About Erika Awakening

Erika Awakening is a Harvard Law School graduate and former practicing attorney. She left the rat race to become a location-independent entrepreneur, holistic life coach, visionary, travel blogger, healer, and Emotional Freedom Technique (EFT tapping) expert. Erika Awakening is one of the world's foremost experts on eradicating limiting beliefs and living life on your own terms. (Follow Erika on Google+ by clicking here.)

Art of seduction: How to contain and penetrate your woman

masculine penetrationYears ago, when I was fully immersed in understanding the art of seduction, I wrote a blog article that was very popular entitled “We want to be seduced.”

That “we want to be seduced” article felt true at the time, yet it was incomplete. I left out something that was very important. Unfortunately, without that missing piece of the puzzle, relationships and seduction can quickly turn to pain instead of joy for a woman.

So it took some years sorting out what was missing from my model of seduction, mostly in solitude. Deep down, I knew I still wanted that beautiful dance of seduction, and yet it was not enough. It was so not enough that it was not worth having until I sorted out how it could be fully joyful without the pain.

Some weeks ago, after I tapped through one of the 30-Day Sexual Abundance Challenge videos that I recorded way back in 2012 … a video focused on self-connection … I got picked up on the ski lift by a guy I’d never met before.

I have been very committed to letting it play out slowly, as described in my Tantric Dating articles. Too many past mistakes that led to too much pain. Not going there again.

That said, there was a feeling very shortly after meeting this guy that “this is it – this is that elusive something that I’ve been waiting for all this time.”

Today while I was running a search on Google for the masculine and penetration, I found a pretty amazing article that describes in some ways what I’ve been trying to crystallize for myself. Here is how it describes the ideas of containment and penetration of the Feminine:

“The Primal dominant male is one who enjoys his dominance, and doesn’t view it in the context of degrading or devaluing the other person. It is simply so that he is the physically stronger or more combat-adept, or at the moment the most stable and comfortable with physical control of the situation, and so it is his pleasure to contain and penetrate the female.

“Though most men don’t have a problem with the penetration part of this exchange, in my observation and listening to many men and women talk about sex, most seem to have a problem with the containment element. This is problematic because Straight women and feminine Gay men, as well as a great many Lesbians need this generally. The Primal female or feminine needs this exponentially more. Lack of it means simply that nothing is going to happen.

“Why aren’t more men aware of this? In some cultures, it’s not a problem at all. Containment is a natural part of being close to someone. It’s only in western cultures, the embrace is missing.”


Bingo! What I described in “we want to be seduced” had the penetration element, but it unfortunately lacked the containment element that is so key to a Feminine woman feeling safe with her man and being able to open to him fully.

We see this blind spot writ large in the relationship President Donald Trump has with his wife Melania. Did you see the cringe-worthy video of them meeting the Obamas at the White House? Trump was all too ready to “penetrate” the Obamas … but he forgot to contain his woman first. He forgot to protect and include her in this momentous occasion of ceremony on the White House steps.

And he paid for it later with a cringe-worthy first dance at the inaugural ball, a wife who was clearly upset and really “not that into him.”

I see this viral video as a powerful sign to all of us how we need to heal the relationship between the Masculine and the Feminine by balancing penetration with containment.

For me, “containment” doesn’t only mean embracing her physically prior to and during sex. It also means containment by creating an emotional container for the relationship in which she feels safe surrendering to him fully. The commitment may be defined in various ways depending on the needs of the people involved, but without that commitment … oh watch out. Nothing is more terrifying than a Feminine who has been abruptly left flapping in the breeze after her deepest vulnerability.

And so I reflect again on the ski lift meeting and how this guy made such a deep impression so quickly.

He was containing and penetrating me within two minutes of meeting me, that’s how.

Let’s replay it.

What was the first thing he did as the chair lifted us off the snow?

“Are you a bar down kind of girl?” And he reached for it and pulled it down as I was saying yes.

There you go, I’m contained.

Wow, that is absolutely stunning subcommunication, don’t you think?

He’s basically asking me straight up if I’m a Feminine energy woman who wants to feel safe, protected, and contained, and doing it under the guise of something utterly sexually neutral.

