15/09/2026
The Seeds Were Mine
Just before five this morning, I was woken and guided downstairs.
I have never done that in all the time I have lived here. But the pull was there, so I followed it. I lit the candles and the incense and sat in the quiet. I listened to something I had not heard for years about going inward, releasing what was never mine to carry and reconnecting with the divine within me.
And somewhere in that stillness, something opened.
Not another instruction. Not the next thing I needed to do, fix, finish or become.
Almost the opposite.
Maybe I donāt need to keep striving all the time.
Maybe what I am and what I already have is enough.
Maybe I was made enough before I achieved any of it.
And then the scrolls came into my mind.
Hundreds and hundreds of them, written when I was literally at rock bottom. Words that poured through me when so much of the rest of me had fallen apart.
Yet somewhere along the way, I had stopped seeing the miracle of that.
The book and the scrolls had started to feel like a chore. An enormous, never-ending job that I had to get through. I had spent hours cataloguing them, organising them and trying to work out what belonged where.
What had once felt like revelation had become a task list.
Instead of looking at them and thinking, look at what came through me when I was at the very bottom, I was looking at them and thinking, how many more are there?
I had decided they needed to become a book before I could fully understand their worth.
But what if the book was never the only reason they came?
I always believed I was the vessel. That the words were being given through me because one day they would reach other people. I still believe they may. I still believe there are words in those scrolls that belong to women I have never met.
But this morning another truth arrived beside it.
What if they were also given to me?
What if I wrote things then that I could not yet understand because I had not lived them?
What if I was receiving the words before I was ready to receive the lesson?
Because now, as I return to them, I am no longer simply reading something I wrote. I am recognising it. I am living some of it. Words that passed through my hands then are landing in my body now.
Perhaps I was the vessel then.
Perhaps I am the student now.
Perhaps the guidance never stopped. It simply changed form.
I thought I was recording something for other people to find their way home. I didnāt realise I might also have been leaving a path for myself.
And maybe that is enough.
If the scrolls become a book, fabulous. I would love that, and a part of me still believes that is where they are going.
But if they donāt, nothing about what happened becomes less extraordinary.
The words still came.
They still carried me through the darkest time of my life.
They are still teaching me now.
They do not have to become something else to prove that they were sacred.
And then I saw that I do this with everything I create.
My jewellery used to bring me joy, but I havenāt touched it for months and months because nobody was buying it. I had taken the simple act of turning threads and beads into something beautiful and decided it only had value if somebody paid for it.
But what if the making was the gift?
What if sitting with a handful of threads and creating something that did not exist before is enough?
If somebody buys it, wonderful. If they donāt, I can wear it. I can gift it. I can simply look at what my own hands created and allow that to matter.
The same with my oracle cards. They have helped me understand myself through one of the most transformative years of my life. They have shown me parts of myself I could not see and given me language when I needed it.
If they help other people one day, fabulous.
But what if helping me was already enough?
I seem to take everything I love and place it outside myself for judgement. I create something and then wait for somebody else to tell me whether it has value.
I wrote hundreds of scrolls - and then they must become a book.
I make jewellery - and then somebody must buy it.
I created cards - and then they must help other people.
There is always an āandā attached. Always something that must happen next before I allow what has already happened to be enough.
And perhaps my question, āWho am I without an āandā?ā was never only about who I am without another person.
Who am I without the book?
Without the business?
Without the audience?
Without the next achievement that proves I did something worthwhile?
Just Sue.
And what if Just Sue was always reason enough?
What if some things are allowed to exist simply because of what they give back to me?
Maybe the act of doing is the gift back to me.
I have spent so much time looking outward for validation that I have forgotten to look inward at the most important person here to me.
Me.
I thought I was planting seeds for women I had never met.
I did not realise I might also have been planting them for the woman I had not yet become.
The woman at rock bottom could not see what they would grow into.
But she kept planting.
And now I am here.
Not merely looking through an archive of old words, but standing in the middle of what grew.
The seeds were mine too.
š xx
