Opening: When You're Stuck and Don't Know Why

Maybe you've been trying to start something for months now.

The business. The creative thing. That conversation. The life change you keep planning but never actually... doing.

You've got the vision board. The morning pages. You've told yourself a thousand times it's time, you're ready, just do the damn thing already.

And still. Nothing.

You sit down to begin and suddenly you desperately need to reorganize your closet. Research just one more thing. Wait for Mercury to get out of retrograde or whatever. Fix this other completely unrelated thing first.

Or maybe you did start. And you hit a wall so massive you can't see around it.

Technical problems. Money problems. Your body deciding to get sick right when momentum was building. Doors slamming in your face. The universe seemingly going out of its way to stop you.

Everyone's got advice. "Just push through it." "The universe is testing your commitment." "You're self-sabotaging." "Maybe it's not meant to be."

But here's what nobody tells you—

Sometimes obstacles aren't there to stop you.

Sometimes they're there to redirect you. Sometimes they're protection. Sometimes they're information about something you're not seeing yet.

And sometimes? You're the obstacle.

The ancient yogis knew about this. They had a whole god dedicated to it.

The Elephant-Headed God Who Makes No Sense Until He Makes Perfect Sense

Ganesha. (I'm probably still butchering the pronunciation even after six years of practice—gah-NAY-shah.)

Elephant head. Round belly. One broken tusk. And—this is my favorite part—a mouse for a vehicle.

A mouse. Carrying an elephant god.

Which makes absolutely no sense until suddenly it's the most perfect metaphor you've ever encountered.

Remover of obstacles, they call him. Before any important beginning in Hindu tradition, you invoke Ganesha. I learned this from my teacher who learned it from hers, and I'm still learning what it actually means.

Because here's the part people forget: he's also the placer of obstacles.

He doesn't just clear your path. He blocks it when you're going the wrong direction. He's the cosmic bouncer who won't let you through the door you're not ready for.

The mythology is... intense. His father Shiva came home after years of meditation. Found this kid guarding his mother Parvati's door. Didn't recognize his own son—cut off his head in a rage.

Parvati was, understandably, not okay with this.

Shiva, scrambling to fix his catastrophic mistake, grabbed the head of the first creature he found. An elephant. Brought Ganesha back to life with this completely different head.

So Ganesha knows something about obstacles. He literally is an obstacle—a door guardian who wouldn't even let his own father pass. And he became something entirely new because of violence that should have destroyed him.

That broken tusk? One story says he broke it off himself to use as a pen when the sage Vyasa was dictating the Mahabharata too fast to write down. He sacrificed part of himself to capture the story.

His mouse vehicle? It's how small, persistent effort moves massive obstacles. How the tiniest thing can carry the biggest load if it just keeps going.

And those sweets he's always holding and eating in the paintings and statues? They're modakas—they represent the sweetness that comes after you've dealt with the obstacle. Not before. You don't get the reward for avoiding discomfort. You get it for moving through it.

Ganesha doesn't remove obstacles so life gets easy.

He removes the ones that aren't yours to carry. And he makes you face the ones that are.

Today we're going to meet him. In a garden where obstacles grow like flowers.

Before You Begin

Find somewhere you can sit for a bit without someone needing you.

(I know. With four kids that's basically impossible. Do your best. Lock the bathroom door if you have to.)

Think about what you've been trying to start. Or where you've been stuck. The thing that keeps hitting walls. The project that won't launch. The change that won't happen. The door that just won't open no matter how hard you push.

You don't have to figure out why it's stuck. Just acknowledge: I'm stuck. There's an obstacle and I honestly don't know if I'm supposed to push through it, go around it, or stop trying entirely.

Take a breath.

Let your shoulders drop. Your jaw soften. That place between your eyebrows that's probably scrunched up right now—let it smooth out.

When you're ready, let your awareness settle.

...

Arriving at the Garden

You find yourself standing at the entrance to a garden.

But this isn't a normal garden.

