A Story of Thresholds: How Death, Love & Rebirth Led Me Here

There are moments in life when we realize we are standing at a threshold.

Sometimes, we arrive there willingly.

Sometimes, we are carried there.

And sometimes, despite every effort to remain where we are, Life calls us forward.

A threshold is the space between what was and what has not yet become.

It is the moment when something familiar begins to dissolve, but the next chapter has not yet fully revealed itself.

It is a place of endings and beginnings.

Of death and rebirth.

Of grief, longing, uncertainty, surrender, and becoming.

And sometimes, the very thing we fear will break us open is the thing that ultimately leads us home.

This is part of my story...

Before We Remembered

The Story of my Marriage in 2026 actually began in 2006.

He and I met through an online dating site—long before online dating was popular or particularly cool. We met for coffee in a little café that no longer exists.

We were young then.

Young in our Earth experience.

Young, too, in our understanding of ourselves.

Spiritually disconnected.

Still learning who we were.

Still becoming.

Yet something unusual happened.

He felt an immediate and profound connection. For him, there was recognition—an instant sense of love and familiarity.

For me, it took much, much longer.

But despite moving in different directions and living entirely separate lives, we remained connected.

For sixteen years, we drifted in and out of one another's lives.

We shared stories. Favourite songs. Inner musings.

Pieces of ourselves.

We met in person only occasionally, yet our friendship endured in a way neither of us fully understood; Unlike any other friendship we had known.

Perhaps some connections are not meant to be understood immediately.

Perhaps some seeds need many seasons before they are ready to bloom.

The Long Road Between

During those sixteen years, we each lived entire lives.

We loved. Lost. Healed. Broke. Rebuilt.

And crossed many thresholds of life.

We entered relationships, experienced challenges, learned difficult lessons, and gathered the experiences that would shape us into who we were becoming.

Then, in 2020, we came together again.

For coffee -- A beautiful circle back to where our story had begun.

At the time, I was happily married to another man.

But he was now single.

And although he still carried a love for me that I did not recognize at the time, he respected my life and my path.

There were no expectations. No demands.

No attempts to change what was.

And yet, something within me began to awaken.

A feeling I could not explain.

A recognition that did not seem to come from the logical mind.

A deep and unexpected magnetism.

Something stirred from somewhere beneath the surface.

From the Heart. Body. Soul.

I tried to silence it.

I pushed it down.

Held my breath, and kept holding.

My mind said:

No.

This cannot be.

You are married.

You have an amazing husband,

Who you love deeply.

Stay where you are.

But beneath all of that egoic reasoning, another voice was beginning to speak.

A quieter voice.

A deeper voice.

An intuitive knowing.

One that could no longer be ignored.

When the Old Life Begins to Die

By 2021, what had been quietly unfolding beneath the surface was no longer willing to remain hidden.

He finally spoke the words he had carried, in one form or another, for sixteen years.

And suddenly, everything that had been buried rose to the surface.

Memories.

Feelings.

Longing.

Love.

Grief.

Confusion.

Truth.

It was all there.

Spoken.

Heard.

Known.

Felt.

And with truth came a Threshold.

Because sometimes, awakening to what is true does not immediately make life easier.

Sometimes, truth asks us to let go of the life we thought we were supposed to live.

My fourteen-year relationship and marriage began to change.

Not because it had been without significant meaning.

Not because deep, soul-level love never existed, or was even fading.

But because something had reached its natural ending.

And endings—even conscious, loving, and necessary ones—are still deaths.

There was grief. Loss. Uncertainty.

There were hopes, dreams, identities, futures, and versions of myself that had to be mourned.

It was an implosion of what was, and an expansion into what was arriving.

A falling apart.

And a becoming.

There were moments when I felt as though I was simultaneously letting go of love and discovering an entirely new expression of it.

I began to understand something I now know deeply:

Two things can be true at once.

You can love someone AND still need to let them go.

An ending can be heartbreaking AND also sacred.

A death can be devastating AND necessary.

