Relational Field Theory

Before the Precipice Breaks

There’s a moment that comes before the precipice.
A moment most people never talk about because it’s quieter than the fall and harder to name than the aftermath. It’s the moment when something in your life is about to grow—really grow—and the world around you senses it before you do.

And instead of celebrating, something cracks.

I’ve been sitting inside that crack lately.
The pre‑precipice rupture.
The place where connections strain, projections flare, and people you’ve stood beside suddenly turn toward you with a fear that doesn’t belong to you.

It’s a strange kind of grief, losing people not because you changed, but because you were about to.

There’s a social imperative—yes, even among activists—to bite what’s rising.
To pull down what’s about to become big.
To preemptively punish what might succeed.

Even if it’s good.
Even if we want it.
Even if we need it.
Even if we’ve worked toward it for years.

It’s not malice.
It’s fear wearing the mask of urgency.
It’s trauma dressed up as vigilance.
It’s the old survival logic that whispers, “If something grows too tall, it will be cut down. Better to cut it ourselves than wait for the world to do it.”

And when you’re the one who’s growing, that logic gets aimed at you.

The cost is real.
Connections fray.
Trust wobbles.
People project their terror onto the nearest accountable body.
You become the placeholder for every betrayal they’ve ever lived through.

It hurts.
It’s supposed to hurt.
It means the relationships mattered.

But here’s the part I’m learning to hold with tenderness:
the rupture isn’t proof that the work is wrong.
It’s proof that the work is big.

Sometimes the field shakes because something new is trying to enter it.
Sometimes people lash out because they’re afraid of losing the version of you they’ve known.
Sometimes the community bites because it doesn’t know how to bless what’s emerging.

And sometimes—this is the hardest truth—
you have to keep walking anyway.

Not because you don’t care.
Not because you’re abandoning anyone.
But because the thing you’re carrying is larger than the place you’ve been standing.

I’m not pretending this is easy.
I’m not pretending the rupture didn’t leave marks.
I’m not pretending the projections didn’t land in old wounds.

But I am looking forward with a kind of melancholy hope—
the kind that knows healing doesn’t always look like staying,
and growth doesn’t always look like harmony.

Maybe this is how we heal:
by telling the truth about the rupture,
by grieving what it cost,
and by refusing to shrink just because someone else got scared.

The precipice is coming.
But this time, I’m not falling.
I’m stepping.