As the year draws to a close on this December 24, 2025,
preparing for 2026,
I’m reminded of the quiet power in making space.
Not just physically—
but energetically.
And, perhaps most importantly, mentally.
We only have so much to give.
What we hold onto shapes what can enter.
This past year, I let go of what no longer aligned.
Physically, during our move,
I released old furniture—
pieces that once filled rooms but no longer inspired.
Throwing them away wasn’t easy.
But it created room
for what feels meaningful now.
More importantly, energetically.
There’s a point in the journey where the crisis fades, and people expect the story to resolve.
Life doesn’t work that way.
The real work begins when the urgency quiets— when you’re no longer running from chaos, but learning how to stay inside ordinary days without reaching for old numbing.
That’s where the practice lives.
For me, staying has become the deepest form of devotion.
Not dramatic commitment. Quiet repetition.
There’s a version of the spiritual journey people like to tell—the polished one. The one that begins with yoga classes, candlelight, and “finding yourself.”
That’s not my story.
Mine began in survival. And in the moment I stopped calling it normal.
This is the beginning of Lotus Rhythm—not as a brand, but as a quiet record. A place to trace what it actually takes to move from survival into alignment, one intentional day at a time.
It didn’t start as spirituality. It started as survival.
My parents divorced, and the emotional instability that followed shaped everything—how I learned to love, to cope, to endure.
There was no consistent guidance, no steady emotional safety. Love felt conditional: present one day, withheld the next. I learned early that being “easy” was safer than voicing what I truly needed.
I became a caretaker long before I was ready. I parented my mother in ways no child should have to. I carried my siblings. I managed moods and crises that were never mine to hold.
