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