Rupture, Chaos, and Awe
Embracing the Cycles That Transform Us
If I had a board with two columns, one for wins and one for losses, the column of losses would be much longer. May I borrow an extra board?
Each loss ruptured something inside me. Not always something I could name, but always something I could feel.
My dad had a stroke last week, and it felt like I disappeared with him for those days. He is okay now, but rupture and chaos washed up at my door.
I am convinced that a life well-lived has a decent amount of rupture, chaos, and ultimately awe.
Ruptures come in many forms. Friendships, family, opportunities, ideas, dreams and beliefs.
Each rupture brings its healthy amount of chaos.
As human beings we resist the truth that much of life is made of ruptures and chaos.
Writing that I bite my bottom lip.
In the moments of rupture we do not always know what is happening. Ruptures are inevitable. Chaos is inevitable too. It reminds us not to get too comfortable, because nothing in life is permanent.
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”
In that acceptance I find myself more often in awe.
Less bruised by life and more tickled by it.
You might have felt it at the end of a yoga class, during meditation, or while staring at something in nature that steals you momentarily from this reality and reminds you there is more to be told and more to be felt.
In rupture and chaos it is easy to feel helpless. I have felt at times that there was no way out, that I was too deep in despair. I could not move or do the things I loved. I could not be with the people I needed. I could not sustain relationships that lacked genuine care.
The ruptures felt like pieces of a glacier breaking into the ocean. Violent, yet strangely human.
What carried me through were anchors. People, faith, love, even my dog. These anchors reminded me that ruptures and chaos are brutal but impermanent.
Faith was one anchor. Not tied to a book or philosophy, but pieced together like a table with mismatched chairs. Sometimes all I had were simple affirmations. That something good would come. That tomorrow would be better. That this too shall pass. Sometimes whispered in Spanish, sometimes in English, often while walking on the beach or after a good cry.
Therapy was another anchor. My therapist saw me when I could not bear to see myself. She guided me before, during, and after. Not giving up on that relationship was one of the most important things I did.
My partner was an anchor, teaching me the love and humility of letting someone see me broken. And understanding that in letting myself be seen I could see him too.
My dog was an anchor, giving me love and unconditional kisses when I could not read social cues. She pulled me outside when I wanted to stay inside. Even if I was not myself, I was still her daddy. And she needed to poop.
These anchors protected me from despair. They helped me shift my gaze. The world no longer had to be perfect. It could be flawed. And still I could witness awe.
Collectively our anchors build connection.
Sometimes that looks like putting your feet in the grass, taking a bike ride, saving an injured bird, or sending a simple text to a friend. Sometimes it is remembering that isolation and polarization can only be healed by doing exactly the opposite. Obvious, and yet at times counterintuitive.
For me, working with marginalized communities has been such an anchor. Teaching in prisons, sitting with the dying in hospice, these connections make me less numb to the world’s pain. They remind me that suffering is everywhere, even when unseen, and that by connecting with it we expand our capacity to feel.
What is it that connects you to the rupture and chaos of the world? Or are you avoiding it at all costs?
Many of us live in fear, unable to see how pervasive it is. Not realizing that in not looking, it gains strength.
“You cannot find peace by avoiding life,” said Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf in The Hours.
Perhaps awe is only possible after rupture and chaos or even amidst it.
I know when the weight on the scale feels overwhelming. A state of awe might even seem impossible. Reconnection and reparation can feel abstract. And yet they belong to us. They always have.
Rupture and chaos are not mistakes in the story. They are precursors of new realities. Accepting this does not make everything right, but it opens the door.
The chaos will settle. The dust will clear. The storm will pass.
When we stop fighting rupture and chaos, when we find our anchors and open ourselves to collective healing, we create space for awe.
Not despite suffering, but because of our willingness to witness it and transform it together.
The awe is waiting. Not only after the storm, but in our capacity to weather it together.
Adrian Molina is a writer, trauma-informed coach, yoga teacher and end-of-life doula based in Miami Beach. He has dedicated over two decades to working with trauma-affected communities and first responders in hospitals, homeless shelters, prisons, and hospices. Adrian has trained with AFSP (American Foundation for Suicide Prevention) and has worked as a volunteer crisis specialist with the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Originally from Buenos Aires, Argentina, he moved to the United States in the early 2000s and began his career teaching yoga in NYC before transitioning into trauma recovery work. Adrian’s private practice is grounded in the understanding that healing requires both professional knowledge and lived experience. Through his writing and client work, he helps people integrate their experiences and reclaim their power.
Photo by Drew Doggett