You Don't Lose Someone Until You've Already Become Them
What Happens When the Mirror Breaks and You're Still Standing: A Portal Guide to Grief
A note before we begin: Look, I’m about to tell you something that’s going to sound completely insane, but stay with me because your nervous system is about to have its “oh SHIT” moment. 💫
You know that thing where someone leaves: your cat, your person, your entire sense of self, and you’re on the floor at 2am ugly-crying into a pizza box wondering if you’re going to survive this? Yeah. That. 💔
Here’s the plot twist nobody tells you: You don’t lose someone because the universe hates you. You lose them because you just graduated. 🎓✨
I KNOW. I fucking know. You want to throw this article at my head right now. “Graduated?? GRADUATED?! I’m literally in the fetal position, what the fuck are you talking about...?” I know because it’s just happening to me, so... I’ve got some insights to share.
So hear me out, because what I’m about to show you isn’t some “everything happens for a reason” spiritual bypassing bullshit. This is quantum physics. Nervous system mechanics. The actual energetic architecture of what happens when someone you love disappears from your physical reality. 🌀🔬
Whether you just lost your cat, your mother, your marriage, your health, or your entire grip on who you thought you were: the frequency shift is the same. The portal works the same way. 🚪
And by the end of this? You’re going to understand why grief isn’t the end. It’s the activation code. A portal.⚡ Spoiler alert: You’re not broken. You’re upgrading. 🔥🦋
Quick note: I’ll use my story with my cat as the main thread through this piece, but whether you lost a person, a place, a dream, your health, or your entire sense of self… the portal works the same way. The principles are universal. The grief is personal. Both are true.
Now let’s crack this thing open. 🌌
CHAPTER I: The Portal Principle
You Don’t Lose Them Until You’ve Already Become Them
Here’s the thing about loss that’s going to completely rewire your understanding of how reality actually works: You don’t lose someone because you failed. You don’t lose them because the universe is cruel, or random, or testing you, or punishing you for that time you ate your roommate’s leftover Thai food. You lose them because you’re ready.
And I can feel you about to throw your phone across the room right now. “Ready?? READY?! I’m sobbing into my pillow at 3am wondering how I’m going to survive another hour without them, and you’re telling me I’m READY?” Yes. Exactly that. Not ready as in “zen, healed, glowing skin, perfect credit score, life sorted.” Ready as in: the frequency they were holding for you just finished downloading into your system.
Your soul knows this. Your body might be a sobbing disaster on the bathroom floor. Your brain might be running conspiracy theories about why this happened. But your soul? Your soul just hit the activation button and whispered: “Okay. I’ve got this now. They can go.”
This is the part nobody tells you about grief. They act like loss is this random cosmic lottery where the universe just picks names out of a hat like some kind of sadistic bingo game. But that’s not how it works. Loss is never random. Loss is a portal. And you don’t walk through that portal until something inside you is ready to become what they were showing you all along.
The Activation Moment (When Reality Cracks Open)
Picture this: There’s a woman. She’s been sleeping forehead-to-forehead with her cat for eight years. Every single night. Breath synchronized. Hearts beating in the same rhythm. Like two instruments that learned to play the exact same song without ever discussing the sheet music.
The cat isn’t just a pet. The cat is her softness incarnate. Living, breathing proof that unconditional love exists. That being gentle doesn’t equal being weak. That tenderness isn’t a character flaw that’ll get you destroyed.
For eight years, this woman has been borrowing this frequency. Feeling it through fur and purrs and the way the cat sprints across the apartment when she starts crying. The cat is like her external hard drive for “how to be soft without apologizing for it.”
And then one night, the cat walks out the door. The woman stands on the balcony at 2am. Full moon lighting up the meadow below like the universe decided to install a spotlight for this exact moment. She sees the cat. Their eyes meet one last time. And the cat... leaves. Not dramatically. Not with fanfare or explanation. Just shifts. Moves between dimensions like smoke slipping through your fingers when you try to hold it.
Now here’s what nobody tells you about this moment: The cat didn’t leave because the woman did something wrong. The cat left because the woman finally became her own softness. The woman has no idea. She’s devastated. Standing there thinking she just lost everything that mattered. But here’s what actually happened in the quantum field:
For eight years, the cat was an external anchor. A physical reminder that tenderness exists in this world. That unconditional presence is real and not just some fairy tale your therapist sells you. And somewhere during those eight years... through every forehead touch, every midnight purr, every moment the cat ran to her when she was breaking... the woman absorbed it. The frequency transferred. Cell by cell. Breath by breath.
Softness stopped being “out there in the cat” and started being “in here, in my bones, in my nervous system, in the way I move through the world.” And the moment that transfer completed? The portal opened. The cat’s job was done. Not because the woman didn’t need love anymore. But because she’d become the love she was seeking.
The Quantum Truth of Transfer
Here’s how it actually works: You don’t lose someone until their frequency has already migrated into you. Think of it like this: They’re a tuning fork. You’re a guitar string. For however long you’re together, they’re vibrating at a specific frequency, and you’re resonating with it. Every time you’re near them, your string starts humming the same note. But here’s the thing about resonance: it doesn’t stay external forever.
If you’re in someone’s field long enough, truly open to them, truly letting them touch the raw parts of you? Their frequency starts imprinting into your cells. Into your nervous system. Into the way you breathe and move and exist in the world. And at some point, sometimes suddenly, sometimes gradually, you start generating that frequency yourself. You don’t need the external tuning fork anymore. Because you’ve become the tuning fork. That’s when they leave.
Not because they stopped loving you. But because the work is complete. The transmission is finished. The portal is open. And now it’s your job to carry that frequency forward.
But here’s where it gets tricky: Sometimes you’ve already become it, but you don’t know until they’re gone. The woman with the cat? She’d already integrated that softness. Already become her own unconditional presence. But she didn’t realize it until the cat disappeared and she was standing there alone, still breathing, still whole, still capable of tenderness even without the external reminder. The loss was the reveal. The cosmic “surprise, love, you’ve been the medicine this whole time.”
Sometimes you’re on the threshold, and the loss is the push. Like when someone leaves and suddenly you’re forced to find your own strength. Your own voice. Your own capacity to hold yourself through the 3am spirals. You weren’t quite there yet. But you were close enough that the universe said, “Okay, time to jump. I know you’re scared. But you’re ready.” The loss becomes the initiation. The fire that forges you into the thing you were always becoming.
And sometimes? It happens simultaneously. The loss and the becoming are the same moment. Like a chrysalis cracking open. You’re not a caterpillar anymore, but you’re not quite a butterfly yet either. You’re in that brutal in-between where everything is liquid and terrifying and raw and you have no idea what shape you’re going to take. But that’s the portal. That’s transformation happening in real time. That’s you becoming what you thought you lost.
