Excerpt from my newest work. Working on a fantasy novel. Let me know what you think!

Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning.  Scratch that. Sometimes I feel like everyone around me is underwater, except they all have goggles, a wet suit, and an oxygen tank, meanwhile I am trying to stay afloat with some crusty scuba gear, combat boots, and a 20 pound weight vest. 

And the worst part is - no one seems to notice. 

“Again.” My father’s voice echoes throughout the training hall, sharp and flat.  No emotion. No patience. Just expectation. 

I plant my feet, spreading my toes as wide as they go in my shoes, trying to connect, to stabilize. I adjust my stance they way my mother taught me, shoulders square, weight centered, spine straight.  Stable. Strong. This is the key to root chakra alignment. Stability first.  Always stability first.  

I close my eyes and reach for that red, grounding hum at the base of my spine, pushing my awareness deep into the floorboards. I can feel it flickering, a dying ember in gale force winds, but as I try to fan it into a steady glow, it fractures. The energy doesn’t flow; it bites. It’s a jagged, cold sensation that radiates through my hips and down my legs, making my knees tremble against my will.

"Your foundation is cracked," my father says, his footsteps rhythmic and heavy as he circles me. He doesn't even need to look at my face to know I’m failing. "You’re overcompensating with muscle because your spirit is hollow. If you cannot ground yourself here, in the safety of this hall, you will shatter in the real world." 

The imaginary weight vest feels like it’s doubled in mass, pulling my shoulders down, mocking my attempt at a straight spine. Sweat stings my eyes, and my lungs burn with the effort of holding a pose that should be second nature. Every muscle in my thighs is screaming, a rhythmic thrum of exhaustion that mirrors the erratic pulse of my chakra. I want to collapse, to let the heaviness pull me under, but the silence of the hall—his silence—is a pressure far heavier than the lead on my chest.

Everyone says you’ll feel it when it clicks—the grounding, the connection, like your body suddenly remembers what it’s supposed to be.

I feel it.

For a second.

Then it slips.

“Channel,” my father demands.

A ripple moves through the room. Not visible exactly, but you can feel it—like the air itself tightens. A warrior drawing in, a weapons preparing to respond. The beginning of synchronization.

I reach again. Pushing harder.  Demanding more from myself. 

That’s my first mistake.

The pressure builds too fast, like trying to force water through a pipe that isn’t built for it. My chest tightens, my muscles lock, and something in my core spikes—too sharp, too bright—a flicker runs through my limbs, not quite pain, not quite energy. Wrong. It’s wrong. I try to pull back, to steady it, to smooth the flow like I’ve been instructed to do oh so many times before. It shatters instead. And I shatter right along with it.