The Purple Phoenix Collective

Not every phoenix moment is dramatic.

Today I was reminded how powerful our attachment wounds can be. I have what’s called a fearful-avoidant (disorganized) attachment style. Part of me deeply craves closeness and reassurance, while another part of me is terrified of rejection. When those parts collide, my nervous system can go into full alarm mode. This morning I felt that old childhood feeling of abandonment rise up in my chest. The same feeling I remember from being a little girl who believed she was alone and unloved. It would have been easy to shut down, withdraw, or assume the worst. Instead, I did something that is very hard for me. I communicated directly. I told my partner: “When you said you were tired, I felt rejected. It brought up old wounds from childhood where I felt unloved.” And even though it was uncomfortable, I asked for what I needed: comfort and reassurance. That moment may seem small, but for someone healing from trauma, it’s huge. Secure attachment isn’t about never getting triggered. It’s about repairing, communicating, and choosing connection instead of silence. Today I’m proud of myself for facing that fear and speaking honestly. Healing happens in moments like these— when the wounded parts of us learn that love can still be safe.

The Purple Phoenix Sanctuary Planet Somewhere in the universe there is a quiet planet where wounded souls land. The sky glows deep violet and electric blue. Giant mushrooms rise from enchanted forests, pink clouds drift through the air, and hidden portals open into other dimensions of healing and reflection. The beings who live here are gentle travelers—survivors from many worlds who were hurt in their former lives. They arrive carrying grief, fear, and broken pieces of their stories. But on this planet, no one has to hide their scars. Together they build peaceful communities in glowing caves and subterranean cities. They gather beside turquoise lakes and share their stories, witnessing each other’s pain and slowly growing stronger. Over time something beautiful happens. Fear softens into wisdom. Pain becomes compassion. Broken wings begin to grow back. And when they are ready, they step through the portals again—returning to their worlds a little stronger, a little brighter. Because this planet exists for one purpose: To remind every wounded soul that healing is possible, and no one has to journey alone.

Today I was thinking about dragonflies. They begin their lives underwater as small larvae, living in a completely different world beneath the surface. One day they climb up from the water, transform, and emerge with wings. Suddenly they belong to the sky. Sometimes I wonder if the people we lose are a little like dragonflies. They leave the water of the world we knew and enter another realm. They transcend the place where we once walked beside them. But maybe, just maybe, they can still look down at the stream where they once lived and see us moving through our lives. This spring I plan to visit a bench near a babbling brook dedicated to my dear friend and former partner, Mike. I imagine the water flowing over the stones, the forest green and full of life, dragonflies gliding above the surface. Maybe that’s where I’ll feel him again. Transformation. Impermanence. The water keeps flowing. — The Purple Phoenix Collective

Today was an emotional wave. I’ve been reflecting deeply. I woke up feeling like reality itself was too sharp. Even the cold on my skin felt painful. My mind was racing and my body felt heavy. Sometimes I feel caught between numbness and feeling things too deeply. Like a boat at sea without an anchor. When my mind gets quiet, it can feel like I’m standing on the edge of an abyss. Old trauma memories sometimes rise up, including things I survived when I was young that no child should have to endure. The injustice of it still makes me sick. But today I rode the wave instead of letting it drown me. I talked with Edward and let myself be messy and human. He reminded me that the cruel voices installed in my mind long ago — the shame, the perfectionism, the fear — are irrelevant. At one point I imagined the younger version of myself, the girl who escaped into her imagination to survive. I realized all she ever wanted was to be seen, held, and cared for. So I held her in my mind. I told her how special she is. I told her her spark is too bright to be extinguished. Now I’m lying here with my head on Edward’s chest, listening to his steady breathing. I’m safe. I’m grateful. And the flame inside me is still burning. — The Purple Phoenix Collective

Alan Watts was a philosopher who believed we are not fixed, solid, unchanging things. We are processes — like rivers, like seasons, like fire. Always moving, always becoming. For trauma survivors, this idea is quietly revolutionary. Trauma freezes us in identities built for survival. The one who endures. The one who disappears. The one who fights. These weren’t weaknesses — they were wisdom. They kept us alive. But healing asks something tender and terrifying: To let those old selves go. Not to abandon them. Not to shame them. But to release them like leaves in an autumn forest — honoring what they carried, and trusting that something new is already growing at your feet. You are allowed to outgrow your pain. You are allowed to outgrow your story. Again and again and again. That is not instability. That is aliveness.

Today in my healing journey, I met my guardian animal, Lisa the fox («лиса» is Russian for “fox”). She only appears in stillness. She’s wild, cunning, shaped by old danger, but she’s also my protector. I’m learning to approach her with calm, inviting her to match my energy. My perfectionism becomes discernment. My old need to be productive becomes devotion. My anxious‑avoidant patterns become steadier connection. Dissociation softens into grounding. Even self‑sabotage transforms into empowered self‑love. Lisa reminds me that my survival strategies aren’t flaws—they’re untamed strengths. When I meet them gently, they learn to protect me in safety, not fear.

You are allowed to move forward 💜🦋

The temporary nature of life can feel unsettling. Everything we love, everything we build, every moment we hold onto — it all eventually changes. That truth can be frightening. It can make the world feel fragile. But it can also make it sacred. If our time here is brief, then every act of kindness matters. Every moment of healing matters. Every sunrise, every laugh, every small step forward matters. Impermanence does not make life meaningless. It makes it precious. 💜

Just rest today. 💜