There is an exquisite awkwardness in being you—a separate, distinct, discernible you. It is an awkwardness born of separation, the fundamental dissonance of being threaded out from oneness into this brief, fragile, and utterly unique human experience. This is separation anxiety at its core, not the fleeting discomfort of parting ways with another, but the existential ache of being you—no longer part of the seamless, timeless oneness that was your eternal home.
In oneness, there is no time, no relationship, no here or there. Oneness is a state of pure being where the concepts of foreground and background, subject and object, cannot exist. It is perfect, blissful, undivided. For a trillion, trillion, trillion years—if such a thing as “years” even makes sense in that context—that was your reality. And then, one day, you were chosen, invited to step out of eternity into the finite. Threaded out from the seamless into the distinguishable, you became you.
Congratulations.
Now, as this distinct “you,” you experience something that is impossible in oneness: participation. You can feel love—not as a passive state of being but as an active, dynamic force. You can marvel at its contours, its contradictions, its intensity. You can write songs about it, tell stories about it, and whisper its secrets to another. This is the great gift of your separateness: the ability to experience love, not as indistinguishable perfection but as something real, raw, and deeply human.
But oh, how awkward it is.
From the very first moment, we feel it. That first cry as you leave the womb—a scream torn from the depths of your being, announcing your arrival into separateness. Birth trauma: the original separation anxiety. And though you do not remember it, you carry its imprint. That pebble in your shoe begins there, and it never entirely goes away.
Separation anxiety is the undercurrent of human existence. It shows up in countless forms: the longing for connection, the ache of loneliness, the fear of rejection, the existential dread that whispers in quiet moments. It is the reason we cling to one another, why we seek meaning, why we create. You could almost say it is the root of all—of every fear, every longing, every act of creation.
And yet, to live is to carry it. Like a pebble in your shoe, it can irritate, distract, even torment. But it must not consume you. Imagine you are at Walt Disney World as a child. You are surrounded by wonder, by magic, by an endless array of possibilities. But there is a pebble in your shoe, and for some reason, you cannot remove it. What a tragedy it would be to spend the entire time fixating on that pebble—crying, complaining, and refusing to explore—while the rides, the adventures, the magic pass you by.
This is life. A divine theme park of discovery, wonder, and experience. And yes, there is a pebble in your shoe. The awkwardness of being you. The strange discomfort of being a separate, distinct, discernible self. But do not let it stop you. Go on the rides. Explore. Laugh. Cry. Love. Live.
You are the divine, having a human experience. As you, the divine can finally do something it cannot do in oneness: it can feel. It can truly experience. Only as you can it grasp the full depth and breadth of love, joy, and even sorrow. It is through your poems, your songs, your stories that the divine discovers what it means to be human.
So yes, there will always be awkwardness. There will always be that weirdness of being a separate self, that tiny pebble reminding you of the oneness from which you came. But let it remind you of the gift as well. You are here for a reason, for a fleeting, beautiful moment.
And when the time comes, when you return to the oneness, you will carry something with you that you could never have known otherwise: the story of love. Your story. The story of being you.