Long Game of Love- “He will Remember.”

Living Codes: The Embodied Journal
March 7. 25

The Swirling Threshold: Voice, Presence, and the Long Game of Love
“He will remember.”

This morning, I drove to my son’s school with something alive swirling in my chest. Not nerves, exactly. Not quite joy. Just… movement. A quiet tremor of anticipation. A signal that I was about to walk into something that mattered. I didn’t want to overanalyze it. I just wanted to be with it, let it move, let it guide. And maybe that was the theme of the whole day, letting the moment reveal itself rather than trying to define it ahead of time.

Before arriving, I had this moment of wanting to ask: Why hasn’t my voice fully activated yet? I feel it. I feel the embodiment. I feel the intelligence running through me every time I move, stretch, breathe. But when I try to talk about it, to record it, to teach it—I stall. And the answer that keeps coming is: Because I’m still in it. I’m still living it, digesting it, letting it become me. To give it form too soon would be to flatten it. This isn’t a method, it’s a frequency. And frequencies have to be felt before they can be translated. I’m not here to teach people steps, I’m here to hold a field that guides people back to themselves. I’m not here to explain embodiment, I’m here to be a portal that people feel safe enough to drop into. That’s why the idea of in-person classes has been subtly calling me, not to instruct, but to guide, to invite people back into the felt experience of their own energy, their own rhythm, their own movement. But I also know—I’m not ready to record it yet. Because if I shared too soon, like I did before, I’d magnetize people before I’ve even finished becoming. And I’m not doing that again.

The project was a hit. The kids had fun. They were laughing, asking for help. I felt useful, present, alive. And my Son? He was the most self-sufficient of them all. Didn’t want help, didn't need help. That’s my boy. Then the teacher invited me to stay for lunch. My son looked nervous. He said, "I don’t know. I have to ask my dad." That moment hit me harder than I expected. Not because he was rejecting me, but because it reminded me of myself. How long I lived with someone else’s voice in my head. How long I couldn’t hear my own thoughts because all I could hear was his. How every decision had to pass through someone else's filter. And now… my son is learning the same pattern. He’s not even asking himself what he wants yet. He’s checking for approval before he lets himself feel. That realization shattered something in me, but not in a hopeless way more like a quiet ache of understanding.

We talked outside. I cried. I asked about my son. She said he’s brilliant, expressive, creative but struggles with leadership because it always has to be his way. That he gets upset when others don’t follow his lead. That everything is “My dad says this…” or “My dad says that…” And then she told me something that made my heart stop. That one day, when other kids didn’t want to play with him, My son said he didn’t want to be alive. He didn’t know how to regulate the rejection. Didn’t know how to sit with the feelings. So he collapsed inward. That moment… that’s the moment I knew how important my presence still is. Even if I’m not in his day-to-day. Even if he can’t say it out loud. Even if he pushes me away. He needs somewhere for his emotions to land. Somewhere soft. Somewhere different. He needs me.

Right before I left, a classmate came up to me and hugged me. And afterward, Renzo turned to me and said sharply, "Leave. I want you to leave." And I did. I walked out, confused, heart aching. But later I realized—this wasn’t about me. It was about everything he was feeling that he didn’t know how to hold. Jealousy, shame, pressure, vulnerability, confusion. He doesn’t know how to process emotional complexity yet. But he knew that when it got too big… He could ask me to leave. Because somewhere inside, he knew I was safe enough to break down in front of.

I don’t know if Renzo’s dad is dating the teacher. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is: she sees him. She sees the pressure. She sees what’s happening. And for the first time in a long time… I’m not the only one holding this awareness. There’s relief in that. There’s also bittersweetness in knowing that the environment shaping my son is one I once escaped. But I didn’t escape in vain. I became the counterbalance. I became the mother who can hold space without control. I became the woman who doesn’t need to shape her child, but to witness him. To remind him, one day, that there is another way to live.

I didn’t cage my son. Even though it feels that way sometimes. I gave him stability, through my ex, and I gave him freedom, through my presence. He’s not yet free to think or feel for himself. But one day, when he is… he’ll remember. He’ll remember how it felt to be in my presence. He’ll remember that there was once a softness, a stillness, a listening that didn’t require permission. And when he remembers, that’s when my presence will land in him fully. Until then, I’ll keep showing up when he lets me. Not to rescue. But to remind. Because I know what it’s like to lose your own voice. And now, I know what it’s like to reclaim it. One day, he will too. And I’ll be here when he does.

Living Codes Anchored Today

Presence is the parenting.
Not control. Not instruction. Just presence. The kind that holds without shaping.

Voice isn’t always loud.
Sometimes it’s the whisper inside that says “not yet.” And that’s sacred, too.

Holding without needing.
I don’t need him to choose me. I just need to be here when he’s ready.

Field attunement reveals what the mind can’t grasp.
When you’re sensitive enough, truth doesn’t need to be spoken, it’s already felt.

He doesn’t have to remember now.
Because love plants seeds that bloom when the soul is ready.

I am not the narrator of his path.
I am the mirror. The quiet ground. The space where he’ll one day return to hear himself.

Softness is still power.
To be the one he can break in front of and still feel safe that is everything.