Dissolving the Deprivation Dilemma

This afternoon, I stirred cacao into hot oat milk, watching ribbons of oaty cream curl and vanish into a velvet tide of chocolate. I stood at the stovetop, lost in the quiet alchemy—as it mirrored the ache in my chest, slowly changing from one state to something new, something richer than before.

I asked myself, What is at the root of this pain I’m in?

When I really get in there—when I get curious—what story am I believing that’s keeping my heart in this cycling anguish?

The word dropped in immediately:

Deprivation.

In the aftermath of this breakup, I feel withheld from.

Truthfully, I felt withheld from during the relationship, too. But this full withdrawal—the total silence—feels like the ultimate deprivation of love.

That’s the core of it: the belief that I am being deprived of love.

And yet, as soon as I said it aloud, something inside me pushed back.

It was my spiritual self—the part of me that has total trust in the Universe, in Source, in God (which I’ll use from here on out).

It’s the part of me that knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that God loves me. That God is me. That God isn’t here to punish, but to offer me exactly what I need for the most expansive life possible.

So the part of me that feels deprived of love?

That’s an old part. A young part. A part of me that formed long ago, probably when my dad died when I was four. Maybe even earlier. Maybe even from past lives.

And suddenly, I saw the split:

I can’t simultaneously believe I’m being deprived of love by this person…

and believe that God is always giving me exactly what I need for my highest good because God is love. Which means that this separation is an act of love.

And so one of those beliefs has to go.

And spoiler alert—it’s not the one where God is madly in love with me.

Lately, I keep coming back to this Carl Jung quote:

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

Breakups are portals—sacred ruptures that pull unconscious material straight to the surface.

It’s no coincidence that the oldest, most familiar story in my nervous system is that I am deprived of love…and that the person I just fell madly in love with didn’t really want to be in relationship, and just broke up with me. For the third time. Over email.

Unconscious belief → Outcome.

But the beauty of awareness is that now I can rewrite the story.

Instead of:

A child loses her dad at four, leaving a massive hole in her heart and a rupture in her relationship to the masculine. Her mom, overwhelmed by single motherhood and personal demons, can’t always show up emotionally. That same child loses her mom at 22. Without parents, she feels alone in the world, searching for a person to find “home” in. She grows into a woman who falls for avoidant partners, is never fully chosen, and finally gets her heart broken for the third time by the one she loved most. Clearly, God is punishing her.

I can tell this one:

A child loses her dad at four. In his absence, he leaves behind his art—gifts that awaken her own creative inheritance. She’s raised by a mother doing her best with what she had, who loved her deeply, even if imperfectly. At 22, her mother dies, and in the grief, she finds the freedom to explore her authentic self, now that she no longer had parents to seek approval from. She goes on to have powerful, imperfect relationships that teach her how to love and let go. Her most recent breakup—yes, a third one, via email—cracks her heart open in the most tender way. Not as a punishment. But as preparation. For something greater she knows is coming. Because God absolutely adores this one.

When we make the unconscious conscious, we reclaim the power to reshape our lives—not with delusion or denial, but with devotion.

We rewrite our stories in ways that strengthen our hearts, uplift our spirits, and align us with truth.

This is why heartbreak matters.

It’s through being broken open that buried beliefs rise to the surface, asking to be worked with.

It’s in not getting what we thought we needed that we finally unclench, finally surrender, finally see.

Faith is trusting that through the ache, something greater is entering.

I have a quote on my whiteboard right now—a line from a recent Rune reading:

“The new life is always greater than the old.”

And I truly believe it.