Then, maybe one more minute into this chair lift ride, I was crying out in pain because my feet were cramping up in my boots.

He suggested maybe I should loosen them, that might help.

Then he leaned over, asked if I minded if he loosened them for me, and started unbuckling my boots.

He’s literally undressing me on the ski lift, within two minutes of meeting me.

This is penetration, again under the guise of something that is “not sexual.”

The subcommunication, though, was highly sexual.

And at an unconscious level where the deepest impressions are made, he demonstrated himself to be a man whose very BEING in this world is containment and penetration of the Feminine.

Cuz you can’t fake this stuff.

I’m not ready yet to share all the details of how this has translated into one of the hottest nights I’ve ever spent in bed with a guy, weeks later. The relationship is still fledgling and we haven’t yet had intercourse.

I do though point out how fast a man can start creating massive attraction with a woman by containing her and penetrating her.

As our President demonstrates, penetration is not enough. The Masculine role is to protect and contain so the Feminine can feel safe to express and play and surrender.


erika awakening


About the Author:

Erika Awakening is a Harvard Law School graduate and former practicing attorney. She left the rat race to become a location-independent entrepreneur, holistic life coach, blogger, speaker, healer, and Emotional Freedom Technique (EFT tapping) expert. Erika Awakening is one of the world's foremost experts on eradicating limiting beliefs and lifestyle design on your own terms. Learn more about Erika Awakening

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The Return of Tantric Dating

Moving Deeper Into Presence and Connection with Tantric Dating

erika awakening tantric dating

Oh the sadness of losing Harvey the Cat has touched my face for sure … and … I’ve still got it.

Let me ask you a question … how fast do you think your life can change when you practice more Presence? Weeks, months, years … Let me tell you a story then … about how much power you can tap in to nearly instantly when you learn how to reprogram the subconscious mind …

A little over a week ago, I pulled a Holistic Belief Reprogramming video out of the archives that I had not tapped in several years. This is Day 22 of the 30-Day Sexual Abundance Challenge, and the topic is Reconnecting to Your Body.

Upon tapping this Reconnecting to Your Body video, I felt delighted to find myself in a deep pool of presence. I literally felt each part of my body breathing a sigh of relief as awareness and presence moved in and stress moved out. I felt deeply relaxed and calm after tapping the video. “Damn, that’s a powerful video, I’m really proud of that one,” I thought to myself. Then I kinda forgot about it.

Fast forward to the next day. I drove out to Squaw Valley ski resort to take a few runs on the mountain after all the glorious snow we have received this month (23 feet of glorious snow and counting, and yes I tapped for that too – you’re welcome).

I was about to take my second run, on the Red Dog lift, and was scooting forward in the short line. There was a bit of confusion, and a woman next to me yelled something like “are you going up by yourself?” I took the hint and told the guy slightly in front of me that I was hopping on with him.

And so it began.

“Are you a bar down kind of girl?” he asked me. “Sure,” I responded, and he lowered the safety bar. Somehow we started chatting.

I was, by the way, covered from head to toe, literally, with not one inch of skin showing. I mean Burka style covered, in a blizzard. I was wearing mirrored ski goggles, a helmet, a face mask, thick mittens, and many layers of heavy snow gear. He could not see my face, though he later claimed he could see my eyes a little bit. I don’t know how lol with the dark mirrored goggles. Anyway …

(One of my very first blog posts after I started blogging back in 2008 was about my ski lift experience and what it taught me about attraction and approachability … that it has very little to do with physical appearance. Take a look, it’s worth a read.)

By the time we got off at the top of that Red Dog chair maybe five or so minutes later, we had discovered a lot of common ground. I even cried in front of him, my voice breaking as I told him about losing Harvey the Cat in November. I guess he was touched by my vulnerability. And my vulnerability came from self-connection, from releasing buckets and buckets of grief over the past few months, and from Reconnecting with My Body.

Well, what usually happens with these brief connections on the ski lift is that you wish each other a good day and never cross paths again. That was about to happen here. And then it didn’t.

