The other day we figured out that sitting around waiting for life to happen isn't spirituality. It's surrender dressed up in white robes.

So how do you actually know what's meant for you?

I certainly wouldn't use the test of whether something stays on its own. That's a weak criterion. By that logic, a tick you picked up in the woods could be your destiny. Let's call him Clingy Carl.

You're walking through the forest, minding your own business, pursuing spiritual growth in the general direction of a barbecue, when Clingy Carl latches onto your leg. He holds on for dear life. He doesn't leave. Loyal as ever.

If your philosophy is, "If it's meant for me, it will stay," then Clingy Carl must be your karmic soulmate, the love of your life, and your sacred purpose. Never mind that every time you try to move away, an entire committee appears to explain why you're selfish, irresponsible, immature, confused, or making a terrible mistake. Never mind that staying is rewarded with approval while leaving comes with judgment. Never mind that half the people involved aren't protecting love at all. They're protecting comfort, predictability, reputation, or the version of reality they've become attached to.

But what actually happens to you when you're with Clingy Carl? You lose blood. You get weaker. You start living in anxiety. You frantically Google symptoms of tick-borne diseases while convincing yourself, "Well, if he's holding on this tightly, we must be meant to be together. We're just going through a difficult adjustment period."

That's the swamp right there. You slowly fall apart while something feeds on your resources and calls it intimacy simply because it happens to be present. Then the fever starts. The headaches. The exhaustion. The strange feeling that you're no longer quite yourself.

But instead of asking whether you've been infected, you start calling it a spiritual initiation.

Somehow every symptom becomes evidence that the connection is meaningful. The more miserable you feel, the deeper the bond must be. The more of yourself you lose, the more sacred the journey becomes. Meanwhile, Clingy Carl wants updates.

Soon you're not living your life anymore. You're filing reports from occupied territory. Every movement requires explanation. Every boundary becomes a negotiation. Every breath feels slightly supervised. And because you've been told that love means commitment, loyalty, sacrifice, and endless understanding, you mistake surveillance for care, control for devotion, and dependency for intimacy.

The tick doesn't need to kill you. It only needs to convince you that feeling weaker is proof that the relationship is important.

Now let's look at a different image. A powerful, well-trained Doberman.

When you take that dog out on a leash, something happens before you've even taken ten steps. Your spine straightens. Your shoulders settle back. Your breathing deepens. You become more present. Not because the dog is protecting you, but because his presence calls something out of you that was already there.

You stop moving through the world like an apology. You stop scanning for permission. You stop negotiating your existence. Standing next to him, you remember your own weight, your own authority, your own place in the world. A good Doberman doesn't make you smaller. He makes it impossible to remain small.

But a Doberman is not a plush toy. He is not a decorative accessory for your spiritual Instagram feed. He is a living force. And living forces require participation. They require attention, presence, commitment, a clear hand on the leash, and a relationship.

If you drop the leash in the park, sit on a bench, fold your hands, and announce, "If this is my dog, he won't go anywhere. The Universe will take care of it," the dog will leave. Or he will never be trained and may become dangerous. Not because he wasn't yours, but because you abandoned the relationship.

The Universe isn't a pet-sitting service. Life does not reward disengagement. The dog will follow movement, direction, presence, and energy. Sooner or later, he will find someone willing to meet him there.

That isn't fate punishing you. That isn't a closed door. That's simply what happens when life extends an invitation and you respond by becoming furniture.

That's the real test.

The people, paths, and opportunities that belong in your life often act like amplifiers. They don't always feel comfortable. They don't always feel easy. But they call forth more life, more courage, more honesty, more presence, and ultimately, more of you.

Dust stays, too. Never questions you. Never challenges you. Never asks you to grow. Extremely loyal.

Could be destiny, if we're willing to set the bar low enough. 😉