💠 INTEGRATION PORTAL I: Frequency Recall: Sit in stillness. Hand on heart. Don’t think about their face or the story of what happened. Feel into how they made you feel. That quality. That frequency. Ask yourself out loud: “What frequency were they holding for me?” Was it safety? Permission to be wild? Deep presence? Unconditional acceptance? Say it. Whisper it. Let your body respond. Notice where you feel it. Chest? Throat? Belly? This isn’t nostalgia. This is activation. You’re tuning into what’s already been downloaded. You’re claiming it as yours now. Do this whenever grief hits. It transforms “I miss them” into “I’m becoming what I loved in them.”
CHAPTER II: The Lineage of Loss
How Every Ending Leads to the Same Portal
Here’s where it gets mystical: Some places become portals. Thresholds where all your losses gather. Where every ending you’ve ever experienced leaves an imprint in the field like footprints in wet cement. That meadow where the woman released her cat? Two months earlier, she and a man released a rabbit there. A real one. They’d tried to adopt him, but he wouldn’t be held. Wouldn’t be tamed. Just kept running toward the door like he was late for an extremely important appointment. So they let him go under the full moon. Released him into the wild because trying to keep him felt like trying to cage water. Two days later, a fox came.
The rabbit taught her: You can’t possess softness. You can only be it. The cat taught her: You don’t need an external anchor for unconditional love. You are the anchor. And the meadow? The meadow is the place where every version of her that needed someone else to hold her tenderness goes to die. So the new version, the one who holds herself, can be born.
The Messenger (When Loss Announces Itself)
And here’s the part that’ll give you chills: A week before the cat disappears, the woman sees another cat. One she hasn’t seen in years. The one who left its body when her daughter was born. The black cat with the wounded eye and missing tail. But now she’s back, communicating through another body. Scarred. Battle-worn. Like she’s been through some cosmic war and barely made it out alive. And the woman knows, not thinks, not suspects, but knows in her bones, this is a messenger. The wounded cat isn’t here to stay. She’s here to say: “What’s coming isn’t punishment. It’s initiation. Get ready.” Two days later, the other cat is gone.
Loss doesn’t happen randomly. It happens in waves. In orchestrated sequences. Like dominoes falling in a pattern you can only see from above. Like a symphony where each instrument exits at exactly the right moment to make space for the next movement. And every wave is clearing space for the next level of you. The you who doesn’t need external validation to know you’re worthy. The you who doesn’t need someone else’s presence to feel whole. The you who can hold your own softness without apologizing for taking up space.
The Brutal Grace of Becoming (Why It Has to Hurt This Much)
Okay, so at this point you’re probably like, “Cool, very mystical, very poetic, but I’m still a fucking wreck on my bedroom floor, so where’s the part where this stops feeling like I’m being filleted alive?” Fair question. Here’s the thing: it has to feel like death. Because part of you IS dying. The you that needed them? Dead. The you that borrowed their frequency? Dead. The you that thought love meant “someone out there completing the half of me I can’t access alone”? Very, very dead.
And that death is brutal. Because you’re not just losing them. You’re losing the version of yourself that made sense with them in the picture. The entire identity you built around being “the person who loves them” or “the person they love back.”
When loss cracks you open, and I mean really cracks you, the kind of crying that sounds like it’s coming from a cave system deep in your chest, something shifts. You’re not just grieving the present loss. You’re grieving every loss you ever swallowed. The scream you buried at 12 when your parent died. The rage you stuffed down to keep the peace. Every time you made yourself small so someone else could stay comfortable. Every version of yourself that died quietly so others wouldn’t have to witness your pain. All of it. Surfacing. Finally.
And here’s the wild thing: the current loss is just the door opening. What pours out is decades of unexpressed grief that’s been waiting for a safe enough moment to move.
💠 INTEGRATION PORTAL II: Release One Old Identity: You can’t become the new you while clutching the old one. Try this: Write a letter from the version of you who existed before the loss. Let them speak. Let them say what they’re afraid of letting go. Let them grieve their own death. Then: burn it, bury it, or dissolve it in water. Let the old identity return to Source. As you release it, say out loud: “I honor who I was. I release who I am no longer. I welcome who I’m becoming.” This isn’t about forgetting. It’s about composting. Turning what was into fertilizer for what’s emerging.
CHAPTER III: What’s Happening In Your Nervous System
(Or: Why You Feel Like You’re Dying When You’re Actually Being Born)
Alright. Let’s get granular. Let’s talk about what’s actually happening in your body when someone you love disappears from your physical reality. Because this isn’t just emotional. This isn’t just “feelings.” This is your entire nervous system having a complete meltdown and reorganization at the same time.
The Physiology of Frequency Loss
Here’s what nobody tells you: When you love someone, really love them, the kind where you sleep forehead-to-forehead or can feel them thinking about you from across the city, your nervous systems literally synchronize. This isn’t poetry. This is measurable science. Your heart rate starts matching theirs. Your breath falls into rhythm with theirs. Your cortisol levels drop when they’re near because your body has decided: “Oh good, my co-regulator is here. I can relax now.” You become a two-person orchestra playing the same song. And then one day, one of the instruments goes silent.
Your nervous system doesn’t understand “they moved away” or “they died” or “they’re in a different dimension now.” Your nervous system only understands: THE SIGNAL STOPPED. And it absolutely loses its shit. Heart racing. Chest tight. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Randomly crying in the produce section because you saw their favorite fruit and your body went, “Oh! The co-regulator likes these! Where is the co-regulator??” This isn’t you being dramatic. This is autonomic dysregulation. Your system is trying to recalibrate after losing its external stabilizer.
But here’s the gift hidden inside this absolute nightmare: This is your nervous system learning to self-regulate. Learning that you don’t need their breath to steady yours. Learning that you can be your own anchor. Your own safe space. Your own proof that you’re worthy of existing. It feels like death because a part of your nervous system IS dying. The part that outsourced regulation to someone else. And what’s being born? The part that can hold itself. Soothe itself. Love itself without needing external confirmation every five seconds. That’s not loss. That’s liberation wearing a death mask.
The Frequency Transfer (Quantum Edition)
Let’s get weird for a second. Let’s talk quantum. In quantum physics, there’s this thing called entanglement. When two particles interact, they become connected in a way that transcends physical distance. You can separate them by lightyears, and they’ll still influence each other instantaneously. Einstein called it “spooky action at a distance” because it made him deeply uncomfortable that reality could work this way. Well guess what? You and the beings you love are entangled too.
When you’re in someone’s field, really IN it: heart open, defenses down, letting them see the parts of you that usually stay hidden… your frequencies literally braid together. You become quantum-entangled at the energetic level.
Look, I’m talking about quantum physics as a metaphor here, not a literal scientific framework. I’m not claiming your grief is measurable with a particle accelerator. But the feeling, that sense of being cosmically connected to someone and then having that connection transform rather than disappear? That’s real. Your nervous system knows it. Your cells know it. And sometimes poetry gets closer to truth than peer-reviewed journals.
