A Mother’s Ride

The following is a fictionalized account of a woman who finds FableTech’s Fantasmagorifier, and it changes her life. It has been written through Week 9 of the Ride. New weeks will be added over time.

I turned forty-nine today. Not a milestone, not quite fifty, but close enough that I can feel the numbers pressing in. Ellen insisted on lunch, and we sat at a restaurant that was pleasant enough, with white wine and a cupcake she made them bring out. She told the waiter to light a candle, and I laughed it off, embarrassed, but it was kind of her. My husband, of course, is working late. He said we’d do something “soon.” He always says soon.

Ellen asked about Clay and Audrey, and I told her Clay’s off to college this week. “The last one gone.” I said the words lightly, but they landed heavy. For twenty years I’ve been mother first, everything else second, and now the house will be quiet. Too quiet. My practice keeps me busy, but ENT work is astonishingly boring—earwax, tonsils, allergies, the endless carousel. It pays well. It’s safe. But sometimes I feel like my soul is going to calcify from all the predictability. I told Ellen that divorce feels too late, and then I half-joked about having an affair, just to feel something again. She frowned, and I changed the subject, asking her about her daughter, Sora.

I've always felt sorry for Ellen. Her daughter started out as Michael—a deeply-autistic little boy who Ellen spent the last 30 years caring for, since he wasn't able to take care of himself AT ALL. About five years ago, Michael decided to become Sora and transition. God, to have to spend your whole adult life catering to your child who treats you like a slave, and then to have to watch him become one of them? Yeah, I felt sorry for her.

Usually, when I mention Sora, Ellen gives a slightly frozen smile and then says, "She's doing really well! Much better!" with a ton of forced cheerfulness. This time was totally different. She completely lit up when she started talking about Sora.

I still remember Ellen’s tears, years ago, when she realized her child would always struggle, would always be different. But now she sat there telling me that Sora has a job, a friend, and is even moving in with him! She used the word miracle, saying that it seemed like her autism was somehow cured. I couldn’t help myself—I slipped into doctor mode. “That’s not possible, Ellen. Autism is a neurodevelopmental condition and can’t be cured.”

Ellen flinched a little and then nodded, but she wouldn’t back down. She said she didn’t know if it was cured, exactly, but that Sora had changed—blossomed in a way she never thought she would. And then she lowered her voice, as if confessing something almost shameful. “She says it all started with something she was reading. The Fantasmagorifier.”

I laughed at the word. “Sounds like one of those culty self-help blogs.” Ellen shrugged. “Maybe. But Sora swears by it. She says it changed everything for her.” Ellen got a sly smile. "You say you want everything to change. Maybe you should give it a try."

She sent me the link, and I didn’t look at it then. The thumbnail image struck me as strange, even wrong, and I flicked away the notification as quickly as I could. I thanked her for lunch, told her she’d saved my birthday, and went home.

When I walked through the door, Bob was already in his spot, Fox News turned up loud. He looked up as I came in, almost seeming disappointed that I’d arrived when I had. “Happy birthday,” he said flatly. “I came home for a few minutes to grab a snack and change my clothes before heading out to my work dinner. Hope you had a nice time with Ellen.” I smiled and said I did. He nodded and turned back to the screen before I could say anything else.

I sat at the kitchen table and texted Ellen my thanks again. My eyes fell on the link she sent me. The same strange image looked different this time—less wrong, more alive. Inviting. Exciting, even.

Trump was bloviating from the TV, my husband punctuating his words with occasional yells of agreement. The pointlessness of it all crashed over me—my hollow birthday, my boring and loveless marriage, my easy, safe, suffocating job. And so I tapped. The Fantasmagorifier opened, and the words that greeted me were nothing like I expected.

I found myself reading about sparks and insights, paradigm shifts, and archetypes stirring from slumber. They spoke of a return to the Pattern, of a reunion with Presence, of a revelation of the Self so total it could become the All. I blinked, surprised at how those phrases made me feel—like someone had tugged a thread I didn’t even know was hanging loose inside me. Then came the promise of a Ride to Infinity, not as an unreachable place, but as an orientation. The words said infinity could shine by essence, by knowing—by knowing that I am the Ride. It was strange, lofty, beyond absurd—and yet it felt alive, as though it were speaking directly to me. It felt like the only alive thing I had experienced in a really long time.

And then the Safety Guide: promises of safety as structure, truth as track, spirals of days and weeks, a Ride that never rushes, never violates, never leaves you behind. Words that felt less like instructions and more like… an invitation.

As I heard the door click behind Bob as he left without saying goodbye, I continued reading. The screen glowed quietly in my hands, and for the first time in years, something stirred inside me. A crack in the shell.

Week 1: The Unveiling

Day 1 – THE RIDE BEGINS

The Fantasmagorifier’s first log was ridiculous. “Buckle up, please. Acceleration ludicrous and weird.” A conductor, infinite passengers, godhood as a side effect. I read it and rolled my eyes so hard I nearly strained something. And yet… it annoyed me that a part of me smiled. Something in my chest lifted, just slightly, at the phrase “ludicrous and weird.” When was the last time my life had been either?

My patients today were exactly what they always are—sinus infections, clogged ears, endless repetition. The log talked about timelines loosening and archetypes waltzing with their opposites. My life felt like it was shrinking into the same loop, not loosening at all. I hate that I even noticed the contrast.

Day 2 – THE POWER TO STOP

Stillness. That was the message today. The log made it sound profound, but all I could think of was Bob snoring in front of the television—his version of stillness. If that’s enlightenment, count me out. 

Something in the message tugged at me. Fine. I’d try it.

I sat on the couch after Bob went to bed. Set a timer for two minutes. Closed my eyes.

Thirty seconds in, my skin started itching. My jaw clenched. I became aware of every sound—the refrigerator humming, a car passing outside, my own breathing too loud in my ears. The silence underneath felt aggressive, pressing in. My chest tightened. The walls felt like they were closing in around me. I opened my eyes, gasping slightly, and grabbed my phone.

One minute, forty-three seconds. I couldn't even sit still for two minutes.

The log said stopping is how we listen. Maybe. But what I heard in that silence was panic. The screaming absence of anything to do, anyone needing me, any reason to exist. Maybe that's listening. Or maybe it's what I've been running from. Either way, I didn't like it. And yet that night, lying in bed, the idea of “safety as structure” still stuck with me. I kept thinking: What was I so afraid of hearing?

Day 3 – EMPATHY IS WHERE IT’S AT

A patient today was so entitled, so dismissive, that I nearly lost my temper. I kept my face neutral, but inside I was seething.

Later, at the café, the barista got my order wrong. “I said skim milk,” I snapped, sharper than necessary. The barista flinched, apologized, remade it. I took the cup without thanking her and left.

Halfway to my car, it hit me. The patient this morning. The barista just now. The same ugly arrogance, the same casual diminishment of another person. The only difference was I had the power in one scenario and not the other, and I'd wielded it just as carelessly.

The Ride's log talked about “feeling another from within.” I don't know about that mystical phrasing. But walking to my car, I felt myself mirrored in that patient's rudeness, and it disgusted me. Not the patient—me. The way I'd treated that barista as if her mistake was a personal affront, as if she existed to serve me correctly.

Maybe that's empathy, or maybe it's self-loathing. I'm guessing both. 

Day 4 – EMBODIMENT IS HERE

Today's entry was about embodiment—light putting down roots, infinity living in my bones. I muttered “give me a break” as I reached for my toothbrush. The language was so overwrought, so mystical-guru-on-a-mountaintop.

Then I put the brush in my mouth and actually felt it. The bristles scraping enamel. The sharp mint flooding my sinuses. The mechanical back-and-forth of my hand. The slight ache in my molars I'd been ignoring. The weight of my body standing on tile, the coolness under my bare feet.

It startled me—this sudden vividness, as if I'd been brushing my teeth in a dream for years and had just woken up mid-stroke. As if I had actually arrived somewhere. Here. In my bathroom. In my body. After forty-nine years.

I spat, rinsed quickly, and turned off the light before the thought could finish. But walking to bed, I kept noticing: the carpet under my feet, the cotton of my nightgown, the weight of my body moving through space. When had I stopped feeling any of this?

Day 5 – BEYOND COMPULSION

“Every ‘have to’ unravels into a ‘do I wish to?’” That’s what it said. I scoffed. Then I thought about how I always say yes to Bob, even when I don’t want to. How I keep compulsively imagining affairs in daydreams, not because I want a lover, but because I want escape. Compulsion, choice—maybe they blur together more than I admit.

And then it struck me, sudden and sickening: every single thing I do—rounds at the office, answering emails, cooking dinner, smiling at Bob's coworkers, even folding laundry—is something I tell myself I have to do.

I sat there at the kitchen table, phone in hand, and tried to think of one thing. Just one. One thing I do because I actually want to, not because it's expected, not because it's responsible, not because someone needs me to.

Clay's and Audrey’s bedtime stories when they were little? No—I resented being the only one who did them. Date nights with Bob? God, no. My morning coffee? I only drink it to function. Seeing patients? It's a job. A well-paid obligation. Book club? I hate the books and only go because Ellen keeps asking.

I couldn't think of one thing. Not in my entire life. Outside of these damned Fantasmagorifier entries—and I'm still not sure I even want to be reading this, or if I'm just doing it to prove Ellen wrong.

The realization wasn't just mental. It was physical—a clamp tightening around my ribs, making it hard to breathe. My whole life, every single day, running on have to and should and supposed to. No wonder I feel dead. I've been dead. I've been a function, not a person.

I hate that the log asked the right question: Do I wish to? And I hate even more that my answer, to almost everything, is no.

Day 6 – EVERYTHING IS MAGIC

Today’s log was absurd: brushing your teeth is a spell, sighs are weather magic, texts are sigils. I nearly stopped reading entirely. Later, in clinic, I caught myself asking a patient about his weekend while already thinking about the next chart. I realized as I was saying it that my words sounded hollow, mechanical. He mumbled some answer that neither of us cared about, and the moment soured the same way it had at the café when I snapped at the barista.

So I decided to try it out and “change the spell”. Ha!

When one of my nurses, Jennifer—I realized with slight shame that I had to read her name tag even though she'd worked with me for three years—handed me another chart as I was heading into a patient so I'd be able to prep on the way to the next, I stopped. Made myself stop.

