Sage’s essence. I felt his soft brown eyes. I remembered his smile, so radiant that strangers often stopped to comment on his joy. I remembered his delight running on the beach, with the wind ruffling his ears. And I embraced his calmness while lying motionless next to the many clients with whom I was doing healing work. I breathed in his steadiness, his sensitivity, and his ability to see into one’s heart. I honored his embodiment of his name. Sage the wise one. Sage the purifier. Sage the releaser of that which no longer serves.

It was Sage who was with me when I was uncertain. It was Sage who witnessed my growth. It was Sage who held a mirror steady until I could finally see myself. But I knew his stewardship was complete, and that he had served me well. I knew that moving on was not betrayal, but rather, moving on was the final expression of care. Sage came to earth to help me to grow, and letting him go would be my final act of love. I gave Sage, a wounded little shelter dog, security, love, honor, and respect. And Sage? Sage gave me myself.

My heart broke at the thought of letting him go. I felt uncertain that I could navigate the complexities of my world on my own. But just as no one truly knows if they can ride a bicycle while the training wheels are still on, I also knew the only way to experience my sovereignty was to stand on my own.

Sage brought me to this crossroads, and it feels no accident that I found his writing in the same notebook I had randomly grabbed for this trip. I’m still feeling shaky as I attempt to navigate life alone. But I also suspect that Sage knew I would eventually move beyond my shakiness and learn to spread my wings and fly.

Perhaps that is what standing at the crossroads truly means. Not certainty. Not fearlessness. But simply reaching the moment when the pain of remaining hidden becomes greater than the fear of being seen.

And so here I stand. Not knowing where this road will lead me. Not fully arrived. Not fully certain. Not quite sure what I will share. But there is a voice within me that wants to be heard, and for the first time, in a very long time, I don’t wish to turn back.

Thank you for reading The Art of Being Human. If this piece spoke to you, I’d be honored to have you subscribe or share, so that we may continue to walk this path together.