𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗹𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸: 𝗣𝗮𝘀𝘁-𝗟𝗶𝗳𝗲 𝗗𝘆𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶𝗰𝘀 𝗦𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗟𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁

Some people believe that once a life ends, so too does the story, the roles we’ve played, and the ties we’ve held. And if that is your truth, I honor it. We are each walking our own path with the lens we’ve been gifted. But for me, the boundaries between lifetimes are thin. They shimmer like the surface of water—what’s behind them doesn’t disappear, it just transforms.

In my case, the soul memory of one life has remained especially vivid. I was born in this life carrying the energetic imprint of a powerful familial lineage—one rooted in a Norse clan, where my family held sacred responsibility. I was a daughter among Viking Völva: women of deep spiritual knowing, seers and keepers of ancestral wisdom. That past life has never felt “past” to me—it pulses just beneath the surface of my present. And the members of my nuclear family from that lifetime? They’re here with me again, woven into my current reality, each playing their soul’s familiar role with new faces, names, and circumstances.

𝗠𝘆 𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗩𝗼𝘆𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿

In that lifetime, my father was a voyager, often away but deeply supportive. He saw me—really saw me—long before I could make sense of myself. He believed in my vision, my gifts, my untamable wildness. Though his presence was scarce, his faith was grounding. In this life, I met him again later, well into adulthood. The recognition wasn’t about logic. It was soul-level. He now consoles me through life’s thresholds. We meet rarely—about every 18 months—but when we do, I feel the same unshakable belief in me that once carried me across stormy seas.

𝗠𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗙𝗶𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿

He was my eldest sibling then—a warrior bound not just by blood but by duty. His sacred task was to protect me, to keep my rebellious soul sheltered from the politics and perceptions of the clan. I was “too much,” too wild, too unconcerned with image. Dangerous, they thought. He didn’t try to change me; he just tried to protect me from the fallout of being fully myself.

I met him again just last year. From the moment we locked eyes, it was like no time had passed. We embraced without hesitation—two people who rarely touch anyone—and that hug shocked everyone around us. We didn’t care. We hugged again and again, not from nostalgia, but from recognition. He now watches over me again in his own way—offering gentle course corrections when I lose sight of my path. His presence is still larger than life, and I’m still… a little too much. But this time, he loves me for it.

𝗠𝘆 𝗠𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀

In that old life, my mother and older sister were both Völva of great esteem—respected and revered in our clan. Our family was held to a high standard, and as the youngest, wildest daughter, I was a constant challenge to the order they worked so hard to uphold. I was tough as the boys and smart as the women, but I had little regard for appearances. I wanted truth over tradition, freedom over form.

When I met them again in this life—on the same day nearly twenty years ago—the past came rushing in like a flood. I was drawn to both of them immediately, and yet the dynamics were unmistakably familiar. I lived in both admiration and quiet rebellion of the woman who had been my mother. And my sister? We bonded quickly, but the dance began anew. My off-kilter lens, my unconventional way of being in the world—these things stirred her frustration again, especially when my natural gifts unintentionally outshone hers.

Two decades later, the evolution is extraordinary. My sister and I have grown tremendously. We've each softened, opened, and surrendered to a more conscious version of the love that always bound us. We’ve come into balance—still different, still unique, but no longer in silent battle.

But watching the woman who was once my mother has been harder. I see the same old patterns repeating in her, even now. The same fierce devotion, the same high standards, the same pull toward retreat when the world doesn’t cooperate. She is someone who, in every life I’ve known her, has given her all. Her love is never halfway. But sometimes, it’s not about how hard we try—it’s about how deeply we surrender.

To simply be, without striving.

To release the illusion of control.

To allow the shift to happen through us, rather than making it happen by us.

That’s not easy, especially for someone who has always felt responsible for the wellbeing of others. But if she can trust that the unfolding is wise, even in its discomfort, then what is meant for her will find her. Not by force. Not by effort. But by resonance.

𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗧𝗶𝗺𝗲

Soul families don’t always look like blood. They don’t always follow neat lines. But sometimes, we are gifted with a living echo—a rare chance to re-weave the tapestry. To love better. To see clearer. To forgive more fully.

For me, these relationships are alive with memory. They hum beneath the surface. They challenge me, ground me, sometimes exhaust me—but always, they offer a portal back to who I was, and a mirror for who I’m becoming.

So no, I don’t think the past is gone. I think it’s layered.

And when we pay attention, we get to live more than one life at a time.