What if good things just get to happen to me?

The Threshold Between the Ache and the Miracle

I hit 120 subscribers on this Substack this week.
The man I’m seeing asked me to be his girlfriend—we shared a bottle of champagne, the expensive kind that stings and soothes.
I made 7k in five days while offline from my business.
Booked a feminine embodiment workshop three days after telling my best friend I wanted to do more in-person work.
I’m writing this en route to a women’s retreat in Austin, where I’ll spend the weekend surrounded by brilliant, big-hearted women building empires on devotion and nervous system regulation.

I’d say it feels like magic.
But not the soft, sanitized kind with cursive font and a moon emoji.
It’s the kind of magic that demands something of you. That says: are you willing to rewire your nervous system for miracles?

Because a few months ago, I was kneeling at the altar of my own unraveling.

Back in September, I ended a relationship with a man I loved. A man I almost moved to London for.
I knew the difference between peace and settling. Between surrender and self-abandonment.

So I came home.

Not metaphorically—literally. I moved back to my hometown, the place I left at 17 with a suitcase full of poetry and adolescent rage. I hadn’t stayed longer than three days in over a decade. Returning felt like a cosmic joke.

The last few years had been spent floating: Barcelona, Colombia, Turkey, London. A nomadic blur of cacao ceremonies and client calls. Every move felt like a leap of faith. Every pivot, a test of self-trust.
So when life asked me to trust again—to choose stillness over motion, roots over wings—I wanted to scream. How much more can I let go? How much more can I trust?

And yet... here I am.

Last night, when we popped the champagne, I felt something crack open in my chest. And then, the familiar voice:
This is too good to be true.
When is something bad going to happen?

I caught it mid-thought.
The quiet violence of my own conditioning.

Because here’s the truth: I have been wired for collapse.
Not because I’m broken, but because somewhere along the way through childhood chaos, inherited scarcity, ancestral trauma I learned to feel safer in disappointment than desire.

Every Monday, I work with a woman who’s part witch, part therapist, part elder. We’ve been unspooling this together. She calls it a dearmoring. I call it remembering. Both are true.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’ve been actively choosing to expect good things. Not through fake positivity or bypass. But by rewiring my body to hold pleasure. To hold safety. To hold joy without bracing for pain.

And so I’ve been asking myself:
What identity am I still gripping that’s no longer mine?

I’m tired of the story that something bad is going to happen.
Tired of the hypervigilant girl who scans every horizon for loss.
Tired of being the main character in a trauma plot twist.

What if…
What if magic was actually the baseline?
What if miracles weren’t anomalies, but expectations?

I think about the girls I grew up with—girls who seemed to coast through life with sparkly pencil cases and families who took annual vacations. I know now that ease is layered, that everyone’s story has texture. But there’s something to be said about the privilege of believing life gets to be soft.

My story’s been different.
Raised part-time in the jungles of Mexico. Plant medicine at 11. Shadow work before it trended on TikTok. I’ve studied somatics, earned my credentials, built a business around healing. I’ve metabolized more in one year than some do in fifty based on a lot of childhood trauma.

But now?

Now, I want a new story.

One where I am no longer the girl bad things happen to.
One where I am the woman who co-creates her life with precision and poetry.
Where love feels safe. Where joy doesn’t need to be punished by suffering.
Where success isn’t suspicious—it’s sacred.

This weekend, I’ll sit in a retreat with other women of all backgrounds, each of us shedding skins, declaring truths. And I’ll say it out loud:

I’m not waiting for the other shoe to drop anymore.
Because I’m not the child who had to anticipate chaos.
I’m the woman who’s building a life that holds her.

And maybe that’s the real magic.