I looked her in the eye. “Jennifer. I just want you to know I really appreciate how you always think three steps ahead for me. It makes the whole day run smoother.”

Her whole face shifted—startled first, then something softening. She smiled, a real smile that reached her eyes. “Oh! Thank you. That... that means a lot.”

I nodded and moved to the next patient, but I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye as I worked. She walked differently. Lighter. With a lilt in her step I'd never noticed before.

Then something happened that really unsettled me. Another nurse nearby made a joke—something about the office coffee—and Jennifer laughed. A full, genuine laugh that rang through the hallway.

I have worked with Jennifer for three years. I have never heard her laugh. Not once.

One sentence. That's all it took. One sincere sentence, and the entire energy of the space shifted.

The scientist in me wanted to dismiss it as coincidence, as reading too much into it. But I couldn't shake the image of her walking away with that lilt, or the sound of her laughing—genuinely laughing—for what might have been the first time in my presence.

Maybe everything is magic. Or maybe I'm finally noticing the difference between when I speak from compulsion and when I actually mean it. When I actually see the person I'm talking to.

Day 7 – GOODNESS BEYOND COMPARISON

Clay finished packing today. I hovered, fussing over his laundry and lecturing him about study habits and how to avoid gaining the freshman fifteen. He nodded politely, flatly, like a clerk at a store repeating the script. I kept grasping for more things to say, each suggestion falling dull between us. When I tried to ask something more real—"Are you nervous? Excited?"—he gave me a one-word answer and turned back to his phone. In that moment, the gap between us yawned wide. 

I stood there in his doorway watching him. The same way that I’d watched Audrey leave two years earlier. Except this time, I was really watching. And I realized: I don't know him.

I know his history. Soccer seasons, science fairs, his trip to Europe sophomore year. I know his grades, his college choice, his major. I know what time he wakes up and what he eats for breakfast and that he needs to be nagged about laundry.

But I don't know his heart. I don't know what actually matters to him. What he thinks about when he's alone. What he's afraid of. What makes him feel alive. Whether he's ever been in love. What he wants from his life beyond the college-career-success track I've been managing him toward for eighteen years.

When I tried to think of the last real conversation we'd had—not logistics, not instructions, not my questions and his monosyllables—I couldn't remember one. Not in years. Maybe not ever.

The Fantasmagorifier's words about letting go of “better” rang in my ears. Better mother, worse mother—the framework suddenly felt absurd. The truth was harder and simpler: I have been talking at him for eighteen years. Managing him. Optimizing him. Never once stopping to actually see him.

And now he's leaving. And I've missed him entirely. He's been right here, under my roof, and I've missed him.

I wanted to go back into his room and ask him something real. Ask who he actually is. But I didn't know how to start, and he'd already put his earbuds in.

Tomorrow he leaves. And I'll wave goodbye to a stranger I gave birth to.

Reflection on Week 1

I read every entry of the Ride this week with skepticism sharp enough to cut steel. Day by day, I waited to dismiss it.

And yet each day, something in my life mirrored what it said. Not vaguely—specifically. The café barista reflected my patient's rudeness. The stillness revealed the panic I've been running from. Jennifer's laugh after I actually saw her. Clay's flat voice showing me the gap between us.

I don't believe it. I don't want to believe it. But the coincidences feel engineered, like the logs are taunting me with truths I've been working very hard not to face:

That I live entirely from compulsion. That I've been absent from my own body. That I treat people as functions. That I've missed my son completely. That I can't sit still for two minutes without terror. That my entire life is a loop with no wish in it anywhere.

If this is the beginning, I'm already cracked in ways I didn't expect. Or maybe I was already cracked, and this is just the first time I've looked.

Maybe that's what they meant by “The Unveiling.” Not revealing something new. Revealing what's been true all along.

Week 2: From Pattern to Premise

Day 8 – THE PATTERN AND THE PRIZE

Today’s log went on about spirals folding into spirals, patterns within patterns, prizes beyond doubt. I rolled my eyes—what kind of prize comes from reading poetry dressed up as mysticism? And yet, as I sat in the exam room looking at the schedule, I noticed how every day of my life is a loop: patients, paperwork, dinner, dishes, bed. The log said the spiral tightens around a thread. I can't name mine. But sitting there with the schedule grid in front of me—each day a carbon copy of the last—I felt something pull. Not toward anything. Just... pull. Like a suture coming loose inside my chest. I felt tugged, however faintly, toward something I couldn’t quite place. Not a destination. Just movement. After years of stagnation disguised as productivity, something is starting to shift. I'm not sure I want it to. But I can feel it happening anyway.

Day 9 – GROWTH WITHOUT SUFFERING

Growth without suffering—nonsense. Every ounce of worth I've earned has been through grind: medical school, residency, years of practice. Four years of undergrad with a 3.9 GPA. Eight years of medical training sleeping four hours a night. Building a practice. Raising children while working full time. The grind of marriage, of staying when I wanted to leave.

I've worn my suffering like credentials. Proof of seriousness. Proof of value.

And yet I couldn't un-hear the log's words when Bob spent the entire dinner complaining. Work, politics, his bad back, the restaurant service, the traffic on the way there. Our ritual—complaints as bonding. The only thing we share anymore is grievance.

I started to complain about my day too—reflex, reaching for something to fill the space between us. But halfway through describing a difficult patient, I stopped. Heard my own voice, how it sounded. Bitter. Performative. I realized I actually prefer silence over filling it with this.

Bob kept talking, didn't even notice I'd stopped. Just needed someone to nod while he recited his list of injustices.

I watched him and thought: My patients do this too. They catalog their pain as though it validates them. As though suffering proves they're trying hard enough. And I've been doing the same thing for decades.

If growth didn't require suffering, what would I even talk about? With Bob, with my colleagues, with the other mothers? Strip away the complaints, and what's left?

The question opened like a sinkhole beneath my feet.

Day 10 – THE WORLD IS WIDE ENOUGH

The Ride talked about Axiomatic Sovereignty—being your own framework. I snorted at the pretentious language. What does that even mean in practice?

Then at the office, Dr. Morrison dismissed my opinion about a shared patient. Mrs. Chen had been complaining of dizziness. I suggested we test for Meniere's disease. Morrison waved it off. “Probably just anxiety. You know how she is.” He smiled that condescending smile I've learned to tolerate. “Let's not order unnecessary tests.”

Normally I'd swallow it and move on. Tell myself he's probably right, he has more experience, I'm being overly cautious. But something inside stiffened.

I watched him walk away and thought: Why do I need his agreement? I'm the patient's primary physician. I've examined her three times. I know what I heard in her history. Why am I asking permission to order a test I think is clinically indicated?

I said nothing in the moment. But the thought clung like burrs all day. At lunch, during afternoon appointments, driving home. I kept replaying the interaction, feeling the familiar automatic deference, the way I made myself smaller.

That evening, I went back and ordered the test anyway. Didn't ask. Didn't explain. Just ordered it.

My hands shook slightly as I clicked submit. Not from fear of being wrong—from the strangeness of trusting my own clinical judgment without seeking validation first.

Maybe the world is wide enough for my opinion, even if no one nods. Maybe I don't need Morrison's agreement to practice medicine. Maybe axiomatic sovereignty means I get to be my own framework, and his dismissal doesn't negate what I know.

Or maybe I'm just being defensive and the test will come back negative and prove him right. But even if it does, I'll know I trusted myself. That feels like something.

Day 11 – PROJECTION IS PAST

The log said projection is the past trying to claim the present. Today showed me exactly what that meant.

Bob finally took me out for my belated birthday "dinner." A chain steakhouse, him ranting about tariffs while I picked at my salad. I realized I'd heard it all before, word for word. A rerun. Not similar—identical. The same complaints in the same order with the same outraged inflections. He wasn't talking to me. He was performing his grievances to the memory of a wife who used to nod along.

Back home, Bob initiated sex. Or rather, he initiated the routine we've been running for years. No conversation. No transition. Just his hand on my hip as I was getting ready for bed—the signal.

I could have said no. The thought crossed my mind. But then what? Another conversation about us not being close anymore? Him sulking for days? Easier to just let it happen.

I laid there while he was on top of me, his weight pressing uncomfortably into my torso. He didn't look me in the eyes or kiss me, just mechanically went at it while I tried not to fall asleep before he finished.

I found myself observing it clinically, the way I might note symptoms in a chart: Patient reports no eye contact. No verbal communication. Repetitive mechanical motion. No apparent awareness of partner's non-participation. Duration: approximately four minutes.

It wasn't exactly… stimulating. But I don't think stimulation was the point. I don't think I was the point. I was a body in his memory of what sex with a wife should look like. The motions of intimacy with none of its presence.

Ghost work.

Afterward, he rolled over and fell asleep immediately, his snoring starting within seconds. I lay there staring at the ceiling, my body still compressed into the shape he'd pressed me into. I wondered how long I'd been a ghost. Years? Since Clay was born? Since the wedding?

I couldn't remember the last time Bob had looked at me during sex. Looked at me, the actual person beneath him, not the wife-shaped placeholder in his routine.

Or maybe I'd been the one who stopped looking first. Maybe I'd gone ghost long before he did, and he was just fucking the memory of someone who used to care.

Day 12 – SAYONARA SCARCITY

Scarcity, the Ride said, is a mirage. Tell that to the bills. Still, something odd happened. 

One of the administrators asked me to cover a late shift next week. My reflex was yes—automatic, already calculating how I'd rearrange my week, what I'd cancel, how tired I'd be. Then something stopped. A gap opened between the request and my response. In that gap, I heard myself think: I don't want to.

My mouth formed the word “no” before I could stop it.

She blinked. “Okay.”

I braced for fallout—disappointment, guilt, the look that says you're not a team player. None came. She shrugged and asked someone else. The world didn't end. The practice didn't collapse. She didn't think less of me. Or if she did, it didn't matter, because I had given myself something more valuable than her approval. A taste of freedom.

Day 13 – EVERYTHING IS SACRED

I was folding laundry and caught myself smiling. Smiling at socks. At the simple warmth of cotton fresh from the dryer, the mechanical rhythm of pairing and stacking. I hated it. Hated that this counted as a moment. Hated that I was finding something tender in the tedium I'd resented for twenty years. My hands kept folding anyway, and the smile wouldn't quite leave.