And here’s where it gets wild: When they leave, the entanglement doesn’t break. It transforms. The frequency that was flowing between you? It doesn’t disappear. It collapses into you. Think of it like this: Before, you had an external power source. Now you’ve become the power source. The electricity didn’t vanish: it just changed location. But your body doesn’t know that yet. Your body is still reaching for the external outlet, trying to plug in, finding nothing. That confusion, that disorientation, that sense of “everything is wrong and I don’t know how to exist like this”? That’s not you falling apart. That’s you reconfiguring. Your entire energy system is rewiring itself to generate internally what it used to receive externally. And yeah, it feels like getting your bones replaced while you’re still conscious. Because that’s basically what’s happening.
When Your Body Becomes the Loss
Let’s speak to a grief not often named: the loss of your body as you knew it. Maybe through illness. Injury. Aging. Maybe slow. Maybe sudden. But there’s a moment you realize: I can’t move the way I used to. I can’t live the way I used to. And the grief is real. The betrayal is real. The shame, the anger, the fear…real. Your body isn’t just changing. It’s become the thing you’re losing. Not them. Not a place. Not a person outside you. But the vessel you’ve inhabited your whole life. You wake up and the pain is there before you even open your eyes. Or the fatigue. Or the limitation. And you think: This body is betraying me.
But here’s what’s also real: Your essence was never your flesh. Your worth was never your strength. Your identity was never your function. Your body is not punishing you: it’s initiating you into a deeper truth: You are not your form. You are the consciousness that animates it. And now, that consciousness is asking: Can you love me here? In this new shape? In this new limitation? In this new wisdom? Because when you do, when you stop mourning the old body and start honoring the new one, you step into the final phase of becoming: Embodiment without condition. You don’t become your illness. You don’t become your injury. You become the grace that holds it all. The frequency transfer here? You’re learning that presence doesn’t require perfect form. That love doesn’t need a flawless container. That you can be whole even when your body feels broken. And that? That’s the most radical integration of all.
Why “They’re In A Better Place” Doesn’t Help
People love to say this, when someone dies. “Oh, they’re in a better place now. They’re at peace. They’re watching over you.” And you want to scream, “GREAT. FANTASTIC. BUT MY HANDS STILL DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO HOLD.” Here’s why that spiritual truth doesn’t land: Your mind might know they’re energy, they’re consciousness, they’re not really gone. But your body? Your body is a creature of form. It knows reality through touch, smell, sound, heat. Your body reads the world through sensation. And the sensation has changed. Radically. Permanently.
“They’re in a better place” is a high-frequency truth. But your body is operating in dense matter, where touch matters, where physical presence is how love gets proven. The journey isn’t about convincing yourself they’re still here. The journey is about bridging the frequency gap. Learning to feel their presence without needing their form. Learning to sense them through subtlety instead of through obvious physical cues. That takes time. That takes practice. That takes sitting in the absolute agony of “I know this intellectually but my body is still screaming.” And there’s no shortcut. You can’t think your way out of grief. You can only feel your way through it.
💠 INTEGRATION PORTAL III: Self-Co-Regulation: Your nervous system is learning to be its own anchor. Help it along: Coherence Breath: Lie down or sit comfortably. One hand on heart, one on belly. Inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 8. Repeat for 10 rounds (about 3-5 minutes). As you breathe, say silently on the exhale: “I am the safety. I am the breath. I am here.” Your body will start to believe you. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but with repetition, your nervous system learns: I don’t need them to feel safe. I AM safety. Do this 2-3 times a day, especially when panic hits or grief floods in. You’re teaching your system a new song.
CHAPTER IV: The Sacred Pattern
Why This Keeps Happening (And What It’s Actually Teaching You)
You know what’s funny? (And by funny I mean “makes you want to throw furniture.”) Loss doesn’t just happen once. It happens in waves. In patterns. In sequences that feel like the universe is personally targeting you for some kind of cosmic hazing ritual. But here’s the thing: Every loss is actually the same loss. Let me explain.
The Fractal Nature of Grief
Every major loss in your life is connected. Not randomly. Not coincidentally. But fractally. That means each loss is a reflection of the original wound, just at a different scale. Like how a fern leaf looks like the whole fern, just smaller. Or how the branching of your lungs mirrors the branching of a tree. When your cat leaves, it’s not just about the cat. It’s about every time you’ve lost safety, softness, unconditional presence. It’s your mom dying when you were young. It’s your best friend moving away in third grade. It’s every time you opened up and got shut down. All of it. Stacked. Layered. Waiting.
And when the new loss happens? All those old losses wake up and go, “Oh hey, we remember this feeling.” That’s why you’re not just crying about the thing you lost today. You’re crying about everything you’ve ever lost, all at once, in surround sound. And people don’t get this. They think you’re “stuck” or “overreacting.” They say things like, “It’s been three months, shouldn’t you be over this by now?” But you’re not grieving one thing. You’re clearing an entire lineage of loss. You’re processing every moment your heart broke and you weren’t allowed to fully feel it. This isn’t regression. This is deep integration. And it’s actually a compliment from your soul. It means: “You’re finally strong enough to feel all of this. You’re finally safe enough to let it move through you.”
The Soul Contract (When Someone Leaves “Too Soon”)
Sometimes you meet someone and it feels like the universe conspired for centuries just to place them in your life at that exact moment. And you think, Finally. You think, This is it. And then they leave. There’s a pair of people who meet and the universe vibrates. Not cute butterflies. Not “oh this is nice.” More like: every cell recognizes itself in another form and goes “HOLY SHIT, THERE I AM.” They call their intimacy “the temple.” Because that’s what it becomes. A place where two people dissolve into pure light. Where touch is prayer and breath is worship and you forget where your body ends and theirs begins.
And then one of them pushes other, physically, closes the door. Locks it. Says with their body what they can’t say with words: “I can’t hold this. I can’t hold you.” And the other person is destroyed. Because they think they lost the relationship, love of their life.... Lost the only place they’ve ever felt safe being fully open. But here’s what actually happened in the quantum field: They weren’t meant to stay. They came to deliver something: a frequency, a remembrance, a disruption, a mirror… and once delivered, the contract completed. This is not abandonment. This is fulfillment.
Some souls enter with an expiration date written in invisible ink. You don’t see it until they vanish and everything in you erupts. But when the dust settles, and you see what they activated in you, what they mirrored, what they reminded you of... You realize: They kept the contract. They did exactly what we agreed on before we ever met in this form. The person who left? They were never supposed to stay. They were a frequency activator. Their job was to show you that you could open that wide. That your capacity for deep love wasn’t a character flaw. That your tenderness wasn’t going to kill you. And they did. Mission fucking accomplished. But if they’d stayed? You would’ve kept outsourcing that openness to them. Kept believing, “I’m only safe when they hold me. I’m only whole when they see me.” Their leaving forced you to realize: I’m the one holding me now. I’m the softness I was searching for. The portal opened. The frequency transferred. And they exited stage left because their role in this particular cosmic play was complete. That is holy. That is sacred. That is enough.
