Why true freedom begins with showing up for what you remember.
Growing up, I always believed in freedom. I believe in doing what I love, following what feels true, and letting life unfold in its own perfect timing. I've never believed that everything needs to be planned out or understood before we start. Some of the most meaningful moments in my life happened without a clear map. I've learned to trust that there's wisdom in letting things reveal themselves in their own time. But through building my own spiritual teachings, I've also learned that freedom and discipline aren't opposites. Actually, true freedom needs something solid underneath it.
For me, discipline has been one of the biggest lessons of my spiritual journey. Not discipline as control or restriction, but the willingness to keep showing up for something I could feel long before I could explain it. Some things in life reveal themselves slowly. We might get a glimpse of something before we understand what it means. We might feel drawn to something without knowing why, or start creating without knowing what we're actually making. Sometimes all we can do is keep showing up and trust that understanding will come when it's ready.
When you don't know what you're creating
I went through this when I made my first deck of oracle cards while I was pregnant with my son. At the time, I had no idea what I was drawing. The images were geometric shapes, often two overlapping circles. I remember knowing there was something inside them, even though I couldn't explain what it was or where it was going. I just kept drawing.
Understanding each image became its own journey. I had to spend time with them, listen to what was coming through, sit with the feelings, and slowly figure out what they meant. Sometimes I honestly felt a little crazy, doubting myself and questioning whether I was on the right track. Then came another question: how do you take something that came through intuitively and turn it into a real oracle deck other people could actually use? I had never done anything like it before. There was no formula to follow, so I learned as I went.
Looking back, I see that understanding the cards mattered just as much as making them. I couldn't force the meaning to appear — it had to reveal itself in its own time and its own way. Back then, I had no idea those drawings would become part of something much bigger. I was just following what was coming through me and learning to trust what I felt, even before I fully understood it. It was only years later that I saw how those early creations connected to the spiritual teachings I had been carrying inside me the whole time.
The pieces that didn't make sense yet
The oracle cards were only the start. Over the years, there were sacred artworks I made without fully understanding them, teachings that came through in pieces, and ideas that showed up before I knew how they fit together.
I made cards that almost nobody bought. I made healing oils I never really managed to sell properly. There were moments when, if I only measured my work by outside results, I might have wondered if any of it was worth continuing. But something inside me kept asking me to show up. Not perfectly. Not with a full plan. Just enough to keep the connection with what was coming through me alive.
At the time, I saw these things as separate — a deck of cards, a piece of sacred art, an oil, a teaching, a spiritual experience. I didn't see the bigger picture yet. I was just following what I was being shown and taking the next step that felt right. It was only after more than ten years that I began to understand what had actually been happening. That first oracle deck I made while carrying my son wasn't just a set of images. It was the foundation of my entire spiritual teaching. The geometric shapes, the two overlapping circles, and the meanings I spent years learning to understand were all part of something much bigger. They became what I now call "49 Steps Towards Love," and I named it "Once Upon A Dream."
What once looked like separate creations were really all part of the same body of work. I just couldn't see it while I was living through it. This taught me that we can't always understand what something means while we're creating it. Sometimes we need time, experience, and distance before we can see what was forming all along.
What consistency taught me
This changed how I understood discipline. I realized discipline didn't mean knowing exactly where I was headed and forcing myself to get there. It meant being willing to keep walking while the path was still revealing itself. My discipline became learning to listen, create, return, and take the next step without needing to know exactly what would come after it.
There were times I showed up more consistently, and times life asked me to slow down. There were times I felt deeply connected to my work, and times I questioned what I was doing. But over more than ten years, something kept growing. My spiritual experiences of bringing through my soul, remembering my purpose, and understanding my mission weren't separate from the discipline of everyday life. They trained me to show up in the world as a light.
Eventually, I understood that the consistency itself had been part of the training. I wasn't just creating a body of work. I was becoming someone capable of carrying it.
