My Awakening Story

This episode is the rawest one I’ve ever shared.

Not the version of awakening you see in polished posts and pretty quotes—this is my story of the spiral. The chaos. The slow unraveling of everything I thought I was.

I talk about survival mode, self-abandonment, emotional addiction, and the collapse that forced me to stop running.

Guillain-Barré left me completely paralyzed, but it wasn’t the beginning—it was the breaking point after years of denying the ache.

This is the descent that cracked me open.

If you’re in it, if you’ve been in it—this is my story, and this one’s for you.

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🎙 Your awakening isn’t coming. It’s here. Hit play.

📖 Episode Transcript

Where do I even start?

I thought awakening would be this huge, cinematic moment. Like one day, the clouds would part, the golden light would pour down, and suddenly I’d know—purpose unlocked.

I’d feel clear. Light. Aligned.

I’d know exactly who I was meant to be.

But that’s not how it happened. Not even close.

Awakening wasn’t some magical, one-and-done moment. It was years. Years of spiraling. Self-destruction. Denial. Running.

And I had no f*cking clue that’s what I was doing. I thought I was succeeding.

But nope. I wasn’t.

I was disappearing. I was losing myself.

Piece by piece. Choice by choice. Abandoning myself every step of the way.

When you’re in survival mode, it doesn’t feel like survival mode.

It just feels like life. Your body adjusts. You stop noticing the tension in your shoulders, the pit in your stomach, the ache in your chest.

You carry it like it’s yours—like it belongs to you.

It’s f*cking wild how much pain you can live with and still convince yourself it’s normal.

You go down far enough, slow enough? You don’t even notice you’re drowning.

That’s why life sends a shock. Something has to hit hard enough to wake you up.

Because if the descent is subtle—just a little more, a little more, a little more? You’ll stay there. You stay in the patterns. You stay in the numbness. You stay in the loops.

You keep calling it normal. Because it feels like normal.

You stop looking up. You stop questioning. You stop choosing.

And that’s where I was for a very long time.

Not asleep. Not awake. Just… there.

The thing about life though—it doesn’t move in straight lines. It’s not linear, it’s cyclical. It moves in death, initiation, rebirth. Again and again.

So yeah, you can wait. You can let it break you open again and again until you’re forced to move. Like I did.

Or you can choose.

I was always running.

Running from the emptiness. Running toward… f*ck, I don’t even know what.

Something. Anything. Something that would make me feel like I was okay. Like I was worthy.

I thought if I just did everything right, I’d feel secure. I’d feel happy. I’d finally feel like I was enough.

Get the degree? Sure. Get into law school? Why not. Have a plan? Look like I had it together? Obviously.

But none of it worked. Every time I hit the next thing, it was like… nothing.

I’d get there, and before I could even take a breath, the identity moved on to the next thing.

I remember getting admitted as a lawyer so clearly.

And no matter how much I achieved, I felt… hollow.

I was just going through the motions. I was playing some role I didn’t even audition for.

I was waiting for it to feel real, and it just… never did.

And it made me feel like I was losing my f*cking mind.

Because externally, I wasn’t failing. I was doing it all.

But inside? I was falling apart. I was crumbling, like a sugar cookie.

And I couldn’t figure it out. I just couldn’t explain it.

I couldn’t put a name to what was missing or why I felt so f*cking empty.

So, I latched onto something else. A relationship.

The kind that’s pure chaos. The kind where the fights feel like passion. Where the pain somehow feels like love.

If I wasn’t being seen, I’d make sure I was seen. If I wasn’t getting attention, I’d start a fight.

Because a fight was still something. And something was better than nothing.

When you’re in survival mode, your brain doesn’t care if it’s love or chaos. It doesn’t care if it’s connection or conflict. It just wants intensity. It just wants familiar.

And when your body starts to associate pain with connection? You don’t walk away. You hold on tighter.

This craving for emotional intensity—chaos, cycles, suffering—it’s addiction. And the f*cked-up part is, you don’t even realize you’re addicted.

So after I graduated, I left. I packed up my life. I moved to Europe.

Because obviously, a new place, new people, new version of me—that’s gonna fix everything, right?

Wrong.

The ache came with me. The chaos came with me. All the patterns, all the cycles—they were still there.

Because nothing inside me had changed. And you can’t outrun what lives inside you.

Eventually, my body said: enough.

🎙 THE DESCENT — WHEN THE BODY SAYS NO

One day I wake up and I can’t move. Not my arms. Not my legs. My face is frozen.

I’m trying to blink and nothing’s happening. I’m trying to move my mouth. Nothing. I can’t even smile.

And I’m still conscious. Like, I’m fully awake. I just—can’t do anything.

They tell me it’s Guillain-Barré. My immune system is attacking my own nerves. Cutting off the connection between my brain and my body.

I’d think “move,” and nothing. No response.

The command was going out but there was no one on the other side to hear it. The wires were cut. The connection was gone.

I can’t move. I can’t communicate. And I’m not even home.