He had helped me unbuckle my boots on the chair, because my feet were cramping. And I forgot to re-buckle them. So he shouted to me to remember to buckle my boots.

“Oh yes, thank you,” I said. Then it looked like he would move on and disappear. Except he didn’t. He kinda slowed down. We kept moving in vaguely the same direction toward the Squaw Creek chair at the bottom of the next run. I did what I usually do … start skiing.

So did he, except he kept waiting for me. If I would get behind, he would wait. If I would get ahead, he would catch up. (Turns out he used to be a ski and snowboard instructor and probably has a lot of practice with this lol.)

Next thing I know, we are riding the lift up together again. This time we are talking about meditation and deep breathing and working from home and so much else …

Now I’m ready for my last run of the day and it seems we have said goodbye to each other. I’m halfway down Red Dog on the way to cross over the Far East where my car is. And he has disappeared entirely. I felt a little disappointed and … well, that’s snow play … you have chance encounters and then don’t see each other again.

Except then somehow when I got down to the Far East lift, there he was ahead of me. I’m still not sure how that happened. He moved toward a friend’s car and I didn’t think he was aware of my presence.

So I kept skiing through the parking lot to my car, which was the other direction. I was swishing the heavy snow off my car windows with the heavy mittens, and loading up the trunk … when I hear a voice behind me …

“Erika …”

He followed me all the way to my car to get my number. Without ever seeing my face.

That’s magnetism. That’s how fast Presence can work.

To be continued …


erika awakening


Magnolia, My Magnolia

something I wrote a long, long time ago …

Magnolia, My Magnolia

Then they no longer huddled.
They forgot how to hide.
Tense as they had been,
they were flags, gaudy, chafing in the wind.
There was such abandonment in all that! – Anne Sexton

I was born blue in the face, my own umbilical cord wrapped three times around my neck. The doctors said I was lucky to be alive at all and that certainly there would be brain damage. But I guess good fortune was on my side. The stranglehold was brief and soon my skin turned rosy pink. I’ve always attached symbolic value to little life events. A bit of narrative irony there: the life cord threatening to squelch its own tiny beneficiary.

A little girl’s recurring nightmare: I’m standing in a field of dry grass and all my relatives–Mom, Dad, cousins, aunts, brothers–are being slowly suffocated by boa constrictors. There’s one boa constrictor for each family member and one that is suffocating me, too. I fight the death coil but the snake just keeps wrapping its body tighter and tighter around my legs and arms until I am gasping for breath.

We live at the edge of a wooded area where deer and squirrels are frequent visitors to the backyard. My brother and I long to get close enough to one of these deer to touch it and pet it. When we spot a deer in the woods, we approach it slowly to get near and then when it runs, we give chase. During the summer, it is a test of endurance to track a deer barefooted, over packed clay-earth and blackberry thorns. You have to be able to ignore the pain of your feet pounding on the forest floor if you expect to keep the deer in sight. During the winter, we wear rubber boots because the clay-earth turns cold and slippery when the rains come.

One rainy day, my brother and I begin a trek into the woods. We’re only around the first bend when my boot begins sinking in a clay-mud puddle. I yell to my brother that I am sinking in quick sand and to get our mother before I sink all the way down. By the time Mom arrives, I have recovered my leg, but the boot has disappeared into the muck. We find the boot two summers later, lodged tightly in the dried up clay pots, only the red rubber rim sticking out of the ground. Our own Brea Tar Pits, with the past preserved airtight in the reddish earth.

Mom gave in and bought us the Slip-n-Slide that we’ve been begging for all summer. My brother has it all set up in the backyard, with the long sheet of yellow plastic running the length of the lawn and the hose pouring water out at full throttle to lubricate the slide. I stay shut up in my bedroom reading. My brother has already made a few practice runs and now he comes to bang on my window. I tell him I don’t want to slide right now, even though I begged Mom for the set as much as he did. He cannot figure me out. He slides all afternoon, intermittently calling me out to play. Then he suddenly knows. You’re on your pyramid, you’re on your pyramid, he taunts. And I curse the day I was born a woman and I curse the bulky pad between my legs and I cry and cry and cry. This time the bleeding lasts for two straight weeks and I think it will never end.

