The Weave of Becoming
My Myth of Becoming
I didn’t come to this work through the door marked “credentials.”
I came through the back gate, the one made of bark and breath and burning questions.
I walked in barefoot, carrying a child on one hip and a notebook full of stars on the other.
While others learned in classrooms, I was learning in kitchens.
In hospital waiting rooms. On the dance floor.
In the moment a four-year-old screamed, and I remembered that the soul speaks in symbols long before it speaks in sentences.
I didn’t study psychology at first. I lived it…
Before I ever read Jung, I was naming archetypes in my journal. Before I knew Hillman, I was following images down spiral stairs. Before Steiner, I felt the breath of the Earth in the seasons of my own daughters. Before Isadora Duncan, I danced with ghosts.
I didn’t find these teachers. They found me. Once I was walking the path they had already made myth.
Isadora Duncan gave me permission
To dance the grief before naming it. To let the body be a prophecy.
To teach with grace and ache.
She didn’t teach me to perform. She taught me to listen to the rhythm underneath the rhythm. The one that’s always been there.
Rudolph Steiner reminded me
That the child is not becoming human, the child remembers that they are divine.
He gave me sacred time. Time as spiral. Time as echo. Time as teacher.
I stopped rushing. I started listening to the rhythm in my daughters. In my students. In myself.
Carl Jung gave me a map of my own dreaming
But I was already halfway through it.
He showed me I wasn’t crazy for seeing symbols in everything. He showed me that the gods had only changed costumes.
He didn’t give me answers. He gave me questions that became altars.
James Hillman gave me permission not to heal.
He said: Stay with the wound. It has something to say.
He told me that therapy wasn’t the goal. That soul doesn’t want to be saved. It wants to speak.
He taught me that if I could make beauty out of brokenness, if I could hold the ache without turning it into triumph, I was already serving soul.
So here I am.
Not officially a psychologist yet. Not a spiritual guru. Not a prophet or a seer. Just a human who remembers the thread.
I am here to mirror the rhythm the world forgot. To let children keep their magic. To remind grown people they are allowed to ache without fixing it. To say what the soul is already whispering, but hasn’t had language for—yet.
No, I’m not hiding from anyone. Not anymore. I’ve walked too far into the fire to pretend it was a metaphor.
This is not performance. This is presence. This is purpose.
And I didn’t make it up. I remembered it.