Why, Hello Sophia!

Carl Jung proposed that we move through archetypal patterns… symbolic energies that shape how we experience ourselves and the world. These archetypes are not fixed identities, but states we live in and out of over the course of our lives. These theories have been used for decades… even down to the divination cards I use on the titled, “The Wild Unknown Archetypes,” by Kim Krans.

Then comes Erich Neumann who expanded on Jung’s ideas, outlining symbolic stages of feminine psychological development. While these are not lab tested maps, they have become working metaphors for a woman’s working psychological evolution.    

I’ve had a chance to dive into this deeper over the last several months… pulling information from my dad’s old dusty “Psychology Today” text book and even several of my own from my time at the big kid school.  You won’t find much… It’s almost as if the patriarchy was in charge of the information relayed to society.  You have to dive deeper…

The framework is as follows:

Eve Stage – A woman will center her identity on relationship to survival, belonging, sexuality, attachment, and will largely identify herself through her partner bonds.

Helen Stage – Named after Helen of Troy, this stage is the awakening of personal attractiveness, autonomy and power.  Here, her identity will shift from, “I belong!” to “I affect!”  This identity is still strongly tied to how one is perceived.

Mary Stage - Inspired by the Virgin Mary, this stage of feminine identity corresponds with sublimating personal desire with acts of service, moral purpose and higher calling.  It is the spiritualized feminine. 

Sophia Stage – Sophia means “Wisdom” in Greek.  In Jungian archetypal symbolism, she is divine feminine consciousness.  She is not naïve, seductive or self-sacrificing.  She is inwardly grounded, self-knowing and self-actualizing. She does not split her sexuality from her spirituality. She does not abandon herself to secure love. She does not weaponize independence. She can desire without needing.

These aren’t ladders we climb and leave behind. They’re lenses. We move in and out of them depending on love, loss, ambition, motherhood, heartbreak, healing.

I’ve been contemplating where I fall on this unofficial map.  I don’t know that I am fully in my Sophia identity. I still feel the pull of Eve’s longing, Helen’s sparkle, Mary’s devotion. They haven’t disappeared. They’ve just grown quieter. What feels different is that I can see them now. I can choose when they speak.

If Eve is “I belong to someone,”
and Helen is “I am desired,”
and Mary is “I serve something higher,”
Sophia is “I know who I am.”

Where am I today?

It’s been interesting to lay these over the top of my life thus far and see how I have moved in and out of Eve, Helen and Mary at various times. 

Here’s some truth… When I set the intentions that I plan to live my life by this year, I had no desperation. What I truly wanted for myself this year was to experience this life, fully, knowing that I don’t “need” anyone… Just to enjoy the beauty of myself.  To love myself unconditionally.  To know that I am held in this life through love by others and that love has a funny way of finding me… new and old stories… family and friends… Mostly, my mission was to define my identity on my own.  Not tied to a single soul. Allowing myself to understand that love is an underlying current in my life took the pressure off and has allowed me to calm my nervous system, moving forward in confidence.

So when someone asks me, “What do you do?”  My heart beats slow, but hard in my chest (you can feel it,)  as I say “I am an elementary school art teacher and mother to four glorious babies.”  But my identity is more than that today.

When I look back over my life, my ability to travel through these archetypes, my willingness to over-perform to win the appreciation of others (received or not) is why I have this amazing list of experiences I’ve had in my life.  My life has been truly exceptional and blessed. I stand tall today able to hand you a list as long as Santa’s of cool things I have done, things I have accomplished, places I’ve been, people I know, things I do…

Yet I find myself in this liminal space unwilling to perform for others anymore. It scares me a bit. If I am no longer striving to be chosen or applauded, will I still chase the mountains? Will I still gather exceptional experiences? Can desire rooted only in personal meaning carry me through the rest of my life?

This doesn’t mean I’ve mastered anything. Some days I still catch myself reaching for applause. Some days I want to be chosen. The difference is that I notice it. And noticing feels like the beginning of wisdom.

What I understand of the Sophia stage is that a woman in this archetypal identity is not closed to love nor armored.  She is specific, yet open.  She is very precise as to who her door opens for.

A suitor of this woman in her Sophia stage, will not find the key through pursuit or performance, but the ability to meet her at this level.  Someone who has done his own emotional work and carries his own direction and sense of meaning without expecting her to provide these things for him. 

