August 2020 – Mike Iamele

I’m just going to be straight up here:

I honestly have no idea how to start this post. But I know what I want to say.

And it’s weird. I just wrote something on Instagram, and it flew right out of me.

But suddenly I don’t know how to interact on here. Because this space—my home for the past seven years—is suddenly unfamiliar. It’s changed now.

Like walking into a party where I don’t know anyone. And suddenly I’m awkward. And I don’t know how to express myself. But it seems so intuitive in my head. Or when I’m with a close friend.

It’s kind of like that.

I don’t know if there’s a more painful feeling than to be a stranger in your own life.

And the irony is I’ve spent so much time being a stranger in mine. Being a person I didn’t quite recognize. Living a physical life that just didn’t match the mental picture in my dreams.

And, boy, did I want to dream.

As a young kid, I’d sneak downstairs to the family computer. And I’d be more likely looking up ancient Egyptian magic and witchcraft than I would any dirty movies.

I’d read Harry Potter. And write my own stories. And just imagine a world that was a little bit different than this one.

It was fun. Enticing. A diversion to imagine possibilities greater than my mundane life.

Because what I really wanted was to disassociate. Like diversion, to “turn away” from life as is. To play with crystals and magic and pendulums as some kind of ‘supernatural’ fun.

Like those things were somehow different from this relationship challenge. Or this fight with a friend. Or this struggle to have enough money. Or this deep-rooted trauma. Or the question of what to do with my life.

Fragmented. A rich world of wonder. And an abandoned physical reality.

No wonder I felt like a stranger in my own life.

And my solution to the hardest parts of my life was to always to imagine a different possibility. But never take the painful steps to ground that possibility into my current reality.

So, like a lot of people, spirituality and life purpose was a diversion. Something you could focus on when things were going well enough and you had the resources.

But the moment actual crisis hit, you had to drop it to get back to ‘real life.’ Because there was somehow a fragmentation between the two.

I saw life purpose as the cherry-on-top. But never the foundation.

Truthfully, I’m not as interested in any diversions these days. I’m not interested in distracting myself or disassociating from the challenges in my life and our world.

And today there are many.

No matter what we are facing in life—no matter which challenges we encounter—if our work doesn’t help us face that moment successfully, then it isn’t actually purpose work.

I want work that makes me dive deeper into myself and the world around me. Empowering me with the tools to stay present, even when it’s so fucking hard and scary. And ultimately using those lived experiences as the fodder to understand myself deeper.

To connect the dots. See the invisible thread of magic between the mundane and the painful.

And not have to keep leaving to find magic. Because there’s a lot more fucking magic in what’s real.

Love is magic. Friendship is magic. Laughter and joy and purpose and pain are all magic.

Real life is way more magical if we see the invisible threads that connect it all.

Not magic as a diversion. The magic that brings us deeper into our lives. Empowered to become more of ourselves.

And, no matter how much I teach this to others, I’m constantly finding how much deeper I can go with healing those dichotomies and diversions myself.

Because we’re always cycling deeper. We’re always spiraling further. We’re always seeing what we weren’t quite ready to see in ourselves before.

In this moment—as the world feels overwhelming and intense and sometimes even unbearable—we don’t need diversion. We need empowerment. We need understanding. We need ways to bring the future possibilities into this present moment.

And hold steady. When it’s hard. When it’s scary. When we aren’t sure exactly what we can do.

Because the thing about being ‘all over the place’ is that there’s a common denominator to all the places that we’ve been. And that’s us.

We are the constant in the chaos of our lives.

We’re the connecting thread that makes every moment of our lives make sense.

And all we have to do is map those seemingly disparate lived experiences to discover ourselves beneath it all.

Understanding and becoming ourselves is the most magical adventure we will ever embark on. It will take us much further into the darkness and shadows and miracles and wonder than our wildest dreams ever could.

The most magical life is one that’s real. And one that’s ours—all of ours—without splitting ourselves up or abandoning parts of ourselves. Without any disassociation or diversion.

Over seven years ago, I started this blog.

It was before I married Garrett. Before I lived in this home. Before I started this business. Because I knew my purpose. Because I really loved myself.

I started this blog because I wanted to discover my voice. I wanted to know who I was when I had something to say. But, more importantly, when I didn’t.