When a Friend Becomes a Portal
Now let’s talk about a loss that doesn’t get enough airtime: the death of a soul-level friendship. There are friendships that aren’t just friendships. They’re internal legends. You have a language only the two of you speak. A history that spans decades. A knowing that transcends words. This person wasn’t just your friend. They were the mirror for your wildness. The safe space for your “too much.” The one who looked at your chaos and said, “Yeah, that’s beautiful. Keep going.” And then something shifts. Life pulls you in different directions. Or there’s a betrayal. Or just... drift. The kind where texts go unanswered and plans fall through and suddenly you realize you haven’t really talked in months.
And when that friendship dies, it’s not just the loss of a person. It’s the loss of the version of you that only existed with them. The you who could be unfiltered. The you who didn’t have to explain your weird jokes or defend your intensity. The you who was seen, fully, and loved because of it, not in spite of it. In your chest: it feels like a wing falling off. Not pain exactly. But the sudden realization that you can’t fly the way you used to. In your throat: stories that stop halfway because you don’t know who else would get the punchline. In your heart: quiet rage. Quiet shame. Why didn’t they fight for us? Why wasn’t I worth fighting for?
But here’s the energetic truth underneath all that: They were holding a mirror for your depth, your strangeness, your unfiltered self, until you learned to see it yourself. They were the external validator that said, “Your weird is wonderful”, until you became the one who knows that, no questions asked. The friendship didn’t end because you weren’t worthy. It ended because the frequency transfer was complete. You don’t need their reflection anymore. You ARE the reflection. And yeah, it hurts like hell. Because you loved them. Because you wanted them to stay. But the portal opened anyway. And on the other side? You’re the one who holds your own wildness. Who validates your own depth. Who sees your own magic without needing anyone else’s eyes to confirm it.
The Initiation Pattern
Here’s something that’ll blow your mind: Loss is an initiatory practice. In indigenous cultures, initiation always involves death. Not literal death (usually), but symbolic death. The death of who you were. The death of your old identity. The death of the child-self so the adult-self can emerge. And it’s never gentle. It’s fire and water and being buried in the earth. It’s vision quests and fasting and facing your demons in the dark. Because transformation doesn’t happen through comfort. It happens through pressure. Through heat. Through the absolute dissolution of everything you thought you were.
Modern Western culture doesn’t initiate people anymore. We don’t have rites of passage. We don’t have elders guiding us through death and rebirth. So the universe does it for us. Every major loss is an initiation. Every ending is a death ceremony. Every moment you think you’re being destroyed? You’re actually being reborn. And yeah, it’s brutal. Because initiations are SUPPOSED to be brutal. That’s literally the point. You’re not meant to skip through this shit with a smile on your face and a gratitude journal. You’re meant to be absolutely shattered. Completely undone. Rebuilt from the ground up.
The woman whose cat left, sobbing so hard she can’t breathe? She’s not having a breakdown. She’s in the middle of her fucking initiation. And on the other side? She’s going to be someone completely different. Someone who doesn’t need external validation to know she’s whole. Someone who carries her own softness like a superpower instead of a liability.
Why It Has To Hurt This Much
People always ask: “But why does it have to hurt so MUCH? Couldn’t the universe teach me this lesson through, I don’t know, a pleasant dream or an inspiring TED talk?” No. Because pain is the only thing that gets through. When you’re comfortable, you don’t change. You don’t grow. You just maintain. Pain is the signal that something needs to shift. That the old system isn’t working anymore. That the frequency you’ve been running on is obsolete. The depth of your pain is directly proportional to the depth of your love.
You’re not hurting this much because you’re weak. You’re hurting this much because you loved hard. Because you opened all the way. Because you let them into the sacred spaces inside you that most people never even access. That’s not a flaw. That’s your superpower. And now you’re learning that the love you gave them wasn’t actually FOR them. It was always yours. They were just the mirror showing you what you’re capable of. And now the mirror is gone. And you’re standing there, finally seeing your own face. Terrifying? Absolutely. But also? Fucking liberating.
💠 INTEGRATION PORTAL IV: My Initiation Story: Grief is an initiation, but what is it initiating you INTO? Journal on this: “If this loss were a sacred rite of passage designed perfectly for my evolution... what is it turning me into?” Don’t think. Don’t edit. Just write. Let yourself rage, sob, channel, reclaim. What qualities am I being forced to embody now that they’re gone? What would I never have learned if they’d stayed? If this is an initiation, what’s the title of the new version of me on the other side? Let the truth spill. It might be ugly. It might be raw. It might surprise you. That’s the point.
CHAPTER V: The Everyday Sacred
How This Shows Up In Normal Life (Because You Still Have To, Like, Go To Work)
Okay so we’ve been very cosmic and mystical for a while. Let’s bring this down to earth. Because here’s the thing: you’re reading this, having these massive spiritual realizations about loss and frequency and portals, but you still have to do laundry. You still have to show up to meetings. You still have to answer texts and pay bills and pretend to be a functioning human. So how do you live with this knowledge? How do you integrate this while also trying to remember if you fed the dog?
When You Lose Your Pet
People who’ve never had this kind of bond with an animal will never understand. They’ll say, “It’s just a pet” and you’ll want to explain: No, this was a being who loved me without conditions, who never needed me to be anything other than what I am, who held space for me when I couldn’t hold space for myself. Your pet was your teacher in unconditional presence. In being here now. In loving without agenda. And now they’re gone, and you have to learn to be that for yourself. To give yourself that kind of pure, uncomplicated acceptance. You’renot just missing them. You’re learning to carry what they taught you. Every time you used to come home stressed and they’d greet you like you were the best thing that ever happened… that wasn’t about them being a good pet. That was them showing you what it looks like to receive yourself with joy. Every time they’d curl up next to you without needing anything: no performance, no transaction, just presence… that was them teaching you that your existence alone is enough. And now? Now you’re the one who has to greet yourself with that same unconditional joy. You’re the one who has to offer yourself that same uncomplicated presence. The frequency didn’t leave with their body. It downloaded into yours.
When You Lose Your Job (And Your Identity With It)
There’s a woman who was her work. Not just did it: WAS it. Mentor. Visionary. CEO. Healer. She had a business card, but more than that, she had a frequency. People walked into the room and thought: “She knows. She holds.” And that held her too. Then came the layoffs. The restructuring. The burnout. Call it what you want: she didn’t just lose a schedule. She lost the mirror. There was nothing left to tell her: you matter. No meetings. No thank-yous. No tasks completed. No proof.
In her body: Energy leaking from her fingertips. She couldn’t get out of bed, not from exhaustion but because she didn’t know who was getting up. Like she’d dissolved into air. In her head: Noise. Then silence. Then screaming. “Was I just a function? Am I anything when I’m not giving?” In her day: Coffee without purpose. Empty inbox. No one waiting for her insight. No one asking for her voice. And then... quiet. Not emptiness. Space. A blank page. And every day, she had to become: Competent without applause. Valuable without tasks. A leader without an audience. Someone who knows, even when no one’s watching.
