Remember What You Came Here For

The world feels loud right now.
Chaotic. Heavy. Consuming.

I was talking with a friend today about how overwhelming everything feels—the injustice, the cruelty, the constant churn of fear. I could feel it pressing in on her, the way it presses in on so many of us. And without planning to, I found myself speaking from a deeper place, reminding her—and myself—of something essential:

We are not here by accident.
And we are not meant to stay small.

There are souls on this planet right now who came to hold light. Not in a bypassing way. Not in a “love and light” denial of reality. But in a grounded, embodied, steadfast way.

I asked my friend to imagine her light body—the energetic field that exists beyond the dense physical form. I reminded her that her light body is far larger than her physical body. That it extends well beyond the edges of her skin.

Then I invited her to imagine letting it expand.

Not shrinking it down to survive.
Not dimming it to make others comfortable.
But allowing it to extend outward—past her body, past her home, past her immediate world.

Now imagine if every light bearer did the same.

What if the planet itself were saturated with light—not forced, not performative, not loud—but vast, steady, and unmistakable?

There are also souls here now whose role is to cause rupture. To create disruption. To bring chaos. That may sound uncomfortable, but chaos has always been a revealer. It exposes what has been hidden. It fractures false structures. It forces truth to the surface.

And when that happens, fear rises.

Fear is the opposite of love.

But love does not disappear in the presence of fear—it only feels smaller when we forget how big we actually are.

Holding the light does not mean being blind.

It does not mean excusing harm or pretending destruction isn’t happening. It means choosing compassion without collapse.

I’ve been practicing this myself—especially when faced with people who seem consumed by chaos, who amplify it, who become part of it. Instead of reacting with, “What the hell is wrong with you?” I’m learning to pause and ask inwardly:

“I see you.
But what’s beneath this?
Where is the wound?”

Compassion doesn’t mean agreement.
It means seeing clearly without hatred.

In a meditation today, I found myself on a swing. On the swing beside me—completely normal in the logic of meditation—was Jesus.

I asked, bluntly, “What the hell is going on? It’s a mess down here.”

He said:
“Think of this as a chess game.
Move your pieces in your own authority.
Others are trying to decide how the collective moves, assuming that in chaos you won’t notice the manipulation.”

Then he said something that landed deep in my body:

“Look them in the eye and say:
‘I see you. I really see you beneath it all. Where are your wounds?’”

That is not weakness.
That is sovereignty.

Light bearers—remember what you came here for.

You are not meant to contract in fear.
You are not meant to disappear into despair.
You are not meant to hand over your authority to chaos.

Let your light body expand.
Let love become bigger than fear.
Let compassion coexist with clarity.

This is not a time to play small.
This is a time to shine—quietly, steadily, unmistakably bright.

And when you do, the game changes.

Walking this path beside you,
Theri