There’s a moment when something falls apart, and it doesn’t just hurt. It rewrites your sense of direction. And the hardest part isn’t the collapse. It’s realizing it wasn’t a collapse. It was a correction.
Let’s just say it.
Everyone loves the idea of elevation until it requires emotional separation. Until you’re asked to climb without the person you swore would rise with you. Until the partnership you built metaphysically, financially, energetically, starts to show cracks that aren’t circumstantial. They’re vibrational.
Because that’s the thing no one wants to say out loud:
Sometimes, what you're building together isn’t for both of you. It’s for you.
A business plan can be sound. The branding, on point. The product, aligned. The vision, clear.
And still—still, it won’t go the distance.
Not because the business was broken. But because the bond was.
Or maybe not broken—just unequal in readiness.
That’s what happened.
A venture that looked golden on paper. Aligned with our spiritual ideals, our creative flow, our shared desire to heal and elevate others. A project we birthed with love and devotion. And yet it ended—not in flames, but in quiet, heavy grief.
Not just the grief of loss.
But the grief of recognition: this wasn’t ours to hold together anymore.
And the real truth—the one I couldn’t outrun—is this:
No matter how much you love someone, no matter how much light you pour into them, you cannot love someone beyond their capacity to hold it.
If you try to carry them up the spiral when they’re not ready, you both stay stuck.
You’ll call it loyalty.
You’ll call it hope.
But really, it’s just fear dressed up in devotion.
There’s nothing poetic about watching someone unravel in front of you while pretending you’re not.
And there’s nothing wise about anchoring yourself to someone whose energy can’t calibrate to where you’re headed—and who doesn’t want to.
The day the business ended—yes, it was devastating.
Yes, it felt rash.
Yes, it felt cruel.
But what looked like an end was really an extraction.
What felt like abandonment was actually mercy.
Because within hours, on the same day, I received an offer for a more senior position.
Running an entire department.
Something I had never done before.
Something I wasn’t even sure I was ready for.
But God was.
That was the juxtaposition. One thing ended. And something exponentially greater began.
No lag time. No easing in. Just this ends—now try this.
My solo business took off with more ease. More velocity.
It was as if the minute the entanglement ended, God whispered:
“Now we begin.”
And here’s the miracle: The business we built didn’t die. It bloomed.
I landed a five-figure speaking contract that validated every ounce of skill I had doubted in myself.
I remembered who I was. Not just a visionary. But a vessel. A spiritual authority.
A force.
God didn’t forsake me. God freed me. And the new role? It wasn’t just about money or title. It was about alignment. They were drawn to my corporate experience, yes. But they were also drawn to something I once feared would make me “too much”—my entrepreneurial spiritual background.
The very thing I thought I had to downplay was the very thing that opened the door wider. Let that sink in:
What you think disqualifies you is often what distinguishes you.
And no, I didn’t see it all coming. But I did have a spiritual teacher tell me once:
“You know they can’t go where you’re going.”
And I did know. I just didn’t want it to be true. But when your spiritual practice deepens, so does your discernment.
And when you really start listening, not just praying, but listening, you stop confusing suffering for sacredness. There’s nothing holy about staying stuck. There’s nothing loyal about diminishing yourself. And there’s nothing spiritual about being someone’s emotional shock absorber.
Sometimes the elevation is the separation. Sometimes the real gift comes when the plan fails, and you stop bargaining with what was never meant to carry your destiny.
You stop mistaking potential for proof. You stop trying to rewrite someone’s soul contract just to feel less alone. You learn to love them, then leave them.
Gently.
Firmly.
Without cruelty.
Without performance.
But also without apology.
That’s altitude. The perspective that lets you see the divine choreography in the unraveling.
And that’s attitude. The refusal to be bitter, even when you'd have every right to be.
Yes, I grieved. Yes, I sat in silence and shook from the ache of it all. But I also thanked God. I said:
“You could have done worse. But you gave me this. Thank you.”
Because that’s the message.
Let it fall apart.
Let it come undone.
Let what isn’t meant to go with you reveal itself, not through harmony, but through tension.
And when it does, don’t cling.
Don’t explain.
Don’t try to rescue someone from their own becoming.
Just bow.
Just walk.
Just bless it.
Because what’s on the other side of obedience is:
Sweetness.
Stillness.
Overflow.
And the spiral lifts again. Not because you hustled. Not because you forced. But because you finally surrendered. And that’s when life gets rich. Not because everything is perfect.
But because you finally are.
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