Here’s what happened energetically: For years, her identity was fused with a collective structure. That job wasn’t just a role: it was an energetic entity that gave her a vibration: “You’re worthy because you contribute. You’re valuable because you know. You’re real because you function.” When that collapsed, she experienced energetic dissociation. Her personal field lost its external anchor. The daily rhythm that told her “this is who you are” disappeared. But here’s the gift: She had to learn to generate that frequency from within. Not from title. Not from validation. Not from productivity. From pure presence. She learned: I am that competence. I am that wisdom. Even when no one sees it. The job was never the source. It was just the place she practiced. And now she takes that frequency everywhere.
When You Lose Your Home (The Geography of Belonging)
There’s a particular grief that comes from losing place. Not just an address. But the space that held your rhythms. Your history. Your ghosts. Maybe emigration. Displacement. Or just moving away from somewhere that knew your name. For one person, home wasn’t walls. It was: Morning that smelled like wet bark. Church bells that reminded her time isn’t the enemy. The baker who knew she liked her crust without salt. Streets that recognized her footsteps. Windows that witnessed her longing.
When she had to leave, not for a trip, but forever, something ripped. Not a break. A slow bleed from the soul. Breathing: Shallow. The body searching for familiar rhythms. Everything gray. Space: Sterile rooms that don’t know her prayers. Her sitting patterns. Her skin. No more light through the curtains at 6:34pm. No more being held by a place that remembered her. And then… days of wandering. Outside and inside. Until she realized: What was home now has to become internal landscape. She had to become the street that knows her steps. She had to carry the smell of belonging without a map. She had to root herself like a seed held in her palms. Become the walking home.
Energetically, this is about geo-frequency anchoring. Every place you love carries a resonance. It’s not just geography: it’s a coherent vibrational system that syncs with your personal field. That place holds your traces. Your sighs. Your energetic signatures in the ether. When you lose it, you lose: Navigation. Resonant containment. The space where your vibrations were recognized without explanation. You experience bioeneretic floating. You don’t know where your place is. So the initiation becomes: Ground from within. Become a mobile temple. Be the walking sanctuary: geomantic presence wherever you are. You carry home in your bones now. Not as memory. As frequency.
When Your Creativity Dies (And You Think You Died With It)
There’s a writer who used to dream in sentences. An artist who saw visions on her tongue. A musician who breathed in melody. She didn’t create. It created her. And then… silence. No message. No impulse. Paper white as an empty body. And the more she tried, the more it hurt. In her chest: Vacuum. In her belly: A void that neither gives nor asks. In her mind: “Am I done? Was that all I had?”
But actually... she wasn’t dying. She was upgrading. From receiver to generator. From antenna to broadcast station. For years, she’d been channeling. Receiving downloads from the Muse, from the quantum field, from something beyond her. She was a translator. A conduit. And that’s beautiful. But it’s also limited. Because eventually, the universe wants you to stop waiting for external signals and start generating your own. The silence isn’t absence. It’s recalibration. You’re learning to create from yourself. Not from inspiration. Not from flow. Not from some mystical download. From pure presence. From the raw material of your own consciousness.
And that’s quieter. It’s harder. It requires a different kind of faith. You write without ecstasy. You paint without visions. You make music without hearing it first. You create because you are creation. And when the first sentence comes: not from the Muse, but from you… you cry. Not because it’s genius. But because you made it. From nothing. From silence. And you know: The Muse didn’t leave. She just moved into your bones.
Energetically: You’re transitioning from linear channeling to self-generative source frequency. Before, you were a receiver. Now you’re learning to be the transmitter. The void you feel is the space between systems. The old download mechanism is offline because you’re being upgraded to co-creative resonance with your own field. You’re not broken. You’re becoming the radio station instead of the radio.
When You Lose Your Parent
This one’s different. Because a parent isn’t just a person. A parent is the first universe you ever knew. When your parent dies, especially when you’re young, especially when you’re not ready (and you’re never ready), it’s not just grief. It’s ontological crisis. Because your parent was your proof that the world was safe enough to exist in. That there was someone whose job it was to hold the space while you figured out how to be human. And then they’re gone. And suddenly you’re in freefall, realizing: Oh. There’s no safety net. There never was. I’ve been walking the tightrope this whole time and just didn’t know it.
Here’s what happens energetically when you lose a parent: Every grief you ever swallowed to protect them comes flooding back. That woman sobbing on the bathroom floor, decades after her mother died? She’s not just crying for her mother. She’s crying for every time she had to be strong when she wanted to collapse. Every time she smiled through pain because someone had to hold it together. Every scream she swallowed because grief made other people uncomfortable. All of it. Surfacing. Finally. And people will say unhelpful shit like, “At least they’re not suffering anymore” or “They wouldn’t want you to be sad.” But you’re not sad because they’re gone. You’re reorganizing your entire sense of reality around the absence of the first love you ever knew.
Here’s the frequency shift that happens: You stop looking for external parents. And you become the parent to yourself. Not in a sad, “I have to take care of myself now” way. In a “I’m learning to hold myself the way I needed to be held” way. You learn to comfort yourself when you’re scared. You learn to celebrate yourself when you succeed. You learn to forgive yourself when you fuck up. Not because no one else will do it. But because you finally understand: that unconditional love they gave you? It’s yours now. It lives in you. It IS you. The parent doesn’t leave because you don’t need love anymore. They leave because you’re ready to be the source of that love instead of the receiver. And yeah, it’s brutal. Because you don’t want to be your own parent. You want THEM. You want their voice. Their smell. Their specific way of making you feel like you matter. But the frequency transfer is complete. And now you carry them. Not as absence. As presence. As the way you move through the world with more tenderness because they taught you what tenderness looks like.
When You Lose Your Partner (The Mirror Shatters)
There’s a specific kind of romantic loss that feels like someone reached into your chest and rearranged your entire energetic architecture while you were sleeping. You meet someone and the universe vibrates. Not cute butterflies. Not “oh this is nice.” More like: every cell in your body just recognized itself in another form and went “HOLY SHIT, THERE I AM.” And for a while, it’s magic. You dissolve into each other. You speak languages no one taught you. You find parts of yourself you didn’t know existed reflected back in their eyes.
But here’s what’s actually happening beneath the romance novel surface: They’re not completing you. They’re activating you. That person who saw your depth and didn’t run? They weren’t giving you permission to be deep. They were showing you what it looks like when someone isn’t terrified of your vastness. And your nervous system went: “Oh. So this is possible. I can be this big and not destroy everything.” That person who matched your intensity? They weren’t making you intense. They were reflecting your own fire back at you until you couldn’t pretend you were small anymore.
And then, because the universe has a truly sadistic sense of timing, they leave. And you’re standing there thinking: “I just learned how to be this open. This vulnerable. This REAL. And now the person who taught me is gone and I’m supposed to just... what? Keep being this exposed without them?” Yes. Exactly that. Because here’s the quantum truth: they came to activate a frequency, not to be your permanent power source. Their job was to show you that you CAN love that deep. That you CAN open that wide. That your capacity for connection isn’t a character flaw that’s going to get you destroyed.
