The relationship that cracked me open.

You know when you're sitting with your best friend and she's telling you about the guy she's seeing — and while she's talking, every red flag shows up immediately?

You can't name exactly what it is. Something about him. Something about her. Something about the story that just doesn't click.

That's exactly what my people saw from the beginning. They couldn't tell me what smelled off. They just knew something did.

From the inside, I was living a fairy tale.

It started in Tulum. COVID. I was there alone, downloading a vision for a healing center — cycling, body movement, energy work, the whole thing.

He worked in one of the modalities I wanted to bring in. I told him about the project. He fell in love with it. And somewhere between the vision and the work and the late conversations about why we were both doing this and where it came from — we started seeing each other.

Not romantically. First.

Actually seeing each other.

He told me about his story; And while he was talking, I heard mine.

The pain, the isolation, the toxic environments we'd both survived, the parts of ourselves we'd kept hidden because they felt too heavy for most rooms.

For the first time in a long time, the crazy didn't feel so crazy. The unloved part of me started to believe she might be worth protecting.

I wasn't falling for him.

I was falling for the first person who made my story make sense**

We bought land. We had resources. We had a vision and a real partnership and something that felt like it was finally supposed to happen.And then we moved in together — and everything we'd built started to collapse from the inside.

I stopped being the woman who was channeling that project. He stopped being a partner. I became a little girl who needed to be saved, to be seen, to be taken care of. The goddess and the visionary disappeared, and what was left were two little people dragging their oldest wounds into the same apartment and calling it a relationship. No sex. No money. No creativity. No connection.

Strangers who resented each other in a space that used to feel like possibility.

What I couldn't see then — what took years to see — is that I had done this before. Not with him. Before him, in the story I was born into.

My parents built something together too. Started as partners. Collapsed into roles. I had watched that blueprint my entire life, absorbed it into my body, and then recreated it in Tulum with someone I genuinely loved, completely unconsciously.

That's what loops do.

They don't announce themselves.

They feel like fate.

January 2022 brought a crack so deep it split everything completely to the ground. By February he was gone — door closing, his things in bags, me wrapped in a sheet on the floor of a room that used to mean something. And for the first time, there was no project, no vision, no partner, no version of the story where someone was coming to fix it. Just me. And the blueprint I'd been living without knowing I had one.

That's where the work started.

Not in the relationship.

In the absolute rubble of it.

xlaloca