Power 1: Power in Depth

Finding home in the space between the surface and the deep.

The Siren has been an archetype that I’ve been dancing with for a while. More recently, I’ve been trying to embody her not as a myth of seduction, but as a master of the depths.

She doesn’t fear the deep water because she knows that the depth is where her power is rooted.

But even the Siren has moments where the surface feels so very far away.

That’s the space I’ve been living in. The space between the leave-taking and the arrival. Between the depths and the surface.

I’ve held this space with gratitude, but also some impatience and fear and longing and a whole lot of grief.

Floating in this space of in-between, I’ve realized just how much I orient toward loss, even when standing in the center of possibility.

It is a survival reflex. When hope has historically been the precursor to disappointment, “protection” became my home frequency. I scan the horizon not for the sunrise, but for the storm, using the past hurts like a lens that tints everything it touches.

It is confirmation bias trying to look like safety.

We are taught that growth is about alchemy, about turning our leaden pain into golden hope, or forcing grief into “something that happened for a reason.”

We are told to “heal” so that the bruises fade, to “let go” so our hands are empty enough to grab something new.

But what if I stopped trying to “fix” this feeling?

Maybe I don’t need to alchemize hope and pain just yet. I don’t need to force a marriage between my desire to expand and my instinct to protect.

Like the Siren, who knows both the crushing pressure of the deep and the pull of the shallows, I can learn to hold them both, allowing them to coexist without forcing resolution. I am learning not to flee either.

I can give grief a place at the table. Letting it speak without becoming a prophecy. There is space for intuition’s voice here, too, felt without demanding a conclusion. I can allow the bruise to exist without fearing it’s permanent.

I so often rush to make meaning or decide the ending of a chapter before I’ve even finished the page. I want to know: Is this a tragedy or a triumph?

But the Siren knows that the ocean is both at once, and it doesn’t need to apologize for it.

Right now, I am practicing the art of just sitting in the space of receiving the data. Holding curiosity. Staying present long enough to know what is actually here, not what my fear predicts, and not what my trauma remembers was here.

Just this. Just now.

Staying in the water I’m in, without guessing, or deciding, or forcing where it must carry me.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