When the Magic Temporarily Goes Quiet

For the past few weeks, with my heart broken by my knee injury and sitting in grief, it felt like the magic had disappeared from my life.

Our emotional states carry different frequencies. Grief and heartbreak sit on lower ones, not in a “bad” way, but in a way that changes what we notice, what we attract, and how we experience reality. And if you’re used to living in higher states like love, peace, and joy, the drop can feel especially sharp. The contrast is undeniable.

I tried consciously to lift myself out of it. Coming into acceptance and neutrality was the first step. I reminded myself how grateful I am for my usual state, and how life tends to feel almost magical when my inner world is aligned in a certain way.

Slowly, small things started finding me again. And I started feeling a bit more alive.

But there were also moments that felt confronting, like feeling emotionally flat even in a city I love most, doing things I normally associate with joy in their simplest form: Aareschwumm, being in Marzili, hanging out in a neighborhood that feels like home getting the coffee I had been craving like an addict. Things I usually dream about when I can’t have them. That contrast hit hard at first. Even hours at the spa did not bring me back to life. 

Bern has always felt like a kind of magic for me. Not because the city itself is magic, although it is beautiful, calm, and peaceful, but because it usually brings me back to myself so easily. I feel aligned, light, connected to myself almost immediately. And yet, for the first few days, that connection wasn’t there. Not feeling it made me realize even more how much of that experience comes from within me.

And then something shifted.

Little coincidences started appearing again. Finding a small blue plastic butterfly that felt symbolic. A man from Lausanne talking to me about Aareschwumm as it was his dream, asking where to get a floating bag. Feeling the grass under my feet, sun on my skin, connecting with strangers, children smiling. Small things but they changed something in me.

My state started to soften, and life suddenly became more vibrant again. 

This experience made me see, very clearly, how important it is for me to stay connected to my natural state of joy. I love that version of me, the one who feels magnetic, open, alive. The one who notices synchronicities: bees, dragonflies, spiders landing on me, eye contact with dogs, children smiling, birds crossing my path. The feeling that life is poetic. Layered. Full of quiet meaning. Sunlight, prism light flashes, intuition humming in the background.

And I notice now: those things don’t show up in the same way when the heart is heavy.

They don’t show up when I’m crying inside when physical pain sits in my body like a knife.

That’s part of why this injury has affected me so deeply. It wasn’t only the loss of movement, or walking without pain, or trusting my body the way I used to. It wasn’t only the frustration of seeing weakness where strength used to feel automatic.

It was also the temporary loss of that inner connection: the intuitive, almost effortless sense of magic that has been with me for as long as I can remember, even when I was going through difficult times. 

Life became ordinary in a way that felt unfamiliar. Like I had stepped out of myself for a while. And if I really did, I wonder where I was, because I was definitely not here. Time stretched out. Weeks felt like years. And everything pre-injury felt like distant past life memories. 

And strangely, that contrast became the reminder.

Because even through the grief, I could see how deeply I value that way of being. I don’t just miss it, I recognize it as part of who I am.

And now, even with everything still unfolding, I feel grateful. Not because it was easy, but because it showed me the difference so clearly.

And it brought me back to appreciating the way I naturally experience life.