The paths twist and turn back on themselves. Hedges are overgrown, completely blocking what might have once been walkways. Fallen trees create barriers. Stone walls appear in random places serving no clear purpose. Gates standing wide open to nowhere. Other gates locked shut.

This is a maze. An obstacle course. A garden that seems specifically designed to make progress impossible.

And yet.

It's strangely beautiful.

Moss covering the obstacles in velvet green. Flowers growing in the cracks of broken walls. Vines turning dead trees into living sculptures.

Even the obstacles are alive here. Growing things.

At the entrance, there's a small shrine. Offerings left by others who came before—flowers, sweets, small elephant figurines, probably some crystals because there are always crystals.

And there, sitting beside the shrine, completely at ease—

Ganesha.

...

Meeting the Keeper

He's massive.

Elephant-headed, human-bodied, draped in orange silk. His trunk curves gracefully. His eyes are ancient and amused—like he's in on a joke you haven't gotten yet but will.

One tusk intact. One broken off halfway. He's holding the broken piece in one hand like a writing instrument.

In his other hands—he has four, which is another thing that makes no sense until it does—he holds different objects. A sweet. A lotus. A rope. An axe.

Tools and treats. Weapons and gifts. All at once.

His mouse sits beside him. Tiny and calm, somehow radiating the same unshakeable presence as the god it carries.

Ganesha sees you.

His trunk moves slightly. A greeting. An acknowledgment.

"You came to the Obstacle Garden," he says. His voice is warm, amused, infinitely patient. "Everyone does eventually. When they're stuck. When they can't figure out why the path won't open."

You look at the impossible maze of obstacles behind him.

"You think I put these here to stop you," he says. "Some of them, yes. Some are stopping you from going somewhere that would destroy you. Some are slowing you down so you learn something you need to know first."

He takes a bite of his sweet. Chews thoughtfully.

"But most of the obstacles in this garden?"

He grins. It's a kind grin, but also slightly mischievous.

"You put them there yourself. And you're so busy trying to smash through them or climb over them that you haven't stopped to ask why you built them."

Feel that land. Wherever it lands in your body.

...

Walking the Garden

Ganesha stands.

When he stands, you realize just how massive he really is. But his movement is graceful. Light. There's nothing clumsy about him despite his size. Despite the elephant head that shouldn't work but somehow does.

"Come," he says. "Let me show you your obstacles."

He leads you into the garden.

The first obstacle you come to is a wall. High. Solid. Stone. Clearly impassable.

You recognize it immediately.

This is the wall. The one you've been hitting. The thing that keeps stopping you no matter what you try.

"Tell me about this wall," Ganesha says.

So you do. How long you've been hitting it. How many different approaches you've tried. How frustrated you are. How stuck. How maybe you're starting to think you should just give up.

Ganesha nods. Listening.

Then he does something unexpected.

He walks around the wall.

Takes maybe ten steps.

"This wall," he says from the other side, "only blocks one path. There are seven other ways to get where you're going. But you keep trying to go through it because you decided this was the way."

He comes back around.

"Sometimes an obstacle isn't telling you to stop. It's telling you to turn. Try a different approach. Stop being so attached to how you think it should happen."

Is your obstacle actually immovable? Or are you just trying to move it in only one direction?

...

The Obstacle You Built

Ganesha leads you deeper into the garden.

The next obstacle is different. It's a maze of hedges. Overgrown. Confusing. You can see the path continues on the other side, but getting through isn't clear at all.

"This one's interesting," Ganesha says. "You built this one recently. Last year maybe. Or five years ago. Time's weird here."

You start to protest—you didn't build this, you would never—

But then you look closer.

And you see it.

The hedge is made of all your safety behaviors. Your perfectionism. Your need to have absolutely everything figured out before you start. Your habit of researching instead of doing. Your carefully cultivated collection of reasons why now isn't the right time.

"You built this to protect yourself," Ganesha says, and his voice is so gentle it almost hurts. "And it did protect you. For a while. But now it's just keeping you small."

