I’ve been architecting systems for transformation for a long time. Lately, something quieter — and truer — has been rewriting my plans. This is the story of stepping out of performance and into lift. If you’ve felt the ache to shed what no longer carries you, this one’s for you.
I’ve spent decades building.
Blueprints. Systems. Spaces for people to become. I’ve loved the geometry of it—the clean lines of logic, the way language can hold a trembling truth steady long enough for someone to touch it. I built the rooms where others could breathe. I drew the maps. I learned the winds.
But lately, a quiet ache has been rewriting my instructions.
It began as a hum in the background—barely a sound, more a pressure change. Then came the question that doesn’t leave: What if I gave up everything except the truth? Not quit—shed. Not collapse—clarify. I’m learning there’s a difference.
For years, I said the LifeSpider was ready to fly. I said it with conviction—the kind you earn by showing up a thousand times when the dopamine is gone and only devotion remains. But that sentence always landed like a dress rehearsal. Something in me nodded, and something in me waited.
Now the waiting has turned into weather.
It isn’t emptiness—it’s a clean slate. Not silence—listening. The heaviness I’ve carried (the scaffolding, the visibility vows, the must-post calendars) is dissolving like fog in first light. I understand why the latest projects never took off. I understand why the current container of The Weird Ones feels too tight around the ribs. It isn’t wrong; it’s simply smaller than what’s arriving.
I’m noticing how often impatience wears the mask of productivity. How often I fed the performative hunger of “more” instead of the honest appetite of “true.” I still love momentum—but only when it moves from within. Patience, I’ve discovered, isn’t waiting; it’s trust in motion. It’s what you do with your wings before the sky notices.
So I return to the strategy the caterpillar uses without a coach: the Butterfly Strategy.
The Egg is the new frequency I can’t yet name. It sits in me like a sealed envelope. I don’t tear it open anymore. I hold it to the light and wait for the watermark to reveal itself.
The Larva is the conversation between my soul and my ego. I ask my ego what it wants—not to surrender to it but to partner with it. When it tells me it wants impact, precision, recognition, I say: “Beautiful. Help me build a vessel for truth, not a theater for applause.” I let the strategist be useful.
The Cocoon is where I live right now: a dissolving that feels like dissolving into—the shape rearranging from the inside out. The older structures loosen their grip. My calendar breathes. My voice lowers. I listen to the room behind my ribs.
And then there’s Flight. I used to believe flight was another product launch, another optimized model. Now it feels like permission. Wings drying in open air. The terrifying and tender choice to stop carrying what can, at last, carry me.
Here is the strangest gift: I am no longer building.
I’ve been the architect, the mason, the foreman, the midnight janitor. I know how to stack stones with bare hands. But I feel the sentence leaving me. The web no longer needs my grip. The system I served is no longer a framework—it’s a frequency. I don’t have to hold it up; I have to let it move through.
I used to think truth was something I crafted. I measured it, edited it, framed it for clarity. That was necessary—training wheels for a wild mind. But now truth feels like weather again: not to shape, but to stand in. The more I surrender to it, the more it reshapes me into something aerodynamic.
I am learning the difference between effort and lift.
Lift happens when the air itself says now.
Like the spider, I’ve been hanging in the thread between what was and what wants to be. In nature, a spider doesn’t leap blindly from one web to the next — it waits, suspended, sensing the wind. Only when the current shifts does it release its thread and let the air carry it to a new anchor. Then — and only then — does it begin to weave again. This isn’t hesitation. It’s wisdom. It’s the strategy of becoming.
So I’m shedding what can’t lift: the performance of productivity, the pressure to monetize every transmission, the relic belief that visibility equals value. I’m releasing the smaller “coach” costume that once fit perfectly but now pinches at the seams. I am keeping my poetry—even when it is “too much.” I am keeping my Weird Ones—even as the room changes shape. I am keeping my right to recalibrate—to pivot, pause, and reweave without apology.
I refuse to give up the ache, because the ache is honest. The ache is the instrument that finds true north in the dark.
What happens when the builder becomes the butterfly?
At first, nothing others can see. Inside, everything. A subtle widening in the chest. A hum that replaces the drum. A calendar that leaves blank space on purpose. A commitment to speak only when the words arrive warm from the fire. A new kind of leadership that doesn’t stand at the front of the room—it changes the room by being in it.
I used to chase the next thing. Now I let the next thing find me by resonance. My strategy is simpler and braver: tell the truth sooner. If it doesn’t sing, I don’t pick it up. If it sings, I follow the note.
I don’t know what this means yet, and I’m not pretending to. My mind wants a plan; my body wants the sky. For once, I’m letting my body win.
When I close my eyes, I see it: a butterfly taking off. Not forced, not posed—caught by a wind that was always there. The wings don’t argue with the air. They meet it. They trust it. They become what the air can carry.
So if you’re reading this and you’re one of us—the Weird Ones who feel too much and build anyway—consider this your permission slip to pause. To set down the clever scaffolding you outgrew. To listen for the blueprint your bones already remember.
I’m not giving up. I’m giving in. To the truth.
And here’s the hardest, cleanest insight I have to offer you now:
Truth is not what I build. Truth is the wind that lifts when I finally stop holding the ground.
Meet me there—in the air between identities, where patience is motion and becoming is enough. Bring your ache. Bring your unfinished. Bring the wing you’ve been hiding. We’ll learn its shape together.
If it sings, we fly.
P.S.
I hear the song...
I didn’t know it then, but The Weird Ones began with a song.
It was the early days of Clubhouse — that strange, wild digital café where voices floated free without filters. Every morning, before we opened the room, David Love Morin pressed play on Feeling Good by Nina Simone. Her voice — deep, defiant, eternal — filled the space like a declaration:
“Birds flying high, you know how I feel…”
Those mornings were electric. No slides. No scripts. Just a constellation of misfits, futurists, and tender rebels gathering around an invisible fire.
We came as The Weird Ones — not as a brand, but as a knowing. We came because we couldn’t not come.
Back then, I believed LifeSpider™ was for the normies — a system to help structured souls expand, to help the linear ones awaken to their multidimensional nature.
Clubhouse cracked the shell—and The Weird Ones on LinkedIn confirmed the pulse. The song, the conversations, the ache in the room—they didn’t just echo a truth. They revealed it.
LifeSpider™ was never built for the normies. It was built for us.
The Weird Ones. The quantum feelers.
WEIRD EVENT
Thursday, October 9, @ 11:00 AM, PST
Join our event and learn how to use the Butterfly Strategy or
share how you already are using it.
✨ What looks like delay is often alignment.
How many times have you been called impatient, inconsistent, scattered—or accused of jumping from one thing to the next without finishing?
In this event, we’ll challenge those labels.
Because The Weird Ones don’t follow straight lines.
We follow phases.
Welcome to the Butterfly Strategy—a radical shift from “you should be further along” to “you’re exactly where you need to be.”
🕸️ That’s all for now, dear Weird One.
If this resonated, pause before you plan.
Ask what wants to lift you — not what you must carry. Write a comment or hit reply and tell me where you are: Egg, Larva, Cocoon, or Flight.
I’m listening.
P.S. Join our Weird Gathering on Thursday to be in the room where this lift happens in real time. Join the Weird Gathering
Fly High!
Birgitta
Join The Web of Weird, a codex vault and training ground where unconventional minds ignite their mission, sharpen their craft, and gather momentum for the revelation of their LifeSpider™.
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