The Reconnection Requires Disconnection

As I finished The Release — phase three of The Reclamation — and walked away from my business, my house, my relationship, and numerous friendships (read here), I found myself in a yo-yo of peace and grief. One moment feeling the deepest breath. The next being choked by tears. Never knowing which I was going to get.

This past weekend, friends told me, "You're not yourself." And they were right. I had just walked through one of the toughest seasons of my life, and although I moved through it with strength and determination, I had left myself last. Again.

I packed my house in order of everyone else's needs — friends picking up furniture, my husband getting his things — then made a last-minute decision to move a few days early since it didn't seem like much was left. Until it was the day we had to be out and there was still so much to do. Everything thrown into unlabeled boxes and moved to wherever it would fit. A chaotic wreck for someone who loves order.

This experience severed me from my old life and threw me headfirst into my new one. Without much warning or inner support.

That's when it hit me. I had disconnected from myself so I could move through this phase without breaking into pieces. And it was time to reconnect to the parts of me I had kept just outside of my view. The parts I had lost along the way.

I had put myself last one final time. It was time to put myself first. It was time to disconnect to reconnect — in more ways than one.

What Reconnection Actually Means

Reconnection means there was a connection before. It means connecting again to something that was lost. And sometimes it means we must disconnect from everything else to find it.

What I'm noticing is that reclaiming my energy means reconnecting to parts of myself I've been missing, parts I've loved, and parts I've never wanted to see. Parts I've been too busy, too distracted, or too focused on helping everyone else to allow space for.

An intuitive recently pointed out to me recently that I remember events, traumas, and experiences with deeply accurate detail. I can recall entire conversations verbatim. It's why I recognize patterns, notice details, and patch together pieces others often miss.

There's very little my mind lets me forget. And that was the source of my anxiety for the first forty years of my life — things playing on a loop that never stopped.

One of the things I realized I never got a chance to connect to was silence. In my own head. Because there isn't any. There never has been.

The Problem That Was Never the Problem

I've woken up for most of my life with a problem to solve. Every morning, trying to figure out how to survive. How to make it through another day.

I've been so addicted to solving this problem that I had to put an app on my phone to keep me off email and social media so I could give myself some breathing room (thanks, Opal!) so I could keep my worry from taking over my life.

But I wasn't really solving for that problem. I just thought I was. I thought it was something I could fix. Something that, if I worked hard enough, would never break me. (And believe me, I tried.)

What I didn't realize until recently is that the problem I was trying to solve was the wrong one. It wasn't even a problem at all.

I had been trying to survive instead of fully live.

You might look at my life and think I've lived so much of it, even through the anxiety. But I was working to get through, not working to find joy. Solving a problem that didn't exist so I could feel like I'd solved something.

The Stilted Conversations

In business, you're playing a numbers game. Over and over. How many people can you get to follow, like, comment, engage? How many people do you need to talk to in order to find enough clients? How many people need to engage with your business in order to refer you to other people? You're tracking numbers all the time. At least I was.

Now connection conversations feel stilted and weird. The usual conversations go: "What are you doing in your business? What clients are you looking for? What do you need from me?" And I have nothing to say. Because I don't have a business anymore. I don't have a problem to solve... do I?

But I still wake up every morning thinking I do. Unpacking boxes. Helping with breakfast. Reorganizing storage. Coordinating plans. Most of it is things I've decided to do — not problems to solve. Most of it is me trying to understand why I'm here.

The Decisions I Can't Talk About

I've made some huge decisions lately. Some were hard, others were easy. Some were made for me. Others I've had to make for myself. Some I won't be able to talk about for a long time.

I've had to make decisions based on outcomes I know nothing about, goals I don't have anymore, and details I won't even know until it's over.

As I sit here in a bit of a fog — trying to figure out what's next, how I'm going to pay for things, what I can and cannot do based on certain realities — I'm also sitting in wonder and curiosity. Two of my favorite things. And yet I've been in despair and grief for so long that I'm confused about how wonder and curiosity can even exist alongside all of this.

But they do. Somehow.

What Happened After the Last Post

After I shared about moving out, my relationship ending, my friendship circles thinning, closing my business, and stepping into a new direction — I heard from people I haven't heard from in over a decade.

People were confused. Wondering how I skipped from "everything is great" to "everything is not."

I didn't skip like many people do, I've been very careful to share regularly and openly. I've been very clear and vulnerable. But most people don't read the whole story. They catch the headlines and fill in the blanks with whatever narrative makes sense to them.

Some people were looking for gossip. Some wanted a "woe is me" they could latch onto because it's someone else's drama, not theirs. But I've also realized just how many people genuinely care — based on how they respond, what they ask, and the quality of their curiosity. Asking how I'm doing rather than why things didn't work out. Looking at their own lives through the lens of what isn't working in mine.

And then there are the people who've disappeared. Some because they don't want to see their own story in mine. Others because they're doing their own work. 'Tis the season, it seems.