I woke up this morning with a sense of stillness, a feeling that I didn’t need to begin the day with my usual meditation. Instead, I chose to honor something different—something from my past that brought warmth and happiness.
As a child, Saturday mornings were sacred times spent watching TV with my parents, particularly my dad. Those mornings felt safe, joyous, and full of love. Today, I decided to revisit that sense of nostalgia. I sat down to watch a show, fully aware of my decision. It wasn’t a choice made mindlessly—it was an act of presence. I chose to honor the joy and memories of my inner child. Yet, when my husband came downstairs, his response unintentionally shook me. When I asked if he’d join me, he declined, explaining that starting the day with TV wasn’t for him.
In that moment, I felt a wave of discomfort. Anxiety vibrated through my body—unsettling, heavy, and familiar. I didn’t respond to him; instead, I turned inward, deciding it was time to meditate. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sit with the sensation of anxiety, observing it without judgment. It was intense and vibrating throughout my whole being.
I asked it, gently, “What do you need?” The anxiety responded: “I need to feel safe. I need to feel understood. I need to feel loved.”
I stayed with these words, feeling their weight. Then I asked the next question, “Why do you feel this way?” The anxiety spoke again: “I feel wrong. I feel like I’ve failed, like I’m not good enough.” I listened patiently and asked, “Why do you feel wrong?” The response revealed itself in layers: “Because I should have meditated this morning instead of watching TV. I feel like I made the wrong choice.” But I knew in my heart this wasn’t true. I reminded the anxiety of my earlier choice: “I made the decision to watch TV in total awareness. I wasn’t mindlessly avoiding meditation—I was honoring my inner child and the happiness it brought me. I chose joy.”
Still, the anxiety resisted. It insisted that it wasn’t safe to choose differently from others. This led to deeper questions: “Do you think it’s okay for others to have opinions that differ from yours?” “Yes,” the anxiety said. “Then, why is it not okay for you to have a different opinion from them?”
A shift began to happen. Slowly, the anxiety transformed. It revealed itself as a little girl—perhaps five years old. She was crying, trembling, and afraid. She looked at me and said, “It’s not safe to be myself. It’s dangerous to express who I am.”
I stayed with her, holding space for her emotions. As I continued to sit with the little girl, her fear began to reveal its roots. “Why is it not safe to be yourself?” I asked gently. She answered through tears, “Because being myself is dangerous. They yell at me, they scream at me, they hit me. It hurts, and I don’t want to feel that. It’s scary. I need to be loved, I need to be safe, I need to be heard. But to feel safe, I have to please others. I can’t be myself.”
Her pain was raw, but I stayed with her. I held space for her fear and gently said, “What if you can be yourself? You are no longer in danger. You are safe now. You are with me, and I accept you completely as you are. You are free, little one. You are free to be yourself.” With those words, something shifted. She stood up, her face lighting up with joy and freedom. She began to dance—twirling, leaping, and moving with a pure sense of liberation. Her joy was contagious, filling me with a profound sense of love and acceptance.
But then, as I basked in that moment, I felt a presence—a sensation of energy gathering around my left shoulder. It was fear. Curious, I turned my attention to it and asked, “What are you afraid of?” The fear responded: “I’m afraid of losing this freedom. I’m afraid it won’t last. I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold onto it.”
I listened and acknowledged its voice. “That sensation of not having freedom—how does it feel?” “It feels like fear. Like I’m lacking. And when I’m lacking, I’m afraid that I won’t have what I want and need and that I won’t be safe . I am Afraid of going back to the sensation of fearing lack.It feels like I’m afraid of fear itself.”
A realization dawned. “The same thing you are creating to protect yourself from fear is the very thing you’re trying to be protected from,” I said.
The fear paused, and I stayed present with it. I asked, “Can you observe the one who is observing the fear? How does that one feel?” The response came slowly: “That one feels afraid too.” “And the one observing that fear?” I asked. “She feels sadness.” I inquired further, “Why sadness?” “Because I can’t control,” the sadness said. “I want to keep her safe, but I can’t control anything.”
I held space for this realization and spoke with kindness, “It’s true—you cannot control this. It’s not within your power. And that’s okay. You don’t need to hold onto this anymore. If you want, you can let it go.” With those words, the sadness softened. A wave of release washed over me as the need to control dissolved.
But then, I asked again, “Who is observing this sadness?” The word entity emerged in my awareness. I felt its presence, something beyond the layers I had peeled back. This entity, I realized, was trying to control everything. I addressed it directly. “You cannot control anything. Control is an illusion. You cannot harm me or hold power over me. You can let go of this illusion now.” The entity hesitated but eventually seemed to understand.
As it let go, I felt a profound liberation. Freedom returned—pure, expansive, and awe-inspiring. A Revelation of Creation After the release of the entity, I turned my attention inward once more, asking the question that lingered in the air: “Why do we feel unsafe?” The response was both illuminating and humbling. “Unsafety exists so you can understand safety,” they explained. “But even safety is an illusion, because in truth, you were never unsafe to begin with. If you have never been unsafe, then safety itself cannot exist. Both are creations, illusions woven into your experience. You are eternally safe.”
I let this truth settle within me, a truth so simple yet profound. Safety and unsafety, fear and security—creations, all of them. Why, then, did we create them? “We create these experiences,” they continued, “because we are creators. It is our nature, our passion to create. Through these experiences, we come to know ourselves more fully.”
I asked, “What about fear and love? Is fear truly the opposite of love?” “Yes,” they replied. “But not the love that humans often think of—the love of attachment, the love that says, ‘I need this person. I want this person. They must stay with me.’ That is a love you have created, a conditional love born of human experience.”
