I have done the breathwork. I have done the body work. I have sat in a cacao ceremony in a yurt in Glastonbury and cried with twelve strangers while someone played a singing bowl at a frequency that apparently rearranged my DNA. I have smudged. I have journalled. I have pulled the card, felt the shift, and floated home on a cloud of my own expansion.
Then I walked through my front door. And someone wanted to know what was for dinner.
Babe. I just had a kundalini awakening in the Tesco car park.
This is the gap nobody talks about. The one between who you are becoming on the retreat and whoever still needs feeding at half past six. And for the longest time I was sure the gap was the problem. That I simply had to clear harder. Protect the peace better. Do one more session and finally seal myself shut against the noise of ordinary life.
So I cleared. I cleared the energy. I cleared the space. I cleared the people who drained me. I cleared, and cleared, and cleared. And the strangest thing kept happening. The same dynamic turned up again. A different face every time. The exact same feeling underneath it.
I have cleared every chakra. I have cleared every man. Turns out I'm the pattern.
We move.
Here is what I have come to understand, and it changed everything. There is a difference between clearing something and actually feeling it. And most of what I was proudly calling clearing was really a very beautiful, very spiritual way of not feeling at all.
Michael Singer writes about this in The Untethered Soul. He describes the pain we carry as a thorn pressed against a nerve. You have two choices. You can spend your whole life protecting the thorn, arranging everything around it so nothing ever brushes the sore spot. Or you can take the thorn out. One is avoidance dressed up as self-care. The other is actual freedom.
Every time I cleared a room, a man, an energy, I was protecting the thorn. I was rearranging my whole life so the tender place would never get pressed. But a feeling you have refused to feel does not leave. It waits. It sits quietly in the body, and it draws the same situation back to you again and again. Not to punish you. Because it is still trying to be felt.
The pattern was never my enemy. It was the unfelt thing, knocking.
You cannot clear away what you have not felt. You can smudge it, name it, breathe over it, book another session about it, and it will still be there in the morning wearing a slightly different outfit. The only way anything truly leaves is through you. You have to be willing to feel it on its way out. Singer calls this the price of freedom, your willingness to stay soft and present while the old pain moves through and finally releases. It is not always comfortable. But it is the whole difference between a life spent managing a wound and a life where the wound is genuinely gone.
And this is the most hopeful thing I have ever realised, so stay with me. If I am the pattern, I am also the doorway. The work was never out there. It was never the retreat, or the ceremony, or the next person to clear. It was always the willingness to stop clearing for one honest moment and feel the thing I had been so busy avoiding. That is not bad news. It is the best news there is. It means the whole thing has always been in your own hands.
And understanding that in your body, not just your head, is the moment it actually starts to shift.
So if you keep clearing and the same feeling keeps coming home for dinner, you are not doing it wrong. You are simply ready for the next part. The part where you stop pushing it away, and let it be felt, gently, with something steady underneath you.