He pulls out his axe.

"I could cut through this for you," he says. "But then you'd just grow it back. Or build a new one somewhere else. You've gotten really good at building these. You have to be the one to decide: is this protection still serving you, or is it prison now?"

What are you protecting yourself from by staying stuck?

What's scary about actually moving forward?

...

The Obstacle That's Actually a Teacher

Further into the garden, you come to a fallen tree blocking the entire path.

"Ah," Ganesha says. "This one."

You've tried everything with this obstacle. Tried to move it, climb over it, go around it. Nothing works. This is the one that's made you seriously consider giving up entirely. Walking away. Deciding maybe this just isn't for you.

Ganesha sits down on the fallen tree.

Pats the trunk beside him.

You sit.

"Some obstacles," he says, "are not meant to be removed. They're meant to be sat with. Learned from. They're teachers disguised as problems."

He traces the rings in the wood where the tree was cut.

"This obstacle is showing you something about yourself. About your patterns. About what you actually want versus what you think you should want. But you're so busy trying to get past it that you haven't stopped to listen to what it's teaching."

What would this obstacle say if it could speak?

What is it trying to show you?

Ganesha takes out one of his sweets. Breaks it in half. Offers you a piece.

"The sweetness comes after you learn the lesson. Not before. That's why I hold them but don't hand them out. You have to earn the breakthrough by actually breaking through something in yourself."

...

The Obstacle That Saved Your Life

The next obstacle is strange.

It's a locked gate. Solid metal. Impassable.

And behind it—you can see through the bars—there's a path. A beautiful path. Sunlit. Perfect. The path you wanted to take. The opportunity that closed. The door that wouldn't open no matter how hard you knocked.

"You're still angry about this one," Ganesha observes.

Yes. You are.

This was supposed to be your path. This was the opportunity, the relationship, the break you needed. And it was blocked. For no good reason that you could see. It felt cruel. Arbitrary. Unfair.

Ganesha takes out his rope—one of the tools he carries.

"This is my lasso," he says. "Sometimes I use it to pull people back from cliffs they can't see yet. From paths that look beautiful but lead straight off a ledge."

He looks at the locked gate.

"You wanted to go through this gate two years ago. Three years ago. You fought with me about it. You thought I was stopping you out of cruelty. Or indifference. Or because the universe hates you specifically."

He turns to you.

His eyes are unbearably kind.

"But if you'd gone through this gate when you wanted to—if I'd let you—you'd be destroyed right now. Financially ruined. Or heartbroken beyond repair. Or compromised in ways you couldn't come back from. The path looked beautiful, but it wasn't your path. I was protecting you from something you couldn't see yet."

Is there an obstacle you're still bitter about that might have actually saved you?

...

The Obstacle You've Outgrown

The next section of the garden is overgrown with vines. They're covering everything. Making it almost impossible to see that there's even a path underneath.

"These grow fast," Ganesha says. "These are old fears. Old stories. Old versions of yourself that you keep dragging into new situations like heavy luggage you refuse to put down."

He starts pulling vines away.

Underneath, the path is clear. Still there. Just hidden.

"You're not the person these obstacles were built for anymore. You've outgrown them. But you keep acting like they're still real. Keep telling yourself the story about how you can't do this thing because of what happened ten years ago. Because of what that person said. Because you tried once and it didn't work."

He hands you the vines he's pulled away.

"You can keep these if you want. Keep telling the old story. Keep using the old obstacles as excuses. Or you can drop them right here and see that the path is already clear. Has been clear. You've just been walking around with your eyes covered."

What old story are you still using to explain why you can't move forward?

Is it still actually true?

...

The Missing Obstacle

Ganesha leads you to a wide open space in the garden.

No obstacles at all. Just clear path stretching ahead into the distance.

"And this," he says, "is often the hardest one."

You look at the empty space, confused.

"No obstacles," he says. "Nothing stopping you. The path is completely clear. You're ready. You're capable. Everything is aligned. All the excuses have been removed."

