Opening: When You Keep Ending Up in the Same Place

Maybe you've noticed the pattern by now. I know I have—took me way longer than it should have, but here we are.

Different relationship, same wound. Different job, same dynamic. Different city, same loneliness. Different attempt at change, same place we always end up.

I've been here so many times. That thing where you swear THIS time will be different. You did the therapy. You set the boundaries. You learned the lesson. You were so conscious, so intentional, so committed to not repeating the cycle.

And yet—here we are again. Standing in what feels like the exact same spot we've been trying to leave for years.

Last week I was sitting in my living room—the one that's currently buried under laundry because four boys create an astonishing amount of dirty clothes—and I realized I was having the same conversation with myself I've been having for a decade. Same pattern. Same stuck place. Same sense of "seriously, Celina? Still?"

And everyone's got their theories. "You haven't healed it yet." "You're stuck in your story." "Maybe you're not actually ready to change."

Or worse: "You're manifesting this. You're attracting it." Thanks. Super helpful when you're already feeling like you're going in circles and getting nowhere.

But here's what I'm learning—slowly, messily, with a lot of help from teachers who actually know what they're talking about—about patterns: sometimes what looks like going in circles is actually moving in spirals.

Sometimes we're not back where we started. We're encountering the same lesson at a deeper level. We're not stuck. We're circling back with more wisdom, more capacity, more readiness than we had before.

And sometimes—the pattern isn't the problem. The pattern is pointing to something deeper that we keep refusing to see.

The ancient yogis knew about this. They built an entire cosmology around cycles.

The Wheel That Never Stops Turning

In Hindu philosophy—and I'm still learning about this from teachers who actually know what they're talking about—there's samsara (sahm-SAH-rah, and honestly I'm probably still saying it wrong). The wheel of birth, death, rebirth. The cycle of existence. The eternal return.

You live, you die, you're reborn, you forget, you learn the same lessons, you die again. Around and around. The same patterns playing out across lifetimes until you finally break free into moksha (MOHK-shah)—liberation.

Here's what gets me about this: even the gods are caught in cycles. Even Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva—creator, preserver, destroyer—are locked in their eternal dance. Creating, sustaining, destroying, creating again. The cosmic pattern that never ends.

And within that big wheel are smaller wheels. Chakras—literally "wheels" or "circles"—spinning centers of energy in the body. The seasons cycling. The breath cycling. Day and night. Birth and death. Everything turning, always turning.

My teacher once told me: the question isn't whether you're in a cycle. You are. Everything is.

The question is: Are you moving in circles—stuck, repeating unconsciously, getting nowhere?

Or are you moving in spirals—returning to the same themes but at different altitudes, with different awareness, carrying different medicine?

Today we're going to a place where we can see the difference. Where the spirals are visible. Where we can track our own pattern and finally understand: Am I stuck or am I deepening?

A grove where the trees themselves grow in spirals. And walking the path teaches us something about our own returning.

Before You Begin

(Find somewhere comfortable. You know the drill by now. Though if you're anything like me, "comfortable" means the couch with a cat who's decided your lap is his and you're not moving for the next twenty minutes.)

(Think about the pattern. The thing we keep repeating. The place we keep ending up. The lesson we thought we learned but apparently didn't. The wound that keeps reopening. The dynamic that keeps playing out.)

For me right now, it's this thing where I keep trying to do too much and then getting resentful when I'm exhausted. Same pattern, different decade. You'd think I'd have learned by now.

We don't have to understand it. Just acknowledge it. Name it, even just to ourselves.

(Take a breath. Let it be messy. Let it be tired. Let it be whatever it is.)

And notice: How do we feel about this pattern? Ashamed? Exhausted? Confused? Angry at ourselves? Resigned?

(Just notice. No need to change it.)

(When you're ready—or when the tea gets cold—let your awareness settle.)

...

Entering the Spiral Grove

We find ourselves on a path through a forest.

The trees here are strange. Their trunks don't grow straight up—they spiral. Twisting as they rise, turning around themselves, cork-screwing toward the canopy. Some spiral clockwise. Some counter-clockwise. All of them reaching up while also circling back.

The path beneath our feet spirals too. Not a straight line. Not even a circle. A spiral that curves inward, then back out, then in again, taking us deeper into the grove with each turn.

