Why Lightworkers Never Feel at Home: Coming Back to Ourselves Through Stillness

In 2023, I took myself—and my partner at the time—to the Dominican Republic, thinking it would be a quiet retreat, a place to reset and breathe.

Instead, it became an initiation.

All my fears came into my periphery and I was sent on a course of decoding instead of rest.

Spiders roamed freely—tarantulas, black widows—strutting across the sand as if mocking my every tremor, utterly indifferent to my fear. Around us, the locals’ gazes were sharp and unyielding, their words and jeers cutting like invisible blades. The anti-gay crowd lingered nearby, their stares heavy with judgment, an unspoken warning: turn your back, and you might not be safe. Belonging felt impossibly distant, and every glance reminded me that here, I was an outsider in a world that could be as hostile as it was beautiful.

The next morning, I sat on the beach, determined to reclaim my power and return to alignment—but the universe had other plans. I pulled every tool from my inner toolkit, calling on intuition, breath, and meditation, trying to anchor myself in calm. Yet the fear clung stubbornly, a shadow circling at the edges of my awareness. Every rustle of the sand, every whisper of the wind felt alive, a reminder that the world could shift at any moment, and that true courage had to rise from within.

My intuition was shouting, “You’re not safe, don’t close your eyes!”  Little did i know that in this moment it was my intuition calling me home to myself, my inner protection and wisdom.

As I emerged from my meditation, I discovered my bag was missing, with only a trail of footprints behind it—evidence that some mischievous trickster and his size nines had slipped in and taken it whilst I was sending peace to humanity and myself.

Needless to say, he didn’t walk away with much in terms of financial gain—but he did make off with a copy of The Divine Design by Lori Ladd. I often wonder if he ever opened it, and whether a spark of awakening had called him to read it. Perhaps life moved as a synchronistic wave, serving us both—him, with the spark of awakening; and me, with my initiation into the fear that had been coursing through me: what was causing it, and what did I need to do to learn its lessons?

No matter what I tried—breathing, grounding, calling on my inner wisdom—the incidents kept coming, one after another, relentless and insistent. Each event was a whisper from the universe, a constant, unyielding reminder that there was a message I needed to awaken to.

For most of my life as a Lightworker, I had been moving on, chasing the next place that might feel like home. A desert island. A tropical paradise. Somewhere magical, somewhere “safe,” somewhere that finally understood me.

Every adventure, every flight to some faraway destination carried the same illusion: that home was a place outside me, rather than a state of being. And yet, no matter where I went, that aching emptiness followed me, whispering that I was alone. How could I fill this emptiness if I didn’t find my tribe, my home, my people?

The next adventure became the one that truly anchored the lessons.

We had decided to drive to a place where we could discover a paradise island—somewhere untouched by human appropriation. But when we arrived, the only way across was on a long-tail boat with locals who seemed both charming and subtly threatening.

Despite my better judgment, we were coaxed onto the boat, promised that only they knew the way to the most beautiful beach in all the Dominican.

After some tense moments of negotiation, a tiny nineteen-year-old boy, whom they called the captain, pulled up on a shoddy long-tail boat, waiting for us to embark.

Alongside him came three workmen, carrying tools—saws, knives, and other unnerving implements. Having already paid and made the agreement, we had no choice but to climb aboard. As I did, my nervous system went into overdrive and for the thirty-minute journey, I imagined being thrown into the ocean, abandoned, and other nameless horrors that I don't want to re-mention.

Eventually, the young captain dropped us off on the island with the workers, assuring us he would return in a few hours but as he drove away, I realised that if he didn’t return, we would have no way to escape, there was no public transport, no shops, nothing to sustain ourselves.

Why hadn’t I learned to fish? All those survival shows, and now I could remember nothing.

Hours passed in silence. With nothing to distract me but my own fearful thoughts and I sat paralysed questioning: why had i just put myself in this situation.

Finally, the gentle ocean began to calm my nerves, and my mind allowed a quiet moment of reflection. This is when I asked myself: why had I chosen this path? The horse ride along the beach, the terrifying boat trip, all had led me here. To an isolated island with nothing left to distract me but my thoughts.

Then suddenly it clicked: I never felt peace at home because I was always serachign for something better.

I prayed, half in hope, half in surrender, that the young captain would return. But i knew i needed the time to sit with the lessons and let them reveal their truth.

The lesson became clear: safety, peace, and home are never found “out there.” They live within—and only by returning inward can we navigate the storms of life with clarity, courage, and grace.

It reveals itself when we allow our hearts to soften, when we meet our pain and uncertainty with compassion, and when we bring our own love and light to our wounds, rather than looking to someone or somewhere else to heal them.

This journey reshaped how I see myself, my needs and community.

For years, I believed I could only thrive by finding something better—a better culture, climate, or people—constantly chasing the “next best thing.” Yet everywhere I went, I saw flaws, and home never arrived.

After forty-five years, I stopped searching and finally allowed in the lesson: home is inside of us.

We can only build sustainable community if we stop running, if we stay long enough to face discomfort, repair ruptures, and bring love and light to ourselves and others.

True loves comes from repair, acceptance and finding the beauty in our imperfections.

Spiritual traditions remind us that awakening may begin in solitude, but it is never meant to be carried alone. Home is cultivated in presence, stillness, and connection, both with ourselves and with others.

Fear is not the enemy, it is a guide, leading us back to where we can create safety, belonging, and community. Now more than ever, Lightworkers are called to come together. This coming year of the Fire Horse ignites courage, passion, and forward movement, but its energies can feel untamed if faced alone.

Our unity becomes a luminous network, a protective grid capable of carrying these celestial currents. The solitary path is a myth. Even the sages gathered, even the stars shine in constellations. We are not meant to save the world alone—we are here to belong while serving together.