> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.medusarising.org/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # When Building Means Breaking - URL: https://www.medusarising.org/when-building-means-breaking/ - Published: 2026-09-17T05:33:25.000Z - Updated: 2026-09-17T05:33:24.000Z - Description: Soul Craft | It's all personal. - Author: Jaclyn Lanae - Tags: Embodiment, Patriarchal Gender, Soul Craft, Women's Prose Dearest cousins, sisters, and friends… Gorgons… buckle up. This week — perhaps even for a few of the coming weeks — these Soul Craft essays are going to get real… real. My personal life has recently spilled over into my professional one and, as I run around with the metaphoric rags and mops to manage the ensuing mess, it occurs to me that perhaps much of what I’m dealing with right now is just a different iteration of what we’re all dealing with. So, I’m going to cut right to the quick of my struggle and lay it all out here. It might get messy and I’m inviting you to join me because I think there’s healing for all of us in here. With that hope in mind, I come baring my heart. My mom broke up with me last week. It isn’t the first time. And I can’t say I’m surprised. But it is different this time. Back in 2007, after I had the tremendous gift of dying a couple times (briefly, obviously) in a motorcycle accident, I found myself waking up to a version of myself that I had seen coming but had long been afraid of. A version of myself that was so fiercely rooted in my burgeoning belief system around feminism and self love and spirituality that I knew it would ostracize me from many parts of my old life. Perhaps, even, my family home. I knew my unwavering mission to talk about the divinity and power of soul-level authenticity would cause some upheaval in my family, and I was not wrong. Over the years my parents — my mother specifically — and I have pushed up against each other’s belief systems with such force that the whole relationship often crumbled. We’d both walk away from the mess, and each other and invariably after some time apart - sometimes months - we’d come back together again and mostly just ignore that it ever happened. Occasionally, we’d have a discussion and revisit the situation with enough levity that we could rebuild the structure our relationship lived within. Albeit with slightly less sturdy materials. Most of my life, the box that held my connection to my mother was built from obligation. It looked like what it was supposed to with a roof and a chimney and from the outside it was pretty enough. But with little in common, and wildly disparate perspectives and belief systems, to say that our bond inside of it was tenuous would be putting it mildly. So we became masters of the masquerade. We avoided certain topics of conversation like sticks of dynamite and danced around them in a well-choreographed ballet whenever we were together, as though it were perfectly normal that they covered the floor. If she started kicking one around, I would defend myself and my perspective with couched phrasing sandwiched between soft agreement that effectively snuffed out the spark; it held space for her right-ness but did little to give value to my opinion. Over time, the place that our relationship lived that was once made of brick, began to feel like it was made of straw. But she was my mother and I was her daughter, so we glued the straw together and propped up our structure with shopping dates and lunches and conversations about the weather. Then, last week, a spark slipped past my well-practiced vigilance and landed on the dynamite-covered floor. My folks had gone out of town to be with my ailing uncle, my father’s brother, who had recently entered palliative care with a very aggressive cancer. I stayed in their house to take care of pet and plant duties while they were gone. And when they arrived home again, I hugged them as I always did, gathered up my things, and left. Totally unaware I’d left a metaphoric match smoldering next to mother’s armchair: some pages I’d been editing from my forthcoming book, [Fuhk Your Way](https://www.authorjaclynlanae.com/jaclynlanaebooks/p/fuhk-your-way?ref=medusarising.org). She called me after she’d found and read some of them and our entire relationship exploded. When I went to collect my notes the next day, they were wadded and torn up, left for me in a garbage bag. Over the next two days I received a series of novel-length texts labeling me and my work trash, filthy, and devaluing. She railed on her perspective that my belief that [our lives should be about pleasure; that we can connect to our divinity through pleasure](https://medusarisingoutpost.substack.com/p/to-know-thyself-know-thy-pleasure), was dangerous and wrong. She verbally flogged me for openly and comedically discussing sex, and liberally using the word fuhk to do it. Eventually she expressed hope that I could exorcise the demon I clearly have within. I said little in response, knowing full well that in the throes of this kind of reaction, nothing would get through anyway. Eventually, I just responded with two letters: ok. And all communication ceased. The thing is, there are all kinds of things I could say - things I kind of want to say - in defense of myself and my work. Things like, my work is about liberation; uplifting people and especially women. Whether or not you see it that way is up to you. Or, the sexual stuff is just funny stories from my dating life that I use to narrate the horrors of patriarchy. Or, this is about my work and really should have nothing to do with you at all. But I didn’t. I probably won’t. And this time it isn’t because I want to keep the peace. In fact, the idea that I can pull back to a strictly formal relationship truly feels quite peaceful. And I don’t feel as though my lack of response is self-abandonment either. I’ve been there and done that enough to know full well how it would feel if it were. Honestly, I think I’m just exhausted. I’m so tired of defending the value of my perspective. I’m far beyond weary of forever feeling as though an interaction with her is imminent and I’d better have materials ready, as though I’m going to have to defend my thesis on women’s rights, or non-traditional relationships, or god/dess -within spirituality. I can’t even imagine preparing for another confrontation with bookmarked tabs and dog-eared academic journals and video clips from experts in various fields. I’m just too fuhking tired to edit or pretend or bite my tongue in order to be sufficiently palatable. I’m too empty to perform. I have no interest in laying a table of reconciliation and waiting there in the delusional hope that this time she’ll see. Even if she doesn’t see my reasons or agree with me, she’ll see me as an intelligent woman with wisdom gleaned from all manner of exceptional (and exceptionally difficult) experiences, and earned through the hard work of healing that surviving trauma requires. I’m too fuhking tired to make the case for my right to respect. And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe attempting to assert myself as an equally valuable person in this relationship is an exercise in futility. Maybe orienting myself toward the fight to be seen is only exhausting my already strained resources. Maybe, rather than spend the time and energy and emotional bandwidth to keep the peace while still trying to make myself heard, I can just walk away. I might even close the door. But I won’t lock it. Afterall, we’re all terrified and burned out and often far less than the very best version of ourselves in this shaking world right now . Maybe someday she’ll take responsibility for the way she has treated me and ask for forgiveness. Maybe she won’t. But in the meantime, I can stop engaging with the world-burning systems of capitalism and patriarchy that keep her safe and comfortable, and I can just walk away — toward the world-building I’d rather be doing anyway. Building often begins with clearing, breaking. Maybe we should talk about what’s in the way of us pleasing our way back to ourselves. I just went first. --- If you are curious about the book, [you can pre-order your copy, delivered to your door, here](https://www.authorjaclynlanae.com/jaclynlanaebooks/p/fuhk-your-way?ref=medusarising.org). And if you are interested in learning more about Soul Crafting through the exploration of pleasure - and not just sexual pleasure! - [check out last month’s essay here](https://medusarisingoutpost.substack.com/p/to-know-thyself-know-thy-pleasure). Become a member - Join our Lowkey CR style soul Craft sessions Jaclyn hosts these groups to help us reveal the whole women we are, our under-stories, our under-voices, our undeniability. A MONTHLY PERK FOR THE PYTHIA / $8 LEVEL & UP OR JOIN A SESSION WITH A $6 TICKET (if you are member) Meets monthly at our Discord. [Check Out Live Events ](https://www.medusarising.org/reading-circles-lives/) --- **Jaclyn Lanae** is an award winning writer, podcaster, transformation coach, and author. She now centers the majority of her work in transformation and empowerment coaching; and feminist writing around trauma healing, personal empowerment, and emotional wisdom. Connect with her and her work at [AuthorJaclynLanae.com](https://authorjaclynlanae.com/?ref=medusarising.org).