We’re not just ending a chapter. We’re ending the book.
A woman came back to our VIP call this week after five years away.
The last time I saw her, she was trying to save her marriage. She was doing what we teach: she stopped walking on eggshells and started having the honest conversations. Then the whole thing detonated. The truth came out, the marriage ended, and five years of lawyers and survival mode followed.
She showed up on the call today and said, “I haven’t dreamed in five years. I’ve just been surviving. And I’m done with that.”
I loved her for it. Then I told her she’s not allowed to dream yet.
Here’s why. When something has hurt you that badly, it doesn’t leave when you decide you’re over it. It hangs around in your body and in your inner dialogue. If you write a beautiful vision on top of all that, you’re building a house on a toxic waste site. The poison seeps up through the floorboards.
So I gave her the order, and the order matters:
1. Purge. Write it all down. Every “how could he,” every “I can’t believe this happened,” every thought you’re embarrassed to have. This is puke. It isn’t supposed to be pretty, fair, or balanced. Write until there is nothing left to say.
2. Get it out of your body. Read the purge out loud. Then grab a tennis racket or a broom and beat the bed until you feel it’s gone. I want it out somatically, emotionally, and spiritually.
3. Change what you’re feeding your mind. For her, that meant listening to Neville Goddard on repeat. It interrupts the old conversations in your head that keep recreating the reality you’re trying to leave.
4. Then, and only then, dream. The day after, sit down and write the best possible version of what’s next. She shares a daughter with this man, and her daughter is half him, so we have to solve for that half too. Ask yourself: “If I got to say how this goes, as great as it can go for my kid, what would that look like?” You don’t need his agreement or a debate. You write it because you said so.
Most people skip straight to step four. They want the vision board and not the vomit. Then they wonder why the new dream feels flimsy, or why they’re still having the same fight in their head at 2 am.
Profound understanding settles the system. Once you’ve said it all and been heard, it can finally leave. That frees up room for something worthy of your mind, your heart, and your energy.
She said, “I accept. I need to do it. Period.”
That’s what ending a book sounds like.
If there’s a chapter you keep rereading, whether it’s an ex, a family betrayal, a job, or a version of yourself, write the purge this week. Then come and read it to us. You don’t have to do this part alone.
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With love and a tennis racket,
Lauren