He sits down in the middle of the empty space.

"And you're terrified."

Oh.

"Because if nothing is stopping you, then you actually have to do it. And then you have to face whether you're good enough. Whether you actually want this thing you've been saying you want. Whether you can handle it if you get it. Whether you're enough."

He looks at you with those ancient, patient eyes.

"Sometimes I remove all the obstacles. And people panic. They'd rather have something to fight against, something to blame, than have to face their own agency. Their own power. Their own responsibility for what happens next."

If nothing was stopping you—if every excuse was gone—what would you have to face about yourself?

...

What Ganesha Actually Removes

You've walked through the whole garden now.

Seen all your obstacles. The wall that only blocks one path. The hedge you built for protection that became prison. The fallen tree that's teaching you something if you'd stop trying to climb over it. The locked gate that saved you from disaster. The vines you've outgrown but keep carrying. The terrifying empty space where nothing stops you except you.

Ganesha leads you back to the entrance.

Back to the shrine with the offerings and the patient mouse.

"So here's what people don't understand about me," he says. "They pray 'Ganesha, remove my obstacles' like I'm supposed to make everything easy. Clear the path. Make success guaranteed. Make it so they never have to struggle or feel uncomfortable or face anything hard."

He shakes his massive elephant head.

"I don't remove obstacles to make things easy. I remove the obstacles that aren't yours. The ones keeping you from your actual path because you got distracted by someone else's path and thought it was supposed to be yours. The ones you've outgrown. The ones that are just old stories you keep repeating because they're familiar."

He touches his broken tusk.

"But the obstacles that are actually yours—the ones teaching you something essential, the ones protecting you from disaster, the ones showing you what you really want instead of what you think you should want—those I make bigger. I make sure you can't miss them. Can't bypass them. Can't pretend they're not there."

"I broke off part of myself to write down truth," he says. "Sometimes removing an obstacle means breaking off a part of who you thought you were. Your ego. Your comfortable story. Your safe identity. The version of yourself that's too small for what you're being called to become."

"That's the obstacle that needs removing. Not the circumstances. You."

...

The Gift

Back at the shrine, Ganesha sits down again.

His mouse curls up beside him, completely relaxed. Like carrying a god is no big deal.

"You came here hoping I'd remove your obstacles," he says. "Clear your path. Make things easy. Give you permission to finally start."

He takes out one of his sweets.

Holds it out to you.

"But the real gift isn't the removal. It's the discernment. Knowing which obstacles to push through. Which to go around. Which to sit with and learn from. Which to drop because you've outgrown them. Which missing ones to finally face because they're just your own fear wearing a scary mask."

You take the sweet.

It's heavier than it looks. More solid.

"Start," Ganesha says. "That's what I actually remove—the obstacles to starting. All the research, the perfect timing, the waiting to feel ready. I remove those. But then you actually have to begin. And you have to keep going when it gets hard. When the new obstacles appear. Because they will."

"And when you hit an obstacle—really hit one that stops you—ask: Is this stopping me or redirecting me? Protecting me or challenging me to grow? Mine or someone else's that I picked up? Real or just an old story I'm telling myself?"

His trunk curves in what might be a blessing or might just be amusement at the whole beautiful mess of being human.

"The Obstacle Garden is always here. You can come back whenever you're stuck. Whenever you need to figure out which obstacles are which. But eventually you'll realize—the obstacles aren't the problem. They're the path. They're the practice. They're what makes you into someone capable of holding what you're asking for."

...

The Return

You walk back out of the garden.

The path ahead of you is still full of obstacles. But they look different now. Less like enemies. More like information. More like teachers, even the annoying ones.

Some you'll push through. Some you'll walk around. Some you'll sit with until you understand what they're trying to teach. Some you'll recognize as old vines you can finally drop.

And the ones that remain—the real ones, the ones that are actually yours—you'll face them knowing they're not punishment.

They're preparation.

