From Martyr to Mystic: A Return to Self

There are some memories that lie dormant in our subconscious, buried beneath the surface like seeds waiting for the right season. This week, as I lay in bed recovering from an intense illness, one such memory floated to the top of my mind like driftwood rising from the depths. It was a moment from when I was just eleven years old—a moment I had nearly forgotten, but Spirit had not.

My parents had arranged a trip to the mountains with family friends. As the adults chatted indoors, we children wandered off into a nearby forest and stumbled upon a small body of water. It looked inviting, harmless even. One of the girls jumped in without knowing how deep it was, and within seconds, she began to drown. Something in me—perhaps instinct, perhaps soul contract—acted without hesitation. My mother had enrolled me in swimming lessons, and I believed I was a good swimmer. So I leapt into the water, determined to help.

But swimming to someone is not the same as saving them, especially when they are panicking. The moment I got close, she began to grab me—arms, legs, anything she could cling to in her desperation. She was heavier than me, and I was quickly losing control. I could feel myself sinking. I remember the cold, the weight, the helplessness. And then, by some miracle, an adult came running and pulled us out just in time.

Looking back, I now realize: that was the day I learned a soul-deep lesson, one I didn’t have the words for until now. You cannot save someone who is drowning by sacrificing yourself. You cannot offer a lifeline when you’re losing breath too.

I see now that I was acting out of a soul pattern, a deep, karmic imprint: “I must save others to be worthy, even if it kills me.” It’s a belief I’ve carried for lifetimes. One I’ve reenacted in friendships, in relationships, even in motherhood. Helping, holding, healing—until I collapse. And I’ve worn that pattern like armor. A quiet, noble badge.

But this past week, as my body shut down, as I lay helpless in bed unable to eat, move, or care for anyone else—Spirit whispered a different truth: “This time, you are the one being saved.”, not by anyone outside of me but by Life itself. By rest. By surrender. By finally allowing myself to be cared for. To be still. To not have all the answers. To not be the one fixing, holding, managing.

I believe this memory surfaced now because I am being asked to break this old, wounded pattern, to stop rescuing at my own expense, to stop proving I am good through martyrdom. I needed to remember the girl who jumped. I needed to tell her: "You were brave. You were enough. But it’s time to choose a different way now.”

This isn't just about water. It's about energy. It's about life. It's about saying: I can love you and still stay afloat. I can help you and still honor my breath. I can be a healer without bleeding for it.

That moment in the water was not failure. It was a foreshadowing. And now, two decades later, the story completes its loop. I’m not eleven anymore. I’m a woman reclaiming her boundaries, her rest, her balance. And in doing so, I rescue no one—but I free us all.

To My Reader

If you’ve ever tried to save someone at the cost of your own peace, if you’ve burned out in the name of love, if you’ve lost yourself while trying to hold someone else—this is your sign to return home to you. Breathe. Float. Rest. You are still worthy. You always were.

With so much love and gratitude,

Solarys