8.8 — The Portal I Didn’t Choose

My Instagram feed is full of reels today. Lion’s Gate. 8.8. A cosmic portal, they say — a moment when the universe cracks open and lets something new in.

It’s raining outside. It’s raining inside me too.

Image of a girl soaking wet waiting outside the door for the Lion’s Gate Portal to open

I’ve been stuck in what I can only call a nightmare since last year. That was the day my life — the one I had carefully, imperfectly, hopefully built — came crashing down. Not slowly. Not with warning. It felt like my dream was physically snatched from my hands, and I’ve spent every day since tearing through the remains, fighting back with everything I have. Metaphysically. Mentally. Physically.

I lost my life in Dubai. Socially, I blamed the regional conflict — and that wasn’t untrue. But deep in my heart, I always knew. We couldn’t afford to live there long before the world gave me a cleaner excuse.

And here’s the thing I’ve never said out loud until now —

I always felt I got that life out of sheer luck. God’s grace, maybe. A blessing I hadn’t entirely earned. And somewhere along the way — consciously or not — I gambled with that blessing. I resigned from my job. I placed a bet on the universe.

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I know this. I’ve always known this.

That very day, I swapped myself — and my husband and my child — into a different portal entirely. One I did not choose. One I’ve been trying to claw my way out of ever since.

Since then I’ve knocked on many doors.

Some opened a crack and then shut. Some were never really open to begin with. Some I’m still standing outside of, knocking, pretending I can’t hear the silence on the other side.

The astrology chart blames the planets. The spiritual teacher says the universe is testing my faith. The psychologist in me — yes, I am one, make of that what you will — recognises the cognitive patterns, the survival mode, the nervous system doing what nervous systems do.

And yet.

I am still here. In the blackhole. That particular quality of space where nothing happens — where actions don’t materialise, where prayers don’t seem to compound, where you hang suspended between your dream and your nightmare.

And as time passes — the nightmare becomes familiar. And the dream becomes more distant.

I’ve been running on what I can only call survival blessings. Small graces. A roof when I needed one. A deposit that arrived from somewhere unexpected. A meditation on a full moon night that reminded me I was still breathing.

I choose — consciously, stubbornly — to see the good side of things.

But I want to be honest with you, and with myself, on this rainy 8.8 morning —

None of that changes my truth. I am still in the blackhole. Still between two worlds. Still waiting for the portal to open into something that looks like the life I was reaching for.

Which brings me to the question I keep returning to. The one I don’t have an answer for yet.

Is everything predestined — written in some cosmic ledger before we even arrive? Or can we actually rewrite our destiny, one stubborn, exhausted, faithful decision at a time?

Because if it’s all written — then what is any of this for?

And if it isn’t — then why does it sometimes feel like no matter what door I knock on, the answer is always, quietly, not yet?

I don’t know.

It’s 8.8. The lion’s gate is supposedly open.

I’m standing at the threshold, soaking wet, still knocking.