Ganesha waves from the entrance. Trunk raised in blessing.

The mouse beside him somehow reminding you: your own small, persistent effort is enough to move mountains.

You just have to start.

You just have to keep going.

...

Coming Back

Take a breath.

Feel your body. The weight of you against whatever's holding you up right now—chair, floor, bed, wherever you landed to read this.

Notice your hands. Your feet. Your heartbeat doing its steady thing without you having to think about it.

The Obstacle Garden is inside you. It's always been inside you, these obstacles growing and changing and teaching and protecting and sometimes just getting in the damn way.

But now you've walked it. Now you know which obstacles are which.

When you're ready, open your eyes.

You're here.

The path is clearer than it was before. Not because the obstacles are gone—they're not gone, they're never all gone—but because you know how to read them now.

You know which ones are information.

Integration: The Questions That Matter

Write as much or as little as you want. Or don't write at all, just sit with these.

About Your Obstacles:

Which obstacle in the garden was most familiar? The wall you keep hitting? The hedge you built yourself? The fallen tree teacher? The locked gate you're still bitter about? The vines you've outgrown? The terrifying empty space?

What is your biggest obstacle actually made of? Fear? Perfectionism? Old stories? Protection you don't need anymore? Lack of skill? Wrong direction? Be specific.

Here's the hard one: What obstacle are you kind of grateful for because it means you don't have to actually try? Which one are you using as an excuse?

About Your Patterns:

Ganesha said most obstacles in the garden, you put there yourself. What obstacle did you build? When? What were you protecting yourself from? Is that protection still serving you?

What obstacles have you outgrown but are still treating as real? What story are you still telling that isn't true anymore—or maybe never was?

The locked gate—what path did you desperately want that closed? Looking back now, can you see why? Can you see what it might have saved you from?

About Starting:

If Ganesha removed all the obstacles to starting—the perfect timing, the complete readiness, the guaranteed success, all of it gone—what would you have to do tomorrow?

What are you researching instead of doing? What are you perfecting instead of launching? What are you waiting for that's never going to arrive?

Ganesha's mouse carries the elephant god. What's your version of small, persistent effort that could move your massive obstacle if you just kept going?

About Discernment:

Look at your current biggest obstacle. Ask it directly: Are you stopping me or redirecting me? Protecting me or challenging me? Answer honestly. Out loud if possible.

Which of your obstacles are teachers that need sitting with, not pushing through? What are they trying to teach you that you keep refusing to learn?

The empty space—if nothing was stopping you, what would you have to face about yourself? Your capability? Your desire? Your responsibility? Your enoughness?

The Real Question:

Ganesha said sometimes what needs removing isn't the circumstances—it's you. What part of your identity, your ego, your comfortable story needs to break off so you can actually begin?

Who would you have to become to do this thing you keep saying you want to do?

A Final Note

Ganesha doesn't make things easy.

He makes things right.

He removes obstacles that aren't yours. He places obstacles to redirect you when you're headed somewhere that would hurt you. He makes the real ones bigger so you can't miss them, can't bypass them, can't pretend they're not there.

And he sits at the entrance to every beginning with his broken tusk and his sweets and his absurdly tiny mouse vehicle, reminding you: you're more capable than you think. The obstacles are information, not punishment. And the sweetness comes after you've earned it, not before.

So start anyway.

Start messy. Start scared. Start before you're ready—because you'll never feel ready, and Ganesha knows that, and he's not judging you for it. He's just waiting for you to begin.

The Obstacle Garden is always here. You'll walk through it many times in your life. Different obstacles, same practice: discernment over force. Wisdom over willpower. Asking "what is this teaching me?" instead of "why is this happening to me?"

May you read your obstacles wisely.

May you remove what's ready to be removed.

May you face what's yours to face.

And may you start before you feel ready—because that tiny mouse can carry a god, and your small persistent effort can move mountains.

Next in the series: The Mirror Cave

Where we face what we've been avoiding seeing.

🕉️