You can grieve what was while still feeling called toward what is becoming.

The Sacred Space Between

My marriage did not simply end overnight.

We moved through a process of conscious uncoupling—a slow and intentional unraveling of two lives that had once been deeply intertwined.

For a time, the three of us entered into an open relationship.

The connection between all of us was rooted in genuine love, but mostly two men's deep love for one woman.

It demonstrated the power of the masculine to hold the feminine.

It was unconventional.

Complex.

Beautiful.

And ultimately, not meant to last.

Eventually, each of us had to continue toward the life that was calling us.

And this, too, was a threshold.

Not simply the death of a marriage.

But the death of an identity.

The death of imagined futures.

The death of expectations.

The death of who I thought I was supposed to be.

And in the space left behind, something else began to emerge.

A deeper relationship with myself.

A clearer understanding of what I valued.

A willingness to listen more closely to the language of my Body, Heart, and Soul.

And the courage to begin again.

Love as Evolution

The two of us eventually found our way into a deeply committed partnership.

Sixteen years after we first met.

Time is a strange creature, and timing is often mysterious.

Perhaps our Souls knew long before we did. Perhaps those sixteen years were not a detour, but part of the journey—each of us walking our own paths, gathering the experiences, lessons, wounds, and wisdom we needed before we could find our way back to one another.

Maybe some love stories don't begin when two people meet.

Maybe they begin when two people remember, and are finally ready to see what was there all along.

But perhaps what matters most is not that our story ended in romantic love or marriage.

It is what the journey taught me.

Love changes.

People change.

Relationships change.

We change.

Sometimes we are called to remain.

Sometimes we are called to leave.

Sometimes people, places, relationships, dreams, and identities are called to die.

Sometimes the greatest act of love is holding on.

And sometimes, it is letting go.

Every significant transition asks something of us.

It asks us to release an old identity.

To mourn what can no longer continue.

To enter the unknown.

To stand in the space between who we were and who we are becoming.

And that space can feel terrifying.

It can feel empty.

It can feel like nothing is happening.

But something is.

We are becoming.

Why I Walk With Others Through Thresholds

I did not arrive at this work through theory alone.

Thresholds have been some of my greatest teachers.

I have spent years working beside people at the threshold of physical death.

I have witnessed Bodies changing, lives closing, families grieving, and the profound mystery of letting go.

I have also walked through deaths that occurred while everyone involved was still physically alive.

The death of relationships.

Identities.

Dreams.

Futures.

Versions of the Self.

I have learned that death is not always a single event.

Sometimes it is a long unraveling.

And that rebirth is not always beautiful.

Sometimes it begins in darkness.

Sometimes, before we can become who we are meant to be, we must grieve who we have been.

This is why I am called to hold space for those standing at their own thresholds.

Not to tell you which path to choose.

Not to rush you toward healing.

Not to convince you that everything happens for a reason.

And certainly not to fix you.

But to sit beside you in the Sacred In-Between.

To witness what is ending.

To honour what is being grieved.

To listen for what is asking to be released.

And to remain present as something new begins to emerge.

Because thresholds are not empty spaces. They are portals.

They are places where Life, Death, and Rebirth meet.

And while crossing them can be painful, confusing, and profoundly disorienting, they can also become places of deep remembering.

A return to the Self.

A return to the Body.

A return to the Soul.

My love story is only one thread in the tapestry that has brought me here.

But it taught me something I carry into every space I hold:

Sometimes, the life we are being asked to release is not a mistake.

It was simply a chapter.

A chapter that loved us.

Taught us.

Changed us.

And eventually prepared us for the next threshold.

Something is always ending.

Something is always beginning.

And somewhere, in the Sacred Space between the two—

we are becoming.

Thank you for witnessing a small piece of my story.

And if you are standing at a threshold of your own, may you remember this:

You do not have to rush through the in-between.

You are allowed to grieve.

You are allowed to not know.

You are allowed to change.

And when you are ready, you are allowed to become.