Field Mapping

Here’s the simplest way I can say this now.

I didn’t get here by becoming more loving.

I got here by getting tired of lying to myself.

Growing up, my nervous system never got a break. My mother’s emotions filled the house like weather. I learned to feel a room before I learned to think. That’s not a spiritual gift — it’s survival training. When you grow up that way, intuition isn’t mystical. It’s reflex.

Later in life, that reflex didn’t turn off. I could feel everyone. Clients. Friends. Strangers. Their moods, their stories, their unfinished business. I didn’t have boundaries. I had reception.

When my so-called awakening started, it wasn’t light or peace. It was overload. Everything I’d absorbed came up at once. Anger, grief, panic. Not insight — static. I didn’t transcend anything. I burned.

For a long time I thought the work was “healing myself.”

It wasn’t.

What was actually happening was that I was finally noticing how much of what I felt wasn’t mine.

That’s the part most people never see.

They think their anxiety is personal.

They think their shame is psychological.

They think their fear means something about them.

Most of it is just inherited signal.

Family signal.

Cultural signal.

Economic signal.

Spiritual signal.

You don’t choose it. You receive it.

And as long as you believe it’s you, it runs you.

The shift didn’t come when I fixed anything.

It came when I stopped participating.

That’s what I mean by the Between.

Not a state.

Not a practice.

Not peace.

It’s the moment you realize you don’t have to answer every emotion that passes through you.

You can feel fear without obeying it.

You can feel guilt without justifying it.

You can feel sadness without turning it into a story about yourself.

That sounds small. It isn’t.

Because once you stop reacting automatically, the whole machine loses leverage.

Most systems only work if you keep responding on cue.

Fear → action.

Hope → waiting.

Guilt → compliance.

The Between is where that chain breaks.

It doesn’t feel good at first.

It feels empty.

Quiet in a way that’s unsettling.

Like standing still when you’re used to bracing.

The ego hates it there. It wants something to fix, choose, believe, or become. Neutrality feels like death to it.

But nothing is dying.

What’s dissolving is the assumption that you need to be someone for reality to move.

Once that drops, life starts organizing itself without your constant interference. Not magically. Not romantically. Just cleanly.

Things happen.

People come and go.

Your body still has sensations.

Fear still shows up.

But it doesn’t own you anymore.

That’s living in the Between.

Not ascended.

Not healed.

Not saved.

Just not available to be used.

No mantra.

No method.

No revolution.

Just this quiet recognition:

I don’t have to participate in every story that tries to move through me.

That’s enough.