The Death That Finally Introduced Me to Myself
How I became the frequency I'd been searching for in everyone else
I wrote this book because I died. Not the kind of dying where you post about it later with a butterfly emoji and call it “transformation.” The kind where your cells forget their job description. Where your lungs need a performance review just to keep showing up. Where you lie on the floor and your body genuinely doesn’t know if it’s an ending or a beginning. Turns out, it was both.
My blood knew before my brain caught up. My bones were already rearranging themselves around a new center of gravity. My flesh was composting the old me into soil for someone I hadn’t met yet: myself.
Here’s what happened. I was in love. Real love. The kind where you see each other so completely it’s like someone finally cleaned the mirror you’d been squinting into your whole life. We loved each other WITH our wounds, not despite them. The things that made other people say “that’s too much” were exactly what we adored. His broken pieces fit my broken pieces. Not in a toxic way. In an “oh, there you are” way.
We felt like we’d known each other for eternities. Like our cells had been having conversations long before our bodies met. Like time was just a formality our souls had already skipped past. We called it “life or death.” We called the sex “the drug.” We saw each other so completely that hiding wasn’t even an option. Not because we were brave. Because our nervous systems simply refused to perform for someone who could already see backstage.
And then one night, he was rude. And instead of my usual warm accommodating tone, the one I’d perfected over decades of managing other people’s nervous systems... I was rude right back. He wasn’t used to that frequency from me. So he pushed. Physically. Not to hurt. To create distance from something his fractals couldn’t process.
In the silence after, my whole system went still. Not frozen. CLEAR. Like a lake that finally stops rippling and shows you straight to the bottom. I didn’t say anything. I just knew. That night I cried. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere older than this lifetime, somewhere your grandmother’s grandmother stored her unshed tears. The kind that doesn’t want comfort because comfort would interrupt the cleaning.
And the next day, in complete stillness, I told him to pack his things. Not screaming. Not negotiating. Not explaining. Just... done.
Here’s the part that cracks me open every time I think about it. Our love did this. Our love WORKED. Not by lasting forever. Not by being “successful” in any way Instagram would recognize. It worked because it returned me to myself. The seeing, the adoring, the “I love your broken pieces”... it rebuilt something in me that had been missing since before I had language. He loved me back to me. And then I loved me enough to leave.
That’s the thing about real love that nobody puts on greeting cards. Sometimes it completes its mission by ending. Sometimes the deepest gift someone gives you is becoming the catalyst for you to finally choose yourself.
I spent the next months dying and being born simultaneously. Crying on floors. Forgetting how food works. Watching my identity dissolve like sugar in rain. Everything I thought I was, everything I thought love meant, everything I thought I needed... gone.
My grief became a forensic investigation. I pulled out every relationship I’d ever had. Every marriage. Every almost. Every “this time it’ll be different.” Spread them across the floor of my memory like crime scene photographs and started asking questions nobody had taught me to ask.
Why did the passion always fade? Not the comfortable-love-replaces-it fade, but the where-did-that-electricity-GO fade. Why did I keep choosing the same wound in different packaging? Why did my nervous system keep selecting “familiar chaos” from the menu like it was the only item available?
I watched my fractals at work. Saw how they operated across decades, across faces, across languages and countries and versions of me who thought she was different now, healed now, finally ready for real love now. Spoiler: she wasn’t. She was running the same software in better outfits. My sleepless nights became data. My chest cavity turned into a laboratory. Every man I’d ever loved became a case study in the places I’d abandoned myself.
Here’s what I found at the bottom of all that dying. The love I’d been searching for in every relationship. The frequency I was so sure existed between us. The thing I thought I could only access when someone else was reflecting it back.
It was me. It had always been me.
Not a concept. Not an affirmation I repeated until it stuck. A frequency I could feel humming in my cells that didn’t need anyone else’s presence to exist.
He didn’t take the love with him when he left. Because the love was never his to carry. He showed me where it lived by loving me well enough that I could finally see it. And then by leaving, he got out of the way so I could stop attributing it to him. The love wasn’t between us. The love was ME. He just helped me find her.
This book is what I learned in that death and birth.
Every pattern I name, I lived first. The collapsing into relationship-shaped boxes. The abandoning myself to keep love close. The mistaking intensity for destiny. The Googling “twin flame signs” at 3am like the algorithm had answers my body was already screaming.
Your nervous system has been taking notes on every time you chose someone else’s comfort over your own existence. Your cells remember every negotiation. Your bones have receipts.
But here’s the thing it took me dying to understand: Love isn’t something you find. It isn’t something you receive. It isn’t even something that exists between two people. Love is a frequency. And you either ARE it or you’re searching for someone else to be it for you.
The cut I made that morning, the “pack your things” that rose from a stillness I didn’t know I had... that was love. Not the relationship ending. Not abandonment. The moment I finally became the love I’d been outsourcing my whole life.
You’re not half a person hunting for your missing piece. You’re not a particle desperately seeking completion. You’re not too much, not enough, or waiting for someone to finally choose you.
You’re a wave. You’ve always been a wave. And waves don’t need completion. They need to stop collapsing into shapes that fit other people’s containers.
This book is your permission slip to stop shrinking. To stop auditioning. To stop translating yourself into frequencies that feel palatable to nervous systems that can’t handle your actual signal.
The person you’ve been searching for? She’s been here the whole time. Waiting for you to stop looking in other people’s eyes. Ready to meet you the moment you stop outsourcing your own frequency. She’s made of your blood and your breath and your 3am knowing. And she’s so ready to meet you. ✨