Later, in high school, I learn that by losing just a few pounds and running every day I can stop the curse. I stop menstruating for months at a time and know that I have found paradise. Whenever it comes back, I just step up the regimen a bit and within a few months, presto, I’m as good as a boy. Just call me Demeter. You can take away my little girl, but I can control my fertility. You can shut her away in a dark underworld and threaten to never let her see sunlight again, but I will retaliate by willing my body barren.

It’s seventh period and I’m sitting in math class. The guy one row back passes me a note asking for a date. This guy is greasy and lusty and he repulses me. I write back, I don’t think so. He writes another note: one of my friends told me you’re just a prude and you’ll be an old maid until you die. I tear the note into tiny pieces and my eyes well with tears. I think it’s true. I’m sweet sixteen and have never been kissed. I probably never will be kissed. Shame saturates every corner of my being. I am ugly and repulsive and I hide my face in my shoulder length hair.

I am twenty and I’ve been kissed many times. Once in a while I still feel ugly, but I remind myself that it cannot be true because men are still willing to kiss me. Tonight is perfect evidence. Right now I’m riding home with Augustus, who is very good-looking. Dark, strong, but artsy, with two little gold earrings in his left ear. He’s a little drunk, but I’m letting him drive my car anyway. I just met him tonight and we hit it off, but now he’s acting a little weird. He asks why I’m allowing a guy I barely know to drive my car. He says: I could be anyone, I could be dangerous. He is five years older than I am.

I am completely drunk, but not stupid. I know that circumstances and details make people the way they are, not the other way around. He is treading into treacherous territory, and red flags shoot up in my head. He is trying to take control of the situation, and if I allow him to, then, yes, he will be dangerous. But it’s a game, a game I can play well. Measuring my voice carefully, I reply with deliberate confidence: I have good instincts and I trust them; I can tell you’re a good guy.

There. I’ve labelled him and re-taken control. He’s not so dangerous anymore. It is obvious that he has not sensed my quick rush of fear. But my confidence remains fragile. I begin to look more vigilantly for danger signals.

Back at his house, he cracks open another beer but I decline, honestly believing that I will throw up if I drink any more. We go upstairs to his room, where I notice black leather boots and a black leather jacket in his closets. He pulls his T-shirt over his head, revealing two tattoos on his shoulder and upper back. A lump grows in my throat. The combination of these external cues and simply the way he talks about his fraternity brothers from MIT is etching a pattern in my brain. I begin to suspect that Augustus is bisexual, the idea of which spawns two unexpected and frightening thoughts in my head. Number one, his probability of carrying the AIDS virus has probably just hundred-folded. Number two, would he rather be in this room right now with another man instead of me? Am I, just by sake of being a woman, already just a second-best scam? It’s a possibility I’ve never contemplated before. He’s right: I don’t know the first goddamn thing about this man, nor do I have the guts or tactlessness to ask him outright, and yet I’m lying in his bed in this unknown house.

I am nine years old at a new grade school where I do not know any of the kids. I spend my morning and lunch breaks inside the classroom making up word games and puzzles and reading books. My teacher worries that I am not social enough.

Amy Bennett gives me an invitation to her slumber party and though she’s not popular, I am happy enough to go. Her parents are not home, so we have free reign of the house. We gather at eight o’clock and make chocolate chip cookies before beginning the party games. We play a few old hat ones, and then I inexplicably suggest a renegade new game. I’ll run and you girls try to tear off my clothes. But I’ll try to fight you off and we’ll see if I can get away. (This is one blessed year before I gain knowledge of the defects of my body. I am not embarrassed to be seen naked.) So we play this game, and I think I can win, but there are six or seven of them chasing me around the living room, and I end up with rug burns, screaming naked on the carpet.

