46 Revolutions Around The Sun

Today, March 5th 2026, I enter my 46th year.

I wrote this piece as both a gift to myself and to the ones who read it.

Every year has been a rebirth.

Its been 46 (Re) evolutions around the sun.

Forty-six winters that carved bone and patience.

Forty-six summers that reminded me life is meant to be tasted, & not just endured.

When I look at the number, I can’t help but see the code in it.

The year 2026, (2+0+2+6= 10)

My age 46, (4+6= 10)

10, (1+0= 1)

Ten as the wheel, in a completion & full turn of the spiral.

And one is the beginning again.

The numerology makes me smile because as all things seem to play out synchronistically when we have the eyes to see, & it simply feels exactly like where I stand in life right now.

A wheel completed & a new one beginning.

Me standing in the center, the “1” with one hand on my own will & the other hand in the current of Source, the “0”.

This feels like a true year of co-creation, arriving in perfect timing, because the year itself is marked by the Fire Horse, following the completion of a nine-year cycle and stepping into the turning of a ten-year one.

This is a year that invites us to create consciously with Source.

The Fire Horse year is known in many traditions as powerful, volatile, and catalytic. Fire Horse years carry a reputation for producing individuals who are strong-willed, impossible to tame, and often a little disruptive to the status quo.

Oh, the irony. Life already made sure of that part.

Forty-six feels like standing at a strange and beautiful threshold, as though the microcosm of life’s hardships, lessons, and initiations over the past nine years were all preparation for stepping through this next doorway.

A threshold year. A moment where the wheel turns again.

At 46, I am no longer a young woman searching for herself, and I am also not yet the full elder sitting by the fire telling the stories. Although I am well on my way. I have already sat beside many fires, in many lands, with hundreds, listening, learning, and sharing stories of my own. Enough to understand that I am somewhere just over the middle passage now, & midway to self mastery.

This is a place where a woman begins to feel the weight and responsibility of the wisdom she carries, learning how to hold it in right relationship with life itself, with those who walk beside her, with those she serves and with the unfolding evolution of the world.

I currently stand between the mother and the elder.

One hand still building, while the other hand is actively remembering.

And the truth is, I feel younger than I ever expected to feel at this age. My body still wants to move, to train, to explore, to laugh until my stomach hurts. Sometimes I genuinely feel like I am twenty again.

But the difference is this.

At twenty I carried almost no wisdom, although I was already a wise old soul with very little understanding of how to inhabit that knowing. The seeds were there, but life had not yet watered & weathered me enough for those seeds to become wisdom.

At forty-six I admit, I carry the weight of everything life has placed in my hands.

Loss. Responsibility. Death. Love. Betrayal. Initiation. Devotion. Motherhood. Leadership.

The quiet often suffocating burden of seeing clearly when many around you do not.

At 46 I’m in awe and outright grateful of my design. The way my soul chose this body, as a vessel to carry its enormity and just how much access to vitality is still here, which lends itself to the evidence of just how much fire is very alive.

The only difference between then and now is that my fire is now held by gravity, the kind of gravity that anchors the flame. In the deeper sense, gravity is spirit embodied in matter, the descent of energy into form. It is what happens when the fire of the soul sinks deeply enough into the body to become a force capable of shaping the world.

My fire undeniably burns differently than it once did, from ever wild and over reaching in every direction, to anchored, steady and deliberate.

It no longer leaps at every spark life throws its way. It has learned the quiet discipline of burning only for what truly matters.

It knows what it is willing to ignite and what must be left untouched.

It recognizes where to warm, where to illuminate, and where to turn to ash what cannot remain.

And perhaps most importantly, it no longer needs to prove itself by burning brightly.

Wisdom is never given freely, and often enough its expensive. It is paid for in the currency of experience, loss, and the courage to remain open after both.

People like to romanticize wisdom as though it arrives through reading books or attending workshops, or that simply age will give it to you.

I disagree. Age alone is not a badge of honour if we refuse to evolve with it. Many people grow older, but remain fixed in the same patterns, the same stories, & the same ways of seeing the world long after life has tried to move them.

Wisdom requires movement. When there is no willingness to change, wisdom has nowhere to land and nowhere to integrate.

In my experience, wisdom arrives through the things you survive. The moments that break open your understanding of life and ask you to grow beyond the person you once were. In this sense survival too is sacred, because without it one cannot ultimately thrive.

Survival is the crossing & thriving is what becomes possible once the crossing has been made.

The identities that cracked open because of the illusions that had to die so something truer could live.

