Trust the Chrysalis
The Spiritual Psychology of Comparison, Collapse, + Becoming
There’s a particular kind of death that doesn’t come from failure—
but from watching someone else soar while you still feel stuck in the mud.
That twisted ache behind the eyes. That tight-lipped, throat-closed silence of shame.
You should be further along than this. You should be braver/smarter/prettier/more talented/etc ad nauseam. You should be her by now.
Comparison isn’t a mindset flaw.
It’s a trauma response—dressed up as ambition.
It’s the nervous system scanning the room for safety and threat,
and mistaking someone else’s breakthrough as your personal death sentence.
You freeze. Collapse. Obsess. Spiral.
But the worst part? You turn against yourself in the exact moment you most need grace.
You become your own executioner.
The Hijack: Why Comparison Feels Like Death
When you're in a dysregulated state—burnt out, invisible, under-resourced—someone else's beauty, power, or success doesn't feel inspiring.
It feels annihilating.
Because your body isn’t rational—it’s primal. It’s ancient. It’s brutal.
Your nervous system doesn’t read her joy as neutral. It reads it as proof of your inadequacy.
The amygdala doesn’t know the difference between a saber-toothed tiger and a flawless Instagram caption.
It just knows threat. It just knows:
“See? You’re behind. You missed it. You’ll never catch up.”
But what if you’re not behind?
What if you’re just in the part of the story no one has the guts to talk about?
The Chrysalis: Where Power is Forged in the Dark
The caterpillar doesn’t choose the cocoon out of whimsy.
It chooses it because it can’t go on as it is. Because the ache to evolve becomes louder than the will to survive.
It doesn’t just grow wings. It liquefies. It digests itself. It becomes pulp.
Inside the chrysalis, everything that once made sense disintegrates.
Progress vanishes. Identity blurs. The body forgets its former shape.
It’s not a pause—it’s a psychic implosion. A sacred mutilation.
But it’s holy. It’s hellish. And it’s yours.
Jung called this the nigredo: the blackening.
The descent into psychic chaos where old structures rot, reek, and rupture.
Where the persona peels off, and the raw self begins to pulse underneath.
This is the part no one shares online.
Because it’s not pretty. It’s not palatable.
But it’s real. And it’s everything.
My Own Chrysalis Moment
I didn’t just flirt with comparison—I had a sick romance with it.
I was a masochist in my own mind, addicted to the pain of self-flagellation.
I didn’t just carry the whip—I worshipped it.
I measured my worth by how deeply I could wound myself with it.
Even now, it creeps in. The moment I feel still, slow, unseen.
It whispers: “Look at her. Look how far behind you are.”
And for years, I devoured that poison like it was communion.
Because on the outside, I looked put together. Polished. Spiritual. Productive.
But underneath… I was decaying. A shrine to wasted potential. A graveyard of almosts.
I stayed silent. I kept the chaos on a leash. I told myself it was fine.
Until one day, it wasn’t.
Not because I failed—
but because pretending not to be falling apart was killing me faster than the collapse itself.
I got sick of the spiritual bypassing. Sick of the saccharine self-help scripts.
Sick of being told to “just reframe it” when what I needed was to bleed.
So I stopped performing and let myself rot.
And what came out the other side wasn’t shinier. It was scarred. Sovereign. Seared into truth.
That unraveling… That was the seed of everything I now offer.
The chrysalis became the altar.
The breakdown became the blueprint.
That’s why I built this business.
Not to help women bypass the dark, but to teach them how to worship it.
Not to hand out affirmations—but to midwife full-scale exorcisms.
Not to sell polished perfection—but to remind you that your power is buried under what you were told to never touch.
If You’re in the Dark, You’re Not Lost. You’re in Transit.
You don’t get to rush rebirth. You don’t get to perfeect-instagram-photo your way through it.
You don’t get to rise before the death has had its way with you.
The chrysalis isn’t the punishment. It’s the passage.
It’s where illusions die screaming and your truth crawls back bloody and alive.
Comparison will try to rip you out of it.
It will tempt you to perform, to push, to posture.
But your wings don’t grow under pressure. They grow in silence. In shadow. In surrender.
You are not behind. You are molten. Becoming. Dangerous in the most sacred way.
Let yourself rot. Let yourself be ruined. Let yourself become.
Journal Prompts for the Woman in the Cocoon
Where am I still measuring my worth by someone else's highlight reel?
When did I first learn that slowing down meant I was failing?
What emotions am I bypassing by chasing “progress”?
What is trying to die in me—and what am I still trying to save?
If I trusted that this dark was sacred, how would I treat myself?
Where in your life are you still trying to crawl, when you're meant to fly?
You’re not here to keep up—you’re here to rupture. To shed. To rise like something feral and free.
The Vesta is where we do the deep work.
The holy descent. The remembrance. The re-wiring.
For the woman ready to meet herself where it’s not cute—but where it counts.
If you’re ready to alchemize the shame, anchor into your truth, and come out the other side blazing—I’ll meet you in the chrysalis.