I’m in a hospital in a foreign country. Most of the doctors don’t speak English. There’s no Wi-Fi. Can’t pick up a book. Just silence and time.

All the time in the world to sit there—fully aware—and trapped inside a body that won’t move.

And even then… I’m still trying to explain it away. “Maybe I’ve just been drinking too much.” “Maybe this is stress.” “Maybe I need to take better care of myself.”

Still trying to mindset my way through a full-body shutdown.

Because that’s what I knew. Push through. Keep going. Don’t slow down.

So when I start recovering—when I finally start walking again—I don’t stop.

I leave Europe like it’s gonna save me. Pack my sh*t. Fly to the other side of the world.

I don’t even know what I’m running from anymore. It’s just this feeling in my chest like—Get out. Start over.

And I remember telling myself I’m strong for moving on. I actually f*cking believe that. Like look at me go, surviving.

But nothing’s different. I go right back to it. The drinking. The chaos. The pretending. Self-destructing on a loop.

I come home so many nights and just look at myself in the mirror.
Mascara streaked down my cheeks.
Mouth dry.
Eyes bloodshot.
And look at myself and say:
“I fucking hate you. We can’t keep doing this.”
And I mean it.
Like—really fucking mean it.
And then I do it all over again the next night.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
There is so much pain under the surface.
And I don’t want to touch any of it.
I don’t even know where to start.
So I keep spiraling.
Deeper.
Darker.

And honestly? From the outside, I probably looked like I was just partying.
In law school and having a good time.
Maybe looked a bit unhinged.
Just “figuring it out,” you know?
But inside? The void had completely consumed me.
And by this point, I don’t even know if I care.

Because this version of me—the one that runs, the one that breaks shit, the one that doesn’t care—
She’s the only thing holding me together.
And I will defend her with my life even when she’s destroying everything.

I start using the pain as my justification.

I’ve suffered. I was paralyzed. I suffered enough.
So I don’t have to explain myself.
I’ve suffered.
So I don’t have to change.
I’ve suffered.
So I get to burn it all down and say nothing.

I didn’t know this was what I was doing at the time.
But I used my suffering like some invisible hall pass I kept giving myself.
This chaos is allowed.
This pain is earned.
This damage is mine.

And the more I fuck up, the deeper I go.
The more I lean on it.
Like: look at what I’ve been through.
Of course I’m a mess.
Of course I can’t stop. I was paralyzed. I suffered enough.
Who are you to tell me to stop?

I don’t call it a weapon.
But that’s exactly what it becomes.
My suffering becomes the reason.
The excuse.
The shield.
And I keep holding it.
Because it’s the only thing left that makes any of this make sense.

And here’s the part I know you’re not gonna like.

I didn’t change because I wanted to.
I didn’t have some big revelation.
It wasn’t a moment of clarity or purpose or inner knowing.
I changed because I was about to lose something I wanted.
A relationship.

And for the first time, it hit me:
I couldn’t control them.
I couldn’t force it.
I couldn’t manipulate my way out of it this time.
I couldn’t say the right thing or cry at the right time or explain it away.
They were leaving.
And I couldn’t stop it.

And I fucking panicked.
Because if they left, I’d have to look at myself.
And there’s no way I could do that.
Not yet.

So I changed.
Not for me.
Not because I wanted to get better.
Not because I thought I deserved more.

I took that first step to prove them wrong.
I took that first step out of spite.
I took that first step out of fear.
I took that first step because I didn’t want to lose them—
Not because I wanted to find me.

And yeah—maybe that’s twisted.
But that’s what did it.
It wasn’t sacred.
It was desperate.

And at the time? It felt like the wrong reason.
Now I know:
There are no wrong reasons.
Because that reason—that desperate, messy, unaligned reason—
led to my salvation.

And that’s the point.
The shocks the universe sends you—
The wrong reasons that push you over the edge—
They’re there to lead you to the right door.
The first crack doesn’t have to be holy.
It just has to be real.

Once I stop running—

Once I finally face myself—
It all hits at once.
And not gently.
Not with clarity.
It hits like a fucking collapse.
Like my soul is pissed I made it wait this long.
Which—honestly? Fair.

And I don’t feel better.
I feel wrecked.
And now I have to sit with it.
Not fix it.
Not bypass it.
Just sit.

And it’s grief.
It’s rage.
It’s shame.
Not the kind that comes from losing someone.
The kind that comes from realizing what you did to yourself.

And that’s when the real work begins.
Not the affirmations.
Not the fucking vision board.

The kind where you have to rip out everything that doesn’t belong to you.
Rewire your brain out of survival mode.
Burn every rule, every version, every story you built just to stay safe.
And then rebuild—
Not from scratch.
From truth.
From what’s left in the ashes.

And it doesn’t feel powerful.
It doesn’t feel inspiring.
But there’s a flicker.
This tiny flicker that says—
This time, it’s real.
This time, it’s all gonna be worth it.

I don’t want to go back.
I can’t pretend anymore.
Not now that I see.

So I sit with it.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it fucking sucks.
Because now?
I know what’s waiting on the other side.
ME