There’s Nothing More Left to Do
By Roy Dawson Earth Angel Master Magical Healer
They say, “Why would God favor him or her and not me?”
Well—I say, have you checked your behavior?
Did you light candles and chant names with bad intentions? Then come home, take your mask off, and melt down in private like the weight of your own contradictions just collapsed on you?
I hate to break it to you—but that’s not a good look.
And God sees everything.
Yes, everything.
Even the motel room.
Especially the motel room.
Not a good look.
Do you practice witchcraft? Dark energy?
Wish people ill just because they shine in a way that rattles your shadow?
Are you cruel?
Selfish?
Greedy?
Do you treat people like dirt and still expect blessings to rain down like it’s harvest season?
Come on now.
God doesn’t bless what’s rotting from the inside.
That’s not judgment.
That’s alignment.
If your life feels off track, don’t throw curses around like emotional confetti.
Go look in the mirror.
Clean the inside of your own house before blaming the neighbors for your mess.
People are always overcomplicating things.
They act like they own and run 20 businesses, when the only business they truly own is their own—and they should probably tend to that before trying to manage everyone else’s.
The morning came in slow, like it was tiptoeing across floorboards trying not to wake anyone.
A soft, lazy kind of quiet.
The kind of quiet that shows up when you’ve finally stopped pretending you’ve got something left to prove.
There’s a peculiar peace that comes with realizing you’ve done everything you can.
It’s not glamorous.
No parade.
No confetti.
No balloons shouting, “Congratulations! You’ve reached emotional clarity!”
But you’ll know.
Your bones will know.
Your gut will know.
And your coffee? It’ll taste just a little bit better.
It usually starts with a crisis—or if you’re read more lucky, three or four, stacked like unwashed dishes in a sink you’ve been avoiding.
Maybe the universe came in and rearranged your plans with all the grace of a drunk sailor.
You fought it, of course.
Ran yourself into website burnout.
Tried to productivity your way out of an identity crisis.
Maybe even downloaded a meditation app and promptly ignored it.
But somewhere between screaming into a pillow and deleting your 14th vision board…
Something shifted.
You stopped.
Not because you gave up.
But because something inside finally whispered,
“Hey, champ. Maybe the whole point isn’t to hustle yourself into oblivion.”
And for the first time…
You listened.
You thought clarity would look like fireworks.
Instead, it looked like an overwatered houseplant and a nap you didn’t feel guilty about.
You thought growth would feel like scaling a mountain.
But it felt more like sinking into your couch and muttering,
"Oh… that’s why I do that."
Turns out, the big project wasn’t your business.
Or your bank account.
Or your body.
It was you.
You were the blueprint.
The renovation.
The unlicensed contractor finally reading the manual.
Now you walk differently.
People say you’ve got a glow, but really, it’s just the face of someone who doesn’t chase things that don’t already feel like home.
You’re grounded.
Rooted.
Like a tree that finally figured out it doesn’t need to wander to grow.
You don’t waste breath explaining yourself to people who want you to shrink.
You don’t confuse someone else’s chaos with your job to clean it up.
And most importantly?
You finally know the difference between your energy… and the weird funk lingering in the room.
(Bless their heart, but you’re not absorbing that anymore.)
You’re not tired.
You’re clearing.
You’re not broken.
You’re finally unburdened.
The old stories, the stale fears, that inner voice that said “do more, be more, prove it”—they’ve all been evicted.
What’s left?
The real you.
The one with depth.
With humor.
With swag.
Yeah, I said it—swag.
(Even miss High and mighty cracked a grin at that one.)
So now?
You sit.
You here breathe.
You be.
There’s nothing more left to do.
Not because there’s nothing…
But because you finally realized the most important work was never outside of you.
And now you’re free.
To laugh.
To nap.
To dance badly in the kitchen.
To live.
And if anyone asks what you’re working on these days?
Tell them: yourself.
Then pour a drink.
Roy would’ve liked that part—black coffee.
Strong.
No cream. No sugar.
Just the real thing. ????