I am thirteen years old and a goody-good. My family spends August in the backcountry, in a rustic cabin beside a huge green lake complete with plate-glass surface that mirrors the forested mountains with their blue and snowy caps. Every year we reunite with relatives at this backcountry resort. This year my girl cousins, who are two years older, have given up bike riding for lipsticks and hairspray. We meet some like-minded boys down by the lakeside and trek to the woods for an impromptu game of Spin-the-Bottle. I refuse to play. I watch with guarded jealousy as my cousins take turns slipping into an abandoned ranger house to make out with the partner randomly chosen for them by the bottle. I desperately want to join in, but I don’t know how to kiss and cannot overcome my fear of playing the fool.

That night a beautiful electric storm smashes the placid aura of the rustic resort. With the lights turned out in our cabin we watch the sky as it cracks along tiny hairline fractures of light and re-sutures itself. A massive rainfall pounds the dirt outside and puddles are beginning to form. I slip out of the cabin without my raincoat and run giddily through the rain until hair licks my cheeks and my sopping t-shirt clings to my torso. I run to the lakeside in an adrenal rush of well-being. The storm is so close now that the thunderclaps are almost simultaneous with the flashes of light. Against the sky above the forested mountains there are glowing pinks spots where lightning fires have started. The night is eerily, violently perfect.

Augustus lies beside me, bare-chested. He says he is exhausted. I ask for nothing. I lie quietly on my stomach, motionless, my drunken body indifferent to any desire. I am infinitely flexible. I demand nothing. Since there is no action, I begin to drift off to sleep.

Suddenly Augustus grasps me. His hands are calloused and rough, which makes his caresses wonderfully brusque. I long to feel his hands all over my body. Then, he reaches for my buttocks, and again, I realize that he is feeling through me, to something else. I am in his presence but not in his mind. Powerlessness overwhelms as I realize there is nothing I can do to make this man feel me. Am I not beautiful enough? Am I not coy enough? Am I not? His hands are suddenly heavy on my flesh and I push them away. He is jarred, but not awakened. He asks: what’s wrong? Do you want me to seduce you or do you want me to stop? I want you to stop, I reply. I want you to stop. He stops. He says: I’m sorry, I didn’t understand.

I am five years old and my family moves into a small neighborhood in a suburb of San Francisco. The first day we pull into the driveway, two older kids, a sister and brother, are turning cartwheels on the lawn of our new house. This year is the first of what will be many years of drought, and watering our lawn is strictly forbidden. So is flushing the toilets. Our new backyard is overgrown with long, dry grasses topped grain-like heads that Dad calls foxtails. We play hide-and-seek in the yard, using the waist-length grass as camoflauge. On our side lot there are rows of leafy bushes with pretty pink flowers. Dad says they are oleanders, and poisonous. He says never eat the leaves of those plants.

Once a week the ice cream man drives down our street, playing his magical tune. We run out of the house with quarters and nickels begged off Mom to buy popsicles and chocolate-covered ice cream bars. Then we sit in the side lot by the oleanders with the neighbor kids and try to eat the melting treats before they dribble all the way down our arms.

I am five years old. One day my parents are not home and the neighbor boy comes over to our house. He is the same one who was turning cartwheels on the front lawn that first day we moved in. He is five years older than I am. We are playing in our glassed-in patio, when he sends my brother, who is three, away to play with a green balloon. The neighbor boy and I lie down on the bristly carpet and he pulls down my pants. I am not frightened. He climbs on top of me and moves up and down. He is inside me, but I will not remember what it feels like; I will not remember the boy’s name. I will not remember where my parents were. I will not remember who initiated it. All I will remember is that I did not fight off this boy or tell him to stop. It is a game, a game, a game.

Now I am twenty years old. Augustus has fallen asleep, but I lie awake, staring out the window at the sky that is just beginning to lighten. The air in the bedroom is hot and stale and hard to breathe. I look over at the distant man sleeping beside me, his voluptuous lips completely relaxed, the black stubble beginning to darken his face. Silently, I dress and find my shoes. I leave his bedroom without waking him, without leaving a note or a phone number. He doesn’t even know my last name. My car is parked in the driveway, between two blooming magnolia trees. The cool night air feels pleasant on my burning skin. As I turn the key in the ignition, the poem about fallen magnolia blossoms is re-writing itself in my brain:

After that I walked to my car awkwardly
over the painful bare remains on the brick sidewalk,
knowing that someone had, in one night,
passed roughly through,
and before it was time.
– Anne Sexton

The cave you fear to enter …

AngkorWatDoorway… holds the treasure you seek. But don’t kid yourself. The ego guards the cave with demons and death threats.