In essence, I have longed to be in this stage for most of my life.  When I look at love through MY lens, I have always seen it as two people, not necessarily standing together, but each as a pillar standing on their own working together, but separately to maintain the structure of life.  To share the load of living. To see the sunrise each day together, but to allow each to find the meaning of it within themselves.

When I pull archetype cards, one that has always stirred something in me is The Crone. In Kim Krans’ interpretation, she represents deep, earned wisdom… the woman who has lived, loved, lost, burned, and emerged sovereign.

I don’t believe I am The Crone. Not yet. But I recognize her. I recognize the pull toward her steadiness. Toward her refusal to perform. Toward her quiet knowing.

Perhaps Sophia and the Crone are not destinations, but invitations. Not titles to claim, but directions to walk toward.  Not a woman who needs less love, but one who needs less proof.

What's your thermostat set at, Homie?

So, what’s next… when the past has taught you all that it can?

I’ve been feeling for the last few weeks that it is imperative that I start looking forward instead of rehashing the past.  While useful information is there in days gone by, I’ve also found that the loop won’t carry me into the future. 

I’ve been working awfully hard on finding who I am now. 

Back in my college days, I had this amazing professor for Psych 101.  We discussed our own private utopia.  In essence, all humans have a set number for their thermostat.  If I like the temperature on the thermostat set to 68 degrees, all other temperatures will feel uncomfortable.  This has become very apparent to me this last week as my oldest daughter and I battled over the temperature of my house.  Sometimes I wondered if she was going though perimenopause instead of me.  I turned the temp up for her… only to be met with, “I’m so sweaty and every room is too hot.”  So, I turned it down. 

After visiting my past and scoring over 10 million frequent flyer miles for doing so, I noticed that I don’t have to scrap everything and start over.  There are still many things that make up my utopia today.  But there are some things new that have come forward.

I also decided that this isn’t my ride alone.  I have 3 younger ones with me on this trip into the future.  We had a beautiful conversation about what we want our future days to look like.  I found it comical that they reflected my own thoughts on many things.  I was also surprised about their ideas on other things.

I should add some framing for context first… I have been practicing surrender at an accelerated pace.  The biggest piece to this is radical understanding that NO ONE is coming to save me, I may never find love again… not romantically anyway… and I am okay with that.  The amount of Peace I have in my life presently… someone would have to be awfully special to allow them into this space ever again.  I still have hope, but I haven’t put my eggs into that basket.  My children have noted several men that are in my day-to-day life that MAY carry feelings for me, but I am completely oblivious.  I try to tell them, if I have to ask others if that’s true, that is confusion… I don’t want any part of that anyway. 

Their idea is somewhat rooted in the Brady Bunch.  Each child has asked for a step-brother or sister their age.  HA! 

They also want to make sure that the next guy spoils me rotten and can talk to me without yelling.  I almost cried on that one.  It means they saw it too, and I’m sorry to them for that one. 

We have collectively decided to tighten up the budget so that we can afford to travel – they’ve always wanted to take a ride on an airplane and splash in the ocean.  I am on board with this one. 

We talked about taking advantage of experiences rather than stuff… This made my heart happy.

Sometimes the work is harder to drop the baggage you carry and have been carrying for so long than it is just keep carrying it. 

It occurred to me that maybe, our own private utopia may not always be things that are “good” for us – just things that are comfortable for us… like the temperature on the thermostat.

My questions to myself as I try to fashion my way forward are, what other things have I adopted because they are comfortable for me?  I’ve abandoned myself for so long in so many places… what else truly lands on that list?

Where do I stay quiet to keep a connection?

When do I give freely without being asked?

When do I feel more like myself, even when it’s awkward?

When do my shoulders drop genuinely?

What environments allow my breath to deepen naturally?

What kind of love would require me to stop proving?

What would it feel like to be chosen without the non-stop auditioning?

AND, if I trusted that my aging body is not a liability, what would I stop apologizing for?

The list of questions could keep going, but I think this is a great start.  Finding my new utopia, my new thermostat setting is fun.  There are some things about myself that I forgot I enjoy.  Small comforts that make my heart open just a bit more and help me to realize that time plays no role in the understanding of self and living authentically.  It helps to make boundaries easier with myself and towards others. 

While we have plans to travel… I would like to think of my future less of a destination and more as the direction my nervous system now recognizes as home. 

