Someone’s gloved hands are stuffed into my mouth, pressing against my inner jaw. The smell of latex and oil. I’m lying on a treatment table, breathing deeply to stay present for what is.
There is no talking. Just silence. Stillness. Surrender.
After years of stress-related jaw clenching I was receiving a massage to help release my TMJ. But what that practitioner was releasing wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. Energetic. An unraveling.
In the quiet discomfort, a thought surfaced:
Do I love myself enough to let part of myself go?
It startled me.
But I knew exactly what it meant.
Do I love myself enough to let die the version of me who had earned her worth through accomplishments? Who kept herself safe by being in control? Who is a chameleon, a skilled ninja at hiding parts of herself in the shadows.
This wasn’t about rejecting those parts. It was about releasing them—not with violence, but with devotion.
There’s a paradox in transformation. To grow, something must die—not your essence, but the armor you built around it.
This is the Phoenix path. The winter-before-spring path. The sacred undoing.
If you’re on this path, chances are you’re feeling that ache, too. The tug of the person you’ve been, and the whisper of the person you’re becoming.
As tears rolled down my face, I realized that the masculine energy I’d practiced for so long had become distorted. Toxic to myself.
Never stop.
Be efficient.
Stay in control.
Need nothing.
The pain in my jaw wasn’t just tension—it was my feminine energy, silenced. Unheard. Strangled by a lifetime of proving instead of receiving. Of powering through instead of pausing to listen.
That day, I took radical accountability for my practiced distortions. Then, I honored the distorted masculine I had outgrown. I honored how it helped me survive and thrive in spaces that weren’t built for softness, wholeness, or complexity. I honored how she fought for me. How she made sure I was seen.
And then, I released her. In that release, something new made its way in.
A softer power.
A quieter clarity.
A reunion within myself.
This is what integration feels like.
We don’t grow by adding more. We grow by becoming less of who we’re not.
We all carry masculine and feminine energies. You don’t need to study Jung to know when they’re out of balance—you feel it. In your breath. In your exhaustion. In your overdrive or inertia.
Masculine energy (think: structure, drive, logic, focus, doing):
At its best, it’s the container, the riverbank that gives direction to the water.
At its worst, it’s rigid, dominating, emotionally distant, obsessed with outcomes and control. There’s always something to prove. Respected…but not resourced. Functional…but not felt.
Feminine energy (think: intuition, emotion, creativity, being):
At its best, it’s the flow, the river itself—wild, wise, connected to mystery.
At its worst, it becomes untethered, chaotic, overwhelmed, consumed by feelings with no action. Deeply attuned…but unanchored. Open…but unprotected.
When either energy runs unchecked, we suffer.
But when they collaborate, we come alive. That’s when the magic begins.
The integrated state doesn’t mean 50/50 in every moment.
It means there’s a relationship. A dialogue. A dance.
One speaks. The other listens.
One leads. The other follows.
And then they switch.
You trust your yes. You honor your no.
You move from clarity and feeling.
You stop abandoning yourself—for ambition or for safety.
You begin to live in wholeness.
This is the kind of work I do in one-on-one coaching.
Deep. Sacred. Honest.
Because yes—it takes love to let go of who you’ve been.
But the version of you on the other side is more alive. More present. More whole.
And that version is patiently waiting for you.
Maybe even whispering, It’s time.