So I wrote every weekday. Eventually, I’d run out of pre-packaged things to say. And write when I didn’t have the perfectly crafted thoughts. When my ideas didn’t fit with my conditioned image.

I wanted to dig layers beneath. Beneath all of the praise and shame to the undiscovered part of me that was begging to be seen. To be heard. To be understood.

I hardly felt completely heard by anyone. So I started writing my own story.

Earlier this week, I started reading what I’ve written over those seven years.

My good friend and former colleague Kate is helping to pitch me to some podcasts. And, as part of it, we decided to take a look at what my web presence is like.

I found old articles I’ve written. Old versions of our website. Old podcast interviews. Different (and disjointed) iterations of messaging. Forums about me, my writing, and—strangely enough—my body.

And, finally, of course, my blog.

So I read my blog posts. Nearly 2,000 of them. I watched my own journey unfold before my eyes.

It’s a rare thing to have seven years of your life meticulously documented.

I read through every major event in my life. My first niece being born. My uncle passing away. My first speaking engagement. My book deal. My dogs’ adoptions. My proposal to Garrett. My wedding.

I watched heartache and pain alongside wonder and miracles.

I watched my relationship evolve. My business clarify. My friendships blossom. My appearance change. My embodiment grow.

I watched as I clumsily worked through integrating each of my Brand Energies more: Aligned, Zany, Free, Unmistakable, Successful, and Vulnerable.

Who can forget the book I wrote about Success? Or when I started running Successful VIP days? Or what about the Zany dance videos I plastered across the internet?

Or any of the really Vulnerable stories I shared about my life and my relationship? Or my teenage angst phases where I insisted that I’m not just a “basic coach” – I’m artsy and smart and Unmistakable.

Or my deep dives into Alignment with the most “out there” esoteric spiritual and psychic concepts? Or my obsession with Freeing myself from old stories and conditioning and shame?

I laughed a little. And cringed a lot. And mostly just felt a lot of compassion and respect for my journey. Because being all of those things at once feels so much easier now. And smoother. And less forceful. And just—settled.

Life seems a lot smoother and more connected in retrospect. Like we somehow just can’t see the bigger patterns when we’re too close.

At the end of those nearly 2,000 blog posts and articles, I realized that a lot has changed over the past seven years. But what’s changed the most is how seen and heard and understood I feel now.

Between weekly therapy, multiple hours-long conversations with colleagues each week, and a whole bunch of close friends who get me fully, I don’t need this space like I used to.

It’s not the same space it was seven years ago. It needs to evolve.

And I think I knew that—long before COVID. I knew that. I haven’t written much in all of 2020.

If I’m honest, mostly because this blog isn’t about me anymore. Not in the same way.

It’s about you.

It’s about the work.

The work’s what transformed me over the past seven years. Mapping my sensitivities. Discovering my purpose. Turning away from misaligned temptations—even when they promised me the validation and success I’d been so desperately seeking.

I’ll be transparent. I don’t know what that means for me in this space. Or what that looks like. It’s something I’m exploring for myself.

And I can’t promise it’ll be graceful at first. Or that I’ll know how to share myself here in ways that offer the greatest support I can.

But I know with certainty that a chapter is closing. And I’m so, so grateful for that chapter. And for anyone who followed me for the majority of that journey.

And a new chapter is beginning. One where I hope my lived experience serves as a catalyst for you to dive deeper into your own. And discover your own sensitivities, your own gifts, your own undiscovered parts of yourself.

The stuff that is begging to be heard. And seen. And understood.

That wants to be nourished. And in community with others who just get it.

Today, on August 27, 2020—almost exactly seven years to the day since I started this blog—we walk through a threshold. We close one door. And open another.

Let this moment be marked in time.

To a prayer seven years in the making.

And, while we’re at, what intentions or prayers or hopes do you have for yourself in the future? What are you choosing to step into? What will we all be celebrating in another seven years from today?

Life is both fast and slow. Bumpy and smooth. Nonsensical and perfectly aligned.

We just need a map to see the bigger picture. The invisible lines that connect the dots.

Maybe between 2,000 posts. Between seven years.

Between all of our lives and experiences.

A map of our sensitivities.

To discover our purpose.

Magic Isn’t a Diversion.