A Sacred Unravelling: Coddiwomple Diaries Part 3: Trusting the Unknown

“As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.”

— Rumi

It’s a strange thing, learning to live with impermanence.

Since we set off on this journey, we’ve stayed in eight different homes, a tent, and a retreat centre. Plans arise and dissolve. Opportunities appear, and vanish just as quickly—only to be replaced, redirected, or paused entirely. Change has become our rhythm. The unpredictable has become normal.

I had prepared myself for the challenges of this way of living. I knew it would stretch us practically. But what I didn’t know is how steady I would feel—how the soul seems to be walking a path that the mind cannot yet map.

While the mind might flinch at the uncertainty, some deeper part of me recognises something vital and true beneath it all. The unknown, I’ve realised, is only unknown to the mind. The soul is not confused.

We’re taught to seek safety in the external—in wages, possessions, property, roles. But what if that entire framework is false? What if it’s the security we cling to that keeps us feeling most unstable?

Letting go has asked me to grow new muscles: emotional balance, fortitude, self-belief. It has asked me to stand inside surrender. Not the romantic kind, but the raw, day-to-day practice of releasing control and trusting life anyway.

The decision to coddiwomple was both practical and deeply intuitive. Every cell of my being whispered—then roared—that it was time. To leave. To let go. To move on. It was a magnetic pull I couldn’t ignore.

I’m learning to listen with my whole body.

Fear feels wobbly—tight chest, racing mind, panic and doubt.

But intuition is calm, grounded, and strong. Even if what it’s telling me makes no sense, there is no panic in its voice.

I trust that voice now. Not because I’ve mastered it, but because I’ve stopped pretending the old systems have the answers. The systems that promise security are crumbling, and I no longer want to build a life upon them.

Trust has looked like tending to rejection wounds. Acknowledging abandonment. Finding compassion for the failed systems and fractured world that raised us. It has been a quiet but steady practice of forgiveness—towards others, but mostly toward myself.

I trust in Life. In the Mystery. In the divine ground of being. And I trust myself as a thread in that great weaving.

And strangely, it’s working—in a way that makes no sense on paper. Opportunities have arrived just when we’ve needed them. Support has appeared from unexpected places. Not always ahead of time, but always in time.

Meditation and stillness have become my anchor—especially the practice of reposing in the silent ground of being. When the outer world feels scattered, I return here: to the still centre where I know I am held.

Home now is my heart. My loved ones. My connection with nature.

Not a postcode. Not a lease. Not a label.

Who am I without an address or a five-year plan?

The same person I was before—only freer.

Only now I know it.

My sense of self no longer clings to how I earn or where I live. It feels more secure than ever, not because I have certainty, but because I’ve stopped needing it.

Uncertainty isn’t something to fear—it’s where the adventure lives. It’s the fertile soil of creativity, connection, and true freedom. It’s where we meet the deeper currents of who we are and what we’re capable of.

If you’re standing at the edge of the unknown—

If life is nudging you to let go—

Ask yourself: Will I regret never stepping off the path I’ve been told is safe?

Because in the unknown, we meet our power.

In the unraveling, we meet ourselves.

And in trusting what cannot be seen, we become truly free.