There is a tempo to true healing.
It mimics the slow regrowth of a forest after fire.
The way scar tissue forms not overnight, but through time and tenderness.
The way a baby learns to walk — step, fall, step again.

The soul, too, moves in patterns of safety.
And when we’ve experienced betrayal, burnout, abandonment, or spiritual disillusionment, the nervous system remembers.
Even when the mind insists, we should be “over it,” the body still whispers:
Not yet. Still mending.

In somatic healing, we learn that
what was wired through fear can only be rewired through safety — and safety is slow.
There is no spiritual prize for rushing.
No badge for skipping steps.
Only deeper integration when we move in alignment with what’s actually true.

Your heart is not a machine.
It is a living altar, and healing it is holy work.

This is why you pause.
This is why you pull back when others push.
This is why some doors still feel heavy, and why some seasons ask you to stay low to the ground.

You are not broken. You are becoming.
Your pace is not your problem.
It is your protection.

But let us be clear:

This does not mean you need to rush into trust to "get what you want."

This isn’t about using trust as a spiritual strategy.
It’s not about proving you’re healed so the universe will finally reward you.
This is about honoring that trust, real trust, is earned over time.
Even (especially) when it comes to trusting yourself again.

If your body hesitates, there is wisdom in that.
If your soul is still sorting, still softening, still sifting through the fragments, let it.

You don’t need to bypass your own timing just to manifest an outcome.
You don’t need to gaslight your own soul just to prove your spiritual maturity.

There is nothing wrong with you if your healing is still slow.
There is something profoundly right about choosing depth over speed.

Because here’s the quiet truth:

The soul never stopped trusting you.

Even when you doubted yourself.
Even when you tried to barter with the stars.
Even when you lit a candle and forgot what you were praying for.

The soul waited. Patiently. Softly.
Not to shame you for being afraid but to walk with you as you learn how to feel safe again.

And in that way, trust isn’t a leap.
It’s a slow return.
Back to your body.
Back to your knowing.
Back to your own sacred rhythm.

You don’t have to rush.
You just have to stay.

The rest will unfold in its time.

A Final (Unfinished) Whisper

Honestly? I thought trust would feel more... triumphant.
Like a sunrise moment.
Like clarity crashing in with a hallelujah chorus.

But sometimes, it just feels like sitting still when everything in you wants to run.
Or taking a deep breath before you answer a message.
Or not pretending you’re okay when you’re not.

There are days I still wonder if I’m “doing it right.”
If I’m healing fast enough.
If the universe is secretly holding out on me until I finally get it together.

And then, something strange will happen.
A crow will land on the windowsill.
A stranger will say something my grandmother once whispered.
A childhood song will play in a café I’ve never been to.

Or a hallway will show up in a dream;
the kind with too many doors,
and one is humming with light.
I never open it. But I wake up different.

And I’ll remember: the soul knows the way back.
Even if I don’t.

So maybe trust isn’t about certainty.
Maybe it’s about letting the mystery walk with you.
Even when the path is crooked.
Even when you’re not sure if you’re ready.

Maybe the soul doesn’t ask for perfection...
just your willingness to show up, cracked and curious.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s enough.

(Or maybe not. Maybe tomorrow I'll forget again. Maybe that's part of the spell.)

For now, I’ll meet you there.
In the pause.
In the pulse.
In the unfinished beauty of becoming.

With love,

-J