Swirl 33

You finish things. Then you delete them.

And it's not because it's bad but the longer and deeper you go, the project matures and reveals its true shape. Suddenly, you recognize what you were actually trying to say, and suddenly the package doesn't match the content anymore. You are outgrowing the first version because the container you built at the start is now too small, the positioning feels dishonest and the framework you built feels incomplete.

So you burn it down and start again.

You've done this four or six times and the count stops mattering after you stop telling people about it. Your business has had five different names in three years, your messaging has shifted so many times your followers stopped asking what you do and You've built entire bodies of work and deleted them because they no longer fit the woman you became.

And you call yourself broken and believe something is wrong with you. This is where you look at real entrepreneurs who stay focused, own their lane and build momentum instead of dissolving it. This is where you view your tendency to end what you start as proof that you are scattered or uncommitted, labeling yourself as the kind of woman who simply cannot follow through. And what do you do next? buy the focus course and study the niche-down framework as you force yourself to commit to one thing for a year, making promises to finally stay the course.

Three months in, the restlessness comes and again you see the missing connection you didn't notice before between the work and your actual signature. The framework that would hold everything together but requires you to be bigger than the box you've chosen. And staying in that box becomes the betrayal.

So you restart. And you hate yourself for the restart.

This is Swirl 33.

It lives in your nervous system as the moment between completion and exposure, where you choose dissolution instead of arrival. It costs you €200,000 in abandoned projects across five years. It costs you the audience that would have built if you'd stayed in one place long enough for them to find you. It costs your daughter watching you not finish. It costs the part of you that believes you can hold something through to its end.

What you don't see is this: You're not starting over. You're rotating.

Your mind doesn't work in straight lines but in spirals. It returns to old ground carrying a new sight, circles back to the same questions and answers them differently each time. So what you are experiencing as indecisive is integrating. The musician you are and the strategist you are and the woman who reads patterns in people—these aren't competing identities fighting for your attention. They're the same woman, spiraling deeper into what she actually sees.

Every time you return to something you've already held, you interpret the return as failure. You've been taught that changing direction means you were wrong the first time and that returning to an old theme means you're stuck. That evolution means betrayal. So you rebrand it as a fresh start, which means you get to hurt yourself again by calling it a beginning when it was always a rotation.

Here's what you don't understand about yourself:

You were trained to be linear in a market that rewards one thing, one lane, one consistent identity when you're built for depth. You are spiral in nature. The straight-line thinkers think they're moving forward because they can measure distance but you're moving inward because you can measure understanding. These are different kinds of progress, and the world has taught you that only one of them counts.

The market tells you to niche down, pick your thing, own it and build your brand around that one skill, that one problem you solve, that one person you serve. Stay in your lane and be consistent. The consistency is what builds trust.

So you try it. You choose the niche that seems most sellable, the identity that seems most marketable, the positioning that looks most professional. You hide the musician because you're marketing yourself as a strategist. You hide the oracle because you want to seem credible. You split yourself into compartments and call it focus.

And it never works, because you're trying to move like a river when your nature is ocean.

Swirl 33 arrives in three specific ways:

First, strategically. You abandon projects at month three instead of deepening them. You mistake the moment when a vision gets more complex for the moment when it's broken. You see the gap between what you made and what you see now, and instead of bridging it, you demolish the bridge and start from the other side. You keep the audience confused and keep yourself at zero.

Second, in identity. You apologize for your evolution, explain your pivots like you owe someone stability, and feel fraudulent because you touch many domains, and you've learned that specialists are the ones worth trusting. You think something is broken in you because you can't commit to staying small. Every time you grow, you feel like a liar.

Third, in positioning. You force yourself into single-focus offerings when your actual work is multidimensional, try to create five-step linear frameworks when your intelligence moves in circles, compartmentalize yourself into separate businesses instead of integrating yourself into one coherent vision and you shrink to fit the market instead of expanding to fit yourself.

And the result: You lose access to your actual power.

Because your power is not that you're a musician or that you're a strategist or an oracle or an architect of systems. Your power is that you're all of them, simultaneously, in conversation, spiraling deeper into what only this combination can see. The spiral is what makes you unchallengeable and that multidimensionality is your differentiation. The thing the market keeps telling you to hide is the only thing actually worth buying.

Five years ago, I was deep in Swirl 33.

I'd built a music career and dissolved it. Started a business and rebranded it four times. Written frameworks and deleted them. Every rotation felt like proof that I was lost, confused, unable to commit. I measured myself against women who knew their lane and owned it, and I found myself failing.

Then one night, I dreamed a single word: Swirl 33

When I woke, I couldn't remember it. I grasped for it. Twirl? Swell? Something that held the shape of turning inward and turning outward at the same time. Hours later, while making music, the word returned: Swirl. The 33rd spiral. The moment you complete one rotation and face the choice of either stopping or going deeper.

That morning, I stopped calling my pivots failures.

I looked at every version of myself I'd built and dissolved, and I saw them as rotations of the same signature. The woman who teaches transformation through integration. The woman who reads the hidden patterns. The woman who builds governance systems from chaos. This signature had never changed. Only the language changed. Only the angle changed. Only the depth changed.

The moment I saw this—really saw it—something shifted in my body.

I stopped apologizing and explaining my evolution like I owed it to anyone. I stopped splitting myself into separate brands and started integrating them into one coherent vision. The musician and the strategist and the oracle began speaking as one woman instead of three women in conflict. And the work that emerged from that integration touched people in a way my compartmentalized work never had.

Because when you stop fragmenting yourself to fit the market, people feel the wholeness.

They feel the authority of someone who is not performing. They feel the clarity of someone who knows what she sees across multiple domains and can articulate it. They feel the power of a woman who stopped shrinking.

This is what your restart at 80% actually is: It's the moment when you see deeper and choose between two paths.

Path one is the one you've been walking: Burn what you've built, rebrand, apologize, start over, get to 80%, see deeper, burn, restart. This loop will run for as long as you measure your spiral against someone else's straight line.

Path two is this: Recognize that every "failed" project was a rotation and every "failed" rebrand was an integration. Every moment you wanted to delete was actually the moment when you were about to become more yourself, not less. The signature underneath all the pivots is the thing that never changed. Name it. Claim it. Let it integrate your multidimensionality instead of fragmenting it.

The difference is this: One path keeps you in dissolution. The other path moves you toward coherence.