Reflections to Spark Your Journey
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 One day, AnuBel followed a path she had never taken before.
It led her away from the open fields… past the soft hills… and toward a place made of glass and light. A tall tower stretched into the sky. Inside the tower lived someone she loved. Everything there was polished and precise. Ordered. Measured. Certain. It shimmered in its own way. And there was love between them. AnuBel stepped inside, her small lantern glowing softly. For a while, they sat together. And then, gently at first… something shifted. Her friend looked at the lantern. “What is that?” she asked. “A light,” AnuBel said, smiling. “It helps me see what can’t always be seen.” Her friend laughed, not unkindly. “You don’t need that here,” she said. “Everything that matters is already visible.” AnuBel tilted her head. She looked around. Everything was visible. And yet… Something felt missing. As they talked, her friend began to explain: “You should stay here,” she said. “It’s better. It makes more sense. Everything is clear.” AnuBel felt it then. Not in her thoughts… but in the quiet space inside her chest. A soft dimming. As if her lantern had been gently covered. For a moment, she wondered: Maybe she’s right… But then she looked down. The lantern was still there. Still glowing. Even if no one else could see it. And in that moment, AnuBel understood. It wasn’t that her friend didn’t care. It was that her friend lived in a world where only certain kinds of light were recognized. The tower needed everything to be visible. But AnuBel’s light… came from within moved in its own rhythm and revealed things that couldn’t be measured. Her friend didn’t hate the lantern. She simply didn’t know how to see it. And without knowing how to see it… she tried to replace it. AnuBel stood quietly for a moment. Then she smiled. Not to agree. Not to argue. But because she understood. She gave her friend a gentle hug. And without needing to explain… without needing to convince… She walked back down the tower. Out past the glass. Back into the open air. Back to where the unseen could breathe again. As soon as her feet touched the earth… Her lantern grew brighter AnuBel paused and looked back once. With love. Not to return… but to remember: Not every place is meant to hold every kind of light. And then she turned forward again-- her lantern glowing softly beside her. Lighting the path for those who are ready to see. AnuBel, LLC • AnuBel.com
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 When a “perfect little space” revealed a life that was too small
There was a time when I believed I had the perfect arrangement. A little studio in the backyard. A space of my own. My husband at the time had built it for me, and at first it seemed thoughtful — even generous. I think his intentions were quite good. My own office. My own little haven. A place to write, think, work, and create. It looked like freedom. Until one day, after the meter reader came by, everything changed. I wasn’t home at the time. Later, my husband told me the man had asked: “Where’s the lady in the box?” And something inside me went cold. Because suddenly, that charming little studio wasn’t a haven anymore. It was a box. And I was the lady in it. What made it even more surreal was what was happening around me. I was inside that box working — really working. On calls with executives. Managing real responsibility. Contributing in meaningful ways. And meanwhile, outside? Life was… casual. Loose. Free. His friends would come over, looking for him. They’d wander into the backyard, open the door without knocking, and interrupt me mid-call. “Where’s is he?” Just like that. No pause. No awareness. No respect for the fact that I was in the middle of something important. I remember sitting there on a call — a CEO on the line -- and the door swings open. The dog barks suddenly and loudly. “Where’s is he?” It was embarrassing. Disorienting. And honestly, a little humiliating. Because not only was I in the box -- I wasn’t even being seen as someone who mattered inside it. When I finally set a boundary -- when I said, please don’t come in here while I’m working -- everything shifted again. Not toward respect. Toward resistance. Suddenly it became: “Oh, we’re not allowed to go in there anymore because Jody gets mad.” And just like that, I wasn’t the professional holding a call. I was the problem. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. When you’re inside the box, and you finally try to draw a line -- you’re often made into the villain for wanting basic respect. At first, the space had seemed like a gift. Quiet. Focus. Creativity. But over time, it began to represent something else: Separation. Containment. Invisibility. It’s amazing how long something can look like a blessing before you recognize the shape of the cage. I think many people know this feeling, even if the box looks different. Sometimes it’s a job that slowly consumes you. Sometimes it’s a relationship where one person expands while the other contracts. Sometimes it’s the role of being “the reliable one,” the one who holds everything together. In my case, I was the lady in the box. But I’ve come to see that boxes aren’t built for one kind of person alone -- only shaped differently depending on the life we’re living. That moment — “Where’s the lady in the box?” -- became a mirror I couldn’t unsee. Because once you see the box, you can’t pretend it’s a garden. Once you feel the walls, you begin to remember your own shape. Your movement. Your voice. Your life. I’m no longer interested in being the lady in the box. I’m interested in open sky. In movement. In mutuality. In a life where creativity is not confinement, and partnership does not mean one person disappears. Sometimes liberation begins with a sentence you never expected to hear. A strange question from a stranger at the door. A phrase that opens everything. And once it does… there is no going back. A gentle closing If you find yourself in a box — visible or invisible -- pause for a moment and feel the edges. Not to judge yourself. Not to rush your way out. But simply to notice. Because awareness is the first opening. And from there, even the smallest shift in truth can begin to widen into sky.  Lately I’ve been noticing something gentle happening in my life.
