At the Threshold of a New Year: Between Who I Am and What Is Required

This morning I was listening to a podcast from the Human Design Collective — mainly about living in the moment, intuitive awareness, embodiment. Basically about how easily we mistake projection for truth.
And how often we live in formality — roles, expectations, identities — rather than in direct contact with what’s actually happening now.

I was outside walking my dog while listening. Those walks are a huge treat for me. Fresh air. Clear lungs. A pocket of solitude while my daughter is home sick.

The contrast felt sharp.

There was relief in stepping out of the house.
Out of caretaking. Out of being needed — even briefly. And I noticed how much permission that still seems to require inside me.

One of my intentions for this year is simple in language, complicated in practice:
to do less so I can feel more.
to experience more fully so I can think less.
to be present and thankful so I can feel — and share — more positivity.

I want to meet life with curiosity instead of reactivity. To soften my relationship with control and to live closer to what’s actually here in order to escape the cycle of overthinking.

And yet, as I listened to the conversation of the podcast, I could feel the familiar tightening in my chest. That quiet signal that my life is still, in many ways, paved by outer authority.

Outer authority doesn’t always arrive as rules or institutions.
Sometimes it arrives as energy.

There is the steady, directional energy of a partner deeply anchored in his work — a way of moving through life that is decisive, efficient, always in motion. Not chaotic. Not anxious. Just constantly doing.

That energy fills the space around it. And without anyone intending it, it becomes the tempo I begin to move to.

I notice how easily I synchronize. How quickly my own rhythm speeds up. How subtly my inner signals get overridden. It’s less about stress than it is about proximity to a powerful current.

There is also a child who needs a lot.
A sensitive, beautiful human being — and also someone who draws deeply from the emotional field around her. I notice how quickly I move into regulation. How easily my own presence thins.

This role of caretaker is a tricky one…
one that carries a particular kind of weight because it rarely feels like a deliberate choice. You don’t clock out of it. You don’t ask for a sabbatical or a garden leave. You can’t quit — not without unraveling the very fabric of the lives you’re responsible for.

It’s a constant, emotional responsibility.
Not necessarily heavy in dramatic ways, but ever-present.
A background gravity that shapes decisions before they’re even conscious. And this is where the feeling of being trapped quietly enters. This is where I start to believe that autonomy becomes something to negotiate instead of something to trust.

None of this is blame or accusation - it is awareness. Noticing what is.

And somewhere inside that noticing, a question keeps returning:

But how does inner authority work when you’re embedded in a family system? When your life is shaped by responsiveness, care, and constant attunement?

In the podcast, they spoke about the importance of embodiment — about how intuitive awareness isn’t something we figure out, but something we sense when we’re fully here. It’s lived, moment by moment.

I felt that land in my body.

Because so much of my life has been lived in formality —
as a mother, a partner, a stabilizing force.
Roles that are meaningful, yes — but also easy places to disappear inside.

Through the lens of Human Design, inner authority is described as something innate and reliable.
Through the lens of my lived experience, it feels much more fragile.

Autonomy has been quietly labeled unsafe in my nervous system.
Not consciously — but subtly. Choosing myself often comes with guilt.
A sense that I’m destabilizing something. That I’m stepping out of line.

And maybe that’s because inner authority threatens projection.
It disrupts the versions of us others have learned to rely on.

There is a part of me that longs for silence, simplicity, individuality.
For nature, vastness, independence. For the kind of space where intuition can speak without interruption.

And another part of me that longs for connection.
Family. Community. Belonging. The comfort of being held.

These parts don’t feel resolved.
They feel alive — and at odds.

I keep wondering whether the dissonance comes from not listening closely enough or from being afraid of what might change if I truly did.

But maybe intuition doesn’t speak in answers. Maybe it speaks in sensations.

The tightness in my chest when my autonomy is threatened.
The softening that happens when I step outside alone.
The exhaustion that follows when I override those signals for too long.

Listening to the podcast, walking with my body and dog, breathing cold air — I realized something quietly important:
maybe inner authority doesn’t ask us to escape our lives.
Maybe it asks us to stop living on autopilot. Slowly coming out of conditioning and constant projection. Out of formality.
Back into direct contact with what is actually happening inside us.

Instead of seeing this year as a fresh start, I am acknowledging that it feels much rather like standing at a threshold — between identities I’ve worn for a long time and something unnamed that wants room.

Caretaker.
Regulator.
The one who adapts.

I don’t want to discard these parts of me.
I just don’t want them to be the only ones making decisions.

