Learning to Fly

On presence, release, and the courage to live what’s already true.

There’s a moment that comes after the chrysalis and after the drying of the wings —
a moment when the air is ready to hold you, but you’re not sure if you can trust it.

This is the moment of flight.
The moment when everything you’ve known about yourself must yield to what you’ve become.

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For the butterfly, this is instinct.
It doesn’t need lessons or evidence.
It doesn’t remember crawling on its belly — it simply spreads what has grown and moves through air as though it has always known how.

But for us, it’s not that easy.

Because until now, all our data has told us we’re creatures of the ground.
We crawl. We climb. We make progress by friction and effort.
Nothing in our past has told us we could fly — and yet, here we are, emerging with wings.

And so much of learning to fly isn’t about technique.
It’s about release.

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To fly means to let go of what was once true but no longer relevant.
The stories that shaped you were not lies — they were simply for another season.
You were a crawler once. You needed that strength. You needed to know how to move low and stay close to the earth. But that story can’t define this moment.

Now the invitation is different:
To trust what’s within you enough to respond to what’s possible.