For myself, wisdom came through the parts of me I needed to lay to rest.
Many people bury those parts in secrecy instead, only to find themselves slowly eroded by them, often in bitterness or dissonance once age catches up.

And this becomes how it moves, the cycle of death, life and rebirth.

Some of the things I lost along the way were excruciating to release. Certain relationships. Certain dreams. Certain versions of myself that I loved so deeply at the time.

But looking back, I can see clearly that every one of those losses was a sharpening.

Life chisels wisdom into you.

Sometimes it feels like a gentle shaving, a slow peeling away of what no longer fits.

Other times it arrives with the force of a blade, a knife or a sword cutting clean through the stories you once lived inside. The chisel, the carve, the outright slice that takes the head off the identities you thought you could carry forever. However it comes, life has a way of shaping you until only what is true remains, and this is where you have a choice to accept what is true or to deny it.

At 6 yrs old, the most authentic and unfiltered version of me took her place.

I close my eyes and I see her.

Standing on the front lawn, bare feet on the grass, of the rural home her family had just moved into, she is singing and chanting into the wind. She wasn’t speaking English, & she is wearing tiny blue Adidas shorts, a Cabbage Patch Kids t-shirt (a typical picture of most kids in the early 80’s).

She decided to adorn herself with a blue rose bedsheet she had taken fresh off the laundry line, she tied it in a bow over her shoulders like a cape.

I can still smell the crisp scent of clean, sun and wind off the cotton.

She is yelling into the wind, commanding it to move according to her direction.

And boy did it move. She became the wind.

She believes she is She-Ra, an early 80s cartoon & she is here to save the world.

Don’t get me started on all the synchronicities held inside this one beautiful memory. Synchronicities like little clues the universe would bring me along the way, that would help me understand that this 6 year old always knew the way. The more I would choose to walk the middle path, the more I would awaken to the kind of truth that holds no logic but makes all kinds of sense. Gnosis.

Blue roses. She-Ra, the Solar Warrior Princess of Power. Commanding and co-creating with the elements.

This was a warrior priestess, six years into her earth stint.

There was no separation then between soul, sight, remembrance, and action.

And I see this now with far greater clarity through the mission and service that has unfolded across my life. Through the lands I guide & lead others onto, the Egyptian temples, the Mediterranean shores, the ancient places where memory still lives in the stone and in the wind & where the Sun (Ra) evolves us with its intelligence.

Leadership, as I have come to understand it, is something that reveals itself when a person remembers who they are deeply enough to live it without fragmentation.

That little girl on the lawn was not pretending or imagining, in the way most will often cast aside child like play, in fact through play it was her imagination that opened the portal to what she was remembering.

Remembering that true leadership is the alignment of soul and action.

The willingness to stand in the elements of life and move with them, not from control, but from relationship.

I would begin by hugging her. God would I ever hug her. She was far stronger than she knew, even then. I would tell her that the things she feels so intensely are not weaknesses. They are signals. Intuition trying to speak through a nervous system that has not yet learned how to trust itself.

And I would kiss & place my hand on her obliterated heart.

I would tell her that the guy who shattered it was an unlikely servant of her becoming. That first teenage heartbreak was the beginning of an initiation she could not yet understand.

Life introducing her to grief early, because grief would become an ally, a friend & a great teacher she would need to help her navigate her experience in the world to come.

At 46, grief could be recognized as the heart adjusting to change it never asked for.

Clearly seeing now what I could not then, that the body was processing what the mind could not finish.

I would whisper to her, as her higher self, that her soul was metabolizing the immense weight of being human.

I would let her know that if I told her it would take another thirty years before she would return to that shattered place, it would rob her of the process. The process of finding the courage to sit with her pain.

It would rob her of her ability to touch the death that lives inside grief.

And in doing so, something extraordinary would happen.

Her heart would not simply heal.

It would expand.

When you dare to descend fully into grief & when you allow yourself to feel the death inside it without turning away, the heart is liberated into capacities it did not previously know were possible.

What once shattered her would become the doorway, another gate with another key that opens to another layer of expanded consciousness.

Through that doorway she would discover that the heart is far larger, far more immense, than the young girl she once was could ever imagine. That the same heart that shattered would one day love in ways that stretch across a thousand octaves of depth, strength, and devotion, to herself to her family and to her mission.

I would tell her to protect her sensitivity.

The world will try very hard to convince her that sensitivity is something to numb.

It is not.

It is one of the instruments she would need to learn how to master in order to serve truth.

I would smile & likely giggle at her determination.

At twenty-six I believed that if I worked hard enough, if I stayed strong enough, I could outmaneuver life.

I would tell her something simple.

Life is not meant to be conquered, and not every battle deserves her sword.

