What My Akashic Records Revealed About Self-Worth

There’s a question I’ve carried for years, usually quiet enough that I could work around it. Am I enough?

Not enough for anyone else’s approval, necessarily. Just—enough. On its own. Without the list, the milestone, the proof.

A few weeks ago, I finally sat down and asked it directly. I channeled a personal akashic records reading for myself—a practice rooted in the belief that there’s an energetic record of who we are, beyond just what we’ve done or achieved, and that it can be accessed for clarity when we’re ready to listen. I’m currently practicing to become a practitioner myself, with hopes of eventually holding space for readings like this for others—but for now, I brought one question with me, as a student and a seeker first: what old stories about my self-worth do I need to release?

What came through wasn’t advice. It wasn’t a five-step plan or a mantra to repeat in the mirror. It was an image—one I haven’t been able to shake since, in the best way.

The Sphere

Picture yourself as a sphere. Fully sealed. Smooth. No crack, no seam, no opening.

Everything true about who you are—every ounce of brilliance, every piece of wisdom you’ve ever carried—is already inside that sphere. Not something you have to go earn somewhere else. Not something waiting on the other side of the next achievement. Already there. Waiting.

The only thing standing between you and it is YOU.

I sat with that for a long time. Because if it’s true—if everything I’ve been chasing was already inside me the whole time—then the real question was never whether I was enough. It was whether I was willing to let myself find out.

The Old Language of Not Enough

If you’ve ever caught yourself thinking any of this, you already know the shape of the sphere I’m describing:

I’ll feel worthy once I hit that goal. I need to prove myself before I take up space. Everyone else seems to have it figured out. I have to earn the rest.

This is the common language of limiting beliefs about self-worth—the quiet, constant math so many of us run without realizing it. Worth is measured by output. Value is tied to approval. Rest is treated as something to unlock rather than something you’re allowed. It shows up as perfectionism, over-explaining, saying yes when your whole body wants to say no, and staying small in rooms you were fully qualified to enter.

None of it is really about the goal, the room, or the approval. It’s about a sealed sphere and a belief—usually formed long before we had any language for it—that we’re not allowed inside our own worth without paying for it first.

I don’t think I’m unusual in carrying that. I think most of us are.

The Choice Nobody Else Can Make

The reading didn’t rush to comfort me. Before any of the language about worth came through, it gave me a choice instead.

I was given an option and choice:

Do I want in, now? Am I actually willing to crack this open and reclaim what’s inside? Or do I keep standing outside my own life, waiting for some kind of permission to trust myself?

I sat with that question longer than I expected. It’s an uncomfortable one, mostly because it places responsibility where you can’t outsource it. Nobody could choose it for me. I don’t think anyone can choose it for you either—not a mentor, not a partner, not even the people who love you best.

I chose now.

What Was Waiting Inside

So I visualized breaking the sphere open. And what was inside was so much softer than I expected.

I am simply enough, as I am, right now. Not once I finish the list. Not once I’ve proven it. Enough now—that simply breathing is worthy enough for me to be here. The more that settles into me, the easier it becomes to trust what’s actually in my heart, instead of everything I think I should be doing to earn a seat at some metaphorical table.

I am worthy of every desire I hold. But I’m learning they arrive on their own timing—not when I chase them, but when I finally match the frequency already living inside me.

My worth isn’t something I have to perform into existence. It’s infinite, the way sunlight is infinite even when the moon appears. The way water ripples across a lake or the ocean without asking permission first. The way stars simply are what they are, without needing anyone to notice them to be real. It’s deep—like the universe itself—living quietly in the part of me that doesn’t need external validation to exist.

That part never left. It was just waiting for me to stop looking everywhere else for it.

The Practice I’m Holding Onto

I know I’ll need to be reminded of this again. That’s not a failure—that’s just what it means to be human, moving through a world that constantly asks us to prove ourselves. I imagine you’ll need the reminder too, sometime soon.

So here’s what I’m holding onto: when the old question creeps back in, I’m not going to argue with it. I’ll put a hand over my heart. Notice its warmth. Its rhythm. And let that be the reminder that whatever I’m feeling in that moment isn’t a warning—it’s usually my own power, asking to come through.

Lately, I’ve started noticing where that shows up in ordinary places. In the breath right before I share something I’ve written, recorded, or curated. In the truth I almost keep hidden, before deciding it deserves to be witnessed. In the idea, I almost keep to myself until something in me insists otherwise.

It shows up, too, in the way my daughter watches me try—even when I’m not sure I’ll get it right. In the moments she sees me choose myself fully instead of shrinking, long before she has the words for what she’s actually learning by watching.

Every time I choose that instead of the old story, the sphere stays a little more open.

No One Else Holds the Mic

The reading ended with one more thing coming through, clearer than everything before it:

There’s no one else holding the microphone to my self-worth but me.

There are plenty of voices around me. But none of them carry the authority of my own—because none of them are actually mine to give away.

I’m holding the mic now. On the stages I desire to be on, in rooms I deserve to be in, and in the ordinary in-between moments, nobody applauds.

Yours has been sitting right in front of you this whole time, too.

Why I Wanted This to Be Where I Start

I’ve been sitting with when and how to begin documenting this new chapter more publicly—motherhood, postpartum, the version of me that exists on the other side of my daughter’s birth. And I kept coming back to the same hesitation: who am I to speak on any of this, out loud, on camera, without having it all figured out first.

Which is, of course, exactly the old story this whole reading was about.

Postpartum asks you to rebuild your sense of self while you’re also learning an entirely new role, often without much language to describe what that rebuilding actually feels like. I didn’t want to start a channel about that chapter from a place of performing, because I’d already arrived somewhere. I wanted to start with the truth—that I’m still cracking the sphere open, still learning to trust my own voice before I hand the mic over to anyone else’s opinion of how I should be doing this.

That felt like the only honest place to begin. Not a highlight reel of motherhood, but the real, ongoing work of believing I’m enough to document it at all—as a mother, as a creator, as someone still becoming.

If any part of this stirred something in you, I’d love to know what old story you’re ready to release.