It's All in the Past...
The signs were always there—I just never truly saw him. The intensity of the energy between us was overwhelming, so strong and profound that, in the beginning, it filled me with fear. I didn’t understand what it was, only that it stirred something deep within me, something I wasn’t ready to face. So I ran. Again and again, I fled from the connection, not realizing it was part of a divine bond. But no matter how far I went, the moment he looked into my eyes, I felt an invisible force pull me back—like magnets, impossible to resist. Eventually, I stopped running. I surrendered. And when I did, we shared a magnificent summer together, one that was filled with a quiet, powerful knowing. A sense of peace, of purpose, of destiny. In those precious moments, we both felt it: we were meant to be.
But then, just as our Synastry charts had hinted, an unexpected event occurred—one of many fated twists that would begin a long and painful downward spiral. Out of nowhere, his ex-girlfriend came back into the picture, and to my heartbreak, he chose to return to her. It shattered something in me. I internalized that choice deeply, believing it was because I simply wasn’t good enough for him. That belief—rooted in an old, unhealed fear—stayed with me for years. It haunted me, shaping the way I saw myself and love. When the second major event came, I remember the people around me insisting he was going to leave her that night, that he was finally going to choose me. But I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. Something in the energy shifted, and I saw him thrown off balance, confused and overwhelmed. I thought I understood what he had to do, and in that moment, the only thing I could think to do was to let him go. I wrote him a letter, full of quiet surrender, telling him I understood and supported his choice. In response, he sent me a song—The Hardest Thing by 98 Degrees. But back then, I was so deeply convinced that I was unworthy of him—or anyone—that the true meaning of that song completely went over my head. It was his goodbye, wrapped in love and pain, and I didn’t understand until much later that he was hurting too.
The year was 2002, and yet another unexpected event came into play—one that shifted everything once again. I had made the decision to quit school, overwhelmed and searching for direction, and I went back there one last time. That day, when our eyes met—his intense, captivating gaze locking with mine—something deep stirred in me. He didn’t say a word, but his energy, his body language, the way he looked at me—it was all there. He was giving signs, signs I now realize were clear. But back then, I couldn’t see them. I had already convinced myself that things were what they were, unchangeable and out of reach. So once more, we parted ways. Not long after, he got married, and I tried to move on. In my desperation to forget, to numb the ache, I entered into a relationship with someone completely opposite of him. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was acting from a place of pain, confusion, and unresolved love. I didn’t know what I was getting into—I was still lost in the emotional wreckage of the past, still carrying wounds I hadn’t yet begun to heal.
In 2004, fate intervened again with another unexpected event, drawing me back into his orbit. And once more, I found myself standing in front of him. When he looked at me, his eyes hadn’t changed—still just as magnetic, still filled with something unspoken. I felt that familiar pull, lost in his gaze, but even then, I couldn't fully believe it. I was still confused, still caught in my own self-doubt, unable to accept that he might actually feel something for me too. I questioned everything, blinded by years of believing I was unworthy, and the truth—that he cared—remained just out of reach.
When he spoke to me that day, there was a pain in his eyes that I couldn’t understand—a heaviness that lingered beneath his words. He looked at me, paused for a moment, and quietly said, “Take care of the little one.” I was confused. I had no idea what he meant. I had no child, no reason to think there was a deeper meaning behind his words. But something about the way he said it stayed with me. I went home, and on a strange, intuitive impulse, I took a pregnancy test. To my disbelief—it was positive. That moment was the beginning of a chapter I could never have anticipated. The emotional and mental abuse I had already been enduring escalated quickly—becoming physical, relentless, and soul-crushing. I stayed as long as I could, enduring everything for the sake of what I thought was love, or perhaps hope. But when that abuse turned toward my child, something inside me shattered. I knew I had to leave.
It was the spring of 2006 when I finally fled. I went to the only place I felt remotely safe. And on the very first day, something happened that would leave a lasting imprint on my soul. My cousin and I were driving when his car broke down unexpectedly. As we stood there, stranded and uncertain, a small white car pulled up behind us. I didn’t see who was inside at first. But when the man stepped out and began looking under the hood of my cousin’s car, our eyes met—and in that instant, it was as if gravity itself let go. The weight of the world paused. It was him. Again. Just like before, those eyes reached into something ancient and sacred within me. That unspoken energy, that silent recognition—it was still there, unchanged. It was as if the universe, even amid the chaos of my life, was reminding me that our connection was still alive. Still waiting. Still written in the stars.
