Some mornings start quietly, without fanfare — just the gentle hum of a town waking up and the familiar warmth of breath rising in my chest.

My alarm goes off. I snooze it once, maybe twice. My two dogs stir beside me, stretching into the day with the kind of ease only animals seem to master. I whisper, “Good morning, boys,” as my feet find my slippers — soft and worn in all the right places. I let them outside and breathe in the stillness.

While they wander, I wander inward.

I sit on my bed or sometimes in the guest room where I practice yoga. Occasionally the living room, or the kitchen, depending on what space calls me. Wherever I land, I begin my grounding breathwork. It’s simple: inhale for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four. A box breath. A lifeline. A rhythm that anchors me.

I scan my body as I breathe, head to toe. Where am I holding tension? What’s still sore from yesterday? What feels tender? I notice without judgment.

Then, I open my eyes and begin my sensory grounding — a ritual that brings me fully into the moment:

• Sight: I name three things I see. A lion poster on the wall. My running shoes I forgot to put away. My favorite sweater I’m excited to wear.

• Smell: I inhale deeply. The scent of the room where I slept, the earthy morning air drifting through my cracked window, the subtle softness of my own breath after a peaceful night.

• Taste: I notice the flavor of my retainer. The clean sip of water I just drank. The traces of sleep still on my tongue.

• Sound: Birds singing in the distance. A train rolling slowly through town. The gentle hum of life moving outside my window.

• Touch: The fuzziness of my slippers around my feet. The soft warmth of my sweater sleeves on my skin. My palm resting on my chest, rising and falling with each counted breath.

This is how I begin my days — with presence, with peace, with gratitude for simply being alive.

But on one morning, in the stillness of this routine, something different happened.

As I exhaled, centered in breath, I heard a voice.

Not a thought. Not a worry. A voice — clear and firm, cutting through the quiet:

“He is not ready.”

It caught me off guard. I wasn’t thinking about anyone in particular. I wasn’t looping through emotions or grasping for answers. I was just there. But those four words stopped me cold.

He is not ready.

What does that even mean? Who’s not ready? Ready for what?

I tried to shake it off, but the words followed me through the rest of my meditation. I moved on with my day — fed the dogs, made my smoothie, got dressed for work — but the voice stayed with me like an echo I couldn’t un-hear. At work, it lingered. At home, I sat with it again.

That night, I returned to my breath. To the stillness. And finally, the rest of the sentence arrived:

“He is not ready to love you the way you deserve.”

And just like that, the ache I didn’t even realize I was carrying… lifted.

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The Kindred Spirit

There’s someone in my life — a kindred spirit — who came into my world during a sacred season of healing. There was depth between us. Openness. Laughter. Curiosity. A pull I couldn’t deny.

And in many ways, he saw me. In other ways, I saw him.

But the connection has always felt suspended somewhere between friendship and something more. The lines blurred, intentions unclear. I kept wondering: Is he just afraid? Does he need more time? Is there something I can do?

I’ve tried to hold space. To be patient. To believe that love doesn’t need to be rushed.

But that voice — he is not ready to love you the way you deserve — gave me a truth I had been too tender to name. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t bitter. It was merciful. It was freedom.

It was the reminder that his readiness is not my responsibility.

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The Weight I Put Down

What came next was unexpected.

I didn’t spiral. I didn’t cry. I didn’t overanalyze the past or make up stories about the future. I just felt… peace.

I accepted it.

I accepted that he may not know how to love in the way I need. And I stopped trying to mold myself into someone easier to love. I stopped waiting in emotional limbo for someone who is still learning how to show up.

I let go — not of him, but of the idea that I needed to be chosen by someone else to feel worthy of love.

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The Deeper Healing Beneath It All

This wasn’t just about him. This was about me.

About all the moments in my life where I held onto love that didn’t hold me back.

About the patterns I picked up in the wreckage of trauma.

About the parts of me that learned love had to be earned or chased or proven.

This voice — this divine interruption — reminded me that I am not here to perform for love.

I am here to receive it freely, just as I give it.

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Where I Stand Now

I still think about him. About what was, what could be, what maybe still will be. I don’t pretend that the connection didn’t matter. I honor it.

But I’ve reclaimed my energy. I’ve reclaimed my morning peace. My joy. My breath.

And in that, I’ve found the greatest love of all — my own.

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💬 Final Thoughts

We all have our “he’s not ready” moments — whether it’s a partner, a friend, or even a version of ourselves we’ve outgrown. But the most freeing thing we can do is listen to the truth when it comes… and not fight it.

Because peace doesn’t always come from answers. Sometimes it comes from letting go.

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📝 Journal Reflection:

Has your intuition whispered a truth you didn’t want to hear? What might shift if you finally listened?

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✨ Weekly Soulwork Challenge:

Each morning this week, try a 5-4-3-2-1 grounding exercise:

• Name 5 things you see

• Name 4 things you can touch

• Name 3 things you hear

• Name 2 things you smell

• Name 1 thing you taste

Then sit in silence for one minute and ask: What truth am I ready to receive today?

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💜 Quote to Carry With You:

“When someone isn’t ready to meet you where you are, it’s not your job to wait on the sidelines. It’s your job to keep walking toward the life you deserve.”

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Always,

Casandra