Divine timing and discipline
I still believe deeply in divine timing, but I understand it differently now. Divine timing doesn't mean waiting passively for everything to arrive. Sometimes it asks us to take part — to listen, to create, to practice, to take the small step that's available today, even when we can't see where it leads.
I didn't need to know that the drawings I made while pregnant would eventually become the foundation of an entire spiritual teaching. I didn't need to understand the full meaning of every image before I started. I only needed to honor what was coming through me and let its meaning reveal itself over time. For me, this is where divine timing and discipline meet.
Divine timing doesn't mean doing nothing. It means trusting the timing while still taking part in the process. There's a quieter kind of faith in that. We don't need total certainty before we move. Sometimes we just need enough trust to take the next step.
Consistency over intensity
We live in a culture that often celebrates intensity — the breakthrough, the big transformation, the overnight success. But some of the most meaningful things in our lives are built differently. They're built quietly, through repeating and returning. A relationship grows deeper because we keep showing up for it. A creative practice develops because we keep creating. A spiritual path deepens because we keep listening. A teaching becomes real because we keep living it.
For me, more than ten years of small steps taught me something one intense experience never could have. Consistency gives what we remember somewhere to live. It lets an insight turn into a practice, and a practice turn into a way of being. Maybe this is also why so many spiritual traditions place such importance on daily practice. Monks and nuns have devoted themselves to rhythms of prayer, meditation, study, and reflection for generations. Their lives remind us that structure doesn't have to take away our freedom. Sometimes it builds the ground that makes deeper freedom possible.
True freedom needs a ground
I still believe in freedom. I believe in following what you love, trusting divine timing, and letting your path unfold in ways that might not make sense right away. But I no longer believe freedom means having no structure. I believe true freedom needs a ground — built through commitment, practice, consistency, and knowing what matters enough to keep returning to. When we have that ground, discipline doesn't trap us — it supports us. We can rest without feeling like we've abandoned our path. We can slow down without believing we've failed. We can start again without feeling like everything is lost. Discipline becomes the ground that freedom can stand on.
The right discipline doesn't make us less free. It gives our freedom somewhere to stand.
From remembering to living
There's a point in every spiritual journey when what we know starts asking something of us. It asks to be lived. Our insights start shaping our choices. Our healing starts changing our relationships. Our desires start influencing what we create. What we remember starts shaping how we move through the world.
This is where remembering turns into living it out. Knowing something is one thing — living from it is another. Receiving a vision is one thing — consistently creating from it is another. Feeling connected to your soul is one thing — letting that connection shape your everyday life is another. Maybe this is the biggest lesson my journey has taught me. When I was pregnant with my son, drawing those geometric shapes, I didn't need to know I was laying the foundation for a teaching I would only recognize more than ten years later. I just needed to honor what was coming through me.
A sacred pause
Sometimes, before we can keep showing up, we need to pause. Not to give up on the path, but to reconnect with it. In the busyness of everyday life, it's easy to lose touch with the quieter knowing inside us. We get busy responding to whatever is right in front of us, while deeper questions wait underneath.
This is part of the reason behind Soul Reset — a sacred pause to reset, realign, and remember. A space to step away from the constant motion of everyday life and reconnect with what matters to you, so you can hear yourself again and become aware of what you're ready to carry forward.
Because sometimes we need to stop long enough to ask ourselves what we're truly devoted to, what we're ready to keep showing up for, and what wants to become real through us. The pause doesn't replace the practice — it gives us space to return to it on purpose. Maybe this is what soulful discipline really asks of us: not to know the whole path or do it perfectly, but to keep showing up with what we have, where we are, with what we can see today.
Sometimes we only see the meaning of our steps when we look back. What felt small may have been preparing us for something much bigger. What seemed separate may have been part of a lesson we hadn't yet learned how to name. And maybe that's the quiet wisdom in showing up. We don't always need to know where the path is leading. We only need to stay present enough to take the next step.
Remembering may show us the light. Discipline teaches us how to keep showing up for it. And over time, what we consistently live becomes the life we were remembering all along.