It isn’t loud or dramatic. In fact, it’s easy to miss. But it’s real. Small moments of kindness have been appearing — a thoughtful comment, a warm message, a neighbor’s smile, a friend reaching out just to say hello. Nothing extraordinary on the surface. Just small gestures of generosity and goodwill. And yet together they feel like little gifts. One evening as I was thinking about this, an image came to mind. I saw a path stretching out before me — soft and winding, like the Starlight Path. Along the edges of the path were small lights glowing quietly in the darkness. And then I understood something. Each light represented one of those moments. A kind word. A shared laugh. A neighbor’s wave across the street. A friend who listens with care. A creative idea offered freely, without competition. None of these lights were trying to be impressive. None were seeking attention. But together they illuminated the way forward. For many years, I experienced relationships differently. Much of the world — especially in business and achievement-oriented spaces — can feel transactional. There is often an undercurrent of competition, subtle jockeying for position, or the quiet question of who has the upper hand. It’s easy to slip into that pattern without even realizing it. But lately something has been shifting for me. The more I share my creative work — the characters, the stories, the playful wisdom of the Field Guide — the more I notice people responding with warmth rather than competition. Curiosity instead of comparison. Sweetness instead of strategy. And I’ve begun to see that creativity changes the energy between people. Story opens the door to imagination. Imagination softens the ego. And when the ego relaxes, something very human emerges — connection. That’s where friendship grows. That’s where neighborliness lives. It’s where people meet not as competitors or transactions, but as fellow travelers. And that, I believe, is what the Starlight Path really is. It isn’t a path we walk alone. It isn’t illuminated all at once. The path reveals itself slowly, one small light at a time. A kindness here. A conversation there. A creative spark shared freely. Each light helps us see the next step. And together, those lights form something beautiful — a quiet constellation of human goodness guiding us forward. A new way forward — together. Where have you noticed small lights appearing along your own path lately?  A reflection in nourishment, confusion, and the quiet courage of standing up.
Shadow Poopy squinted at the table. “She’s still sitting there.” AnuBel adjusted her lantern, its glow steady and warm. “She’s waiting for the entrée.” Shadow Poopy sniffed the air. “There is no entrée.” “I know,” AnuBel said gently. “Then why doesn’t she leave?” AnuBel’s wings shimmered softly. “Because she tasted something that almost fed her.” Shadow Poopy snorted. “Almost doesn’t nourish.” “No,” AnuBel replied. “But it confuses.” Not every relationship is meant to be a full meal. Some are appetizers. Light. Sparked with possibility. They awaken your senses. They introduce you to something new. You enjoy them for what they are. But you don’t build your life on them. Some are dessert. Sweet. Magnetic. Intoxicating. Full of chemistry and sparkle. You savor them. But you don’t expect them to sustain you. And then there are the confusing ones. The ones that begin like an appetizer -- with the promise of an entrée. There are hints of depth. Moments of nourishment. Future language. Occasional substance. Just enough to believe the full meal is coming. But the entrée never arrives. So you sit at the table… still hungry. Not because the other person is cruel. Not because you are unworthy. But because confusion feels like hope. And hope can keep you seated far longer than hunger ever would. Shadow Poopy tapped the empty plate with one small foot. “She knows,” he muttered. “Yes,” said AnuBel. “Her body knows.” “Then why doesn’t she stand?” AnuBel lifted the lantern a little higher. “Because standing means choosing clarity over promise.” Shadow Poopy softened. “That’s harder.” “Yes,” AnuBel agreed. “But it’s cleaner.” The most powerful moment in any relationship is not when you realize you are hungry. It is when you stand up. When you recognize what is actually being served. When you stop mistaking intensity for nourishment. When you release the idea that something deeper is “about to arrive” — and instead trust what is present. Standing is not dramatic. It is quiet. It is regulated. It is sovereign. The woman pushed her chair back gently. No anger. No resentment. No slammed doors. Just recognition. Shadow Poopy hopped down from the table. “What now?” he asked. “Now,” said AnuBel, her lantern glowing in the doorway, “she walks toward what feeds her.” The woman stepped into the light. Not to escape shadow -- but to carry its lesson with her. Shadow Poopy followed. Because what almost fed you is not your enemy. It is compost. It teaches you the difference between sweetness and sustenance. Between stimulation and nourishment. Between promise and provision. Maturity is not learning to hate the table. It is learning to leave it without bitterness. And sovereignty is knowing you would rather eat alone than live on crumbs. AnuBel did not reach for her. She simply held the lantern. And in that steady light, the woman could finally see: She was never starving. She was simply waiting at the wrong table. And she no longer needed to wait. If this reflection stirred something in you, AnuBel's world is a place where shadow becomes compost and clarity becomes creation. This reflection follows an earlier piece, "I'm Not the Strong One Anymore," where I wrote about stepping out of over functioning and choosing nervous system truth later in life. What I didn't yet name there was what happened next.
