Chap. 7 — The Floor is Holy Ground
There comes a moment when the scaffolding falls.
Here I was, decades later, finding all the practices, the words, the strategies, the beliefs, everything I built to survive—everything that once helped me—suddenly felt hollow.
It didn’t happen all at once. It was an accumulation. Tiny betrayals of self. Tiny silences swallowed. Pain pushed down for years, decades, lifetimes. Until one day, I could no longer carry it.
I remember calling out, over and over— “Please, please, help me.” I didn’t even know who I was calling. Maybe I thought it was the Holy Spirit—because that was the language I lived in then. It wasn’t a polished prayer. It wasn’t composed. It was a cry torn straight from the womb of my soul. There was no one there but me, and the carpeted floor, and the ache that had no name.
And nothing responded. No voice. No whisper. No warmth. Only silence.
Grace didn’t speak. Grace became silent.
My body settled into the floor, unmoving, but breathing. There was no command to rise. No instruction to fix it. No insight to understand. Just this: a stillness deeper than thought. And in that stillness, something inside me began to unravel.
I thought I needed to be rescued. But what I needed was to be with myself— Right there in the raw truth of pain that had waited decades for my presence.
It terrified me. And it saved me.
In that collapse, I I wasn’t dying. I was being born. The pain wasn’t the enemy. It was the labor.
And the floor? It wasn’t failure. It was the sacred ground of beginning again.
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