In my next chapter, comfort will look quieter. It won’t have to be louder or shinier, but it will absolutely be less braced.  I’m learning to trust this life that doesn’t require CONSTANT vigilance and walking on eggshells.  I am looking forward to the softness. My next chapter, while my imagination runs wild, understands that my biggest win lives inside of me, it always has … but now has room to breathe. 

In my next chapter, love knows where to find me.  It won’t be confusion or anger… it won’t be dismantling or controlling.  Gratefulness for this spectacular life is my top priority, through highs and lows and all that in between.  I look forward to the slowness that creates space to feel and not just react.  I’m excited for the truth of who I am in this world allowed to emerge in this stillness…

This new season… new chapter feels so much more different than anything I have ever started in my life.  It feels genuinely authentic and intentional.  Not a destination… direction.

This week was so busy. But it was really good.  I think including my children and allowing them to understand that their happiness and wellbeing is a big part of my own private utopia made a big difference.  I was checking my kiddo’s homework before he stuffed it into his backpack… One of the questions he had to answer about the reading he did was, “How can you relate this character to your own life experience?”  His answer was, “There are super heros in it and my mom is my Super hero.” 

Some days the universe delivers the perfect temperature.

Don't worry... I fixed the panel myself

 I am the necessary interference…

The harmonic anomaly…

Tonight, as I sit to write, I think about all of my NOW moments.
I think back to sitting here one year ago, three years ago, five years ago, ten years ago… shall I keep going?

The woman I was ten years ago was so confused. I was definitely on autopilot. I pushed myself hard to get a grip. I was exactly where I thought I wanted to be, but something was off. So off the electric company could have been paying me—the switch was tripped.

What do you do when the lights go down?

I waited. Patiently.
I could always feel in my soul that something big was happening. I just didn’t know what that something was. I was thankful for what I had and I made the most of it.

The woman I was five years ago was terrified.
Just a year prior, I had married the man who consumed every part of me... from conversations with people who didn’t give a shit to daydreams and aspirations. I lived and breathed nothing but him.

I should have been standing in an ocean of elation.
Instead, I realized that saying I do changed nothing.

He would stare at the ring on his finger and mutter about how special he felt that someone would choose him. I had always chosen him. He didn’t always choose me. He still fought to win, not to understand. He still stomped around like a toddler who didn’t get his way. He still said some of the cruelest things to the person he claimed to love.

Nothing had changed.
And I was afraid I had made a terrible mistake.

But I waited.
Some of the best wines get better with age. A wing and a prayer…

The breaker wouldn’t stay on.

Three years ago, the woman staring back at me in the mirror finally said, You deserve to be happy.

So I went looking for the things that made me happy. I realized I had placed all of my eggs in the basket of him... of us. I stumbled into an opportunity to hang my art in a gallery and worked for months preparing for it.

On the day of the opening, he stole that too.

I sat on my deck, smoking a cigarette, about to leave early. My parents were taking the kids so I could participate in my own life. He showed up just before I finished... armed with excuses, explaining why I shouldn’t be mad.

He made it.

I listened to him manipulate the truth, and this time my eyes were wide open. Every other time this had happened flashed before me. He had been spinning stories like this for eons.

I felt gullible. Foolish.
How did I not see this before?

The circuit was fried.

Still, I waited. I assumed it was me. Maybe motherhood. Maybe I couldn’t focus. Maybe I couldn’t communicate clearly.

I pulled my energy way back... not because I wanted to. I wasn’t built for that. When I love you, I love the f*ck out of you. I often restrain myself, afraid I’m too much.

My dad has a saying: “The worst kind of alcoholic is the one with a head full of AA and a belly full of booze.”
That was me. A head full of understanding and a blown panel of fuses.

The woman I was a year ago wasn’t surprised.

If I’m honest... even with all the hurtful things he did and said at the end... I know it had to happen that way. He had to be the disrupter. The one who caused the system I had been operating under for 27 years to revolt.

And I was grateful.

I was scared.
But I was free.

Today, as I write to whoever reads these words, I understand this: everything is frequency. Everything is a symphony. When all chords... even the ones that sound like nails on a chalkboard... are played long enough, they find other chords and create harmony.

And when harmonies meet somewhere out in the universe, they create the most beautiful symphony you’ve ever heard.

Nothing is a mistake.
Nothing is right or wrong.
Every possibility is a strike of the string of life, aiming to become part of the whole.

And I understand now:

I am the exact dissonance this symphony was missing.

Every avenue, wave, frequency, chord would have brought me exactly here... just as I will ride out of here in whatever shape or fashion comes next.