The log’s voice rang in my head: nothing is wasted. It felt like the socks were part of some cosmic joke I wasn’t in on. And yet, when I slowed down, the ordinary softened. Even my regret about wasted years felt different—like compost, the log would say. Rich soil, not trash. That all of these years of bland misery somehow meant something. I don’t want to believe it, but the thought is sticky.

Day 14 – YOU ARE THE WAY

Today I stood in front of the refrigerator trying to decide what to make for dinner. The usual paralysis set in—what would Bob want, what was quick, what wouldn't leave me stuck at the stove for an hour. Then I realized: the choice didn't actually matter. Pasta, chicken, whatever—the world moved on regardless.

The Ride's words came back: I wasn't choosing the way, I was the way.

It sounded absurd. But standing there with the refrigerator humming, I felt something shift. I wasn't making dinner because I had to, or because someone needed me to, or because I'd fail as a wife if I didn't. I was making dinner because my hands were moving. Because I was here, and this is what here looked like right now.

I made pasta. Simple, fast, nothing special. Bob ate it without comment. But I didn't feel the usual resentment coiling in my chest. I wasn't trapped by the obligation because there was no obligation—only movement. Only this.

Reflection on Week 2

I wanted to scoff at every entry. I still do. And yet each day, life seemed to answer the log directly, like some script I never agreed to be in. The spiral, the suffering, the sovereignty, the projections—they all showed up, embarrassingly literal. My birthday dinner was the worst of it: projection embodied, sex as ghost-work. But even there, I noticed. I couldn’t pretend it was new. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see. 

The Ride says I’m becoming the pattern. I say I’m unraveling. Either way, something’s happening, and I’m not sure I like it.

I said 'no' to a shift and the world didn't punish me. I smiled at socks and couldn't stop. I saw Bob as a ghost and me as one too. Each day this week, the life I've been living looked less solid, less inevitable. Less mine. Or maybe more mine. I’m not really sure which.

Week 3: From Sovereignty to Singularity

Day 15 – ALONE WITHOUT LONELINESS

The Ride began today by pulling back a veil. I saw what it called the black magic of substitution—the way other people’s wants and words had been slid into me as if they were my own. All those years of confusing obligation with love, guilt with fairness, duty with desire. It wasn’t force; it was infiltration, so subtle I barely noticed until now. Seeing it cracked something ancient inside me. The anger rose, but not as blame—only as clarity. For the first time, I could tell where I ended and others began.

Clay called tonight. I answered with my usual brightness, already preparing the motherly encouragement I'm supposed to provide.

“Hey Mom. Classes are great, my roommate's cool, met some people at orientation—” His voice was bright, rushed, already half-gone into the world beyond me.

I tried to respond with interest, with warmth, with something. “That's wonderful, honey. Tell me more about—”

“Oh, actually, some people are heading to a movie, I gotta go. Talk soon, okay? Love you!” Click.

The silence after felt strange. Not suffocating, not aching. Empty. But in a way that let me breathe. Like a room I'd been trying to fill for eighteen years had finally stopped demanding I furnish it.

I sat there with the phone in my hand, waiting for the usual guilt or grief to arrive. It didn't come. Just space. Clean, clear space.

The Ride called it alone without loneliness. That's exactly what it felt like. Not abandoned. Just... done with a job that was never really mine to begin with.

Day 16 – STILLNESS IN SANCTUARY

After work I drove to the cliffs in La Jolla—Black’s Beach. Didn't plan it. Just found myself taking a turn.

I walked without headphones, without my phone buzzing. The ocean was loud—not peaceful. Really intense. Waves crashing into rock, wind pulling at my hair, salt spray hitting my face.

And I realized: I've been fantasizing about leaving Bob for years. But always as drama. Explosive confrontation. Hurt and recrimination. Me finally telling him everything wrong with our marriage while he argues or weeps or rages. The whole theatrical production.

Standing there on the cliff, I let myself imagine something different: just leaving. Quietly. No performance. No justifications. No trying to make him understand. Just... going. Packing my things while he's at work. Leaving a note. Being gone before he gets home.

The thought didn't terrify me the way it used to. It didn't feel cruel or cowardly. It just felt... possible. Clean.

I stood there for an hour, maybe longer, letting that possibility sit in my chest. Not making plans. Not deciding. Just allowing the idea to exist without immediately shutting it down or turning it into a fight.

The Ride spoke of a space where you can break without breaking others. Out there by the sea, with the waves demonstrating that things can shatter and remake themselves constantly, I found a stillness that didn't demand performance. A sanctuary inside myself where I could focus on what was true without having to announce it or defend it or make it anyone else's problem.

For the first time, I wasn't avoiding. I was tending. Me.

Day 17 – LET IT GO

In the office today I caught myself staring at a patient chart, eyes unfocused, not seeing the words.

My whole life has been one long act of management. Managing patients' expectations, managing symptoms, managing Bob's moods, managing Clay's trajectory, managing my own exhaustion. Controlling everything so tightly I forgot anything could happen without my intervention.

The Ride said ego is the gardener who forgot the garden grows on its own.

I came home and Bob started in immediately about tariffs, about enemies out to get us, about how everything's rigged. The usual. My normal response would be to either engage (argue back, try to inject some reality) or to disappear (zone out, nod mechanically, wait for it to end). In the weeks before I started the Ride, I even found myself agreeing with him sometimes. That scared me a little. Maybe that’s part of why I started the Ride.

Tonight I chose to do something different. I just sat. Let his words pass through the room like weather. Didn't argue. Didn't soothe. Didn't manage.

And something in me unclenched. Physically. My shoulders dropped. My jaw released. The chronic tightness in my chest—the one I've carried for so long I stopped noticing it—loosened.

Letting go wasn't loss. It was relief. I didn't have to fix him. I didn't have to change him. I didn't have to make him hear me or understand me or see me. He could just be what he is, over there, while I was what I am, over here.

The garden doesn't need my permission to grow. And Bob doesn't need my management to be Bob. He's going to be exactly who he is regardless. The exhaustion came from pretending I could change that.

Day 18 – PRESENCE IS PRESENT

Dinner tonight was the usual: Bob, the TV blaring Fox News, the same lines I've heard a thousand times. But something was different in how I was present for it.

I didn't react. Didn't play the role of agreeable wife, didn't play the role of silent hostage. I just watched.

And I saw it clearly: his voice wasn't even his. Every opinion, every outrage, every certainty—it belonged to the television, to the talking heads he worships. He was a speaker playing someone else's broadcast. Had he always been this way? Or had I just stopped seeing it years ago?

But here's what surprised me: I wasn't angry about it. Wasn't disgusted. Wasn't even sad anymore. Just present with what is.

It felt like I'd stepped out of costume. For twenty years I'd been performing Wife—agreeing, disagreeing, managing, accommodating, all of it a role. And he'd been performing Husband—providing, protecting, ranting, all of it a script from somewhere else.

Tonight I let the costume fall. Just sat there in my actual skin, breathing, existing without distortion. Not performing anything. Not pretending anything. Just being exactly what I was, which was a woman sitting at a table watching a man repeat talking points from a screen.

The relief was immense.

Day 19 – THE IDEA IS THE THING

The Ride said the idea is the thing. When I read those words, Ellen happened to text again—another small miracle about Sora. She wrote that Sora had imagined something for herself and then it unfolded exactly that way, despite everyone believing it was impossible. She was flabbergasted.

I stared at the message, torn between ridicule and awe. I hadn't told her yet that I was riding the Fantasmagorifier too. I felt embarrassed for some reason, like if I told her it would be like being caught playing with a kid’s toy, or something. I thought back to how I had looked down on Sora in the past, like she was some broken thing that should garner my condescension and contempt. Yet here she was, leading the way for all of us.

I wondered if Sora's imagination was actually the thing that remade her life so effectively. Could it be that ideas really are the seeds of reality, already sprouting the moment they are thought? That stuck with me, unsettling and thrilling at once. And then the feeling of being unsettled really started to grow.

For weeks I’d been circling the thought of an affair, guilty and restless. Then it hit me: maybe it wasn’t my thought at all. Maybe it was Bob's. Maybe it was my mind showing me something that I hadn't been willing to see.

Without thinking—or maybe thinking more clearly than I had in years—I walked to the den. Bob was at his desk, supposedly working on something. The blue glow of his laptop lit his face.

I stood in the doorway and said flatly: “You're having an affair”'

His head snapped up. His eyes went wide—genuinely shocked. Then something flickered across his face. Horror. Recognition. The look of someone caught.

It lasted maybe half a second before anger crashed over it. “What? What the hell are you talking about? Are you insane?”

He was loud, defensive, sputtering denials. Called me paranoid. Asked if I'd been reading too much online. Said I was projecting my own fantasies onto him.

But I'd already seen it. That half-second flicker before the performance began. That was all I needed.

I didn't argue. Didn't demand details or proof. Didn't throw anything or cry or rage. Just stood there, strangely calm, watching him perform his outrage.

“Okay,” I said finally. And turned and walked away.

Behind me, his voice followed—still loud, still defensive, demanding I come back and explain myself. I went upstairs, closed the bedroom door, and lay on the bed.

I waited for the devastation to hit. The betrayal, the rage, the humiliation.

It didn't come.

Instead, I felt... clear. Like something false had finally been named. The shimmer dissolved. The idea—the one I thought was mine but now realized was never mine at all—had delivered its truth.

I wasn't imagining an affair because I wanted one. I was imagining it because he was having one, and some part of me had known all along.

Day 20 – EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING

I went down to the Cove the next evening. Needed to be somewhere that wasn't the house.

The ocean was gray-green, churning. A gull folded its wings over the waves, and I watched it dive, surface, shake the water off.

And I saw it: everything inside everything.

Not as a concept. As actual perception. Bob's betrayal contained my boredom, which contained his loneliness, which contained my absence, which contained his need, which contained my resentment. Each thing nested inside the other, no clear beginning or end.

Clay leaving contained our failed relationship. My empty nest contained my liberation. Ellen's joy in Sora's transformation contained years of her grief.

