What is the “second-smallness?”

Not all rising is upward. Not all growth is visible. And not all light burns clean.

We like to think of growth as a straight line. As more insight, more peace, more wisdom, more power. Like if we just keep climbing, we’ll eventually arrive— enlightened, whole, above it all.

But the soul doesn’t grow in a straight line.

The mystics knew that. They taught that the soul grows in cycles.

There is the first smallness— the smallness of not knowing, not being, not yet. It’s the beginning. The darkness before the light. The time when you’re just starting to ask better questions.

Then comes the first rise— the clarity, the insight, the sense of alignment. You gain tools. You feel strong. You experience love without the armor. You think: I’ve made it.

But then… you descend. Back into confusion. Back into doubt. Back into stillness that doesn’t feel peaceful—just quiet.

This is what the mystics called the second smallness.

And it’s not regression. It’s not punishment. It’s the part that comes after the light. It’s the ache that follows expansion. The silence that follows revelation. The confusion that follows a breakthrough.

The version of you that climbed that last mountain was real, but it was still incomplete. It got you to the edge. But it can’t take you further. And so it starts to fall apart. Not because you did something wrong— but because you’ve outgrown it.

The second smallness is not collapse. It’s compression. It’s the cocoon. It’s the ground softening before new roots take hold. It’s your ego cracking so your soul has room to stretch.

And yeah—this part hurts. It hurts because you remember the light but can’t seem to reach it anymore.

You remember the clarity but feel foggy and far from yourself. You remember how it felt to be lit up— and now you’re just… sitting in the ashes.

But this is the real work. This is where transformation stops being performative and starts being personal. This is where you stop trying to appear powerful and start becoming powerful in a quieter, deeper way.

Second smallness is where we learn that presence matters more than performance. Where borrowed wisdom doesn’t cut it anymore. Where inspiration dries up and discipline takes over. Where you have to keep showing up even when you’re not sure who you are.

And that’s okay. You are not failing. You are not broken. You are being remade.

So if you’re in that space— where everything feels blurry, dry, uncertain— if you’re tired, confused, doubting your own progress— Hold steady. Don’t rush to fix it. Don’t go chasing your last high like it’s the only place the Divine speaks. Don’t panic if nothing feels like it’s working.

Because this quiet? This pause? This humbling? It’s sacred.

It’s the space between identities. The place where what you were dies, and what you’re becoming hasn’t arrived yet.

This isn’t backsliding. It’s rebuilding. It’s root-work. It’s the soul stretching— not upward, but inward. So let yourself be small. Let yourself be unsure. Let yourself not know. Because when you stop trying to prove you’re okay, you make space to actually become okay.

Keep doing the work, even if it feels dry. Keep breathing, even if it’s heavy. Keep tending the coals, even if the fire seems gone.

Something is growing in that stillness— something deeper than anything you’ve known before.

And next time the light comes? It won’t just visit you. It will come through you. Because you didn’t just grow. You transformed.

And this—this second smallness—is what transformation actually feels like.