And yet, even then, I was too stubborn to see the truth that had been staring me in the face all along. The universe kept placing him in my path, giving me moments of clarity, but I was still too clouded by pain, fear, and disbelief to truly receive it. When we finally made it to my cousin’s house that day, he stopped in with her and the kids. We were all there together, sharing space again, but it was still so hard for me to accept what was right in front of me. When my cousin pointed out the fresh bandaged stitches still visible on my eye, he noticed immediately. He walked over, gently touched the injury, and without hesitation said, “I’m gonna kill him.” He said it with a fierce protectiveness I wasn’t used to—an honesty that caught me off guard.
Another night, not long after, he came by again—this time alone. I caught him doing something mischievous and chased him out the door and down to his car. We were both laughing, just like we had in that summer years before, and for a brief moment, the world felt light again. There was joy, connection, a spark that never really died. But even in that beautiful moment, I was still confused—still unable to understand or fully believe that what we had was love. I couldn’t see that he was showing me, again and again, in his own way. I was blind to the truth of it, lost in old wounds, and so I left again. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t yet know how to see what was real.
That summer, despite everything, I ended up going back to my ex. I was still caught in the cycle—wounded, confused, and searching for something familiar, even if it was painful. One morning, while I was dreaming, I must have said his name—the man from my past—because when I woke, my ex looked at me with suspicion and asked, “Who is he?” But I knew I hadn’t said his name out loud, not once—not to him, not in front of anyone. Still, something had slipped through, something he sensed. I lied, brushing it off, but deep down I knew it was only a matter of time before he found out exactly who he was.
That moment came sooner than I expected. My cousin was getting married, and we both attended the wedding. He was there too. During the reception, I caught a glimpse of a tense moment that would never leave me. Behind the food tables, hidden just enough from view, I saw him—my past love—with my ex pinned against the wall by the throat. My ex never told me what was said in that moment, but later my cousin tried to explain. He said he told my ex to keep his hands off me, that I didn’t belong to him—that I was just “borrowed for a while.” His words struck deep, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
Later that fall, everything came to a breaking point. I was planning to go stay with my aunt, needing space, needing safety—but my ex wasn’t going to let me take my child. In desperation, I bluffed. I told him that if he didn’t let me go, I’d call the man from my past to come and get me instead. That name alone changed everything. His tone shifted instantly—panic in his voice—and he said, “No, no, you both can go.” And so I did. I left. And I never looked back.
When I returned, something had shifted—something in the energy, in the way people looked at me, in him—but I was too stubborn and too wounded to see it at the time. His brother told me he’d been sleeping on the couch ever since I was there the first time, that they were always fighting, and even admitted he wished I was his sister-in-law instead. Those words stuck with me, but I still couldn't accept them. I was trapped in my own unworthiness, still thinking I didn’t deserve love like that, not from someone like him. That old urge to run, to flee from what I didn’t understand, started to creep back in. And when I looked at him—really looked at him—he met my eyes firmly and said, “Don’t you dare.” It was a moment of truth, but fear clouded my vision. Even my aunt tried to tell me more than once, tried to get through to me, but her words fell on deaf ears. And when he himself tried to open up, to finally say what I think he had been holding in for years, I changed the subject. I couldn’t bear to hear it. I was too afraid of what it might mean, of what it might awaken. So I ignored it—and that moment became the last time I ever saw him.
In 2007, another unexpected event drove us apart once again, and this time, the distance stretched into silence. As the months passed without him, I spiraled—deeper and deeper into what I thought was depression, but what I now know was the Dark Night of the Soul. It was a spiritual unraveling, a complete dismantling of everything I thought I knew. During that time, I briefly connected with two other men, both of whom I believed had triggered this awakening, especially after I discovered the concept of Twin Flames. It never even occurred to me then that the man from my past—the one with whom I shared an overwhelming, soul-stirring connection—was the one who had truly sparked it all. It took me years to see the truth, years of looking back, of connecting the dots, to understand that he not only loved me—but he was the one who triggered my awakening at its very core.
And now, after yet another unexpected twist in the journey, I’ve come to learn that although the fighting in his world has quieted somewhat in my absence, it still simmers beneath the surface. And deep down, I know why. I know it's still because of me—because some part of him, just like some part of me, still carries those feelings. A bond like ours doesn’t just fade away. A connection that deep, that ancient, transcends time, space, and even silence. Looking at it all now—our Synastry charts, our past life readings, the dreams, the signs, the synchronicities—it’s all starting to make sense. Even if we never achieve union in this lifetime, it no longer matters in the way it once did. He is the other half of my soul. And that means, no matter the distance, no matter the silence, he is still with me. He always has been. He always will be.
Yesterday's Past Life Readings:
(I went back five lifetimes, and each one, not only was interesting but fed into the next, I will start this from five lifetimes back)
Five Lifetimes back:
Four Lifetimes back:
Three Lifetimes back:
Two Lifetimes back:
One Lifetime back(The life before this one)
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