Echoes from the Circle

There are experiences in life that don’t simply pass through us, they pierce, unsettling the very ground we stand on. They reach into the marrow of our being, tugging at the threads of who we thought we were, until identity begins to unravel and something more authentic, more soul-aligned, is born.

-Rhonda Reliford

The Book, the Boundary, and the Becoming

More than a decade ago, I came across a book called The Circle Maker. To say it changed my life would be an understatement. Although it wasn’t the book itself that transformed me—in fact, I never even finished it. It was the concept introduced in those first few pages that stirred something deep within me—something I embraced with a mix of excitement and innocent faith.

At the time, as a devoted Christian, fully convinced of the power of prayer, I saw the potential for radical change if I could just apply those ideas to my life. In the moment, anything felt possible. But as they say, hindsight is 20/20. What followed wasn’t the miracle I imagined—it was the unraveling. And that unraveling would become my transformation.

Some might call it a Hero’s Journey—the archetypal path of descent, challenge, and eventual return that has echoed through myth and storytelling for centuries.

In those early pages, author Mark Batterson shares how he used the practice of praying in circles—walking and speaking his prayers aloud—to ask God for the desires of his heart. He tells story after story of miracles born from these prayers—including one that led to a $3-million-dollar gift—encouraging readers to pour their hearts out to God, to circle their hopes and dreams like the walls of Jericho, and to keep circling—no matter how long it takes.

For many, these stories awaken a deep longing: a belief that if they pray hard enough, faithfully enough, they too might unlock the divine intervention their lives so desperately need.

I was one of those people.

The Circle That Called Everything Forth

A blue sticky tab still clings to page 69—a quiet reminder of where I paused, and perhaps, where everything began.

Full of questions and self-doubt, carrying a quiet ache for something more, I stepped out of my front door and began walking in circles around my house—lap after lap—talking to God like a friend. Not a distant deity, not a force I feared, but a companion I longed to know more deeply.

There were no rehearsed prayers. No perfect words. Just raw honesty—unfiltered and trembling at the edges.

I poured out every fear, every dream, every unspoken frustration over the life I had been handed as a child. The disappointments I had swallowed. The trauma I had normalized. The dreams I had tucked away, telling myself they were too fragile, too foolish, or too far gone.

I told God I was ready to be called into something greater—something that would stretch me, transform me, and demand a trust I had never been taught to hold. I asked to be led beyond the limits of comfort, into places I couldn’t reach on my own. I said I was willing to follow—wherever, however—even if it meant walking blindfolded into the unknown with trembling faith.

I asked Him to take me deeper than I had ever gone before.

To strip away the pieces of me that were small, afraid, and fractured.

To shape me into someone who could carry the weight of her calling.

And above all… I asked for an expedited path to my purpose.

In the purity of that prayer, I cried out from the deepest chambers of my being:
“Use whatever you need to get me there, Lord. I trust You. I’m ready for battle. I want this growth more than anything. I long for wisdom. I long for strength. I long for transformation.“

And then—I paused.
Hesitant.
Guarded.

“Well… almost anything, Lord.
My children and my husband are off-limits.“

A cold fear seized me. It wasn’t theoretical—it lived in my bones. The fear of losing a child or the man I loved most in this world. These weren’t just requests—they were sacred non-negotiables. And I didn’t offer them lightly.

I recoiled at the thought of one of my children being used to move me along my path, mindful to be careful of what I asked for.

I had spent years avoiding that fear’s shadow. Ever since my son’s febrile seizure in 2007, the thought of losing one of my children had haunted me quietly but persistently. I wrapped that fear in prayer, layered it in control, masked it with hope. I guarded their lives with the kind of silent pleading only a mother understands.

For years, I had covered each of them in prayer—not just for their lives, but for the lives of the generations that would someday grow from them. My mother-heart stretched across time, begging for blessings I might never see.

Those prayers became more than devotion—they were the binding thread around my deepest fear. Faith had wrapped my heart tightly, not just to comfort, but to contain. To believe otherwise—to even touch the edges of that fear—felt like it would unravel everything, sending me spiraling into a terror I could never return from.

So, I didn’t let that fear unravel me. I couldn’t.
Almost instinctively, I shifted to the ache that sat just beneath the surface.

