The Storm Hit Hard—Then It Was Gone

The Storm Hit Hard—Then It Was Gone  

The rain came out of nowhere tonight, just now. If you are in Charleston, did you feel it?

One moment, everything was still. The next, it was chaos—wind blew the trees and I worried they'd collapse, water hammering the earth, the sky opening wide and spilled everything it had.  

And then—just like that—it was gone.  

It feels like this eclipse has been the same. I don’t track the cosmos, but I feel them.

And this one? It’s been tearing through, ripping things up from the root, demanding we decide:

Who are you now?

Where are you going?

No more lingering in the in-between. No more clinging to what was. No more pretending we don’t hear the call.  

It’s uncomfortable. It’s raw. It strips us down to what’s real.

And yet—there’s beauty in it.

Because even in the wreckage, we don’t lose ourselves. We don’t lose the parts of us that have carried us through every storm before this.  

We just learn to ride the waves differently.  

If you’ve felt the shake-up, if you’ve been standing in the downpour, if you’ve watched things break apart and wondered what’s left—just breathe.

The storm always passes.

And when it does, there you are.  

Wiser. Clearer. More you than you ever were before.  

Step closer.

It's time to know THIS version of you.