And once you know that, once it’s encoded in your cells, once your nervous system has proof that you survived loving at that intensity: their role is complete. If they stayed? You’d keep thinking they’re the SOURCE of that love. That you’re only capable of it when they’re around to reflect it back. But they’re not the source. They never were. You are. They were the mirror. And now the mirror is gone. And you’re standing there, finally seeing your own face. Terrified. Furious. Heartbroken. And also? Free. Because now you know: that capacity for love isn’t in them. It’s in you. And you get to take it with you everywhere you go for the rest of your life. Not as a memory of what you had. As a lived frequency of what you ARE.
💠 INTEGRATION PORTAL V: Anchor Object Blessing - When grief hits hard, having a physical anchor helps. Try this: Choose one object that carries their frequency. Not something that makes you collapse with longing, but something that makes you feel connected. A stone. A photo. A piece of fabric. Something small enough to hold. Hold it in your hands. Close your eyes. Feel the weight of it. Say out loud: “You carried this frequency for me. Now I carry it. Thank you for showing me what I already am.” Wrap it in cloth. Place it somewhere you’ll see it daily: on your altar, your desk, your bedside table. Every time you see it, don’t go into the story of loss. Instead, touch your heart and whisper: “I carry this now.” Not as burden. As remembrance. As activation.
CHAPTER VI: The Integration
When You Finally Become What You Lost
Alright. We’ve traveled through the underworld. We’ve talked about the mechanics, the patterns, the brutal physics of transformation. Now let’s talk about what happens on the other side. Because there IS another side. And it’s not what you think.
The Moment Everything Shifts
Here’s the moment when everything changes: You’re doing something completely mundane. Making coffee. Folding laundry. Walking to the store. And you feel it. Not think it. Not understand it intellectually. Feel it. The softness they carried? It’s in your hands now. In the way you’re moving. Gentle. Patient. Present. Like a purr in physical form. They’re not gone. They’re integrated.
Every time you watched them move: fluid, graceful, utterly present and thought, “I wish I could be like that,” you were actually absorbing it. Downloading it into your cellular memory. Every shared breath. Every moment of pure, unguarded connection. The frequency was transferring. Slowly. Quietly. Without your conscious participation. And now? Now it’s yours. You don’t need their body to access it anymore. Because you ARE it now. Not trying to be. Not performing it for an audience. Being it. As a default state. As your natural frequency.
The Alchemy of Becoming
Here’s what’s happening at the deepest level: What you loved in them = what was dormant in you. The softness you saw in your cat? You already had it. She just showed you what it looks like when it’s fully expressed. When it’s not apologizing for existing. When it’s not hiding behind armor. The deep love you felt with your partner? That capacity was always yours. They just activated it. Gave you permission to feel that expansive. To open that wide. The wisdom you admired in your mentor? Already inside you. They just reflected it back until you believed it was real. The competence you thought lived in your job title? That was never the title. That was YOU, using that container to express what was always there.
They were never the source. They were the mirror. And when the mirror shatters? You finally see your own face. Not the face you show the world. Not the performance version. The real one. The one that’s been there all along, waiting for you to stop looking everywhere else. This is why loss is a portal. Because on the other side of that grief? You’re not “moving on” or “healing” or “getting over it.” You’re becoming. Becoming the softness you loved in them. Becoming the strength you admired. Becoming the presence you craved. Not as mimicry. Not as performance. Not as “fake it till you make it.” As genuine, embodied, cellular transformation. You’re not carrying them as a memory. You’re carrying them as frequency. As the way you move through the world. As the way you love. As the way you breathe. And that? That’s not loss. That’s apotheosis.
What Nobody Tells You About The Other Side
The other side doesn’t look like “closure.” It doesn’t look like “moving on.” It looks like this: You’re making coffee. Just regular Tuesday morning coffee. And suddenly you feel them. Not as a memory. Not as a thought. As a presence that lives in the way you’re standing. The way you’re breathing. The gentleness in your movements. And you’re not sad. You’re not trying to “connect” with them. You’re just... being. And they’re there. Not separate from you. Part of you. Woven in.
Or you’re having a hard conversation. And instead of armoring up like you used to, you stay soft. You stay open. You hold your ground AND your tenderness at the same time. And you think: “Oh. This is what they were teaching me.” Or you look in the mirror and see something different in your eyes. Not broken. Not damaged. Just... deeper. Like you’ve been to the underworld and came back with treasure. The treasure is you. The version of you that existed before you started fragmenting yourself to make other people comfortable.
The Paradox of Wholeness
Here’s the wildest part: You spent your whole life thinking you were incomplete. Looking for the thing that would make you whole. The person, the achievement, the perfect circumstances. And then you lost the thing you thought was keeping you together. And you shattered. And in that shattering, you discovered: you were never broken. You were just wearing a shell that was too small. The loss didn’t break you. It broke the shell. And underneath? You’re not fractured. You’re vast.
All those pieces you thought you lost? They’re all there. They were always there. You just couldn’t see them because you were too busy looking outside yourself for confirmation that you existed. This is the paradox: you had to lose everything to realize you never needed it. The love you were seeking? You are that love. The safety you were craving? You are that safety. The belonging you were chasing? You are home. Not as consolation prize. Not as second-best. As the actual thing. The real deal. The frequency you’ve been tuning into your whole life, except now you’re not the receiver anymore. You’re the broadcast.
Love After Loss
When you love again, and you will, it won’t be a replacement. It will be a resonance. A continuation. A new instrument playing the same soul song. You’ll love differently. Deeper. Slower. Wiser. Not because you’re scared, but because you’re sovereign. You’ll know: This love is not what saves me. This love is what I get to share because I’m already whole. And when you touch someone new: your cat, your lover, your work, your life… it won’t be a transaction. It will be a transmission.
Because you’ve become what you lost. And now? You have it to give. Not from need. Not from lack. Not from the desperate hope that they’ll complete you. But from overflow. From fullness. From the recognition that love isn’t something you find. It’s something you ARE. And that’s the greatest gift loss ever gave you.
💠 INTEGRATION PORTAL VI: Mirror Frequency Transfer: Stand in front of a mirror. If you can, be naked. Or at least bare. Look yourself in the eyes. Don’t look away. Hold your own gaze for 1-3 minutes. At first it’ll be uncomfortable. You’ll want to check your teeth, fix your hair, find flaws. Don’t. Just look. Then say out loud, looking at yourself: “I loved them because they showed me ___. Today, I am that for myself.” Fill in the blank. Say it again with different words. Let the variations come: “I am soft. I am safe. I am light.” “I am the depth I was seeking.” “I am the home I’ve been searching for.” Don’t perform it. Don’t make it an affirmation you don’t believe. Make it a vibration. Repeat until your body responds: a tear, a blink, a sigh, a softening in your chest. That’s the signal. That’s the frequency recognizing itself. Do this weekly. Watch how your relationship with your reflection changes. Watch how the person in the mirror becomes someone you recognize. Someone you trust. Someone who’s been there all along.
THE QUESTIONS YOU’RE TOO SCARED TO ASK
Alright. Let’s get into it. The stuff people whisper in therapy. The stuff you google at 3am and then immediately delete your search history.
