Thresholds of Return

Personal Essay: On Striving, Permission & Divine Reclamation

Author's Note: This month invited in a kind of “sacred return.”

Not a dramatic rebirth or grand unveiling, but a quiet conviction. A reinhabiting of self. A homecoming to the beauty, clarity, and divinity. As the eclipse passed through my ninth house, it illuminated something that had been stirring for a while: a knowing that I was no longer walking toward my life but re-entering it.

We call these moments thresholds, crossing over from the space between. This piece is both a meditation and a reflection on the threshold I’ve granted myself permission to finally step through.

Sometimes, these thresholds ask for an offering- tears were mine.

There comes a point quiet, almost imperceptible when life asks us to stop reaching and start remembering. To stop manifesting from lack and begin receiving from truth. We are not crossing into something new, we are returning to what was always ours.

In these seasons, where everything feels like it’s shifting beneath the surface, before anything changes outwardly, something deep within begins rearranging. That’s the space I’ve been in lately: a quiet but seismic return.

I’ve been dreaming of cabins in the forest. Boats without slips. Luxury stores where I don’t buy anything. Dreams don’t lie, they’re showing me exactly where I am. Orienting me towards a direction of no return.

We are, all of us, standing at a threshold.

This threshold won’t arrive with fanfare but with a subtle discomfort. A sense that something too good, too aligned & too easy is on its way. As if we’ve entered a room that feels like home, but we catch ourselves asking: Am I allowed to be here?

This doubt is the residue of an old paradigm dissolving. A paradigm that said we had to earn belonging. That beauty was withheld for a select few. That to speak with clarity and depth meant we would lose love. That to be both soft and powerful, spiritual and materially radiant, would make others uncomfortable.

But something is shifting. It’s in the air. In the soil. In the conversations we’re no longer willing to hold back having.

This moment, energetically, soulfully, is a doorway.

And this time, what is emerging is not ambition. It’s embodiment.

We’re no longer hustling toward our dreams. We are remembering we are the dream. We are the prayer. We are the vessel. And from that place, we are reclaiming prosperity not as status, but as stewardship.

Reclaiming beauty not as excess but as frequency.

Reclaiming faith not as dogma but as a living relationship.

What’s become clear is that I’m standing at a threshold between the woman I was and the woman I’m becoming and the only thing I need to cross it is permission. Not from anyone else. From myself.

Instead of asking, “What do I need to do to be seen?”
I’m contemplating, “Am I willing to be seen as I already am?”

We were in eclipse season recently, it was illuminating my 9th house of faith, publishing, and philosophy. I heard its message clearly: to share my voice more. To stop waiting for the right conditions. To stop hiding behind perfectionism, pacing, or strategy. I’m being asked to stand in the fullness of my expressions as a writer, a mystic, a mother, an artist, a contemplative, and as someone who believes the Divine can be found everywhere and in anything: in a teahouse, in a ritual, in a pair of well-made shoes.

This threshold is asking me to stop resisting the natural expansion of life. Of my life. To trust that my high standards are not a liability, they are a language. They are how I communicate with God. If God is extravagant, so am I.

I want to end this by saying, to anyone else standing at their own edge:

You don’t have to shrink to belong. You don’t have to dim to be loved. You don’t have to explain why your life matters. You don’t have to perform or prove. You’re allowed to return to yourself over and over again. You’re allowed to want more—not because you’re ungrateful but because you’re ready to experience life more fully.

What threshold, space of in between, are you currently standing at?
pause
What would it feel like to stop waiting and simply & gently walk through it?

With gratitude & grace,
Jasmine

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