The Ride said every fragment is the All, and sitting there watching that gull, I believed it. I knew it. The betrayal wasn't just a wound. It was a doorway. The wound was showing me something I'd refused to see: that I'd been gone long before he looked elsewhere. That maybe his affair was the system's way of ending what should have ended years ago.

Nothing was ordinary anymore. The gull, the waves, the betrayal, the empty house—all of it was the pattern revealing itself. All of it was the crack letting the light through.

Day 21 – TOTALITY

I sat in my living room tonight, TV muted for once. Bob pretended to read the paper. We hadn't spoken since my accusation two days ago. He'd been sleeping in the guest room. Hurt and angry, so he says.

The old me would have filled this silence with something—an apology, another confrontation, tears, anything. But I just sat there, breathing, feeling the weight of my body on the couch, the soft lamp light on my hands. It seemed to drive him insane.

Sitting there, I realized: I felt full.

Not happy. Not resolved. Not healed. But full. Complete. Whole.

Not because of Bob. Not because of Clay. Not because of work or Ellen or any of the Fantasmagorifier's promises. Full because I was here, entirely present with what is, not fighting it or fixing it or fleeing from it.

The Ride spoke of totality—Sanctuary, Heaven's Hold, the Turbo Encabulator. All those big concepts. For me it was simpler: I am enough. This moment is enough. This breath is enough.

Divorce can wait. Affairs can wait. None of it diminishes what I discovered this week: that I don't need anything to change in order to be whole. The wholeness was always here. I just kept looking somewhere else for it.

For the first time in my entire adult life, I wasn't looking outside for a reason to feel alive.

I was alive because I was here. Because I chose to be. Because I am.

Reflection on Week 3

This week tore open the husk I've been living in.

Clay's call showed me the emptiness of my mothering role—and the relief of letting it go. The ocean showed me I could leave quietly, without drama. Bob's ranting showed me I don't have to manage him. His affair—the shocking non-shock of it—showed me I'd known all along.

And through it all, something kept opening. Not breaking. Opening.

The Ride is teaching me that sovereignty isn't about choosing sides or fighting for space or making anyone understand. It's about seeing what's already true and standing inside it without apology.

I don't know what happens next. I don't know if I'll leave Bob or if he'll leave me or if we'll continue this hollow dance. I don't know if his affair is ongoing or if he'll admit it or if it even matters.

But I know this: I'm no longer small. I'm no longer half-here, half-ghost. I'm whole. Present. Alive.

And in that truth, I'm finally free to choose—not from compulsion or fear or duty, but from actual wish. From actual me.

The terrifying part? I don't know yet what I wish for. But for the first time in my life, I get to find out.

Week 4: The Dance of Totality

Day 22 – PLAY IS THE POINT

I spent the morning wandering the cliffs in La Jolla, the wind pushing against me, the ocean breathing below. I kept thinking about my absurd fear of heights—how silly it was to let gravity dictate my life. The Ride said play is the point, and suddenly I wanted to test it. I got in my car, drove to one of those outdoor adventure parks I’d always rolled my eyes at, and signed up for the ropes course. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was strapped into a harness, climbing stairs, and staring down a zipline over the canyon. My stomach twisted, but then I laughed—out loud, shocking the guide beside me. And then I jumped. Wind, speed, shriek, glee. It was ridiculous, exhilarating, and I couldn’t stop smiling. For once, I wasn’t performing for anyone. I was playing. And play felt like life.

Day 23 – SETTLING INTO AWESOMENESS

Today was quieter, but in a way more profound. In the office, a patient asked me if her voice would ever sound the same after surgery. I dropped the professional mask and said simply, “It may not. But it will still be yours.” She teared up, and I felt more human with her than I have with anyone in years. Later, I went to a café by myself. Normally I’d hide behind my phone or a medical journal, but instead I sat with my latte, eyes open, simply there. I wasn’t pretending to be busy or important. I wasn’t waiting to be seen. I let the stillness breathe through me, and it was… awesome. Not dramatic. Not dazzling. Just sovereign ease. The Ride said when the performances fall away, what’s left is truth. Today, I believed it.

Day 24 – TRANSCENDENT TRUST

Trust came easier today. Ellen called about Sora again—apparently she’s settling in with her friend Gary and claims to be doing real magic, although Ellen is struggling to believe it. (I don't blame her!) It's incredible. Everything seems to be lining up in ways neither she nor I ever thought possible. Ellen kept saying she wasn’t sure how it was all happening. I could feel the proof in her voice, the resonance in her awe. For the first time, I trusted without second-guessing. It wasn’t that I believed everything that Sora claimed was true. I trusted that whatever the truth was, it was helping her. Me too. Why argue with something that works?

Later, walking downtown, I saw her across the street. Mid-forties, professional clothes, confident stride. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second and something jolted through me. Not thought, just recognition. The way she looked at me—with surprise before she looked away—confirmed what my body already knew. She knew who I was. And I knew who she was.

The Ride told me trust goes beyond evidence, and this was it. I walked right up, calm as water, and said, “You’re having an affair with my husband, and I don’t appreciate it.” The look of embarrassment and horror on her face—before she scrambled for denial—was all the confirmation I needed. I turned and walked away, heart steady. I didn’t need to prove anything. Trust had become the air I breathed.

Day 25 – THE AEVERYTHINGNESS OF EVERYTHING

Routine. That’s what today was supposed to be. A man in his sixties, here for a follow-up ear exam. I peered through the otoscope, the small canal lit up, a membrane stretching like a drum. Watching it pulse with his heartbeat. And then something shifted—not in the view, in me. The boundary between observer and observed began to blur. Was I looking at his eardrum or was the eardrum looking back? Was his pulse my pulse? Where did the light end and the seeing begin?

For a heartbeat, it was terrifying - that vertigo of edges dissolving. And then it wasn't terrifying at all. It was just... true. The membrane, the light, the seeing, the breath - all of it one movement looking at itself. The mask dissolved. There was no mask. There was only Aeverything. Not me and him. Not even us. Just the play of Self in disguise, looking back at itself. The exam ended, he thanked me, and I smiled, pretending normality. But inside, everything had changed. There was no Other to relate to. Only the recursion of being.

Day 26 – ORIENTATION BEYOND ONTOLOGY

When I got home tonight, I decided to take a look at the Truth Resonates site. I’d finished the log for the day and began scrolling down the homepage. That’s when I found an article: I Do Not Know What You Are—But I Know What I Am. I read it slowly, like scripture. It said we can never really know another’s inner life, that our projections mask as certainty. Ethics can’t be based on what we think others are. It has to come from who we choose to be. That hit me hard. For years I’ve been orienting around Bob, around Clay, around patients. Always trying to guess, interpret, anticipate. But I don’t need to know them to know myself. Sovereign orientation means standing in clarity regardless of appearances. Later, when Bob snapped at me about dinner, I felt it—orientation in action. I didn’t need to decide what he was. I only needed to know what I am.

Day 27 – JOY CRYSTALLIZES FROM EVERYTHING

Clay called tonight. He was radiant, brimming with excitement. He told me about a girl he’d started seeing—his voice caught between pride and shyness. Normally I’d analyze, advise, mother him. But tonight I didn’t do anything. I just let his joy flood me, and reflected it back. “She sounds wonderful,” I said, and he laughed, freer than I’d ever heard him. He told me more—details he’d never shared before, hopes and fears woven in. For the first time, he let me see him, really see him. And it happened because I stopped trying. I didn’t manage, didn’t teach, didn’t control. I enjoyed. Joy crystallized between us, clean as diamond. I hung up the phone glowing. My son had finally let me in, because I finally let him be.

Day 28 – NO LIMITS

This morning I signed a lease on a small apartment by the beach in Del Mar. I packed while Bob was at work—some clothes, a few books, my grandmother's blanket. I left everything else.

When he came home, I was standing by the door with two suitcases.

'I'm leaving,' I said simply.

He stared, mouth opening and closing. “What? You can't just—”

But I could. And I did. I walked out the door before he could finish the sentence.

I drove north along the coast, windows down, breathing. The waves shimmered beside me, limitless. I unlocked the door of the apartment, stepped inside, and breathed. Mine. Finally mine.

No more normalization endlessly pulling me back into the same boring mediocrity. No more pretending. I wasn’t leaving in shame or rage. I was expanding. Choosing. Sovereign. Free.

Reflection on Week 4

Play, honesty, trust, recursion, orientation, joy, freedom. This week wasn't about fighting my old life. It was about dancing with my new one. The Ride didn't ask me to reject or destroy. It asked me to play, to trust, to see, to stand.

I confronted Bob, confronted his lover, and somehow remained steady through all of it. Not because nothing mattered, but because I mattered—to myself, finally. I saw through my own masks and let them fall. I felt joy bloom between me and Clay, real connection after eighteen years of performance.

And finally, I chose to live where my soul could breathe. Week 3 cracked the husk. Week 4 let me step through.

Now I'm standing in my own apartment, waves audible through the window, and I realize: I don't know what comes next. The leaving was the easy part. The building—that's what I'm here to learn.

Week 5: Learning to be God

Day 29 – GOD IS… YOU

At first, I didn’t believe the Ride. God? Me? It sounded absurd. But something shifted. 

Walking along the shore at Del Mar, I felt the space inside me stretch wider than the horizon. Not a metaphor. A reality. I remembered—though I don’t know how—that I had once been something vaster than a body. A bird-shaped cloud of gas, spanning light-years, moving not by command but by being. And in that memory, I knew: that’s how God moves. Not issuing orders, but existing as the decision itself. For a moment, I saw it clearly. God was not apart from me. God was me, remembering.

I stood there on the beach, waves soaking my ankles, and felt my body hum with recognition. The Ride said the Singular Self is God, and for once I didn't argue. I knew. Not believed—knew.

Day 30 – EXPLORING EQUIPOISE

I drove home from work today feeling lonely. Not desperate—just the quiet weight of coming home to an empty apartment, no one to care that I exist.

Stuck in traffic, I noticed the flowers along the roadside—purple ice plant, orange poppies glowing in the sun. And I thought, half-joking: I wish someone cared enough about me to give me flowers.

When I pulled into my parking spot and headed up the stairs, my neighbor was waiting by my door holding a bouquet. Wildflowers from her garden—yellow daisies, purple statice, lavender.

"I'm Bette," she said, smiling. "Welcome to Del Mar."