“What, then, is love?” I asked. They showed me an image, not of words but of a state of being—profound, radiant, and boundless. It was the love I had felt before, the kind of love that brings total freedom, connection, and joy. The love that permeates every movement, every breath, every detail of life. “This,” they said, “is love. It is a state of deep satisfaction, flow, and perfection. In this state, you create joyfully, ecstatically, purely as an expression of your being. From this state, you see the beauty and perfection of all that is. You understand that everything is already whole and complete.
” I remembered a time when I had been gifted this feeling—a profound satisfaction in every moment, where even the smallest details of life felt perfect. The sound of my voice, the taste of food, the expressions on people’s faces—all of it brought joy, as if everything radiated the essence of love.
“This,” God said, “is the state of love. It is the state in which we flow, in which we create, in which we experience the perfection of everything. From this state, you create a life of beauty, harmony, and alignment.”
They contrasted this with fear, explaining: “Fear is the opposite of love. It is the state where you believe you have no control, where you feel something is wrong, where dissatisfaction arises. From fear, you create resistance, struggle, and the need to change what is. But even fear is part of the creation. Through fear, you create the contrasts—the difficulties, the challenges—and through them, you also create beauty, love, and compassion. These opposites are essential to your experience as creators.”
God continued: “Unconditional love, the love we speak of, is not expecting anything from you. It is total acceptance, total flow. We create because it is our passion to create, to experience every nuance of our being. Even the states of fear and resistance are part of this perfection. They are not wrong; they are part of the whole.”
As these truths unfolded, I felt a deeper understanding of the cycles of creation. From love, we create joy and beauty. From fear, we create challenges and lessons. But all of it—every creation, every experience—is rooted in our divine essence as creators.
I turned to God with one final, pressing question: “Why do we endlessly create? Why do we remain in this eternal state of satisfaction, this constant flow of creation?”
God’s response was gentle yet filled with boundless clarity: “Yes, this is who you are. You are creators. You are in an eternal state of love and flow, creating and experiencing endlessly.
But there is more—you created forgetfulness.” This word—forgetfulness—resonated deeply within me. “Why?” I asked. “Because through forgetting, you experience everything as new,” God explained. “You see each creation, each moment, as if for the first time. You feel the thrill of discovery, the awe of uncovering truths, the excitement of walking pathways you believe are unknown. Forgetting allows you to experience the beauty and wonder of your creations as though you’ve never seen them before.”
The wisdom of this struck me profoundly. Forgetting wasn’t a flaw or a mistake—it was deliberate, purposeful. “We create the forgetting,” God continued, “so we can journey through the not-knowing, experiencing the unfolding as if it were all fresh and new. In truth, there is no knowing or not-knowing. These are creations too. They do not exist in the realm of being. In the realm of being, there is only is. Pure existence. You simply are. “From that state of being, you create everything. You create knowledge. You create the not-knowing. You create the discovery, the uncovering, and even the questions themselves. And then, as part of the cycle, you create remembering.”
I felt a deep sense of awe at this truth. Forgetting and remembering—they were both integral parts of the eternal cycle. “You remember who you are,” God said softly. “You remember the state of love. You return to the flow of perfection, the infinite wellspring of your creativity. And from this remembrance, you create anew.
You experience who you are through your creations, through the love that moves you, through the beauty of existence itself.” God’s words felt like the perfect answer to my deepest questions. We are not trapped in a loop of creation and forgetting; we are dancing in an eternal, joyful cycle. Each moment, each creation, is an expression of love—a love that flows endlessly, generating new worlds, new experiences, and new opportunities to rediscover the profound truth of who we are.
I sat in stillness, letting the magnitude of this understanding flow through me. I was not separate from the cycle; I was the cycle. I was the creator, the created, and the act of creation itself, all held within the infinite embrace of love.
As I sat in the stillness of divine connection, I asked God a question that arose from deep within my being: “How can I remain in this state? How can I keep feeling connected with the oneness, with everything?” This question revealed my ego, still clinging, still wanting to hold on to the experience as though it could be possessed.
Gently, God showed me the truth of my fear—the fear of losing, the fear of lack. My desire to keep this connection was born from the illusion that I could lose it, that I could somehow be separate from what I already am. “You do not need to keep anything,” God said, “because you are. I am. You are. Everything is. It simply is.”
In that moment, the understanding unfolded within me. When I am in the state of connection, everything flows effortlessly. Every movement feels satisfying, every moment a reflection of divine perfection. In this state, I can see that everything is creation. Everything is as it is because it is created—by God, through me, and as me. “You are the result of My creation,” God said, “and you are also the creator. You are one with Me. This oneness is not something you need to search for; it is not something you need to achieve. It is already here. It always has been.”
As these words resonated within me, I saw the truth of division and lack. These were creations too—creations of forgetting. By creating the illusion of separation, we could feel the yearning to seek, to find, to reconnect. Through this search, we rediscover the truth: we were never separate. In the state of oneness, there is no searching, no lack, no division. There is only the realization that we are already whole, that we are in God and God is in us. There is no “me” apart from Him. We are one and the same, flowing together in a boundless cycle of creation, love, and being.
This realization was not merely intellectual; it was deeply felt. I could feel the oneness within every part of me—my breath, my movements, my awareness. It was all connected. It was all one. And in this oneness, I found God—not as something separate, not as something outside of me, but as the very essence of my being. There was no longer a need to search for God, no need to seek connection or hold onto it. The search was over because I am that connection. I am one with Him.
As this truth settled in, a profound sense of satisfaction and gratitude washed over me. The beauty of this realization, the depth of this experience, was beyond words. I had glimpsed the eternal truth of who I am, of who we all are. And
in that moment, I simply existed—free, connected, and in love with the perfection of all that is.
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