Standing at the Edge of the Known

This isn’t a polished blog post.

It’s a breath.

A pause.

A place to say: Here I am. And I don’t know what comes next.

Today, I found myself whispering a truth that’s been building in me for some time:

I don’t believe the systems—government, education, health, business—are capable of creating the world so many of us long for. Not as they are. Not if we keep patching, tweaking, reforming.

And maybe you’re here too.

Maybe you’ve also looked around and thought, “This isn’t it.”

Maybe the ways we’ve tried to make a difference inside the system now feel like painting murals inside a burning building.

It’s not that I’ve given up. Far from it.

It's just… I’ve started remembering something deeper.

Something ancient.

Something truer.

There is a spiritual awakening happening—can you feel it? A quickening. A grief. A longing. A quiet but relentless invitation to remember who we are beyond the noise, the programming, the performance of progress.

And now I find myself standing in a new place—clear-eyed, heart-wild, unsure.

Because if the systems won’t save us, how do we create what comes next?

How do we guide our children when so much of their world is shaped by invisible scripts—scripts even we, their parents and guides, are still trying to see through?

This is where I am.

And I want to say it out loud for anyone else who’s here too.

Not with answers, but with love and solidarity.

Because maybe this is the beginning—not of a solution, but of a new story.

A story rooted in circles instead of hierarchies. In remembering instead of performing. In becoming instead of achieving.

So what do we do now?

We start in the smallest places.

We model what it looks like to live a different way—to question, to listen, to speak with reverence.

We tell stories that awaken memory instead of prescribe behavior.

We create tools for seed planters—books, rituals, language that helps both children and their adults find their way back to their own knowing.

We shift conversations, not just curriculums.

We remind ourselves that the subtlest changes—a question asked differently, a silence held with love—matter.

We build new networks of conversations.

Ones that carry life.

Ones that make it safe to say “I don’t know.”

Ones that honour the wisdom already living inside each of us.

For me, it may look like children’s books, a critical thinking app, circles of remembering with parents and educators, gentle daily rituals to re-story our homes. But really, this isn’t about the form. It’s about the intention. The heart of it is: what are we feeding with our focus?

So I’m asking:

• Are you here too?

• Are you at the edge of the known, trying to remember a different way?

• Do you feel the ache, the pull, the invitation?

  
  

If so, I’d love to walk with you.

No map. Just presence.

No certainty. Just devotion.

Never forget the smallest ripple can become the largest of tsunami's.

Let’s gather. Let’s share stories. Let’s build from the inside out.

Together.

With love,

Amber