There were tears.
There was surrender.
A heart cracked open, spilling itself out like oil on sacred ground.

In that intimate, unguarded exchange, I confessed aloud what an omniscient God surely already knew:

“James is my everything.
The love of my life.
My soulmate.“

“I know You see my heart, God.
You know I don’t feel loved.
I don’t feel valued by my husband.
I know I love him more than he’ll ever love me.
I know the only way he’d ever truly see my value would be if he lost me.
But the only way he could lose me… would be through betrayal.
And if he betrayed me, I would never forgive him.”

He was my anchor.
My best friend.

I loved him more than I loved myself.
More than breath.
More than reason.

I had placed this man on a pedestal—higher than myself, perhaps even higher than God.

I was searching for a feeling.
Not a moment, not a presence—but a sensation I imagined would make me whole. I drifted through the days like a ghost in my own life, comparing, chasing, hoping. I didn’t know how to be with what was real. I didn’t know how to receive.
And in that endless search, I became a shell—thin and aching, never quite full, never quite enough.

I just wanted to be loved.

And while I often felt empty—spending more time longing for his love than allowing myself to receive it—the idea of being loved by him consumed me. It became the lens through which I saw the world, the rhythm of my thoughts, the measure of my worth.

What I didn’t realize then was that I was chasing a feeling I had never truly known.

How could I recognize love when I had never been properly loved?

I didn’t love myself.
I didn’t even know what that meant.

I had no model for secure love. No blueprint for what safety in relationship looked like.
I was searching for something I couldn’t name—something I believed only he held the power to give me.

Even though I believed he didn’t love me the way I longed to be loved—the way I deserved to be loved—he loved me better than anyone ever had.
And for a long time, that felt like enough.

So, I gave God permission to use anything—anything—to get me where I needed to go.
But not my children and not my marriage.
Not James.
Not us.

In that moment, I drew lines.
I set boundaries.

And whether I realized it or not, in that sacred circle, I called forth lessons that would stretch my understanding of love and worth. I summoned wisdom through experience—experiences that would shatter me into a thousand pieces, fires that would burn away every illusion and impurity I had clung to.

I invited people who would both wound and awaken me, who would mirror back what I could not yet see in myself. I beckoned suffering that would pierce the deepest parts of my being, carving open space for something more authentic to emerge. I drew in opportunities that would stretch and mold me—requiring me to rise, again and again, into versions of myself I had not yet met.

Unknowingly, I had challenged the Divine itself.

And in hindsight, I would come to understand I had unearthed the fierce love of a cosmic source—neither only Father nor only Mother, but something far greater. A love that whispers: You were never meant to settle. An energy so powerful it would rather turn me inside out than let me live a life beneath my calling.

It was a sacred force that demanded my remembrance. One that saw my inherent worth long before I could. One that wasn’t punishing me—but purifying me. Not breaking me to harm me, but to rebuild me, piece by piece, into the woman I was always meant to become.

A love that said:

You must first love yourself.

Because you are the prayer.

You are the miracle.

You are the circle.

From Echo to Offering

And now, I share these Echoes from the Circle—
not as conclusions, but as living reflections.
Not answers, but openings.

What began as a private prayer beneath the cosmos has become a sacred unfolding—
a map etched in fire, memory, and soulwork.
Each lesson drawn from rupture.
Each insight earned in silence.
Each tool forged in the dark before becoming light.

These are not just stories of what I lived through—
they are transmissions from the path I walked to become whole.
To return to myself.
To become the woman I prayed to meet.

Here, I do not simply revisit the echoes—I allow them to speak.
I allow them to teach, to stir, to stretch the souls ready to awaken.

This space holds the wisdom I gathered through heartbreak and healing,
through scholarship and surrender.
It is where I merge the scholar and the seeker, the philosopher and the mother,
the woman who was shattered and the one who chose to rise.

You will find here a sacred toolbox:
stories that heal, tools that awaken, and insights that invite you home to yourself.
A transpersonal invitation to feel deeply, live consciously,
and embody the truth your soul remembers.

This is not just my becoming.
It is a mirror for yours.
A field of echoes—whispering, rising, roaring—
calling you into your own transformation.

-Rhonda Reliford

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