What changed wasn't the world - it was where my energy went. After I shared I’m Not the Strong One Anymore — and after years of doing the quiet work behind it — something finally became clear to me. Not as a theory. As lived truth. Because I no longer chase after or over-function for people who are unavailable for mutual care — and because I poured that care back into myself instead — I have been cared for by others. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t strategize it. I didn’t demand it. It happened as a result of alignment. What changed wasn’t the world — it was where my energy went For much of my life, I poured care outward:
I thought that was love. Or responsibility. Or maturity. But what it actually did was train my nervous system to reach, not to receive. When I stopped doing that — not angrily, not dramatically, just quietly — something unexpected happened. I became available. Not to everyone. To reciprocity. Care didn’t disappear — it reorganized Care is not lost when you stop giving it away to places where it can’t land. It reorganizes itself. When I stopped chasing:
And people who know how to offer care — without being asked, managed, or rescued — found me. I was invited into homes. I was welcomed, not accommodated. I was taken care of without having to earn it. That was new. And it was unmistakable. The difference between being needed and being welcomed Unavailable people require pursuit. Available people require presence. When I stopped proving, explaining, fixing, and compensating, I crossed a threshold: I moved from being needed to being welcomed. That shift changed everything. This wasn’t luck — it was discernment I didn’t get lucky. I didn’t finally deserve care. I simply stopped subsidizing relationships with my body and nervous system. And what remained were connections built on:
That’s not magical thinking. That’s what happens when extraction ends. The quiet truth I live by now I don’t chase care anymore. I notice where it flows naturally. I accept what’s offered freely. I let what can’t meet me fall away without resentment. And here is the sentence that holds it all: When I stopped chasing care, care found me. That’s not a slogan. That’s my life. On breaking cycles, nervous system truth, and choosing self-stewardship
There comes a moment — often later in life — when you realize something quietly radical: You are no longer in crisis. And that does not mean you are available for new crises that aren’t yours. For me, that realization came slowly, after decades of hyper vigilance, responsibility, and emotional labor that was expected but rarely supported. I was often labeled “the strong one.” But the truth is simpler — and more human. I was never the strong one. I was a vulnerable person doing what she had to do to survive. When strength becomes a prison In my family system, strength came with conditions. If you were capable, you weren’t allowed to complain. If you were responsible, you were expected to carry more. At one point, when I tried to express how overwhelmed I felt, my mother said something that lodged itself deep in my nervous system: “Well, just be glad you don’t have to look after anyone else too.” What that taught me was not resilience — it taught me silence. It taught me that my burden only counted if someone else had it worse. That strength canceled out need. That rest had to be earned through comparison. Later, when I shared how much I had responsibly saved for retirement — after supporting myself my entire adult life — my mother reacted with anger and said it was “too much” and that I should stop saving. That moment installed an invisible ceiling. Not financial — emotional. It sent a message my body understood immediately: Expansion is unsafe. Stability will be punished. I didn’t consciously agree with that message — but my nervous system complied. The double bind many women live in Here’s a truth we don’t talk about enough: In earlier generations, middle-class women were expected to provide emotional and domestic labor because they were financially supported by families or husbands. I lived the opposite. I supported myself financially my entire adult life — even while partnered — while still being expected to perform the emotional labor of someone being supported. That double bind is exhausting in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. And the body keeps score. The rupture that broke the cycle The cycle finally broke when my partner retired and removed me from his insurance — while still expecting the same emotional and relational labor. That was the moment the illusion of mutuality collapsed. What made the rupture permanent wasn't the loss of support alone - it was what followed. When I moved toward my own sovereignty in a period of real vulnerability - financially, materially, and medically, without any real support - I was met not with care, accountability, or humanity, but with actions that prioritized control over relationship. There was no acknowledgement. No repair. No recognition of what I had carried or