There is no right or wrong.
Just chords bumping into each other.
Chords tethering. Tying.

Chords freeing and releasing...

My lights are on.
I fixed the panel myself.

           Poem 1246

“The minute I heard my first love story

I started looking for you, not knowing

how blind that was.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.

They're in each other all along.”

—Rumi

Burn the Map!

Ah! A new year…

12 new chapters…
365 new chances… (I saw that on NYE… Totally stolen goods.)

Burn the map.
Life isn’t what you thought it was.

Yet here I am… spiraling in my past, examining every detail, trying to unearth the one answer that explains why I’m sitting here, where I am, and not where I thought I’d be. I thought I took all the correct steps. I thought I took all the right turns.

Instead, I kept adding more grief and shame to my bullshit sandwich with each discovery.

I’ve decided that this is the year I cut that out of my life.

Maybe I wasn’t made for straight lines.

It started with a handful of memories. Moments where my ex would casually bring up my “faults.” The ones I was already hypersensitive about. Dropped at random times, almost as if to remind me that I was damaged goods. Not quite right. Not perfect.

I learned to operate from that sense of self he so graciously handed to me.

Oh, I couldn’t possibly do that.
Be that.
Enjoy that.

Because I had extra hair on my body. Or a flat ass. Or “mosquito bumps” for breasts. Too many children. A faulty communication style. I did everything wrong.

My mind spiraled, briefly brushing up against all the things I could have criticized about him but never would. Because that would have been cruel. Hateful. Pointless.

So why did I accept it from him?
Why did I believe it was okay?

I did everything in my power to change myself to make him happy… and caught myself, just last week, still doing it. Still trying to be acceptable. To him.

I changed my clothes four times in a row, making sure every perceived flaw was hidden from the world. And in the end, what stared back at me in the mirror wasn’t really me at all.

What he did wasn’t accidental. It was a control tactic… one designed to keep me small, self-loathing, and disconnected from who I truly am. I think he believed that if he could dim my light, I might stay in the ditch with him. That way, he wouldn’t have to be alone.

Misery loves company.

I started noticing it in my daydreams. Those little glimpses of a future life. Every possibility bumped into his imagined disapproval.

He wouldn’t want me to do that.
He’d start an argument over that.
He’d make me feel terrible for wearing something like that.

As if his opinion of me still mattered.

What is this even about?

I thought I was healing. Letting go. Moving forward.

So where was this coming from?

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Yes, I am healing.
Yes, I am letting go.

But for twenty-seven years, my identity was intertwined with this man. He was my mirror. My witness. My measuring stick.

And my brain… my subconscious… is still running old programs in a brand-new life.

It’s like trying to tighten a screw with a wrench. When you’ve been programmed the same way for nearly three decades, it takes time to learn new tools. To exchange how you see, how you move, how you operate.

Subconscious reprogramming starts with nervous system regulation. I need to feel safe in this new life. I need new patterns. New thoughts. A new mirror… one that belongs to me.

A new witness.
Maybe that witness is only myself.
And the Universe.

A new measuring stick that says, Baby, you’ve always been enough. Always.

I have to stop choking down that old sandwich… the self-blame, the belief that I must keep carrying the burden of fault… when there are clearly patterns of manipulation woven into this story.

Now, when these old thought patterns surface, I meet them differently.

Ah, I say. This is a reorientation moment.

Because the question underneath it all keeps circling back to one thing:

If he didn’t exist at all…
what would this moment be about?

What would I say to myself?

So I wear the dress that shows off my curves… because I like it.
I skip leg and butt day because I’d rather watch a movie with my kids.
I don’t shave my legs every day because it gives me more time in my life.
I do what will bring me joy, right now, this moment without thinking for one second if he would approve.

And my peace is now intentional… not something I maintain for survival.

I get to be the cartographer now.

I don’t have to follow societal expectations or inherited ones passed down through generations. The roadmap is aflame, and I’m warming my hands by the fire.

I am being witnessed by life itself.

And I know it delights in me.

Raven Song...

This year will be different.

This year will be different…I chanted to myself every day for weeks. Was I preparing myself for success or misery? I wasn’t sure…but I wanted to make sure I wasn’t surprised.

For many years, Christmastime usually lent itself to tension and arguments practically under the tree. There was always a source of contention, something to be angry about. I tried to be the calm, the peace, the one who made sure the magic of the season didn’t get left behind.

