The Alchemy of self love

A lesson in turning lightning into light.

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There are days when nostalgia visits.

It echoes around the walls in the form of a song, a scent,

a memory that doesn’t belong to this timeline but still knows my name.

Sometimes those moments remind me of when life first cracked open and I saw behind the veil —

when everything shimmered with meaning,

and love felt like magic wearing a human face.

Back then, connection was lightning — sudden, transformative.

It burned away what was false and left me blinking in the smoke, reborn and a little scorched.

First awakenings often dazzle through the shadows in the form of heartbreak.

You think that’s what love must always feel like — urgent, consuming, celestial.

However, lightning doesn’t conduct to stay.

It crashes down, leaves its mark in the most dramatic way,

then leaves you to learn how to live with the imprint.

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Nowadays I’ve learnt the quieter magic of the ground.

Of hands that steady instead of shake.

Of laughter that arrives in the middle of the day,

not just at the edge of midnight.

The alchemy of self-love has taught me that the miracle is found

in what you choose to keep glowing long after the strike.

I used to believe that excitement was proof of alignment.

That butterflies meant destiny.

But sometimes, the ache we mistake for passion

is just our nervous system chasing what it once called home — chaos.

The old pattern that equated “unavailable” with “desirable.”

I’ve learnt to breathe through that confusion and step out of it.

To recognise that peace can feel foreign

when you’ve built your identity around the storm.

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The work now is integration.

Letting the body understand what the soul already knows:

that love doesn’t have to be chased to be cherished.

And in the midst of this lesson, something else has revealed itself.

We all carry an unseen current — an energy that precedes our words.

Some people call it aura, frequency, vibration.

Whatever the name, it speaks first.

I’ve been told mine tends to open wide, and maybe that’s true.

I’ve seen how a lot of people soften when I’m near,

how energy crackles in the air even when I’m saying nothing at all.

For years, I thought that was something to guard, to shrink, to control —

because I was giving off a dangerous signal.

But self-love has taught me that my energy isn’t a threat —

it’s a safety that’s often misinterpreted as desire.

People who haven’t yet invested in their own inner work

feel safe, often unknowingly, in my energy.

It’s the curse and blessing of a healer — of a lightworker.

The key is learning when to share it and when to call it home.

To let it fill a room without letting it leak my peace.

To understand that magnetism doesn’t mean availability — it means alignment.

What I used to call “chemistry” was often just recognition:

a soul remembering another lifetime’s frequency,

not necessarily its future.

And the ache that followed was the echo of an old assignment ending.

I learned that those connections would often take more

than they were ever capable of giving back.

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Now, when something new arrives — gentle, grounded, present —

I notice the old reflexes wake up.

The part of me that used to find thrill in uncertainty.

The whisper that asks, Where’s the chase?

But then I remember:

the chase is only exciting when you don’t yet know your worth.

When you do, the thrill becomes presence.

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The Alchemy of Self-Love Is This

It turns lightning into warmth,

chaos into peace,

longing into creation.

It’s realising that what I once sought in others —

and would often give to them in abundance —

was always an aspect of myself asking to be loved.

So I honour the awakeners, the catalysts, the mirrors —

the ones who cracked me open.

But I also bless the steady hands, the laughter, the quiet mornings —

the ones who remind me that divinity doesn’t disappear when life gets ordinary.

It simply integrates.

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Magic hasn’t left my life.

It’s just become less about being struck

and more about staying lit.

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Sometimes Spirit speaks through songs I’d never queue myself.

A while ago it was “My All” — the ache of devotion, the surrender of everything for love.

This week it’s “Falling Into You” — the trust, the soft landing, the knowing that love can hold me.

Neither are from my usual playlist, which is how I know they aren’t random.

They’re little nudges from the unseen, reminding me that the soundtrack evolves as I do.

The first was about giving everything away.

The second is about allowing everything in.

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Where I was: chasing connection like it was oxygen.

Where I am: breathing it naturally, because it already lives inside me.

That’s the true alchemy of self-love —

where even the music starts to change its tune.