So you’re going to find every excuse in the book not to enter the cave.

Below I will tell a little story about the envelope I feared to open. You can see it as a metaphor for all the demons in your own life that you are not facing. First, though, let’s have some tough love, because being “fake nice” with each other is doing nothing but hurting everyone involved.

Those of you who have been following me for a long time and not taking any action … not signing up for the 30-Day Challenges or private coaching … and those of you who did sign up initially, got great results, and then backed away …

Let’s at least do each other the honor of being honest. The air is thick with bullshit and excuses. I’m not going to listen to them anymore. Enough is enough.

Yes, I am scared, and so are you. That’s exactly why we need to move forward, together, now.

I sent out an admittedly abrupt email to my newsletter list last week. I received quite a bit of feedback about that email. I appreciate that the abruptness did encourage engagement. I also appreciate that a bunch of people unsubscribed, because they clearly are not ready for this work.

On the other hand, every email I received in response was, yet again, thick with BULLSHIT AND EXCUSES.

Stop it already. NO, it is not true that you are focused on “saving money.” That is bullshit. I have watched how you squandered it the past two years, doing everything and anything you could to avoid facing the deeper shit.

NO, it is not true that you don’t have time for the work. If you did the work, the Universe would do everything to give you more time.

You are simply avoiding your feelings, your power, and yourself. It is as simple as that. We are not going to make this complicated, because it’s not complicated. It’s simple.

You are scared shitless to do this work.

So let me share a little vignette with you, so that you know that I get scared too. And I still do the work.

An envelope came in the mail a few weeks ago. It came, my intuition knew, too quickly. Because it came too quickly, I dreaded opening it. Deep down, I knew it was bad news. So the envelope sat here for three weeks. During those three weeks, I tapped and did everything I could to clear the negative energy BEFORE opening the envelope.

What was I avoiding my not opening the envelope? There was no way to find out what I was avoiding, until I opened the envelope.

When I opened it, sure enough, it was bad news. But the bad news is not what I was really avoiding. I was avoiding my feelings.

Opening the envelope was opening Pandora’s box. Suddenly I was confronted by a massive onslaught of toxic shame, overwhelming grief, dread, fear, horror … childhood memories resurfaced. I could almost feel into my pre-verbal childhood … how powerless I felt in the maelstrom of the Toxic Male and the Toxic Female who ran my life at that time, and their Toxic Relationship with each other and with me.

For more than 24 hours, all I could do was tap and bawl my eyes out. It literally felt like I might die, that’s how overwhelming the shame was. Wave after wave after wave of it smashed me back into the rocks, as soon as I would begin to stand up. All I managed to accomplish all day was to take a sea salt bath with lavender.

It was while soaking in the bath, I realized … this is what is blocking the miracles. All this toxic shame and grief that I’ve been avoiding, that I forced myself to confront by setting up this situation and sending myself that envelope with devastating news …

There’s only one way the miracles can come. I had to open the envelope and face the demons inside.

So as horribly awful as it feels, I am doing myself the greatest gift by opening the envelope and facing the feelings.

That envelope is a metaphor for repressed toxic shit. Putting that envelope in a drawer doesn’t make it go away. Only facing it can do that.

Every time you don’t get the next 30-Day Challenge, the next private coaching session … every time you go distract yourself with another “entertainment” or another Facebook post … all you do is prolong the agony and prolong the inevitable.

Every single time you make another excuse, you don’t have time, you don’t have money, you don’t feel motivated, you don’t see the value … you are betraying yourself and the rest of the planet. Your bullshit is false. It is so easy to avoid this shit, and yet it DOES NOT WORK. That shame is there whether you avoid it or not. You have two choices: keep seeing a world locked in chains by that shame and grief, or face it and heal it. Those are the only two choices.