We can hear something at the center. Not quite music. Not quite wind. A humming. A resonance.

And we realize—we've been here before.

Not this exact forest. But this feeling. This sense of "I know this place. I've walked this path. I've been here and here and here, circling around something I can't quite reach."

The trees seem to recognize us too. They lean slightly as we pass, as if watching. As if saying: Yes. You again. We've been waiting.

...

Meeting the Guide

At a turn in the spiral path, we see someone sitting.

They're sitting on the ground, back against one of the spiral trees, completely still. Eyes open but looking inward. Meditating maybe. Or just being.

As we approach, they look up.

They might be old or young or somehow both. Their face is familiar in a way we can't place. Like we've seen them before but can't remember where.

"You came back," they say. Not surprised. Just noting.

We stop. "Have we met?"

They smile. "Many times. You just don't remember. You never do at first."

They stand, brushing earth from their clothes.

"Welcome to the Spiral Grove. This is where people come when they're tired of their patterns. When they're exhausted from ending up in the same place. When they think they're stuck going in circles."

They gesture to the spiraling trees, the spiraling path.

"But as you can see—nothing here goes in circles. Everything moves in spirals. There's a difference."

Notice where that lands. Your chest? That tight place in your throat? That spot in your gut that knows exactly what they're talking about?

...

The Difference Between Circles and Spirals

The guide starts walking, and we follow. The path curves inward.

"A circle," they say, "goes around and around the same point, at the same level, forever. You're covering the same ground. Seeing the same view. Nothing changes. That's being stuck."

They stop at a tree and point to its spiraling trunk.

"A spiral also goes around and around the same point. But it rises. Or descends. It moves through different levels even as it returns to the same themes. You're encountering the same lesson, but you're different. You're higher up. You can see more. You've grown."

They look at us.

"So the question isn't 'Am I in a pattern?' You are. The question is: 'Is this pattern a circle or a spiral?'"

Which is it for us? Are we truly stuck at the same level, or are we returning with more wisdom each time? Because I'll be honest—sometimes I genuinely can't tell. It feels so much like the same place.

The guide continues walking. The path spirals inward.

"Most people can't tell the difference from inside the pattern. It feels the same. Same dynamic. Same pain. Same sense of 'here we go again.' But the only way to know is to get perspective. To see the pattern from above."

...

Rising Above to See

The spiral path leads to one of the tallest trees in the grove. Its trunk spirals up and up, disappearing into the canopy.

"Climb," the guide says.

We look at the spiraling trunk. There are natural handholds where the bark curves. Foot-holds where branches emerge.

(We start to climb.)

At first it's hard. Our hands slip. Our feet search for purchase. The spiral makes it disorienting—we're going up but also around, rising but also returning to face directions we've already faced.

But slowly, we find the rhythm. Up and around. Up and around. Let the spiral carry us.

And as we rise, we can see more of the grove below.

From ground level, the paths looked random. Confusing. Like a maze with no logic.

But from up here—we can see the pattern. All the paths spiral inward toward the center. Some take longer routes. Some are more direct. But they're all moving toward the same point, just at different paces, from different entry points.

The guide climbs up beside us, somehow appearing on a branch without effort.

"Look at your own path," they say. "The one you've been walking. Can you see it from here?"

...

Seeing Your Pattern From Above

And we can.

From up here, we can see our pattern laid out like a map.

There—that was the first time. When we were young. When the wound first opened or the pattern first formed. The beginning of the spiral.

For me, I can see it starting around age twelve. That first time I learned to make myself smaller to keep the peace. To override what I needed to take care of what everyone else needed.

And there—a few years later. Coming around to it again. Different circumstances but same feeling. Same lesson trying to surface.

There—again. Closer to the center. Deeper this time. More painful maybe, or more obvious. We thought we'd learned it, but apparently not.

There—again and again and again. Each time circling back but also moving inward. Each time the stakes higher, the lesson clearer, our capacity to meet it growing.

And there—now. Where we are. Standing in what feels like the same place we've been before.

But from up here, we can see: we're not in the same place. We're closer to the center. We've been rising even as we've been circling. We're encountering the same wound at a deeper level because we're finally ready to meet it there.

What do we see in our pattern from this height? How are we different now than we were the first time? Because I can see—I'm so much more compassionate with myself now. Still falling into the pattern, but catching it faster. Recovering faster. That's something.