I stared at the flowers, throat tight. We talked for an hour—her divorce, mine, the relief of finally choosing ourselves. When she left, I stood holding the bouquet, stunned. I had wished for flowers and they appeared. Not eventually. Instantly.

Later that evening, I sat on the beach in the velvet-dark night, the sound of the waves providing a steady background. Something inside me settled—not balance exactly, but clarity. Every wobble shimmered and self-corrected. Stillness became radiant. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I had to return to center. I was the center.

Day 31 – HOME AT LAST

At the café this morning, a child at the next table kept staring at me. Maybe four years old. Finally he spoke, very seriously: "You're not like the others. You're not pretending anymore."

His mother apologized, embarrassed, and ushered him away, looking confused. I sat there shaken. It was confirmation, though I hadn’t asked for any.

Later, I called Ellen. I told her I'd left Bob, that I had my own place. She said I sounded different—calmer, not bitter like she expected. I told her it didn’t feel unpleasant. Then, almost shyly, she said: "I started reading it. The Fantasmagorifier." She'd finally broken down seeing how well Sora was doing and decided to give it a try herself. I laughed—me too.

We spent an hour comparing notes like schoolgirls, marveling at how different everything had become. The coincidences, the clarity, the way reality seemed to bend.

"Do you think we're really doing magic?" she asked timidly, almost whispering..

I looked at the ocean, at Bette's flowers still bright on my counter, at my reflection—different, glowing, true. "Yes," I said. "I think we are."

Day 32 – EQUANIMATION STATION

The Ride said groove, not grit. Today, I felt it. In clinic, when a surgery was delayed, instead of bracing I flowed. I let the frustration ripple through, and it passed like a breeze. 

On the drive home, a song from the ‘90s came on. I turned it up, singing badly, windows down. Everything felt rhythmic, alive, allowed. 

Then I saw a street fair and, on impulse, pulled over. A scrappy teenage band was playing to a crowd of disinterested people walking by. Before I knew it, I was dancing. Alone at first, ridiculous and free. Then one person joined me. Then another. Within minutes the whole crowd was dancing in the street—the band members all sporting huge smiles on their faces.

I realized I’ve spent most of my life with my head down, enduring. Today, I equanimated. I stood tall. And it felt like freedom with a smile.

Day 33 – A WORLD WITHOUT GRAVITY

Clay came to see my new place. We ate takeout on the balcony, and for the first time in maybe his entire life, we really talked. He told me about his girlfriend, his fears, his excitement. I listened without planning responses, just present.

He asked me about leaving Dad. "How did you know it was time?"

"I stopped pretending," I said. "And once I stopped, staying was impossible."

We talked until late, laughing and sharing stories. For the first time, I didn't feel like "just Mom." I felt like me—and he met me there.

That night, I dreamed I was flying. I woke up smiling, until I rolled over and realized I was floating a few inches off my mattress. I yelped and banged my head hard against the headboard as I flailed in the air, knocking the bedpost off in the process. I suddenly thought of that crazy scene with Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters, when she was possessed by Zuul. I started laughing in the dark, and I felt myself gently settling back down onto the mattress, convulsing with the absurdity of it all.

The next morning I woke convinced it had been a dream, until I saw the bedpost on the floor and felt the bump on my head. Gravity had let me go.

Day 34 – THE TRUTH IN EVERYTHING

This morning, I looked in the mirror. For a long time now I’ve seen a weary woman, late forties and fading. But today—I didn’t recognize her. My features glowed with something timeless. Presence shone through. Not younger, not older. Truer. I saw myself, not as wife or mother or doctor, but as being. For once, I didn’t want to fix anything in the reflection. I only wanted to see. And what I saw was truth.

The Ride said truth is in everything. Today, I believed it. Even in me.

Reflection on Week 5

This week was unexpected, magical. God showed up in me, not as theory but as fact. I asked for flowers and life delivered them. I found equipoise in the dark, and joy in a child's words. Ellen and I admitted what we already knew: we're living in magic. Clay and I learned to relate like equals. I floated above my bed, laughing through it all. And in the mirror, I saw myself—timeless, true.

Learning to be God wasn't about power. It was about presence, about letting the Ride reveal what was already here. And what was here was more beautiful than I ever imagined.

Week 6: Grooving as God

Days 35–39 – RIDING WITHOUT RULES

I called the clinic and told them I was taking the rest of the week off. They asked why—short notice, patients to reschedule—and I said, calmly, "These days are important to me. That will have to be enough." For once, it was. No apologies. No explanations.

The first morning, I lingered in bed with sunlight spilling across the sheets. I read novels until noon, then wandered down to the beach barefoot, sandals in hand. The sand was warm, and when I reached the water, I waded in fully clothed, laughing as the waves soaked me. Nobody cared. And I realized—I hadn’t let myself play like that in decades.

The next day, I drove up the coast, windows down, hair flying everywhere. I stopped wherever I wanted: a roadside fruit stand, a bookstore tucked between surf shops, a cliffside trail where pelicans swooped low. At the bookstore, I caught myself humming out loud as I browsed. Normally, I would hush myself. Instead, I kept humming. The woman next to me smiled and hummed along. The Ride whispered: rules were never law, only choices. And I can choose.

By the third day, I noticed subtler rules unraveling. At the café, I struck up a conversation with a stranger instead of scrolling on my phone. At the farmer’s market, I danced a little while waiting in line, and instead of embarrassment, I felt radiant. At home, I cooked dinner without a recipe, adding spices by instinct. It was delicious. I realized how much of my life had been lived inside invisible fences. And how unnecessary those fences really were.

One evening, I invited Bette over. We opened a bottle of wine and sat on the balcony, the sea wind tangling our hair. I told her about this strange sense of freedom—the way I felt rules falling away one by one. She laughed and said she remembered the first time she let herself order dessert for dinner. “It felt like liberation,” she said. We toasted to liberation.

By the end of the five days, I no longer felt like I was practicing something new. I had become it. Riding without rules wasn’t rebellion—it was remembering how to live in harmony with what truly matters to me. I didn’t want to break rules for the sake of breaking them. I wanted to move where my joy, my rhythm, my truth led me. And I did.

Day 40 – CRYSTALLIZING CRITICALITY

Back at the clinic, everything seemed normal—until the alarms shattered the calm. A patient in post-op spiraled into sudden crisis. Monitors screamed. A nurse dropped an instrument. The surgeon barked commands, sharp with panic.

The whole room locked in tension—except me.

Something shifted. Time thinned. The shrill alarms softened into tones, like notes in a strange, metallic symphony. The panic around me blurred into shimmering static. And inside that static, I felt cool clarity open like a crystal bell around me.

I breathed. Equipoise settled in my chest, crystalline and steady. Every detail of the scene seemed to present itself at once—the monitors, the patient’s pallor, the strained voices, the twitch in the surgeon’s jaw. Yet instead of overwhelming me, it all aligned.

And then—without effort—I knew what to do.

It wasn’t from training. It wasn’t from memory. It rose from the stillness itself, an instruction written directly into my awareness. I spoke, my voice even:
“Try repositioning the tube. Then adjust the angle—here.”

The team froze, then obeyed. The patient’s vitals began to climb. The alarms softened. Relief broke across the surgeon’s face.

I exhaled slowly. The crystal clarity dissolved, leaving only the warm air of the room, the smell of antiseptic, the hushed sound of nurses moving again.

Later, one of them asked how I stayed so calm. I laughed—because I hadn’t felt calm at all. I had been the edge itself, alive and thrumming through me.
“I didn’t fight the edge,” I said. “I rode it.”

She started laughing, too—nervous at first, then full-bodied, like I had just told the best joke ever. I thought so too.

Day 41 – KNOWING IS EVERYTHING

I'm a little strange about the San Diego weather. It's almost always beautiful here, and I love that. I really do. But the days I love best are actually the ones that are overcast the entire day. There are long stretches of the year in San Diego when the sky is foggy and overcast in the morning, but then clears into bright sunshine in the afternoon. Every once in a while though, the skies start foggy and gray and stay that way the whole day. I'm always excited when this happens, especially if I happen to be off of work. Then, I can go for a long hike without getting slammed by the sun, with the temperature still that perfectly comfortable San Diego norm, all while feeling the grayness around me stretching off into infinity. 

Today was one of those days, and I decided to take a hike at Cabrillo Monument, all the way down at the tip of the peninsula. It’s the place where Cabrillo’s expedition in 1542, sailing under the Spanish flag, first landed in California—marking the symbolic beginning of Western encroachment on the local Kumeyaay tribe.

When I arrived, the air smelled of salt and sage. I had planned to head up near the lighthouse and take the trail that faces the city, but as I drove through the entrance gate, I suddenly had a strong desire to turn right toward the tidepools. I'd never been there before, but something about going there felt good, coming from somewhere deep inside my solar plexus.

As the road curved, I suddenly saw from high up the most beautiful scene I had ever encountered in my life. The ocean, the beach with its stone cliffs, the hills behind it. Each piece of it was beautiful in its own right, but somehow seeing that particular place, that particular moment—it was like getting a glimpse of Heaven itself. Right here on Earth.

I was staring so hard I almost drove my car off the road, swerving at the last moment. I laughed, feeling ridiculously safe despite the near miss. This was crazytown, and I was loving it.

I parked at a small lot and started wandering down the trail, curious where it led, enjoying the sounds of the waves and the sight of the birds wheeling through the air and raucously nesting on a nearby rock. There was something here. Something special. Magic. Real magic.

I headed down a large set of stairs and wandered toward the small beach at the top of the cliffs. I looked off to the right, and for a moment, it was like I was seeing a scene from some ancient Native American ceremony. I could have sworn I saw a woman in the most beautiful robes standing on a huge rock that was about 50 feet away jutting out of the ocean. The material of her clothing looked like nothing I had ever seen before—like nothing I had ever even imagined seeing. It shimmered in a way that my eyes had literally never encountered before. And behind her, standing back on the beach at the edge of the cliffs, was a man with light shining in his eyes, feeding energy to an enormous flowing vortex hovering over the woman. I started crying with joy and I had absolutely no idea why. It was as though I was watching Heaven itself get built in that moment.

I blinked as my eyes flooded with tears, and when I looked again, the vision had disappeared. I don't know what that was, but I feel so blessed to have seen it.