So today, I’m practicing something small:
non-violence toward myself.
Staying with the question instead of forcing clarity.
Letting embodiment lead before the mind rushes in.

If inner authority is real, maybe it doesn’t demand certainty.
Maybe it asks for presence and honesty.
For the courage to feel what’s already here - actual authenticity.

If you’re reading this and feel a quiet recognition —
maybe you, too, are sensing that something wants to reorganize.

A few gentle prompts to sit with:

• Where do you feel tension in your body when you imagine choosing yourself?

• Where do you feel relief when you allow silence, space, or autonomy — even briefly?

• Which roles or identities keep you safe, but also slightly removed from yourself?

• What might change if you trusted sensation over explanation?

Perhaps inner authority doesn’t begin with action. Perhaps it begins with permission — to be here, now, as you are.

With love,

Kristin

Honey, I think I’m getting weird…

That was the sentence running through my mind on a grey November afternoon in New York. The days were shorter, the air colder, and inside my mind everything felt louder — as if someone had turned up the volume on my inner world without warning.

I had been trying something new each day to calm my mind: breathing practices, grounding moments, tiny experiments in presence. But it wasn’t just about soothing my thoughts anymore. It was about understanding them. The whole swirling ecosystem of sensations, conditioned reactions, old beliefs, and intuitive nudges.

In hindsight, I realize:
This is what the early stages of awakening feel like — the pathway to mindfulness sneaking up on you.

A painting that cracked something open

This particular shift began at MoMA, standing in front of a surreal painting by Remedios Varo. In the center: a magician. On one side: a sleeping woman, untouched by what was happening. On the other: a group of identical spectators observing without truly seeing.

Something in that composition mirrored a conflict I had felt for years — the tension between deep sensitivity and the external world, between awakening and the pressure to remain numb or “normal.” It made me ask: Why does belonging feel so complicated? And why does NYC trigger every part of my nervous system?

Then came the answer:
I’m walking the slow, messy path toward becoming the magician.

Not in a mystical, performative way — but in the sense of living awake. Of perceiving more. Of sensing the undercurrent beneath the noise.

Awakening feels like this

It’s not fireworks. It’s not constant bliss. It’s not becoming suddenly enlightened.

It’s so much more this:

You begin noticing everything.
The energy of a room. The emotional undercurrent in a conversation. The tightness in your belly before you say yes to something that actually feels like a no.

Your body becomes honest.
It tightens around misalignment and softens around truth. Once you learn that language, you can’t unlearn it.

You see beyond the performance.
Later that day, I walked through Times Square. I snapped a photo for a friend, planning to share the “classic NYC energy.” But when I looked at it, I didn’t see the sparkle. I saw the architecture of ego — the performance of power and excitement. It felt hollow, even heartbreaking. The illusion was visible now. I couldn’t un-see it.

Art becomes spiritual.
A painting isn’t just “cool” anymore — it’s a reflection of the psyche, a portal into what you’re not yet ready to articulate. Nature becomes a sanctuary. Silence becomes medicine.

You start craving depth, simplicity, truth.

Spiritual awakening is not an escape from life; it’s a deeper entrance into it.

The tension of being awake in a sleeping world

Awakening creates polarity. You are both the spectator and the sleeper; both the overwhelmed human and the magician learning to channel something more spacious.

Some people understand this instantly.
Others think you’re being dramatic.
Some call you “too sensitive.”
Some just don’t feel you at all.

But this is part of the journey — the friction that refines you.

The longing for home

At the root of all my inner spiraling was this:
I’m craving a home that matches the person I’m becoming.

A place with soul.
With community but also spaciousness.
With nature that holds you.
With people who think deeply and feel freely.
A place where sensitivity isn’t a liability but a gift.

It’s becoming clear that I’m an artist who doesn’t paint — someone full of expression, searching for the right medium. Maybe it’s writing. Maybe it’s teaching. Maybe it’s offering spaces where others can explore their inner worlds, too.

Awakening is not about becoming special

It’s about becoming aligned.
It’s about choosing presence over performance.
Depth over distraction.
Inner truth over outer expectation.

Most of all:
It’s about letting yourself be “weird” — in the ways that are simply, unmistakably you.

A gentle invitation

If you find yourself in that same place — more sensitive, more aware, less tolerant of superficiality — you’re not unraveling. You’re waking up.

Give yourself space.
Give yourself nature.
Give yourself community that can hold your bigness and your softness.

And ask yourself:
Do you think you’re ready to walk this path?
Because I’d love to walk it with you.

With love,

Kristin