You were never meant to arrive. You were meant to unfurl.
There is a seductive story in our culture, even in spiritual spaces:
That if you do enough inner work, decode enough signs, clear enough karma, find the right mentor, partner, or planet⌠then & only then, youâll finally arrive.
There.
To the place where your purpose crystallizes.
Where your nervous system hums in perfect regulation.
Where grief never catches you off guard.
Where you become the version of yourself you dreamed up in a more naive season.
But hereâs the truth the soul keeps whispering through your sacred discomfort:
There is no final arrival.
Not because youâre failing, but because arrival was never the point.
So much of modern healing is built on a subconscious hunger for closure.
We long to be done.
Done with the pain.
Done with the confusion.
Done with the lessons that keep looping like a cosmic joke weâre tired of laughing at.
But true healing isnât a straight path. Itâs a sacred unraveling. A deep remembering.
And often, it takes the form of⌠spiraling.
You donât âgraduateâ from your patterns.
You meet them again and again, each time from a wiser vantage point.
And yes â sometimes youâll still get triggered, stuck, reactive, lost.
That doesnât mean youâve regressed.
It means youâre alive.
The spiral always returns you to where youâve been,
but never quite as the same version of you.
Nature never moves in straight lines.
It pulses, unfurls, coils, renews.
It spirals â think of galaxies, hurricanes, shells, DNA.
What if your life isnât a timeline with a trophy at the end,
but a sacred helix â circling in and out of awareness, transformation, forgetting, remembering?
What if the path isnât forward, but deeper?
You donât need to always feel clear.
You donât need to always know.
You just need to be in rhythm, with your becoming.
We think of breakthroughs and milestones as the moments that matter.
But the real medicine happens at the hinge point, the wobble between no longer and not yet.
The threshold.
This space is liminal. Disorienting. Sometimes gutting.
But itâs also where something ancient is initiated.
To be in the threshold is to be in sacred conversation with the unknown.
To stand trembling between shedding and stepping in.
And yes, it often feels like nothing is happeningâŚ
but thatâs where everything begins.
Donât rush the in-between.
Itâs where the soul catches up to the body.
Not all transformations are phoenix-moment fireballs.
Some are quiet shape-shifts.
Soft molting.
You donât realize youâve changed until you hear your own voice and feel unfamiliar kindness in it.
Spiritual evolution isnât always dramatic.
Sometimes, itâs a slow return to yourself.
A subtle remembering of what no longer fits.
Let that count.
Let the soft, silent initiations be sacred, too.
So, what do we do, if weâre never truly arriving?
We begin again.
And again.
And again.
We let go of the fantasy of once and for all.
We stop judging ourselves for looping and start revering the loop as part of the soulâs architecture.
This is not regression.
This is the spiral doing what it does best, pulling us deeper into truth.
Every time you revisit an old wound with new eyes,
Every time you choose gentleness instead of performance,
Every time you cross a familiar threshold in a softened bodyâŚ
That is the work.
That is the way.
What if this is the holy moment?
Not the one where everything is figured out, but the one where you stop chasing and start listening?
You are not late.
You are not behind.
You are not circling in vain.
Youâre being reshaped.
Mid-loop. Mid-becoming. Mid-beat.
And the soul calls this your arrival.
Light a candle and sit at your literal or metaphorical threshold (doorway, window, bridge). Breathe deeply and invite your soul to rest in the âin-between.â Reflect on whatâs ending and whatâs emerging.
Take a slow, deliberate walk tracing a spiral shape (in sand, dirt, or simply in your mind). With each loop, feel how youâre returning⌠but changed.
Find a phrase or sentence that captures your current transformation. Repeat it slowly on your breath, letting yourself rest in the not-yet-complete, the unfolding.