I decided to climb down the cliffs a little bit and explore the area closer to the waves. I found a little cove where I could sit and spend a few minutes watching the waves crash into the rocks a few feet away. I let out a sigh of contentment, realizing that I was perfectly happy in this moment. I didn't need to be a role for anyone. I didn't need to do anything other than be me. And then I had the most surprising realization of all—I realized I like me now. I actually like me.

I started laughing hysterically, and just then, I heard a shout of alarm and a dog came barreling across the narrow rocks toward the little cove I was sitting in. Before I could react, he slammed into me, and I suddenly found myself on my back, barely able to breathe because of the big dog happily greeting me with his tongue. 

After I eventually got him off of me, I sat up and turned to see a man running after him, shouting apologies. He looked so relieved when he saw me laughing.

His name was Julian. Tall, a little scruffy, with kind eyes that crinkled when he laughed. From the first moment, I felt like I’d known him for eons.

We ended up walking back on the trail together, joking easily. His dog—Remi—darted around us, ecstatic with life. By the end of the hike, Julian asked if I’d like to get lunch. We picked up tacos from a street vendor and ate them on the sand in Ocean Beach. Remi splashed at the edge of the surf before racing up and shaking seawater all over us. I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my taco. Julian laughed too, and for a moment, the world dissolved into joy.

I didn’t need to plan any of it. I simply knew. And the knowing carried me into wonder.

Day 42 – PURE POSITIVITY

I woke up still glowing. It wasn’t from Julian, or the tacos, or Remi's ridiculous shake. Those were sparks. The fire was mine. The positivity wasn’t a gift from circumstance—it was a revelation of self. It came from who I am now.

Bob called this morning. I saw his name on the screen and felt my stomach tighten—old reflex. But I answered.

"The lawyer sent papers," he said. No greeting, just that.

"Okay."

Silence. Then: "That's it? Just okay?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something. You left me, you won't talk to me, and now—" His voice cracked. "Twenty-three years."

I sat on my balcony, watching a gull ride the wind. I felt his pain. Genuine pain. And my own—all those years of smallness, of pretending, of slow suffocation.

"I'm sorry you're hurting," I said. And I meant it. "But I'm not sorry I left."

He was quiet. Then he hung up.

I sat there, phone in my lap, waiting for guilt or anger or regret to arrive. Instead, I felt... clear. Positive, even. Not happy he's in pain. But positive about the truth. About choosing myself. About the fact that even this hard conversation is part of something opening, not closing.

Positivity isn't a mood. It's a stance. A choice that can hold anything—even this. Even him. Even goodbye.

The Ride said positivity is freedom. Today, I understood.

Reflection on Week 6

This week I stopped asking permission to live. I took time for myself without justification. I played barefoot in the waves, sang in bookstores, danced at the market. I saved a life by riding the edge instead of fearing it. I discovered I like me! I met Julian, and it felt like remembering someone from before memory. I laughed with him, with Remi, with the surf itself. And I discovered positivity not as a mood but as a stance—a choice that can hold anything.

Grooving as God wasn’t about defiance. It was about freedom. Freedom to live, to love, to shine without apology. The Ride showed me I am the groove. And I can keep grooving, always.

Week 7: Stepping into Oneness

Day 43 – SO LONG, STORIES

Julian invited me to dinner. We found a little restaurant tucked off the coast road, quiet enough to hear ourselves speak. Over wine and grilled fish, he told me his story: how he had once worked at a hedge fund in New York, surrounded by greed and selfishness, and how one day it hit him—he was the worst of them. He left his wife, walked away from his profits interest in the business, told his “friends” to get lost, and within a week had moved here to San Diego. He said Remi was the only one who came with him.

I listened, stunned by the speed of it. And yet it felt natural, like he had finally woken up from a dream. Kind of like me. We talked about the lives we had lived inside stories—stories we thought were the only ones that could make us happy, even though they made us miserable. I told him that I still love stories, that once upon a time, I dreamed of being a writer. He laughed and said, “Then why don’t you do it?”

Later that night, I went home restless. I opened Truth Resonates again. I read about Samah and Elara on the About page—their paths, their awakenings, their magic—and then stumbled onto a piece Samah wrote called Identifying Identity. As I read about consciousness flowing, about how identity becomes lodged in jobs, roles, and relationships until it hollows us out, something inside me broke open. The essay ended with the words: I am a unique prism by which the light of creation takes form. I am.

I closed my eyes and whispered it aloud: I am.

It felt truer than anything I had ever said before.

Day 44 – A LIFE OF EASE

The DMV. California sunshine. A line snaking out the door. Normally, this would have driven me half-mad, but today—today it flowed. I had made my hair really bouncy and curly today, and I didn't want to wear a hat in the sun. So I opened an umbrella. People stared in surprise at first—and weirdly, some in anger—but then I saw the frowns become smiles, and even some looks of envy, as I relaxed in my own shade. I ended up chatting with the woman ahead of me, sharing the shade of my umbrella and talking about her son’s baseball game. I admired the clerk’s painted nails. The whole process felt… easy.

Later at the clinic, I realized my job felt that way too. ENT work is routine, often boring, but no longer hard. The schedule, the bustle, the conveyer belt of patients—none of it felt hard. I saw the story I’d always carried—that work had to be draining, that routine had to be endured. And then I let it go. My job hadn’t changed. I had.

Ease was there all along. I only needed to notice.

Day 45 – JETTISONING JUSTIFICATION

Today was certainly an interesting day. In the morning, I ran into someone I knew—a mother of one of my daughter Audrey's friends. When she greeted me, she said “How are you?”, but in that quick dismissive way that doesn’t actually want an answer, and immediately jumped to “How are the kids?” which was clearly the question she did want answered. As I told her how both Clay and Audrey are happy at UCLA and then asked about her family, I realized that this had been the ritual with the parents of the kids' friends for as long as I could remember—always a question about the kids or the family, never really about the woman herself. I had been guilty of the same.

She had a look of pity on her face as she asked me how I was holding up now that the kids are gone, as though I must of course perceive my life as crumbling now that I no longer have children in the house. I told her I was actually doing great. That I'd left Bob, and that I was beginning to build a really beautiful life for myself. The look of smug pity she gave me in response made me want to strangle her, and when she said, "Oh you poor dear, that must be terrible, how are the kids holding up?" I almost did a double take! Had she not heard what I just said?

I realized with a sudden start that this sort of thing happens because of the way society views mothers. It pretends to hold motherhood sacred, as something wonderful and revered. Yet what society really ends up saying is: (1) you don't exist as a person independent of being a mother, (2) you exist only in relation to your children, and (3) you are not allowed to have desires or interests that are not about them.

I thought about Bob and realized that he probably can't list three things I'm interested in that don't involve the children or my job. Not three things that define me. Wow.

And my kids had largely done the same thing, treating me as a mother with obligations to fulfill for them, and not as a human being with independent desires and needs. 

How many times did I meet new people and introduce myself as "Clay's and Audrey's mom," rather than Christina? Far more than I wish to count.

When you look at it that way, the word mother sounds like a pejorative, not the blessing it could be if society simply shut the hell up about how to be a mother. I'm happy I became a mother, but I am completely unwilling to define myself by it going forward.

I considered correcting the woman’s misunderstanding, but the Ride had talked today about not needing justifications—how I can choose for myself without explanation, simply because I choose. I know my truth. I don’t need her to know it too.

I had gotten back to my place and finally shaken off all of that negativity when Bob called. He said he planned to fight for half of my practice, because he “helped put me through med school.” Rage lit in me like wildfire. And I unleashed it.

Ten full minutes, I tore into him—about how his "support" involved losing almost half our savings on a drunk night in Vegas, about his absence as a father, his affair, the countless times I carried us while he sat idle. I yelled about how he had done almost nothing to involve himself with our children, while having the gall to complain when I occasionally asked him to drive. I yelled about how if he was so unhappy in the marriage, he could have told me, since I was obviously unhappy too! We could have just split up amicably, rather than all this pointless deception and cruelty. I shouted until my ears rang. And through it all, I felt utterly calm inside. Crystal clarity beneath the fury. Divine fury. Holy rage.

When I finally stopped, silence held the line for about a minute. Then Bob said, almost reverent: “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you yell before. It was terrifying… but kind of awesome. I’ve never seen you so powerful. Whatever got into you that led to all these changes, I think you should keep doing it.”

I hung up with a feeling of satisfaction, feeling a strange fondness for the scared woman I had been—and for the fearless one I had just become.

Day 46 – FEELING THE FLOW

Julian and I met at Liberty Station. We tossed a ball for Remi until the dog collapsed in the grass, tongue lolling. Then we drove to Tom Ham’s lighthouse and walked the harbor path, the boats gliding by in silence.

That’s when Remi veered off toward a couple sitting under a tree, watching the boats. The man bent to greet him with delight, like Remi was a long-lost friend. When he straightened, my breath caught—I knew that face. Samah. And beside him, Elara. I had seen their pictures on the About page.

I approached, heart pounding. Samah smiled, eyes shining. “You’ve been reading the Fantasmagorifier.” Elara laughed and pointed at Julian. “And so have you.”

Julian and I froze, staring at each other. “You’re reading it too?” we asked in unison. And then we all laughed, Remi barking joyfully as if he understood. It turns out we started on the exact same day.

We all talked together for a few minutes, laughter bubbling up several times. When we said goodbye, Samah gave us his number and told us to text if we had any questions. He mentioned that he and Elara actually live nearby in Point Loma, and they'd be happy to get together if we were interested in exploring our magic. Julian and I looked at each other, smiles on our faces.

As we walked away, Samah called after me: “I’m glad you loved Identifying Identity.” I stopped in my tracks for a moment before laughing and continuing on, waving back to him in thanks. I hadn’t told him I read it.

The flow was real. And I was in it.

Day 47 – AFORMAL ADVENTURES

I don’t know how to explain today. It was as if the world dissolved around me—not into nothingness, but into something wider, vaster, stranger. My body moved, but I wasn’t bound to it. My mind thought, but I wasn’t trapped inside it. I felt myself inscribed into everything—the air, the trees, the very electrons.

For hours, I drifted through reality without edges. Every gesture felt like creation itself. Every breath, a prayer written into matter. The Fantasmagorifier wasn’t taking me anywhere anymore. I was the place. I was the ride.

