Choosing Love in the Spiral of Time

When you choose love at the breaking point,

the spiral shifts—

and time itself begins to heal.

Some days, the universe breathes.

But first, you must understand something deeper.

Life is a spiral.

Not a line.

Not a circle.

A spiral.

This spiral—

the Fibonacci spiral—

appears in galaxies, DNA, seashells,

fingerprints, and flowers.

It is the design behind time itself.

What we call "events" are just opportunities

repeating until the wound is healed.

Until the choice is made.

Each moment on the spiral

is a chance

to choose love or fear.

Love often comes at a profound cost.

Fear, on the other hand,

always offers immediate comfort.

But the spiral doesn’t forget.

It returns until the lesson is learned.

Until the heart chooses the hard thing.

And when you choose love,

something shifts.

The spiral itself evolves.

Your path changes.

Your frequency sharpens.

And the universe begins

to align what matches you.

Every person is a spiral, too.

And when spirals intersect—

through love, pain, relationship, or fate—

they form the living fabric of the cosmos.

Larger spirals,

collective timelines,

hold these threads together.

And all of them are moving,

choosing, and remembering.

If you find your soul mate—

and you both choose the hard path

of growth, of truth, of love—

your spirals sync.

And when they do,

you don’t just become more powerful.

You become more tested.

Because power brings proportionate conflict.

But if you can heal your heart wound,

you begin healing the ones in your DNA,

your lineage,

your future.

This is what I witnessed.

This is what I walked into.

It happened in a courtroom.

But it was never just about court.

I had walked into that building a hundred times before.

Each time with more paperwork.

More truth. More evidence.

More hope.

But this time was different.

I had filed six objections before that hearing,

each one legally asserting my right to appear before a judge rather than a commissioner.

All of them timestamped.

Filed properly.

Entered into record.

Except they weren’t.

The file was mysteriously empty.

The judge’s ruling appeared before the hearing had occurred.

The commissioner presided anyway,

despite clear disqualification.

The clerk, visibly shaken,

was on the phone with the judge just moments before.

The bailiff hovered.

The lawyer fabricated a stipulation that didn’t exist.

The tension was thick.

And then—

They stalled.

Computers suddenly "froze."

Everyone looked for a document they knew they didn’t have.

I said nothing.

I waited.

I let the silence grow awkward.

Then I spoke the truth:

that my due process rights had been violated,

that I had filed legal objections,

complaints,

writs,

and a judicial council complaint—

all naming this commissioner.

That I had followed the law.

She paused.

Then asked, “Do you want me to rule with my tentative ruling?”

What was offered that day—

on the surface—

was time.

More hours with my children.

A tentative victory.

But beneath it, I saw the trap.

A carefully staged performance:

the commissioner dangling the one thing I had fought for,

only if I would surrender the Constitution itself.

Only if I would agree to let her remain,

to silence my objections,

to erase the law with a nod.

In that breath, I saw their spirals.

I saw the commissioner—

twisting her path to conceal misconduct and preserve a campaign.

I saw opposing counsel—

tethered to power, prestige,

and a client who feared a father's love

might expose their own false story.

I saw deals unspoken,

ethics bartered in whispers,

credibility unraveling as they failed to break the pro per they’d underestimated.

And still, they smiled.

Because they believed I would take the bait.

That love for my children would blind me to the cost.

But I didn’t.

I saw the pattern.

I saw the design.

And I chose truth.

“Do you want me to rule with my tentative ruling?”

I answered with a question.

“Do you mean today,

for this issue,

and never again?”

She said no.

That she would preside over everything from that day forward.

And I said, “Then I cannot agree.”

In that moment,

I felt the wind leave the courtroom.

Like a balloon deflating.

I had stepped out of fear and into truth—

even though it cost me

and it was a frequency they didn’t know how to answer.

The attorney tried to object.

Then cried.

Yes — cried.

Then requested an evidentiary hearing.

It was surreal.

But not just surreal.

Sacred.

Because something else happened that day—

something I didn’t expect.

I watched the people in the room.

Not just the commissioner

or the opposing lawyer,

but the witnesses.

The bailiff.

The self-help attorney we’ll call The Quiet Witness.

The other staff.

I saw it in their eyes.

They felt it.

The convergence.

The tension.

The potential.

Everyone was on edge,

but it wasn’t just because of legal strategy or courtroom antics.

It was because,

in that moment,

the spiral opened.

I believe all of us had,

in our own ways,

asked for it.

Consciously or not.

For change.

For justice.

For a way forward.

And the universe answered.

The air hummed.

The timelines bent.

The spirals aligned.

Even the head judge—

who I later learned had grown up without a father—

stood at a crossroads.

A man who had fought to become a family law judge,

now face to face

with a penniless father he never was given.

And the universe whispered:

"will you heal the wound,

even if it costs you your status and your comfort?"

We were all being asked the same question.

Some chose love.

Some chose fear.

And when the moment passed,

a new spiral began.

One where nothing could be hidden.

One where lies leave residue.

One where truth,

no matter how slow,

begins to shape the road ahead.

This blog is not just a reflection.

It’s a marker in time.

Because we are all spiraling.

And sometimes,

the right frequency can shift the whole design.

If you’re in a moment like that—

if it feels like the universe is giving you a window to speak, act, or stand—

trust the hum in your bones.

The spiral of time is listening.