You've done the work. Not the Instagram version—the real descent. Silent retreats that dismantled you. Nights of facing what you'd spent decades avoiding. The slow, unglamorous process of dying to who you thought you were.
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And somewhere along the way, you arrived. Not at bliss, not at perpetual peace, but at something simpler: presence. A settledness in your own being that doesn't depend on circumstances. An ordinary aliveness that persists whether you're meditating in the mountains or standing in line at the grocery store.
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Here's what they don't tell you about this arrival: it comes with a particular kind of loneliness.
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The Invisibility of Presence

There's an old idea that awakened beings radiate something unmistakable—that people would naturally recognize and be drawn to their light. In my experience, the opposite is true.

Authentic presence is almost completely invisible.

Buddha himself could be walking the grocery aisles and no one would notice. Not because he's hiding, but because what he's offering can't be perceived by eyes that haven't learned to see it. It takes one to know one.

After years of inner work, you might expect to feel set apart from ordinary humanity, floating somewhere above the mundane. The paradox is that genuine embodiment makes you feel more ordinary, not less. More connected to the basic humanness of everyone around you. You're not special. You're just here, in a way that most people aren't—and that presence, that simple hereness, is almost impossible to recognize unless you've found it in yourself.

So you move through the world carrying something you can't give away. Not because people reject it—rejection would at least be a response. It's subtler than that. They simply can't perceive what's being offered. Your presence meets no receiver.

This isn't dramatic. It doesn't feel like tragedy. It's just quiet. The ordinary loneliness of being available for a connection that almost no one can see.
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The River That Wants to Share Itself

Here's the other thing no one mentions: as you settle into embodied awakening, sexuality doesn't diminish. It intensifies.

The assumption in many spiritual circles is that the path leads toward something like asexuality—that desire falls away as you transcend the body, that enlightened beings float above such earthly concerns. This proved completely delusional in my experience.

What actually happens is that life force awakens. Not as a concept but as a felt reality—energy moving through you that connects to the vitality of existence itself. Everything becomes more vivid. Sensation deepens. The body comes alive in ways it wasn't before.

And this aliveness wants to move. It wants to share itself.

It's not horniness in the conventional sense—not a lack seeking to be filled. It's more like a river that has finally found its current, naturally seeking other currents to merge with. There's a longing, but it's the longing to overflow, not to acquire. Light, it seems, needs to be shared. It suffocates when it's kept to itself.

Sexuality becomes an expression of this—not something to transcend but something that deepens as you become more fully embodied. The more present you are in your body, the more alive it becomes. The more alive it becomes, the more it yearns toward connection.

And so you find yourself carrying this vitality, this readiness for deep meeting, this river that wants to dance with another river—in a world where almost no one can feel the current.
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Two Notes, One Chord

It does happen. Rarely.

You meet someone and there's a recognition beneath the surface—not of personality or history, but of something more fundamental. Two presences that can actually perceive each other. It's like two notes discovering they can form a chord, a harmony that's exponentially more beautiful than either note alone.

In these moments, you understand what all the poetry has been pointing toward. The intertwining isn't metaphor. Something actually merges—energy meeting energy, depth recognizing depth, two frequencies creating something neither could create alone.

It's life-changing. Not because it lasts—it may only be a moment—but because it shows you what's possible. What connection can actually be when two people are present enough to meet at that level.

And then you understand the loneliness differently. It's not that you're "too much" or "too intense" or any of those convenient narratives. It's simpler and sadder than that: this kind of meeting is genuinely rare. The number of people who have arrived at their own center, who can perceive presence, who can receive what you're offering—it's a small number. And finding them, in the midst of ordinary life, is something like finding a needle in a haystack.
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The Quiet Cost

No one tells you this when you start the journey. The teachers offer freedom, peace, the end of suffering. They don't mention that you might end up more available for love than you've ever been, more alive in your body, more present and ready for deep connection—and that this very readiness might go unmet for years, for decades, maybe for life.

The aloneness isn't a failure of your practice. It's not a sign you've gone wrong. It's just the math of the situation: you've wandered somewhere real, and there aren't many people there.

You can still connect with humanity. You feel more kinship with ordinary people than ever before—the shared vulnerability of being human, the tenderness of watching everyone struggle with the same essential predicament. You're not isolated in the usual sense. But the specific connection you're wired for, the soul resonance that makes two notes into a chord—that remains rare.

And so you carry it. The aliveness that wants to share itself. The presence that goes mostly unperceived. The readiness for a depth of meeting that may or may not arrive.

This is the collateral damage of the spiritual path that no one advertises.

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