Seasonal Reflection Series
The sky has never been a limit—it’s an invitation.
More than a backdrop. A mirror. A metaphor. It’s a wide-open altar for possibility.
April, in all its turbulent blooming, has reminded me that spiritual transformation often begins with disruption.
The softest things can break us open.
A key component of transformation is release. The blossoms do not apologize for the petals they drop. They know that in letting go, they make room for more life. We, too, are asked to unclench our fists around outdated beliefs, develop the courage to walk away from unfulfilling work, break free from relationships that stifle our spiritual growth, and distance ourselves from toxic cycles and fear-driven stories.
Growth asks us to surrender—familiarity, comfort, predictability—so that we can finally meet the vastness of who we’re meant to be.
The onset of this season has been one of the rockiest, most unrelenting, most soul-stripping reckonings I’ve ever faced. It wasn’t a gentle unraveling. It was a towering force—like a skyscraper made of every illusion I had clung to—collapsing in real time. It didn’t just blow through my life; it tore through everything false, casting doubt and silence in every direction.
I learned: sometimes what masquerades as love is nothing more than a mirror with no reflection—silent, cold, incapable of holding you. Sometimes, you find yourself pouring into a vessel that was never meant to hold water, watching your tenderness leak through the cracks.
This skyscraper—ruthless and divine—stood as both shelter and severance. It came to do what I could not. It cleared the air. It cleared me. And in the debris of something that once looked like home, I found breath again. Found truth. Found the quiet courage to choose wholeness over habit, self-respect over sacrifice.
“Extraordinary measures can have a cost. You may be alive, but life may not be the same as you remember.”
Now, I am climbing—not out of desperation, but out of remembrance. Each step is a reckoning, a release, a shedding of weight I was never meant to carry. And when I reach the rooftop, I won’t just see the sky—I’ll see beyond it. Past the limits I once believed were mine. There must be a rare kind of air up there, where love doesn’t have to be begged for, where conversation doesn’t shrink to survive, where learning is freedom, not punishment. Life, wide and wild beyond survival. I am climbing to stand there now, heart cracked wide open, vision clear. Knowing this climb isn’t for closure. It’s for a flight.
And this time—unlike Bridges: A Season of Surrender—if I’m standing on the edge, it won’t be to jump. It’ll be to fly.
As April exhales its last breath, we are called to remember what it means to shed, to bloom, to rise. Transformation looms large. The skies are wide open, whispering for us to loosen our grip on what has already served its season. To breathe deeper into what could be.
History—and the bruised beauty of lived experience—teach us this: those who rise above their struggles do so not by avoiding the fire, but by walking through it, carrying resilience, honesty, and heart like torches. Setbacks aren’t just detours; they’re doorways. Every heartbreak, every failure, every fracture carries the seed of reinvention—whether in love, work, or personal identity. Growth is rarely kind. But it is always, always sacred.
If you wonder what transformation looks like in the wild, know this: it’s messy. Breathtaking. Unforgiving. It doesn’t come easily. It doesn’t come clean. But it comes.
I’ve lived beneath storms that tried to convince me the sun forgot my name. But even clouds have ceilings. There comes a moment, quiet, holy, when you realize you were never meant to stay grounded in someone else’s weather. You rise. Not all at once, but steadily, breath by breath, like smoke climbing out of a fire that refused to die. Above the noise, above the fog of doubt and duty, there is clarity. There is air that hasn’t been breathed by fear. There is light that kisses the parts of you still aching to be seen. This is where I’m learning to live now—not in the weight of the weather, but in the wonder of the wide-open sky.
So, if you see me soaring like an eagle, know it came at a cost. Of illusions. Of comfort. Of staying small. This is not escape; it’s arrival. I am not running from the past—I am rising toward the promise.
And to anyone climbing their own towering truth, shedding old skins in silence: keep going. There is enough sky for all of us. There is a flight waiting beyond every false finish line. Let the rooftop be your altar. Let the wind bless your wings. Let your life—your whole, unbound, unequivocal, reclaimed life—be the prayer that finally takes off.
Skies wide open—this is where we begin again.