“But what if I’m not ready? What if I can’t do this without them?”: Listen. You wouldn’t be losing them if you weren’t ready. I know your ego is having a full-scale meltdown right now. I know you feel like you’re drowning. I know every cell in your body is screaming that this is wrong, this is too much, this is impossible. But your soul? Your soul already hit the activation button. Your soul knows what your mind hasn’t caught up to yet: you’ve got this. The readiness isn’t cognitive. It’s not a mental state you arrive at after sufficient preparation. It’s energetic. Your field expanded enough to hold what they were holding for you. And now it’s your turn to carry it. Trust that. Even when, especially when, it feels like the most ridiculous statement anyone has ever made.
“How do I know if I’ve actually integrated them, or if I’m just pretending?”: You’ll know when you stop looking for them. When you stop checking your phone hoping for a text that’ll never come. When you can think about them without your chest immediately constricting. When you feel their quality: softness, strength, whatever… without needing their physical presence to activate it. When it’s just... yours. Like breathing. Like your heartbeat. Like the color of your eyes. You don’t have to think about it. You don’t have to try. You just are. That’s when you know the frequency has fully transferred.
“What if I forget them?”: You won’t. They’re literally woven into your nervous system now. You’d have to forget yourself first. And even if the sharp edges of memory fade, and they will, because that’s what memory does, the frequency stays. Forever. The way they made you feel when you were together? That’s encoded in your cells. The qualities you loved in them? Those are part of your operating system now. You’re not going to lose that. Ever. What changes is the grief. The raw, bleeding, “I can’t believe this is real” grief. That softens. That transforms into something quieter. Something that feels more like love and less like dying. But them? They’re permanent. Just in a different form.
“Is it okay that I’m angry they left?”: Fuck yes. Anger is grief wearing a spiky jacket. It’s your system’s way of having a feeling that’s slightly less vulnerable than despair. Let it rage. Let it burn. Let it tear through your body like wildfire. Don’t skip it. Don’t spiritually bypass it with some “everything happens for a reason” bullshit. Get pissed. Yell at the universe. Punch a pillow. Write them a letter you’ll never send telling them exactly how furious you are that they’re gone. Anger is part of the portal opening. It’s part of the transformation. It’s the fire that burns away what’s no longer true so the new truth can emerge. Just don’t set up camp there. Feel it, express it, let it move through you. And then let it go.
“How long until this stops hurting?”: It doesn’t stop. It transforms. You’ll cry less. But when you do cry, it’ll be different. Softer. With love instead of panic. With gratitude instead of desperation. The grief becomes a river instead of a tsunami. Something that flows through you instead of something that drowns you. And one day, not tomorrow, probably not next month, but one day you’ll have an entire day where you don’t think about them at all. And then you’ll feel guilty. And then you’ll realize: that’s actually the point. That’s integration. When they’re so fully part of you that you don’t need to consciously remember them anymore because they’re just... there. In everything you do. In who you’ve become.
“What about their stuff? Do I keep it or let it go?”: No right answer here. Your body knows, though. Some things you’ll keep as anchors. Physical reminders that this was real, that they existed, that this love happened. Some things you’ll release because holding them feels like holding onto the old you. The you that needed external proof of connection. Trust your body. If touching something makes your chest open with warmth? Keep it. If touching something makes your chest clench with pain? You get to decide. Sometimes that pain is healing. Sometimes it’s just pain. A ritual that helps: Take the thing. Hold it. Say out loud: “Thank you for what you represented. I release you now.” And then donate it, burn it, bury it, whatever feels right. Or keep it. But transform it. Give it new meaning. Let it become a portal instead of a wound.
“How do I know when I’m ready to love again?”: When you stop trying to replace them. When new love feels like new love, not a recreation of old love. When you’re not looking for someone to complete you, but someone to dance with while you’re already whole. When you can show up soft and open and vulnerable without needing guarantees. Without needing promises. Without needing them to be anything other than who they are. When your heart has enough room for both: the love you had, and the love that’s coming. That’s when you’re ready. And you’ll know. Your body will tell you.
“What if no one understands?”: Then they don’t. And that’s okay. Most people haven’t been where you are. They haven’t loved that deep. They haven’t lost that hard. They haven’t been shattered and reassembled at the molecular level. So they say dumb shit. “Just a pet.” “You’ll find someone else.” “Everything happens for a reason.” And you want to scream: “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. THIS WAS A BEING WHO HELD MY SOUL WHEN I COULDN’T HOLD IT MYSELF.” But you don’t. Because they can’t hear it. Their frequency isn’t tuned to that station yet. Find the people who do understand. The ones who’ve been to the underworld and back. The ones who can sit with you in silence. The ones who don’t try to fix you or rush you or tell you how to feel. Those are your people. Hold them close.
“Can they still hear me?”: Yes. Not with ears. But yes. The connection you had doesn’t end just because their body did. It just changes form. Talk to them. Out loud if you want. In your mind. In your journal. In the shower at 2am when you can’t sleep. Tell them everything. The anger. The love. The “I miss you so much I can’t breathe.” The “thank you for showing me who I am.” They hear it. Not as words. As frequency. As vibration. As love moving through the field. And sometimes, if you get really quiet, you’ll hear them answer. Not in words. In feelings. In signs. In the sudden knowing that drops into your chest like a stone into still water. Trust that.
“What if I never feel whole again?”: You will. But whole doesn’t mean what you think it means. You’re imagining “whole” as “back to how I was before.” But you can’t go back. That version of you died. Whole means: all your pieces integrated. Including the broken ones. Including the ones that hurt. Including the ones that loved so hard they shattered. Whole means: nothing missing. Not because you didn’t lose anything, but because everything you lost is now woven into who you are. You’re not going to be the same. Thank god. The same version of you couldn’t hold what you’re about to become. You’re going to be different. Deeper. Wider. Capable of loving in ways that would’ve terrified the old you. And that’s not loss. That’s evolution.
“What if this framework feels offensive or like toxic positivity right now?”: Then it’s not your time. And that’s completely okay. If you’re in the raw, bleeding phase where someone telling you “you graduated” makes you want to commit violence: feel that. Honor that. This piece isn’t going anywhere. Come back to it in six months, a year, five years, or never. Grief doesn’t have a timeline. There’s no “should” here. If this resonates, it resonates. If it pisses you off, that’s valid too. Trust your gut on what you need right now. You’re not wrong for rejecting this framework. You’re exactly where you need to be.
APPENDIX: Daily Alchemy
Somatic Practices for Integration
Look, everything we just talked about is conceptual gold, but your body needs actual techniques to process this shit. Not theory. Not understanding. Practices you can do with your hands, your breath, your actual meat-suit. These aren’t for “getting over it” or “moving on.” These are for embodying the frequency you were receiving externally and waking it up from the inside.