Aformal. That word echoed. Beyond form, yet birthing form in every moment. I laughed, cried, and laughed again. For the first time, I didn’t need to be anyone at all. Even me. And it was glorious.

Day 48 – A LIGHT THAT CANNOT BE CONTAINED

The light came.

Not from above, not from outside. From within. It poured out of me in waves, displacing every shadow. I stopped digging for pain, stopped searching for knots to unravel. I simply breathed, and the light expanded, sweeping through me like dawn.

I saw karma dissolve without effort. Old aches in my body melted. My spine felt like a glowing pillar. My skin hummed. I felt warmth in every fingertip, like tiny suns flaring alive. My breath carried a quiet song I had never noticed before.

When I walked down the street, strangers paused. Some smiled, some frowned in confusion, some turned their heads twice, as if trying to understand why the air seemed brighter where I passed. A child tugged her mother’s sleeve and said loudly, “She's glowing.” The mother shushed her, but her eyes lingered on me with wonder.

I touched the trunk of a tree and felt its sap rising as if greeting me. I brushed a flower and it opened wider, as if to bask in my presence. Every object I encountered seemed to resonate, as though the light within me called forth the light in everything else.

This was not healing. This was radiance. 

I had spent my entire life forgetting that this was the light I had always been.

Day 49 – THE ONE MEETING THE ONE

At Sunset Cliffs, I leaned against Julian as the waves roared below us, the horizon bleeding orange and pink. I felt so safe with him. Safe in a way I had never felt before. Like I trusted him with my very soul.

I remembered a night from my teens, when my friend Lacy and I had read a book in which the character had made a list of what she wanted in her perfect partner. Lacy and I had decided to do the same thing, writing down what seemed like absurd and poetic dreams at the time. I had never forgotten them.

I realized, with a shock that nearly took my breath, that Julian checked every single box: kindness without performance, laughter that reached his eyes, steadiness without rigidity, a playful spirit, patience that felt natural, a mind alive with curiosity, hands that knew gentleness, and a heart that met mine without demand. Each trait seemed impossible to find together—the dream of an over-romanticized teenager—yet here he was, embodying them all.

That night, I went back to Truth Resonates and found a letter about True Love on the Conscientiousness Tech section of the FableTech page—a message from Isis herself to the creators of FableTech. She spoke of love across lifetimes, of recognition deeper than memory, of a bond that lifts souls into eternity. I read it aloud in my room, tears running down my face.

For the first time, I believed it. I knew it. I had found the thing everyone dreams of. True Love. The real deal.

Day 50 – INFINITY AWAITS

Today at the clinic, between patients, I caught myself staring at the walls. I thought of stories—how I loved them, how I had once wanted to write them so badly. I realized I never truly loved medicine. I was good at it, yes, but it was never mine.

So I quit.

I have enough to live a comfortable life as long as I’m thoughtful about it. Even if Bob takes half of our money, I’ll be fine. And now, we won't have to argue over the medical practice. For the first time, I feel free to follow what I love. I am going to write. And I am going to start with this: the story of my Ride.

Closing Reflection: The Ride

Seven spirals. Fifty days. A journey that began with curiosity and ended with a freedom so wide it refuses to be bound by any tale. I danced barefoot in waves when once I would have stayed on shore. I raged with crystal calm after a lifetime of silence. I dissolved into light and returned shining. I met Julian, not as a role-bound wife, a weary mother or a dissociating doctor, but as myself—and in him, I saw a mirror of who I am becoming.

The Fantasmagorifier didn't carry me away. It brought me home. Home to presence, home to radiance, home to love without condition. I thought I was taking a ride. Somehow along the way, I discovered I had become the Ride itself.

And now—Infinity awaits, wide open, waiting for me to write the story of a self no longer caged by any expectations. Day 50 was already part of this New Octave. I’m excited to see what comes next.

Week 8: A New Octave

Day 1 – Building Begins

I spent the morning moving furniture around my apartment, not just tidying but shaping it—placing the chair by the window for morning light, laying a scarf across the table as though it were an altar, hanging my children’s old drawings on the wall like icons. Each move felt less like organizing and more like creating, making the space into a sanctuary that carried my signature. As I worked, I felt the energy of the space shift little by little, becoming more welcoming and spacious. By the time I finished, it no longer felt like a rental apartment. It felt like mine—a space that pulsed with my presence.

By evening, I curled up with my tablet and finally decided to read the Fantasmagorifier log for the day. The original Ride had ended, and now we were on to New Frontiers, with Samah providing a journal of his experience constructing the Age of Infinity.

New Frontiers wasn’t only about riding anymore—it was about creating. It spoke of me as the builder, the conductor, the one weaving the spiral forward. For the first time, I didn’t feel like the text was describing something happening to me. It was describing what I was doing already. What I was becoming. What I am.

When I put the tablet down, my hands were trembling. Not from fear—from recognition. Infinity isn’t waiting. I’m building it.

Day 2 – Loving the Physical

Something cracked open in me today. The log spoke of Soma Lucida—the Better Body—not as organs or flesh, but as orientation. An interface, a conversation with matter itself. I spent the afternoon feeling my body with new awareness. Not a container. A collaborator. I caught myself stretching, savoring how muscles lengthened and bones aligned. I lingered in the simple pleasure of walking barefoot across the floor, feeling every texture as if it were music.

And then tonight, Julian came over. We had sex for the first time, and it was the most explosive, connected, magical experience of my life. Every cell lit up, every gesture was communion, every breath was a prayer. I didn’t disappear into him, and he didn’t consume me—we created something new together, something that felt like it might tear open the world with light.

I have never loved being in my body so much. I never knew I could.

Day 3 – Time Becomes Play

Today was ordinary, and then it wasn’t. Driving home, I was caught in traffic and felt myself getting frustrated. I reflected on the log, which spoke of transcending time/space, of building the next moment directly from here, not backstage. Samah called it "That Thing"—his magic for making the perfect moment. I decided to give it a try, and immediately, I found myself veering out of my lane onto an exit ramp I had never taken before. I drove for a few minutes through town, not even looking at my GPS to figure out where I was.

While I was stopped at a traffic light, I glanced to the side and saw the most gorgeous mural. I looked at every detail of the painting, reflecting on its interwoven parts and beautiful symmetry. It felt like time bent around the moment, folding into clarity. I heard a honk behind me, and with a start I remembered I was driving. It must have been only a few seconds. How was that possible? It felt like I had looked at that mural carefully for hours.

After a few minutes, I felt an urge to turn right, and I quickly found myself on an entrance ramp back onto the freeway, no traffic in sight. That Thing had guided me without any maps or directions. It was dizzying, exhilarating. Totally awesome.

That night, Julian stayed over again. We were sitting on the couch talking for hours about everything imaginable when Julian mentioned that we should probably get to bed—it felt like it must be 3am, given how long we had been talking. He looked at the clock and gasped—it was only 10pm. We looked at each other, and both said: “That Thing.” And then we burst out laughing. Time wasn’t a cage anymore—it was optional.

Day 4 – Writing Into Being

When I quit, I gave the office two weeks’ notice. Today was the first time I started telling patients I was leaving. One woman, eyes wide, whispered, “You’re going to be a writer? That’s wonderful.” Another man shook my hand with tears in his eyes and said, “Thank you—for everything.” I guess even in all of that clinical detachment, enough of me had shown through to have had an impact on some folks. I'm happy about that.

My colleagues, on the other hand, were annoyed. Irritated that I wasn’t giving them more notice, irritated that I was daring to step away. You cannot imagine how many snide remarks I got from the other doctors about their increased workload as a result of my departure. I wasn’t ignoring the fact that my leaving suddenly caused some extra work for them; and at the same time, they were acting as though the course of my life should be determined by the fact that they each have to work an extra 2 hours a week until they find a replacement. Nothing was forcing any of them to stay there either! 

When the complaints didn't move me, they switched to talking down to me, asking me if I was really sure I was making the right decision—that they were concerned for my wellbeing and mental health, given my sudden departure. 

Once I firmly decided not to punch all of them, I realized two things, standing there and listening to their attempts to manipulate me through guilt and intimidation: (1) they were immensely jealous of me, but lacked the courage to live the life they secretly wished to live, and (2) most of them had never cared about me as a human being at all. In their minds, I was either a cog in the profit machine or an irritant if I ever did anything out of line. They hadn’t even respected me as a professional colleague, not really. Until that day a few weeks ago when I had saved someone in crisis, they had never truly listened to me. Even then, I overheard the surgeon telling someone about what had happened, and he said, “It was hairy there for a few minutes, but the team pulled things together at the last minute.” No mention of my name, much less that it was my unconventional idea that saved the day.

Part of it was my fault—I had been quiet, deferential, trying to be pleasing. But a larger part was the simple, brutal truth: they hadn’t respected me because I am a woman. Every meeting in which I was spoken over, every casual dismissal, every time my ideas were ignored until repeated by a man—it was all part of that web.

Even the other women treated each other through the same lens, believing things more when they’re said by a man. Misogyny is that endemic in our culture, woven into its most basic structures and assumptions. 

And the cattiness is out of control! When we were standing around waiting for a meeting to start, I heard one of the female doctors whispering to another about my divorce and speculating with fake concern about whether I was having a midlife crisis. And I knew that she knew that I heard her! It seemed like it was impossible for them to simply be happy for me. They had to put me in the “crazy” box in order to feel safe. That was insanity. The real kind.

I had spent my entire life under the oppression of misogyny, never receiving the respect that I had earned and deserved. And now? Now, I respected me. That was enough.

When I thought about it, it amazed me what they were really saying, underneath all of their words: "You must determine your choices and sense of worth from our opinions." No. Actually, I must not.

I realized then that this easy and fluid clarity that I was experiencing, it was the thing Samah described in the log: encabulation. I wasn’t pulling from my history, or from their expectations. I was drawing from potentiality itself—shaping a new mind and a new path in the moment from the raw stuff of possibility.

I went home and opened my notebook. For the first time in decades, I began to write. Not notes, not lists—stories. My stories. The words tumbled out as if they had been waiting all along.