The guide sits on a branch, legs dangling.

"People get so discouraged when they hit the pattern again. They think it means they failed. They didn't learn. They're not growing. But look—" they point at our spiral path below, "—you're way closer to the center than you were. You've risen. You've deepened. You just couldn't see it from ground level."

...

What's at the Center

"Want to know what's at the center?" the guide asks.

We nod.

"Come on then."

They don't climb down. They jump. And somehow land gracefully on the forest floor, completely unharmed.

We climb down more carefully, following the spiral of the trunk, around and around as we descend.

At the bottom, the guide is already walking. The path spirals inward now, tighter and tighter, bringing us closer to the center with each turn.

And finally—we reach it.

The center of the Spiral Grove.

It's not what we expected.

It's just... empty space. A clearing. Circular. Quiet. Still.

No temple. No treasure. No cosmic revelation. Just an empty circle in the center of all the spirals.

"This is it?" we ask.

The guide nods. "This is it."

We look around. "There's nothing here."

"Exactly," the guide says. "The center is empty. The thing you keep circling around, the thing you keep trying to reach or resolve or finally get past—it's not a thing at all. It's an absence. A wound-shaped hole. A place where something was supposed to be but isn't."

They sit down in the center.

"You're not spiraling toward an answer. You're spiraling toward the question. The real question underneath all your patterns."

What's the question? Not the surface question—'Why does this keep happening?'—but the deeper one. The one we've been avoiding. The one that makes our stomach drop a little just thinking about it.

...

The Question at the Center

The guide looks at us, waiting.

"Every pattern is spiraling around a question you haven't been willing to ask. Or a truth you haven't been willing to see. Something at the center that you keep circling but never landing on."

They draw in the dirt with a stick. A spiral. A center point.

"Maybe the question is: 'Am I worthy of love?' And every relationship is bringing you around and around that question, asking you to answer it, but you keep looking for the answer in the other person instead of in yourself."

"Maybe it's: 'Am I safe?' And every time you feel unsafe, the pattern activates, trying to get you to finally face that no external circumstance will ever make you feel safe until you find safety inside yourself."

"Maybe it's: 'What do I actually want?' And you keep ending up unsatisfied because you're chasing what you think you should want instead of what you really want."

"Maybe it's: 'Am I enough?' And every achievement brings you back to that same hollow feeling because achievement was never the point. The worthiness was supposed to come first."

The guide looks at us directly.

"So what's your question? The one at the center of your spiral? The one you keep circling but not asking?"

Sit with that for a minute. Let the real question surface. Not the comfortable one. The true one. The one that's been there all along, waiting.

For me, I think it's been: "Am I allowed to take up space?" Every pattern circles back to that. Making myself smaller, overgiving, exhausting myself—all of it spiraling around that question I learned not to ask when I was twelve.

...

Why We Keep Spiraling

"Here's the thing," the guide says. "You're going to keep spiraling around this question until you're willing to sit in the center and actually ask it. Actually face it. Actually let the answer come from inside you instead of from the next relationship, the next achievement, the next place you move to, the next version of yourself you try to become."

They stand up, brushing dirt from their hands.

"The spiral isn't the problem. The spiral is the path. It's bringing you closer and closer to the center, to the question, to the truth. Each time around, you're ready for a deeper layer. Each time, you're more capable of holding what you'll find here."

"But most people get to the center and panic. Because the center is empty. There's no thing to fix or get or achieve. There's just this question, this wound-shaped space, asking to be acknowledged. To be felt. To be met."

"So they spiral back out. Start the pattern again. Go another round, hoping this time the external circumstances will be different enough that they won't have to face the center."

The guide looks at us with something like compassion. The kind we don't always have for ourselves.

"But you can't spiral out forever. Eventually the spiral gets so tight, the returns so frequent, that you can't avoid the center anymore. Eventually you have to stop circling and sit in the empty space and ask the question."

Are we ready to stop circling? Or do we need another round? There's no wrong answer here. Sometimes we need another lap. Sometimes the wisdom needs more time to settle before we're ready for what's at the center.

...

What Lives in the Spiral

Before we can answer, something moves in the trees around the clearing.

Not the guide. Something else.

