My Journey into the Miraculous

I used to think the miraculous would announce itself through results.

Through evidence I could point to.

Through outcomes that justified the effort.

Through things finally working the way I thought they were supposed to.

I believed the miracle lived on the other side of clarity, certainty, and getting it right.

What I didn’t know then was that the miraculous doesn’t arrive as proof.

It arrives as relationship.

And it doesn’t change life first.

It changes how we meet life.

When the Ground Shifted

At some point — quietly, without a single defining moment — I stopped relating to life as something to manage.

I had spent years doing what I had been taught to do:

set intentions, do the work, optimize, improve, fix, hold things together.

I was capable.

I was responsible.

I was exhausted.

What changed wasn’t my discipline or my commitment.

It was my stance.

I stopped standing over life, trying to direct it, and began standing inside it — listening, responding, allowing myself to be changed by what I met.

That was the beginning.

What Happened to Results

Yes, results still came.

But not in the clean, linear way I once believed they should.

Some things unfolded beautifully.

Some things didn’t resolve at all.

Some doors closed without explanation.

Some efforts dissolved instead of solidifying.

And yet — I was not diminished by any of it.

That’s how I know something fundamental shifted.

I stopped treating results as rewards or verdicts.

I began seeing them as signals.

Information.

Feedback.

Revelation.

I no longer asked, “Did I succeed?”

I asked, “What is being shown to me?”

Failure lost its power in that moment.

Not because everything worked — but because I stayed intact when it didn’t.

The Miracles I Didn’t Ask For

There is one miracle I need to name — carefully.

Not with details.

Not with story.

Not with claims.

Only with truth.

One of the greatest miracles of my life arrived when I wasn’t looking for it.

I wasn’t searching.

I wasn’t manifesting.

I wasn’t scanning the horizon.

It came unannounced and unplanned.

What made it miraculous wasn’t rescue or romance.

It was recognition.

The kind that doesn’t demand performance.

The kind that doesn’t ask you to become someone else.

The kind that quietly rearranges what you thought was possible.

I won’t say more than that — because some miracles are not meant to be explained.

They are meant to be protected.

The Miracles of Letting Go

But the journey into the miraculous didn’t only bring something into my life.

It also asked me to release what no longer belonged.

I began to see how much responsibility I had been carrying that was never mine.

Responsibility for outcomes I could not control.

Responsibility for systems I did not design.

Responsibility for holding everything together so nothing would fall apart.

Letting go of that responsibility felt, at first, like failure.

Until I realized it was fidelity.

Fidelity to what is actually mine to tend.

I let go of work that no longer feeds my soul — even work I am good at.

I let go of roles that require me to abandon myself to be effective.

I let go of identities built for survival, not for the life I am living now.

None of this was dramatic.

It was merciful.

Releasing Control, Releasing the Need to Know

Perhaps the most profound letting-go was the quietest.

My need to control.

My need to know where this is all going.

My need for certainty before allowing myself to rest.

I had mistaken vigilance for wisdom.

Certainty for safety.

What I learned instead is that control is often just fear wearing the costume of competence.

And not knowing — real not knowing — is not emptiness.

It is a field.

A living, responsive, intelligent field that meets us when we stop interrogating it for guarantees.

When I loosened my grip, life stopped bracing against me.

That, too, was miraculous.

What I Stand In Now

I stand in a life with fewer answers

and more truth.

With less force

and more trust.

With fewer obligations

and deeper devotion.

I no longer measure my life by outcomes alone.

I measure it by alignment.

By whether I am listening.

By whether I am responding rather than reacting.

By whether I am in right relationship with myself, others, and what I cannot control.

The miracle is not that everything worked out.

The miracle is that I did not abandon myself when it didn’t.

And from this place, life feels less like something to conquer

and more like something to walk with.

Which, it turns out,

was what I had been asking for all along.