What I Found Beneath the Perfectionism

“The parts of you that learned to protect you deserve to feel safe now.”

I show up for every new moon. It’s part of my rhythm—lighting a candle, journaling, praying, setting intentions, holding space for what I’m calling in. But during this past Saturday’s Aries New Moon, something felt different. I felt a strong nudge to work with it more intentionally, even if I didn’t know exactly what that would look like. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it pulled me in a way I couldn’t ignore.

So I honored it.

That night, I created space and moved through a ritual with devotion. I lit my candle. I prayed. I visualized. I manifested. I allowed myself to really feel. I didn’t just write out my intentions—I saw them in my mind’s eye. I felt what it would be like to live them. I allowed myself to experience what I was asking for as if it had already happened.

I envisioned the version of me who already leads with clarity, who trusts herself, who blooms in her own timing. I’ve been saying I’m ready. I’ve felt ready. And for the most part, I truly believed I was.

And it felt good. There was something powerful about showing up fully and giving my whole heart to that ritual. I planted so many seeds—for growth, for expansion, for self-trust, for the dreams I want to turn into reality.

But the next morning, something unexpected surfaced.

It came through during my morning meditation. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I wasn’t trying to fix or change anything. I simply showed up, the way I do most mornings—with stillness, curiosity, and presence.

And during that quiet time, I felt a question rise up:

What is it that’s still holding me back?

The first word that came through was fear. But it didn’t quite land. I’ve done so much work around fear—naming it, releasing it, walking with it. So I knew this was something deeper.

I asked again, more specifically this time:

Where is this fear coming from?

That’s when I met her again—the perfectionist.

The part of me that delays. The one who rewrites, re-records, second-guesses. The one who wants every word, every step, every offering to be polished before it’s ever shared. The part I’ve often labeled as strong, capable, detail-oriented, driven.

And yes, she’s all of that. But in that moment, I saw something else.

She wasn’t striving for flawlessness.

She was striving for safety.

She wasn’t trying to be impressive.

She wasn’t chasing validation.

She was trying to protect me—from being judged, misunderstood, or fully seen and not received.

And that realization cracked something open.

This wasn’t a fleeting insight. It was a big layer. A deep one. One of those truths that shows up when you least expect it and pulls you right back to where it started. And for me, it started in childhood.

I remembered being young and not knowing how to ask for help. I didn’t know how to say, “I don’t understand.” I didn’t know how to say, “Can someone walk me through this?” It wasn’t that I didn’t want support—I didn’t know how to receive it.

There was love in my home, but not a lot of affection. There was support through hard work, but not a lot of emotional presence.

So I carried it—the silence, the pressure, the belief that if I just figured it out on my own and got it right, maybe then I’d be seen. Maybe then I’d feel enough.

And without even realizing it, I brought that energy into adulthood. Into the way I show up. Into my business. Into the quiet moments where something inside of me still hesitates.

But here’s the thing—I do show up for others. I hold space with care and intention. I create beautiful, grounded, heart-centered experiences. That has never been the issue.

The breakthrough wasn’t about whether I could show up—it was about the part of me that still hesitated to do so imperfectly. The part that wondered: What if this isn’t good enough yet?

That’s the layer I met that morning. And instead of rushing past it or trying to brush it aside, I stayed.

I didn’t try to fix her. I didn’t criticize her. I sat with her. I told her, “You’ve done a beautiful job. You’ve kept us safe. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

And I allowed myself to cry.

The tears weren’t from pain. They were from truth. They came from finally witnessing a part of myself that had been working so hard in the background—one that had been carrying so much. I gave her the space to be seen.

After that emotional release...

I stayed with myself. I breathed. I reflected. I journaled. I gave myself the kind of support I didn’t always know how to ask for when I was younger. And for once, I didn’t rush to move on or “feel better.” I stayed with the afterglow of that clarity. I let it integrate.

I also gave myself Reiki.

I placed my hands where I felt the energy was still lingering—my chest, my stomach, my shoulders. I called in my guides. I asked for support from the light I know surrounds me. I sent healing to the younger version of me who had carried so much for so long, and to the present version of me who was finally ready to release it. I honored what had come through. I allowed the energy to soften and move. I breathed into the places that still felt tender.

And I felt so grateful. So deeply, sincerely grateful—for the gift of being able to channel healing energy for myself, all these years after my first encounter with Reiki. For how it continues to support me in ways I never expect. For how it meets me exactly where I am, again and again.

I filled those spaces I had cleared—with love, with presence, with breath, with light. With the kind of healing that doesn’t always show up in big, dramatic ways, but in quiet, steady waves.

And after all of that, there was still something in me that wanted a reminder.

Something I could hold. Something that would walk with me—not just through the rest of that day, but through this next chapter.

A reminder that I don’t have to carry old stories anymore. That I can release the pressure to always get it right. That I can move forward without waiting for things to be perfect.

That’s when I felt a quiet pull—a soft nudge inward—and I was reminded of the crystals.

I was reminded of the energy they hold, the way they support and amplify intention, and how they’ve walked alongside me for years. I didn’t need something to fix what had surfaced. What I wanted was something to honor it. To carry it. To reflect the softness and courage I had just stepped into.

So I turned to my collection—not just as a shop owner, but as someone who has always believed in the quiet language of the Earth. I intuitively felt drawn to one stone in particular. One that felt like both an embrace and an invitation forward.

Rhodochrosite: The Crystal That Walked Beside Me

Rhodochrosite isn’t a crystal I reach for every day. But in that moment, it felt like the one. Its energy met me with the same softness I had just accessed within myself. There was something about it—something steady, nurturing, and honest.

Rhodochrosite is known for its connection to deep emotional healing and self-compassion. It supports the release of emotional wounds, especially those rooted in childhood or moments where we felt unseen or not enough. It doesn’t push—it gently brings awareness to what’s been buried, so we can meet it with love instead of resistance.

And that’s exactly what I needed.

Rhodochrosite reminds me that I don’t have to earn my worth by getting everything right. That healing doesn’t have to be perfect to be powerful. That even in my becoming, I am worthy of love.

I’ve carried it with me since—not as a cure, but as a companion. For support. For the part of me that just released so much, and for the version of me I’m choosing to grow into.

This is what healing looked like for me this week:

Not a performance.

Not a breakthrough wrapped in perfection.

But a moment of deep honesty—

and a quiet return to truth.

If you’re in the midst of your own becoming,

I hope you know… you’re not alone.

You’re allowed to grow gently.

And you’re already doing beautifully.