1. Coherence Breath: Turning Emptiness Into Presence: Inhale for 4-6 seconds through your nose. Exhale for 6-8 seconds through your nose. Soft. Quiet. Like you’re trying not to wake someone sleeping next to you. Do this for 5 minutes, 3x a day. What’s Actually Happening: Your nervous system is entering regulation mode. You’re activating your vagus nerve: the center for compassion, love, safety. Your body starts to feel: “I’m not abandoned. I’m breathing. Therefore, I am.” When panic hits at 3am and you’re spiraling? This. Just this. Five minutes of regulated breath and your system remembers: I can hold myself.
2. Somatic Remembering: Body Knows What Mind Forgets: Sit or lie down. Couch, floor, bed… doesn’t matter. Doesn’t have to be some zen lotus bullshit. Close your eyes. Remember how it felt to be loved by them. Not the story. Not the situation. The sensation. Where did you feel it in your body? Chest? Skin? Belly? Spine? Put your hands there. Breathe into that spot. Don’t imagine shit. Don’t create a memory montage. Just feel. What’s Happening: The frequency of that memory isn’t gone. It’s just separated from form. This practice is the bridge back to your own presence. You’re not conjuring them. You’re activating what they left inside you.
3. Movement: Let the Body Speak What Words Can’t - Put on music that matches your pain. Sad, raw, primal: whatever’s true right now. Let your body move. Not “nicely.” Not performatively. Truthfully. Shake. Slide. Stomp. Whisper. Wail. Curl into a ball. Stand up. Collapse again. When you feel a wave of tears coming, keep moving. Let the grief move through motion. Why This Matters: Pain that moves becomes a signal. Pain that stays still becomes trauma. Your body is an instrument. Let it play the grief until the grief plays itself out.
4. Mirror Work: Become the Source - Stand in front of a mirror. Naked if you’re brave enough. Clothed if you’re not. Either way, you’re looking at YOU. Look yourself in the eyes. Don’t blink away. Hold your own gaze for 1-3 minutes. Whisper or say out loud: “I loved them because they showed me ___. Today, I am that for myself.” “I am soft. I am safe. I am whole.” Not as affirmation. As vibration. Let it resonate in your chest, not just your head. Repeat until your body reacts: a tear, a blink, a sigh. That’s the sign. That’s you “coming online” to your own frequency. What Changes: The mirror stops being a place you check yourself. It becomes a place you recognize yourself. And eventually, the person looking back is someone you trust. Someone you’ve been all along.
5. Ritual: Make Space Sacred Again: Create a small corner in your home that holds the frequency you lost. Not a shrine to grief. An altar to what you’re becoming. Put an object there that carries their energy. A stone, a photo, fabric, something small you can hold. When pain hits, don’t go there to collapse. Go there to claim. Light a candle. Touch the object. Say: “You held this for me. Now I hold it. I am the vessel now.” Over time, this space transforms. It’s no longer about what’s gone. It’s about what you carry now.
6. Microtouch: Rewire Safety Through Skin: Gently tap your face, shoulders, heart with your fingertips. Massage your own scalp. Cup your face in your palms and say: “You’re here. I hear you. You don’t have to search anymore.” Before sleep, put one hand on your solar plexus. Just be there for 3 minutes. No agenda. Just presence. Why: Skin remembers touch more than mind remembers words. You’re teaching your body: I can receive tenderness from myself.
7. Voice: Let Sound Heal What Silence Holds: Inhale deep. On the exhale, let sound come out. Not words. Just tone. “Aaaaa.” “Ooooo.” “Mmmm.” Let the sound come from your heart, not your throat. Warm. Supportive. Like an embrace made of vibration. Do this for 3-5 minutes daily. What’s Happening: Sound vibration enters your fascia, your muscles, your emotional field. Everything you couldn’t say with words? It releases through tone. Ancient, primal, holy.
8. Daily Claiming: Micro-Vows of Becoming - Every morning, write one sentence: “Today I am the one who gives [quality they held for you].” Examples: “Today I am the one who gives gentleness.” “Today I am the one who gives presence.” “Today I am the one who gives unconditional love.” Not as burden. As recognition. As lighthouse. Repeat it in your head a few times until it anchors. Why: You didn’t decide this. You became this. And now you’re claiming it. Daily. Until your cells believe you.
CLOSING INVOCATION: The Truth That Sets You Free
So here it is. The thing I want you to tattoo on your soul: You are what you lose. Not because they took something from you. But because their leaving forced you to pick up what you’d been handing them to carry. You don’t lose someone because the universe is cruel or random or punishing you for crimes you didn’t commit. You lose them because you’ve become what they were showing you all along.
Sometimes you don’t know you’ve become it until they’re gone and you’re still standing. Still breathing. Still capable of softness even without the external reminder. Sometimes the loss itself IS the becoming. The fire that forges you. The pressure that transforms coal into diamond. Sometimes it’s both at once. Portal and transformation. Death and birth. Same moment.
But always, always, loss is the sign that something inside you just activated. A frequency that was dormant? Online now. A quality you were borrowing? Yours now. A portal you didn’t know existed? Wide open now.
And yeah. It hurts like someone extracted your organs without anesthesia. Because integration always does. Because becoming yourself after a lifetime of outsourcing is brutal and holy and raw.
But on the other side? You’re not half a person looking for your other half. You’re not incomplete waiting for completion. You’re not broken waiting to be fixed. You’re the whole sky.
You’re the softness you loved in your cat. The passion you felt with your ex. The wisdom you saw in your mentor. The unconditional presence you craved from your parent. The competence you thought lived in your job. The belonging you felt in that place you called home. All of it. In you now. Not as memory. Not as longing. As lived, breathing, embodied frequency.
This is why grief isn’t a wound. Grief is a doorway. And what you find on the other side? Every quality you ever loved in anyone, now living in you as your natural state. Not borrowed. Not temporary. Not conditional. Yours.
Welcome home, love. You’ve been here all along. You just needed the mirror to break so you could finally see your own face.
P.S. If you’re reading this while actively sobbing into your coffee/wine/ice cream, that’s perfect. You’re doing it right.
The portal doesn’t open gently. It cracks you wide open. And that’s exactly how the light gets in. ✨
You don’t lose someone until you’ve already become them.
Now go. Be the frequency. Carry the portal. Love like you’re the fucking source.
Because you are. 🔥💎🌙
Further Exploration (For the Curious)
If you want to go deeper into some of the concepts woven through this piece:
On Nervous System & Grief:
The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk (how trauma lives in the body)
Polyvagal Theory by Stephen Porges (the science of co-regulation)
On Quantum Metaphors & Consciousness:
The Field by Lynne McTaggart (interconnectedness beyond physical form)
Rupert Sheldrake’s work on morphic resonance
On Grief as Transformation:
When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön (Buddhist perspective on loss)
Francis Weller’s work on communal grief and the wild edge of sorrow
These aren’t required reading. This piece stands on its own. But if your brain likes to trace the threads back to their sources, here you go. 🌀# You Don’t Lose Someone Until You’ve Already Become Them
This made me ugly cry, and I haven't even lost my pets yet. Absolutely gorgeous writing.
Thank you for this.