I would let her know that some doors close because they are not meant for you to open, that this is the field redirecting and often times protecting you.

Most of all I would let her know that she cannot save the world. The world is not something meant to be saved.

Of course, none of what I would say would likely make her listen. She was a bull in a china shop, charging through life with a force she did not yet know how to hold. On a self-destructive mission that, in truth, needed to happen.

Because sometimes the only way to discover your strength is to first meet the consequences of your own fire. To break a few things. To break yourself a little.

It was all part of the forging.

She needed to run headfirst into life with that kind of force, because it was through the collapse of those early battles that she would eventually learn how to rise again, this time with discernment, with discipline, and with a strength that was no longer reckless, but deliberate.

I would tell her she isn’t drowning.

I would tell her that motherhood is a rite of passage, one that has broken open women for thousands of years, and that we were never meant to do it all alone.

I would remind her that although she has no technique, although she doesn’t yet know all the strokes, she can swim & tread water in the rougher seas. Even through the greatest storms, the body knows how to keep breathing, how to keep floating long enough for the tide to shift.

And I would also tell her something most people are too afraid to say out loud.

That sometimes it is ok to want the waves to just take you away.

I would sit beside her on that couch, the weight of the medication dulling her senses, watching her two little babies playing on the floor while she quietly wonders if they would be better off without her. The kind of thought that arrives not from cruelty, but from a heart so exhausted it can no longer see its own worth.

I would remind her that she is doing the best she can with everything she knows. And that her knowing is ancient, even if she cannot feel it right now.

I would tell her that the moment she feels herself drifting away, when everything inside her goes strangely quiet, when she suddenly feels as though she is hovering just outside her own body watching the scene unfold… that something larger than her is still present.

Something that will guide her hand toward the phone.

Something that will remind her she is not meant to leave this world that day.

And that the call she makes to her husband in that moment will become one of the quiet turning points of her life.

Then I would look her in the eyes, mother of two small children, and simply let her cry.

I would acknowledge her pain, I would tell her she has everything she needs to protect them, and that what lives inside her inherit to do so will eliminate everything and everyone that stands in her way.

I would remind her that in that elimination some people leave because they were only meant to walk beside you for a chapter.

Some ambitions dissolve because the version of you who wanted them is no longer who you are becoming, and that this is inevitably how self authority is formed.

I would hold her and let her know that in her perceived failure there is only evolution.

And now at forty-six,

I am beginning to understand something that took decades to land in my bones.

True authority can only come from alignment, which is a far cry from any kind of performative volume.

Authority comes from knowing who you are when no one is watching.

From walking through fire without trying to escape the burn & allowing it to reveal what remains when everything false has fallen away.

But most of all what I have come to understand, and what I would certainly share with her, is that what she has access to is something far more rare than most, her ability to remain in integrity even when it costs her everything.

These things do not show up on résumés or social media profiles, because they are not an easy sell. The true architecture of real leadership isn’t seductive to those who are still chasing applause, comfort, or proximity to power.

Real leadership is built in the quiet moments when a person refuses to betray their own knowing. When they choose truth over belonging & hold their ground even when the cost is misunderstood. Real leadership is isolating because you lose what once felt secure.

And yet it is precisely there, in those moments, that the spine of a true leader in her self authority is formed.

Ten collapsing back into one. A new cycle opening.

I am still learning. Still building. Still discovering new layers of my own being.

And perhaps the most surprising realization of all is this:

I feel like I have only just begun.

Everything behind me was preparation for the woman who now knows how to walk beside life instead of wrestling it.

Preparation for the work that asks more of me than anything ever before.

More ease, less push, more joy, less conflict, more alignment, less compliance.
More responsibility, less blame, more capacity, less limitation, more awareness, less denial, more devotion, less distraction, and more love, always more love.

All of it a preparation for the years ahead where the fire of youth and the gravity of wisdom can finally sit in the same body, sit around the same circle and tell a story.

As I stand here and I look in the mirror, I look at her now and I say good job, well done to a life fully lived so far. Despite the heartache, the grief, the challenges and all the mistakes, I tell myself now, you stayed. You kept walking. And that matters more than anything.

Forty-six years around the sun.

The wheel turns again.

This time, I am fully awake inside it.

And to be fully awake is to be fiercely human.

Selvia

For those this writing speaks to directly, I’m currently holding mentorships for leadership development as well as pilgrimage journeys across Egypt, Crete & Delphi. With more opening up soon.

Both the mentorship and the pilgrimage are truly transformational experiences to enter.

You can explore the current offerings here, if and when the moment feels true.

Explore The Offerings Here