Magnetism Isn’t Proof

The most recent moment of magnetism for me wasn’t a person or a place.

It was this blog.

I’ve been wanting to write—really write—for years. Not in a performative way. In the way that feels like returning to something I used to know.

I recently offered to contribute something for work’s social media. I had ideas ready.
But without any clear next step, my energy scattered the way it sometimes does.

And when I don’t feel that next step—when my ideas don’t get met—something in me tends to stall. I overthink. I spin. I freeze. I can have a whole world inside me and still not move, because the world stays un-met.

So when the thought came back—do it on your own—I almost expected the same dead end.

Instead, this time felt different.

Not because I suddenly became fearless.
Not because I finally “figured it out.”

More like… the idea was met.

I’d been talking it through with an AI writing partner—not to replace my voice, but to help with finesse—and something about that reflection helped the thread hold. It helped me stay with the idea long enough for my body to trust it.

And that’s where magnetism arrived.

I was in my bedroom, in my favorite place to write. I’ve always been this way—covers, quiet, a sense of being held. That’s where words come. Some people need a desk. I’ve always needed softness.

My dog, Gandhi G., loves it there too. He disappears under the covers like it’s his calling. He understands we’re apart most days while I’m at work. This is our way back to each other.

That day, with him near and my body finally unclenching, I felt it.

A surge of resonance moving through me like a yes that didn’t need arguing.

It wasn’t mental.

It started in my chest.
Then it moved like a scan through the rest of me: eyes widening, a kind of brightening, a quiet thrill at the possibility of making something that feels meaningful—even if it’s only for me.

Familiar. Right. Home.

Not bracing. Not forcing.

Curiosity. Excitement. A desire I didn’t have to manufacture.

Magnetism, for me, often feels like connection.

A thread.

A sense that something is alive in the field and asking to be met.

And I’ve learned that magnetism can be good information.

But it isn’t proof.

Because magnetism doesn’t only come as gentle curiosity.

Sometimes it comes with a different voice.

A tighter voice.

A voice that doesn’t say, this is meaningful.

It says:

Hold on. Don’t lose it.

That’s where magnetism can start to get sticky.

I’ve started calling this “fantasy glue,” because that’s what it does—it turns a real spark into an adhesive. It attaches meaning so quickly and so thoroughly that I can stop noticing what’s actually happening.

Others have noticed this tendency in me, too.

People have joked—half-joked—that I would easily fall into a cult.

And honestly, the first library book I ever checked out was titled Cults. I was around nine, and I still remember the librarian’s stare when I brought it to the desk. I didn’t know what a cult was—I was just magnetized by the photos: all that togetherness, all that love…
until it wasn’t.

I understand why someone might see that in me. The fantastical can be seductive. It can promise belonging, purpose, a story that makes everything make sense.

And there is a part of me that loves meaning. That loves the feeling of a door opening. That hopeful part that whispers, finally.

But there’s another part of me, too.

Because even when I’ve been pulled in by something sparkly—an idea, a relationship, a philosophy—something eventually changes.

Eventually the sparkle wears off, and the spell thins.

Not in a dramatic way. More like… my perception comes back online.

The spell loosens.

And what looked like destiny starts looking like a pattern.

This has happened in relationships. I’ve ignored red flags before. I’ve rushed closeness. I’ve tried to be the nurturing one—the steady one—the one who can soften everything back into harmony.

And for a while, the glue holds.

Until it doesn’t.

It has happened with ideas, too.

I remember learning about Buddhism in college and feeling magnetized by it—the compassion at the center, the tenderness of that orientation.

It felt like home.

And then, over time, the more detailed teachings felt rigid to me. Not wrong—just too narrow for how I experience life. Like a map trying to replace the landscape.

Magnetism can be real and still not be the whole truth.

It can be a doorway without being a destination.

This is the part I keep learning in my own body:

Hyper-focus makes me feel safe, until it doesn’t.

When magnetism becomes proof, my system narrows.

Time turns into now-or-never.
My mind starts trying to secure the feeling.

And depending on the situation, I’ll do all the familiar things: seek reassurance, over-explain, overcommit, people-please. I’ll talk myself out of discomfort. I’ll try to be perfect. I’ll try to be efficient. I’ll try to make doubt disappear by outworking it.

It costs me. Every time.

It costs me in my body.
It costs me in time.
It costs me in staying too long, shrinking, exhausting myself, going numb just to keep functioning.

And the most humbling part is that proof-energy can disguise itself as devotion.

It can feel like commitment.

It can feel like loyalty.

But often it’s just fear wearing a meaningful outfit.

What I’m practicing now is letting magnetism stay information.

Sometimes I still freeze.

Sometimes I still want someone to confirm that I’m allowed to begin.

But I’m learning that there’s a difference between support and “proof.” Between reflection and rescue.

There’s a way meaning can be held gently, without being forced to carry my whole future.

There’s a way the “yes” can stay spacious.

I don’t want you to agree with me. I don’t want you to adopt a framework.

By the end, I want you to recognize a pattern you’ve lived—without having to explain it.
I want you to feel the moment your yes stops being spacious.

Not so you can correct yourself.

Just so you can notice.

Because something changes when we can feel the flip.

The moment curiosity becomes pressure.
The moment devotion becomes urgency.
The moment the spark becomes a deadline.

And in the noticing, there can be a return.

You might notice how meaning returns when you stop asking it to save you.

You might notice whether the pull feels like home—or like a deadline your body is trying to secure.

I keep imagining the same doorway I wrote about before.

Not an exit. Not an escape.

A doorway to a quiet room inside you, where the sparkle can soften, and your system can take its time.

Where magnetism doesn’t have to prove anything to be real.

Where you can hold the thread without yanking it tight.

And where, under the covers of your own life—whatever that means for you—you can thaw long enough to feel what’s true, at the pace your body actually trusts.

If this stirred something, you might also explore:

Borrowed Weather, Repulsion Has Phases, or Discernment Begins as a Texture. No need to read them in order—follow what resonates.

Series: Discernment & Relational Fields