begin again

there are seasons of our lives that strip us bare

There are seasons of our lives that strip us bare. That take more than we thought we could bear losing. That ask more than we believed we had left to give. And still, we begin again.

That’s what the first half of 2025 has been for me.

Beginning again is not always a declaration. It is rarely bold or glamorous. Often, it is quiet. Awkward. Messy. It doesn’t look like courage from the outside.

It looks like sitting on the kitchen floor with tears in your eyes because you don’t know which place to call home anymore.

I’ve had to begin again — and again — more times than I thought I would.

Recently, it was moving continents. Leaving behind a life I built. Letting go of places, people, patterns that had once held me, and realising they no longer could. I said goodbye to my beloved cat, Danger-baby, with a grief so physical it felt like my chest had caved in. I packed my life into a few bags. I watched plans dissolve, relationships shift, and dreams turn to dust.

It looks like trying to breathe through a kind of grief that doesn’t announce itself, because it doesn’t come from one loss, but many. Layered, silent, and unseen.

There are days when I cannot find words. There are nights when the ache is so wide it feels like I am floating through it. There are moments where I forget who I have been, and haven’t yet glimpsed who I am becoming. I have watched plans unravel. I have watched myself unravel, too.

Something deeper kept whispering. Keep going. Keep going.

Beginning again requires a kind of surrender most people don’t talk about. The kind that comes when life has cleared the path for you. When you no longer have a choice except to let go of what was and place one unsteady foot in front of the other.

I’ve always had a strange kind of love for these moments.

The ones where everything is uncertain. Because inside the wreckage, there is a rawness that is unmistakably alive. A freedom that only comes when the identities and routines and ideas that once defined us have been stripped away. There is something holy in the not knowing. Something exquisite in the beginning.

It is not easy. It takes everything.

Emotionally, it asks you to stay present with the discomfort when every part of you wants to numb out or run. Psychologically, it demands that you examine the beliefs and patterns that built the old version of you and ask if you are still willing to carry them forward. Physically, it is exhausting. The body keeps the score. And the body also clears the slate.

Last night, a heavy thunderstorm rolled in at dusk. The air, thick and electric, cracked open with light. Rain began to fall in sudden, urgent sheets, pounding against the windows like it had something to say. I was inside, barefoot and restless, watching it come down with a kind of reverence… that feeling you get when nature mirrors something stirring in you.

Without thinking, I flung the door open and stepped outside. The water was cold and wild as it hit my skin. I stood there, arms loose by my sides, letting the rain drench me. I tilted my face to the sky and let it all fall. The noise, the wetness, the rush of it. My clothes clung to me. My heart beat hard in my chest. I imagined the rain washing away everything I had carried. The grief. The doubt. The heaviness of holding it all together. I didn’t need to make sense of it. I just wanted to feel clean. Emptied. New.

There, in the twilight, in the storm, I remembered: this is how we begin. Not by thinking our way forward, but by surrendering to the forces that ask us to feel. To clear. To come back to the body. To let life touch us.

Sometimes, beginning again looks like walking through the world in a daze, unsure of your name or direction. Sometimes it is lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, convincing yourself that breathing is enough for now. Sometimes it is showing up to work or friendship or life, while something invisible inside you rearranges itself into a shape that can carry you forward.

For the past two weeks, I couldn’t do much more than simply exist.

I pared life back to its most essential parts. Walks. Water. The sun on my skin. Gentle tasks. Stillness. I needed something to hold me that didn’t require words. Something I could lean on without having to explain myself. I remembered to turn towards rhythm. I anchored myself in the only thing that made sense: time.

Not the linear kind. Not the kind that pressures us to achieve or accelerate. The kind that follows the body. The cosmos. The planets. The pull of the week. The way each day carries a different tone, a different invitation, a different flavour of energy.

This is what Planet Powered is made of.

A lifeline. A way to gently orient myself to life again. To wake up and ask, “What does today want from me?” Monday is about movement and initiation. Tuesday helps me make decisions and take aligned action. Wednesday brings communication and connection. Thursday expands my vision. Friday reminds me to soften into love and beauty. Saturday returns me to my roots. And Sunday is the space to surrender and listen again.

I created this, not just for me, but for you.

For the women who find themselves standing at the edge of a life that no longer fits, trying to hear what the future is whispering. For the ones who are not sure where to begin, but know they cannot stay where they are. For anyone who longs to be reminded that the pace of your life can follow the pace of your soul. That your days can hold meaning, even when everything feels uncertain. That rhythm can carry you when reason cannot.

This is what I want you to know: nothing is wrong with you if your heart is aching. If the path is not clear. If you feel tired or tender or unsure. This is the precious work of becoming. There is a version of you that only emerges through this particular kind of fire. Not the kind that burns you down. The kind that refines you.

You do not need a plan. You do not need to rush. You do not need to explain.

You just need to be with what is here now. Let the rhythm hold you. Let the ache move through. Let yourself be remade.

This is how we begin again.

And if you’re craving a rhythm to hold you while you do, Planet Powered is here.

It’s a guide, a practice, a gentle structure for your inner and outer life, rooted in the energy of the seven planetary days of the week. Beginning next Sunday, July 13th, we’ll move through it together — one day at a time — inside a live community space where I’ll share daily reflections, guidance, and invitations to anchor you into the energy of the day.

If you're in a threshold season — if you’re rebuilding, reimagining, or simply needing to remember your own rhythm — I’d love to walk with you.

You can learn more and join us here: https://viendamaria.com/planet-powered/

We begin again, together.