The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.

Today is the last day at this investment level. I hope you make the right choice:



erika awakening


The importance of consistency for scheduling coaching sessions

Evergreen for Christmas

The Evergreen ship – symbol of eternal life

Today we are answering another client question, this time about the perfect timing of private coaching sessions. This client wanted to understand why I believe it is best to have your coaching sessions one week apart, at most two weeks apart. It is not a good idea to put a large amount of time between coaching sessions. So I am going to discuss this issue here.

At the end of this post will be some important announcements about my Intro Session (for new clients only) and the 15-Week Miracle Coaching Program. The investment level for both of those programs is increasing soon. Be sure to read to the end of the post so you don’t miss out on the current rates.

As you may recall, I recently revised my private coaching programs to be almost entirely Bespoke, customized coaching. From here on out, whenever we create one of those beautiful Bespoke programs … customized just for you and your goals … we will be putting an expiration date on the coaching sessions. The expiration date will reflect an intention for us to complete one 80-minute Skype coaching session each week, consistently. At most, we would have two weeks between sessions.

Why am I adding an expiration date to coaching sessions? Good question!

We are adding this policy for the same reason we have so many of our other uber-strict, non-negotiable policies (non-refundable payments, 48-hour reschedule/cancel policy, tough love, etc.). We are doing our best to prevent the ego from sabotaging our progress.

Once we start a coaching program together, we are embarking on a deep exploration of your subconscious mind. During that journey, we are going to be poking around and finding those old, deep, dark, sore spots that you’ve been avoiding for years.

(The truth is, this avoidance succeeded only at a conscious level. In fact, when unconscious trauma and pain is repressed, it gets projected. That means you have not avoided it at all, but it will appear in your life as something “out there” that is attacking or bothering you. This is the subject of my famous article about why avoidance never works.)

As we dig into this deep unconscious material, with the intention of getting it healed for real so that it no longer haunts your waking dreams … things may begin to feel UNCOMFORTABLE. In fact, if you don’t feel uncomfortable in my coaching programs, you would be the rare exception … and we probably need to dig DEEPER.

As things begin to feel uncomfortable, the ego will start prodding you to FIGHT OR FLEE. No matter how composed you may be at the beginning of the program, just wait … The ego is a sneaky devil. It does not want to be unraveled and defeated. It will come up with just about ANY excuse to interrupt our program. Among many other “strategies” the ego has, it will start finding “reasons” why you “don’t have time” to schedule your next session, why it’s “better to wait,” etc. etc. etc.

The ego is doing this because when you allow long breaks in between coaching sessions (or sessions of tapping videos on your own), the ego has a chance to reassert itself. It will bring in new distractions, it will bring in new excuses, it will reinforce your limiting beliefs … The ego will find any way possible to make sure its control over your life continues unabated.

And we are not going to let the ego do this, because I want you to get the most out of your time and money commitment to our program together.

healing with archetypes ganesh

When I was in Thailand in 2013, this image of Ganesh appeared on the wall of the store that gave me visa photos to go to Vietnam. The removal of obstacles was exactly what was happening at that moment.

Unfortunately, if you let the ego reassert itself, you can pretty much count on sabotaging the results we are working so hard to create in your private coaching program. I’ve had a great many clients who wanted to quit right before they got their miracle. That is not a coincidence. It is a very predictable ego sabotage mechanism that the ego uses on a regular basis to keep the “status quo” in place and block miracles.

So, from here on out, when you sign up for the 15-Week Miracle Coaching Program or a Bespoke private coaching program, we will be adding an expiration date to the sessions. We are going to use the ego’s fear of “losing” money to defeat the ego’s strategy of preventing progress. The ego thought it was sneaky. Happily, we are sneakier than the ego. We are going to be relentless in chipping away the ego, until it has no option left but surrender.

Meanwhile, I am going to be raising the investment level of the 80-minute Skype Intro Session and the 15-Week Miracle Coaching Program. The Intro session is the first one that will go up in price, most likely later this week. Get yours now, and let’s get started defeating the ego in your life:



erika awakening