Figures stepping out from behind the spiral trunks. Shadows becoming solid.

And we recognize them.

They're us.

Different versions of us. Younger us. The us from five years ago. Ten years ago. The us from the first time we encountered this pattern. The us from each spiral around.

They're all here. All the versions of us who walked this path before. Who circled this center. Who faced this question at different stages of readiness.

"They're always here," the guide says softly. "Every version of you who encountered this pattern. They don't disappear. They're walking the spiral still, learning what they were ready to learn then."

The youngest us looks scared. Confused. Just beginning to see the pattern.

The us from a few years ago looks tired. Fed up. Angry at having to face this again.

The us from more recently looks... softer. More resigned. More willing to see.

"This is why the spiral rises," the guide says. "Because you carry all of them with you. All the previous encounters. All the wisdom you gained from each round. You're not starting over. You're building on what they learned."

The other versions of us are looking at us now. The current us. Standing at the center.

They're waiting to see what we'll do that they couldn't.

And honestly? That makes me want to cry a little. All those versions of me, trying so hard, learning what they could. They did their best. We did our best.

...

The Choice at the Center

"So," the guide says. "You've reached the center. You can see your pattern from above. You know the question you've been circling. You can see all the versions of you who walked this path before."

"Now you choose."

They gesture outward, back to the spiral path.

"You can spiral back out. Take another round. There's no judgment in that. Sometimes you need another lap. Sometimes the wisdom from this encounter needs to integrate before you're ready for the next level."

Then they gesture to the center, the empty space.

"Or you can stay. Sit in the center. Stop circling and start settling. Let the question be answered from the inside instead of searching for it outside. Let the pattern dissolve because you've finally arrived at what it was always trying to show you."

They look at us steadily.

"But if you stay—you have to be willing to let the pattern go. And people get attached to their patterns. Attached to the identity of being the person who struggles with this thing. Attached to the familiar pain. Attached to having something to fix."

"Sitting in the center means the pattern might actually end. And then who are you? What's your story? What do you focus on if not this wound?"

What's scarier—staying in the pattern or letting it dissolve? Because sometimes the familiar pain is less terrifying than the unknown of being free from it.

...

What We Carry Back

Whether we choose to stay or spiral out for another round, the guide has something for us.

They reach into the air—or maybe into time itself—and pull out something.

A seed. Small. Unimpressive. But alive.

"This is from the center," they say. "Every time you come here, you get to take a seed. The wisdom from this round. The understanding you gained. The capacity you built by making it this far."

They place it in our hands.

"Plant this. Let it grow. It becomes part of you. Part of the spiral tree of your own becoming."

We look at the seed. It's warm.

"And when you come back—if you come back—you'll be coming back with a whole grove inside you. Every seed you've planted. Every round of the spiral you've walked. You'll be more rooted. More able to weather what the center asks of you."

The other versions of us—the past versions—are fading back into the trees. They've given us what they learned. Now it's ours to carry.

...

The Return Path

The guide walks with us back to the edge of the Spiral Grove.

The path spirals outward now. Wider. Easier. We're moving away from the center, but we're also rising.

"The spiral doesn't end," the guide says. "Even if you sat in the center this time. Even if the pattern dissolved. There will be new spirals. Deeper questions. Higher altitudes."

"That's not failure. That's life. Patterns within patterns. Spirals within spirals. Each one bringing you closer to... something. Liberation maybe. Or just deeper truth. More capacity to be with what is."

They stop at the edge where the regular forest begins.

"Come back whenever you're ready. The grove is always here. Your pattern is always visible from the right height. And when you're ready to sit in the center—really sit, really stay—the empty space will be waiting."

We step back onto normal ground. The spiral path behind us.

But we're carrying something now. The seed. The wisdom. The ability to see our pattern as a spiral instead of a circle.

That's not nothing.

...

Coming Back

(Take a breath.)

(Feel your actual body. Here. Now. Grounded. Maybe on the couch with the cat still claiming your lap. Maybe at the kitchen table with cold tea. Wherever you are, that's exactly where you need to be.)

(Notice what's beneath you. What's touching your skin. The temperature of the air.)

The Spiral Grove is inside us. It's always been inside us. Our patterns are spirals, not circles. We're rising even when it feels like we're returning.

(Flex your fingers. Wiggle your toes.)