This year, I was determined not to feel that familiar angst and pressure…the nervous system dysregulation. The stress. The tears. The hold it all together for everyone else. I was determined to find my peace, no matter what.

And I did… though it required explaining to others that I wasn’t going to walk the road of years past. The days leading up to the holiday were busy, but virtually stress-free. The only real challenge was the babies, struggling a bit with things being different.

Which led me to thinking about all the Christmases of my past.
They were all first Christmases.

The year I was born.
The year I took my first steps.
The year I wished for my front teeth.
The first year without my Grandpa.
The first year with my boyfriend.
The first year with a new boyfriend.
The first year I was married.
The first year with a new baby.
The first year divorced...

You get the point.

Every year is different. What hasn’t changed is that celebrating with my family has always been a constant. I made sure the babies knew that was the most important part…to take it all in.

Have you ever had a massage from a blind man?

A few days after Christmas, I did. Ninety minutes of full-body, get-all-the-knots-out magic.

It was the strangest thing. I assume his sense of touch is more attuned than most… he found every knot in my body that I didn’t even know existed. But I also had to read the massage oil bottle to him to be sure he had the right one. I had to be very specific when asking for anything: which part hurt, which part needed more attention.

Something I haven’t been very good at- with anyone- because somewhere along the way, my brain learned that asking for what I need causes problems.

But for the first time, asking for what I needed didn’t feel like a burden.
It felt like participation.

When was the very first time I asked for what I needed and was made to feel undeserving? I’ve been working hard to figure that out…scrolling the Rolodex of memories. Was it a single moment, or a collection of moments?

I’m cautious of the idea of playing victim. I own my life in this moment. So, I wonder: do I need more life experiences where I give myself exactly what I need? Or more experiences where I am forced to ask for it?

When I left the massage therapist, my music app was still on shuffle. As I pulled out of the parking lot, the song that came on was “Raven Song” by Elephant Revival. At that exact moment, a raven flew nearly into my windshield, then landed on the ground near the stop sign ahead of me.

We locked eyes for a minute.
He cocked his head.
Cawed.
Then flew away.

The irony made me laugh out loud—and then I cried the rest of the way home.

Was it magic?  It surely couldn’t just be a coincidence…

I keep asking the Universe to show me magic still exists... but I'm afraid it would have to slap me in the face or hit my windshield for me to believe it.

I don’t know how to explain this liminal space I find myself in as I’m nearing the end of the year… one of the hardest years of my life.  I’m in a place of being so thankful that chapter of my life is over.  But I’m also grateful for the years of being able to stay at home with my babies. For having a roof over my head and food in my belly, while the bare minimum… I am grateful. 

This last time we were together spanned fourteen years. Nine years in, when he asked me to marry him, I really needed that. I needed to feel wanted. Worth staying for. Worth building a life with.

He didn’t mean it, though. Those were even some of his parting words…that he only married me because it was the right thing to do.

At the time, my heart and soul needed that feeling more than anything. Which made his words a gut punch I was not equipped to bear.

I’ve been trying to remember what brought me to him in the first place. The only thing I can truly recall is the spark. I remember, with explicit detail, the day he knocked on the door of the radio station…the smile on his face, how the air felt electric, even what he was wearing. I remember our first “date,” the laughter we shared.

I had never felt that with anyone before…and haven’t since.

The grief I carry comes from knowing it was always one-sided. I feel like I’ve been playing the longest-running game of make-believe, abandoning myself over and over and over again for nothing. I try to gather all the good memories before they slip away, but doing that keeps me suspended in a painful limbo…. grateful but knowing I deserved so much more; knowing I got what I wanted and still ended up here.

The truth is, it was a comfortable place for me.

At first, I thought my love was no good.  That I was kidding myself, I was a sham.  BUT…. No matter how much I loved him, clapped for him, lifted him up…I was never going to be enough. My love was never going to fix him or save him. Being the fat kid who had to be extra just to keep a friend…that’s my comfort zone.  And that’s why I stayed.

My work now is to understand that my love is still worthy.
That my heart is not broken.
That I deserve healthy, reciprocal love that stays.

I want to remain that open-hearted girl who believes in the magic of this world. That some things happen for a reason, and some things are not coincidences at all. I want to believe that love between two people can heal more than it harms…and that sparks really do mean something.  I hope that it doesn’t stray for too long.

So, I keep chanting to myself…

It will be different.
It will be different…because I am different.