contributed. That absence - of conscience, not just support - is what made the break irreversible. I was suddenly on my own — materially, practically, medically — and something in me said: Enough. I made bold moves out of survival. I chose myself not because it was empowering — but because it was necessary. That decision saved my life. But survival decisions are made under threat. Integration comes later — when the body finally feels safe enough to process what it endured. That’s why, even nearly five years later, I’m still healing. Not because I’m stuck — but because I’m completing something ancient. Nervous system truth (and grace) Here is something I can say now with clarity and without shame: My nervous system can no longer handle much. After a lifetime of hyper vigilance, anticipation, and responsibility, my body is done bracing. That doesn’t mean I’m fragile. It means I’m honest. I can be calm. I can be kind. I can be present. But I am no longer available for absorbing other people’s crises, dysregulation, or unmet responsibilities. That’s not selfishness. That’s stewardship. Giving it to God What helps me most now is giving it to God — because it is not mine to carry. That isn’t bypassing. It’s right-sizing. There are burdens that exceed human capacity. There are roles we were never meant to play indefinitely. When I say, “This is not mine,” I am not abandoning love — I am restoring order. What breaking the cycle actually looks like Breaking the cycle didn’t mean confrontation. It didn’t mean explanations or revenge. It meant:
It meant accepting that some people may misunderstand me — and letting that be. I am not closing my heart. I am closing the emergency room. A quiet truth for this season of life I’ll be 67 in March. This is the season of discernment, not endurance. Of rhythm, not sacrifice. Of self-trust, not approval. I am no longer the strong one. I am simply a human being — worthy of care, safety, and rest — like everyone else. And that, finally, is enough. Lately, I’ve been sitting with a question that feels both personal and collective:
What is really happening beneath all the talk about narcissism, empathy, and dysfunction? The word narcissism gets used so easily now. Sometimes it helps name real harm. Other times, it becomes a blunt instrument — a way to explain pain without fully touching it. I’ve come to feel that what we’re seeing is not simply a rise in narcissism, but a deeper exposure of unhealed trauma moving through human systems. Trauma doesn’t only affect individuals. It organizes families. Friend groups. Institutions. Even cultures. When trauma goes unintegrated, it shapes identity. Some people survive by armoring themselves with control, image, or status. Others survive by over-attuning, caretaking, or absorbing emotional weight for the group. Neither path begins in malice. Both begin in fear. And often, they form together. In these systems, the most sensitive person is frequently the first to feel when something is off. That sensitivity is rarely welcomed. More often, it is labeled too much, dramatic, or the problem. The truth-teller becomes the scapegoat — not because they seek conflict, but because they speak what others cannot yet bear to face. This role is painful. But it also carries a quiet clarity. Those who can still feel often see first. Over time, trauma can sever us from something essential — our inner sense of worth, creativity, and connection. When that happens, we may look outward for validation, control, or belonging, forgetting that these qualities were once innate. This disconnection isn’t a moral failure. It’s a human one. And it’s far more common than we like to admit. What many call awakening, I’ve come to experience as something less dramatic and more humbling. It isn’t about becoming special or enlightened. It’s about seeing — honestly — how fear, survival, and inherited patterns have shaped us. This kind of awakening moves through the body before it reaches the mind. It can feel destabilizing, quiet, even disorienting. Old identities soften. Certainties loosen. The need to be “right” fades. What remains is not emptiness, but steadiness. I believe we are living through a collective moment like this now — not a sudden ascent, but a great human humbling. Some are learning boundaries for the first time. Some are learning to rest. Some are learning to stop performing goodness and start living truth. Each of us arrives in our own way, at our own pace. Nothing here is wasted. Human history holds unspeakable cruelty — and breathtaking compassion. It holds domination and tenderness, fear and love. It holds the image of Christ as an embodied example of what love looks like when lived through a human nervous system. This path is not comfortable. But it is real. And perhaps that is what this moment is asking of us — not perfection, not purity, but presence. A Wing to Close Some stories lift us through joy. Others through truth. Both grow wings when they are held with care. Thank you for reading.  Every ending plants the seed of a new beginning.