(When you're ready—no rush—open your eyes.)

We're here.

And maybe we're still in the pattern. Maybe we'll spiral around it a few more times. But now we know—we're not stuck. We're deepening. We're rising. We're getting closer to the center with each round.

And when we're ready—when we're really ready—we'll stop circling and sit in the empty space and let the question finally be answered.

Integration: The Questions That Matter

(Grab your journal. Or just your phone. Whatever works. This is messy work, so let it be messy.)

About Your Pattern:

What's the pattern you keep repeating? Get specific. Same dynamic in relationships? Same self-sabotage at the edge of success? Same feeling of not belonging? Name it. Even if it makes you squirm to say it out loud.

When did this pattern start? When was the first time you can remember circling this particular wound or question? I'm talking specifics here—not "in my twenties" but "that day in eighth grade when..."

From up in the tree—can you see how you're different now than you were the first time? How have you grown even while the pattern repeated? Because you have. I promise you have.

About Circles vs. Spirals:

Is your pattern a circle or a spiral? Are you truly stuck at the same level, or are you encountering the same lesson at greater depth? Be honest. Sometimes it's hard to tell from inside it.

What has each round of this spiral taught you? What wisdom did you gain that you didn't have before? Even if it's just "I catch it faster now" or "I'm kinder to myself about it"—that counts.

If this is a spiral—what altitude are you at now? How close are you to the center? Can you feel yourself getting closer?

About the Center:

What's the question at the center of your spiral? The real question underneath all the surface dynamics. The one you've been avoiding. Not "Why does this keep happening?" but the deeper thing. The scary thing.

Why haven't you been willing to ask that question directly? What are you afraid the answer will be? Be specific—not "I'm afraid" but "I'm afraid that if I ask this, I'll have to admit..."

What wound-shaped hole are you spiraling around? What absence, what lack, what unmet need is at the center of this pattern? And does it maybe go back further than you thought?

About Previous Yous:

When you saw all the previous versions of yourself who've encountered this pattern—what did they teach you? What did each version learn? Can you see their wisdom now?

Which previous you are you most compassionate toward? Which one do you judge the most? And why the difference?

What does the current you know that all the previous yous didn't? What capacity have you built that you didn't have ten years ago? Five years ago? Last year?

About Staying or Leaving:

Are you ready to sit in the center and let the pattern dissolve? Or do you need another round? Be honest. No shame either way. Sometimes we need more laps.

What's scarier—continuing the pattern or ending it? What identity would you lose if this pattern resolved? Because sometimes we hold onto the familiar pain because at least we know who we are when we're in it.

If the pattern ended tomorrow, who would you be? What would you focus on? What would your story be? Can you even imagine it?

The Real Question:

The guide said you can't spiral out forever. Eventually the spiral gets so tight you can't avoid the center. Have you reached that point? Or are you still able to spiral back out for another round? How do you know?

What's the seed you're carrying back? What wisdom from this encounter are you planting in yourself? And where will you plant it—what will you do differently because of this?

A Final Note

Samsara—the wheel of existence—isn't punishment. It's not evidence that we're doing it wrong or failing to evolve.

It's just how things work. Patterns repeat. Spirals spiral. We encounter the same lessons at deeper and deeper levels until we finally sit in the center and let the question be answered from the inside.

And even then—even if this pattern dissolves—there will be new spirals. Deeper questions. Higher altitudes. That's not failure. That's growth. That's the path.

I'm still learning this. Still catching myself in the spiral and having to remind myself: this isn't failure. This is deepening. I'm not stuck. I'm rising.

The only real mistake is thinking we're stuck when we're actually rising. Thinking we're going in circles when we're moving in spirals. Judging ourselves for returning when returning is exactly what we're supposed to be doing.

We're closer than we think. We've learned more than we realize. We're carrying the wisdom of every previous round, every past version of ourselves who walked this path.

And when we're ready—truly ready—we'll sit in the center, ask the question, and let the pattern finally teach us what it's been trying to show us all along.

May we see our circles as spirals.

May we trust the rising even when we're returning.

May we sit in the center when we're ready—and spiral out again when we need to.

Both are sacred. Both are the path.

Next in the series: Volume 9: The Well of Shadows

Where we meet what we've been calling darkness.

🕉️