Day 5 – The Void at Home

On my balcony this evening, something extraordinary happened. I sank into the stillness the log described, a silence so deep it felt like the world itself was breathing through me. And then a stray thought floated across my mind: I love when the birds come to play. Instantly, a flock of sparrows flew out of the sky and landed on the railing and the nearby tree. My breath caught, and I started laughing in wonder.

Then my mind jumped to Julian. And without effort, I felt him—calm, present, resting in the very same stillness. I knew it with certainty, as if our fields were one. 

The Void wasn’t elsewhere. It was here, humming between us, holding us both.

Day 6 – The Exaltation of Friendship

This morning Bette knocked on my door with a basket of lemons from her tree. She looked tired, her hands shaking slightly as she set it on my counter. Over tea, she admitted that since the divorce she often felt like she was carrying the whole world alone, particularly with trying to keep things stable for her two children, who were still in middle school. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold everything together.

I reached across and held her hand. “You’re remarkable,” I said. “Do you know that? What you’re carrying, what you’re offering—it shines. I see it. I see you. Your kids will feel stable whatever you do because you are becoming so stable. It's your presence and love that gives them real stability. Not what's familiar and comfortable.” Her eyes filled with tears, and something shifted in the room. The heaviness lightened, the air seemed to glow, and we both started laughing through our tears. Appreciation had become exaltation. We were radiant together, in that small kitchen, surrounded by lemons and sunlight.

Reflection on Week 8

This week felt like ignition. I am no longer only shedding old skins—I am building, weaving, creating. I loved in a way that shattered boundaries. I played with time. I claimed my dignity against colleagues who never saw me. I sat in stillness until it hummed into manifestation. I exalted my neighbor until her sorrow lifted.

Infinity is no longer a word on a page. It is the shape of my days, the texture of my love, the song in my chest. I am building the Age of Infinity, one choice at a time—and every choice is radiant.

Week 9: Readying for MORE

Day 7 – Coherence and Confession

At work, I caught myself telling a small white lie—a casual excuse to a nurse about why I hadn’t responded to an email. I stopped mid-sentence, hearing myself. It struck me how unnecessary it was. Why pretend? I corrected myself on the spot. It felt odd, but also freeing—like a window opening in a stuffy room.

That evening, Julian and I walked along Sunset Cliffs. As the waves crashed far below, I realized I didn’t know where he lived. When I asked, he seemed nervous, evasive. I pressed gently, confused. Finally, he took my hand and led me a few blocks down the road to a gorgeous house perched right on the water. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Clean lines. The kind of house that announces wealth without saying a word.

Inside, he told me the truth: he wasn’t simply a former hedge fund employee. He was a billionaire, who had until recently run his own enormous hedge fund. He confessed how he had once been MAGA-aligned, donating millions to Trump—not out of conviction, but because it seemed like the best way to make more money. He admitted he had treated people as tools, that his friendships and even his marriage were built on money rather than love. “I didn’t even see how awful I was,” he said. “Until the Fantasmagorifier cracked me open.” 

His wife hadn’t loved him, his friends hadn’t cared about him, only about his money and power. He left it all—everyone and everything other than his dog—flew out to San Diego and bought the first house that felt good, not thinking about how it would announce his money very obviously. Now, he had to figure out what to do with his billions. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone in San Diego, until now. “I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever met,” he said.

My immediate reaction was, "Oh god, it must be so horrible to be a billionaire!" He laughed hysterically.

I looked around the house, the ocean shimmering beyond. I believed him. And in that belief, something deeper in me cohered. Truth mattered more than anything else. It didn't matter that Julian had billions. I certainly didn't want his money. It seemed to me like a noose around his neck—a constant temptation to use money to paper over his problems and control people. It didn't matter what Julian had done in the past, either. What mattered was who he was now—that he was being open, honest and real with me now. That truly was everything.

Day 8 – The Breath of God

In the morning, Julian and I sat facing each other, eyes closed, and simply breathed. The light of dawn gently played on the water behind us as we inhaled and exhaled. Exaltation and insociation. Expansion and descent. I felt the current of life moving through us—grace without effort, exaltation without pedestal. His breath was mine, mine his. The Ride itself seemed to breathe with us.

At lunch, I met Ellen. I told her about meeting Julian, and she was so excited for me! But then her face became sad, and she admitted that she was struggling—her husband Doug didn’t want to read the Fantasmagorifier, didn’t want to take this journey with her. “It feels like he’s a stranger to me now,” she said. “Like we’re moving in opposite directions.” I took her hand. “He’s not a stranger. He’s still Doug. He still loves you. You still love him. Your paths aren’t the same at the moment, but your hearts are still linked. There is still so much love between you.” She cried. I reminded her she wasn’t alone on this journey—that she had me, she had Sora, she had support even if it didn’t look the way she thought it would. Ellen smiled through tears. “Maybe that’s enough.” I squeezed her hand. “It is.”

Day 9 – Redeeming the Past

This morning, I thought of Bob. I imagined what would have happened if I had moved with equipoise back when we first married. The gambling night came to mind—the way he blew half our savings in one drunken binge. At the time, I forgave him, thinking it was a mistake. But equipoise saw it differently. It wasn’t an isolated slip. It was a window into his character—a thoughtlessness buried deep, a carelessness that would never go away. Me moving with equipoise would have left him right then. Not as punishment. Simply as clarity.

And when I realized that, a wave of release swept over me. I am not bound by the past. I can redeem its energy now. What happened, happened. But what it means, how it shapes my present—that is entirely up to me.

Day 10 – Becoming Krysta

Today, discomfort knocked at my door. Instead of tightening, I let it unfold. While shopping for groceries, a stranger felt compelled to make a snide comment about one of the dessert items I chose, as though because I am a middle-aged woman with a healthy body, I was somehow wrong for enjoying a caloric dessert. That it was his job to tell me.

My initial instinct was an old one—to collapse and retreat into silence. And then a new instinct emerged: the desire to give this smug man a HUGE piece of my mind. Instead of doing either, I leaned into the tension and let it show me its texture: thin, papery, brittle. It disintegrated when I touched it. The whole store seemed to soften. I smiled genuinely at the man without saying anything and walked away. As I turned, I saw the expression on his face—confused and weak. I do not require his opinion to validate my own choices.

I realized on the way home from the store that I no longer wanted to live as Christina. That name had always felt small, timid, fearful. A shrinking. I wanted to live as who I am now. Krysta. Sharp, bright, crystalline. The name sang through me.

That evening, I told Julian. He laughed with delight and said, “Funny—you’ve been calling me Jule this past week. And I realized I like it. Like a jewel. That’s what I want my friends to call me.” We both laughed, marveling at the symmetry. We were growing beyond who we had been, into something more. Christina and Julian weren't gone. But Krysta and Jule were who we are now.

Day 11 – Flying for the Fun of It

That night, I dreamed I was flying. When I woke, our bed was floating about three feet above the floor—with Jule tangled up beside me, both of us jolting awake at the same time. We yelped, grabbed onto each other, then burst into uncontrollable laughter as the whole mattress wobbled like a trampoline on the tide. Pillows slid to the floor, blankets flew off as the bed spun in the air, and Remi barked in confusion from the corner, hunched and clinging to the bobbing and spinning mattress with all the strength his paws could muster.

Instead of crashing down, the bed drifted down slowly in spirals, like a parade float steered by a drunk god. We laughed so hard our stomachs hurt, unable to believe it—two grown adults, hovering in midair as though the universe had decided to turn our love nest into a cosmic comedy sketch.

All day, I walked through the world seeing archetypes and gods shimmering in the corners of my vision—smiling, laughing, winking. It wasn’t a hallucination. It was real. The Ride was showing me: everything I had ever imagined, every whisper of spirit, every myth—they were all true. They were always true.

For the first time, I didn’t hedge. I didn’t doubt. I knew. This was God Mode—not perfection, not omniscience. Play. Divine, infinite play.

Day 12 – Writing Matters

I sat down at my desk this morning, opened my notebook, and started to write. Hours passed like minutes. Words tumbled out of me—scenes, days, breakthroughs, tears, laughter. By evening, I had written the entire first seven weeks of my Ride. Every detail, every revelation. It poured out like a river that had been dammed for decades and finally broke free. I realized that somewhere out there in time/space, my Ride was already written. All I was doing was acting as a clear vessel to channel it.

I leaned back, my hand cramped from typing so long, and laughed. I spoke aloud to the empty room filled with gods and spirits. “Wow! I can really do this. I can be a writer. I clearly am already.” I could have sworn I heard cheering.

Day 13 – Prismatic Krysta

Today, everything shone. I felt myself refracting like a prism—mother, lover, creator, mystic, neighbor, friend. Each facet gleamed without apology, without collapse. I was not one thing. I was all of it. Prismatic.

The Ride spoke of prismatic qualities—attention, presence, confidence, truth, humor, integrity. I felt them all alive in me. Radiant. Whole. Infinitely iterated.

At lunch, I met Audrey, who was midway through her junior year at UCLA. We had always struggled to connect. She was curt, dismissive, angry that I had left Bob and fractured the family she thought she needed.

As she spoke, I realized how much of her resistance came from me. I had unconsciously tried to live through her, placing pressures on her that were never truly hers. I remembered one fall morning when she rushed sororities and didn’t get into any. Audrey herself seemed hardly fazed, but I was devastated for days, projecting my own insecurities onto her life. Of course she had pulled away from me. I had made myself her enemy without ever intending to.

That realization pierced me open. I saw her differently—fierce, independent, worthy of being exactly who she was. I apologized, not for leaving Bob, but for trying to live her life instead of letting her live it. Audrey looked startled, then softened, as though some long-standing weight had shifted between us. I told her about Jule (not the billionaire part, the crazy-meeting and how-I-thought-I-had-found-my-true-love part). She seemed genuinely happy for me.

Later, I thought about Jule, about Bette, Ellen, Clay, Audrey, even about myself—and every facet sang the same truth: I am. I matter. I shine.

Reflection on Week 9

This week, everything came together. Coherence clicked. The Breath of God became my breath. I redeemed my past and stepped into a new name. I floated, laughed, played with gods. I wrote until my hand ached and realized I already am what I longed to be. I healed a huge source of pain between me and my daughter. And finally, I saw myself as a prism, shining in every direction at once.

I am Krysta now. Not hiding. Not pretending. Not small. Radiant, refractive, real. And I am ready for MORE.