This past chapter of my life asked me to let go of much — people I once loved, places I once belonged, dreams I once carried, and beliefs that no longer fit. The letting go was not gentle. It was painful, humbling, and at times it left me unsure of who I was without all I thought I needed. And yet, through the unraveling, I discovered what real love is. Real love does not demand sameness. It does not disappear when choices or beliefs diverge. Real love is wide enough to include, deep enough to forgive, and bright enough to celebrate the spark of life in every soul. This chapter began here in Sedona — land of red rock and starlight. The desert has been both backdrop and teacher: showing me resilience in every cactus that blooms against the odds, spaciousness in the endless sky, and renewal in the light that returns after every sunset. Sedona reminds me that endings are not failures, but invitations. Invitations to release what no longer serves and to trust the mystery of what comes next. Through this, I’ve learned that new beginnings aren’t always shiny or easy. Sometimes they begin in shadow. Sometimes they ask us to stand in the quiet unknown. But always, they carry a promise: that the path will unfold in its own perfect way. Every ending plants the seed of a new beginning. If you're ready to explore your new beginning, AnuBel is here to guide you. Begin by receiving the 7 Dream Seeds free gift, or wander into a Play Date when the time feels right. Wherever you start, the path will unfold in its own perfect way.  For most of my life, I carried a secret — tucked away in the shadows where I thought no one could see. It whispered, “Something is terribly wrong with me.” I wore masks, twisted myself into shapes I hoped would be accepted, and worked twice as hard just to belong.
I was raised in a world where conformity meant survival. To be different was dangerous. And so I learned to hide. I hid my sensitivity, my honesty, my uncanny way of seeing what others didn’t want to see. I hid the very parts of me that made me who I am. But hiding always comes at a cost. No matter how hard I tried, I burned out. I said the “wrong” thing. I asked for too much. I felt too deeply. People drifted away, and each loss cut like proof that my secret was true: something really was wrong with me. “The wound is where the light enters you.” — Rumi It took me years — and more than one dark night of the soul — to see that my wound was not proof of my brokenness. It was the opening. The very crack through which my true gifts began to shine. What I once saw as shame — my sensitivity, my honesty, my ability to read the hidden patterns of people and places — has become the ground of my calling. These weren’t flaws. They were seeds. They only needed the soil of acceptance to grow. The truth is this: your wound is your gift. Through pain, I learned to see potential in others — to glimpse the light they can’t yet see in themselves. Through rejection, I learned the courage of boundaries and the power of letting go with love. Through shame, I found compassion that runs deeper than judgment. And through it all, I discovered that the part of me I once thought was “too much” was never wrong. It was sacred. We live in a world that tells us to polish our edges and hide our shadows. But the truth is, our shadows are where the light begins. Healing isn’t about erasing what hurts — it’s about allowing those places to transform into wisdom, compassion, and power. This is the work I do now. Not because I mastered my wounds, but because I befriended them. I learned to see them not as chains, but as invitations. Your wound is your gift. My wound became my gift. And together, our healing becomes the gift we offer the world. If this reflection stirred something in you, I invite you to step into AnuBel's world -- a place where your imagination, your stories, and even your shadows are welcomed. Begin with a Play Date, receive the free 7 Dream Seeds, or simply wander this site to see what calls to you. However you arrive, you are welcome here -- just as you are.  Love is like the sun and the moon — it embraces the whole sky, holding both joy and grief, both laughter and tears. Love is transparent and empowering. It heals, creates, and longs for freedom and growth for all. But there is also a shadow energy — one that hides in illusions, controlling stories and spreading fear. This toxic energy often pretends to shine, but instead it drains life. Like a trickster in the dark, it manipulates, gaslights, and casts out those who question its control. It thrives on fear, shame, and confusion, leaving people disconnected from their own truth. When we live too long under this shadow, we can begin to forget who we are. Our confidence dims. Our joy feels far away. But even then, love whispers. Love reminds us that we are whole, free, and worthy of joy. This is your reminder to walk forward guided not by fear, but by your own inner wisdom. Love is the lantern that will always light your path.  "Your lantern is already lit. Trust its glow. It will show you the way." |
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