I’ve learned that when you let your God‑self rise—fully, freely, without apology—you don’t just awaken your own divinity. You stir the God‑selves of everyone around you.
I used to think this would be a joyful thing. Who wouldn’t want more light, more truth, more freedom? But now I understand why so many people hesitate.
When the God‑self comes forward, She doesn’t negotiate. She simply shines. And in that light, the ego’s little thrones and the intellect’s careful maps are exposed for what they are: temporary scaffolding trying to govern a kingdom that was never theirs.
This is why awakening can feel like fear before it feels like freedom. This is why even a quiet presence—a blog post, a conversation, a woman standing in a field—can unsettle the boundaries someone has spent a lifetime building.
There’s an unspoken agreement many people carry: Let’s not disturb our God‑selves. Let’s keep things manageable. Predictable. Familiar.
But once She has tasted air, the God‑self does not slip quietly back into hiding. The longer She remains, the stronger She becomes—and the more uneasy the small egos of the world feel in Her presence.
She rises most easily in the places the world overlooks—in the tender, unguarded, unpolished corners of our humanity. Not because those places are weak, but because they are undefended.
The kingdom breaks in through the cracks.
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