I want to share a story with you. One that made me laugh out loud by the end - but not before it took me through a full-body spiral of fear, panic, and self-inquiry. This is the story of a mouse. Or at least, what I thought was a mouse.
It started on a breezy, sunlit January day. You know those days where everything feels in motion, like the wind itself is urging you forward? I was in cleaning mode - clients arriving soon - I almost hired someone to help, but decided instead to lean into the gratitude of doing it myself. There’s something about preparing a space that can feel so intentional, so full of purpose.
I had just finished vacuuming the downstairs and dragged the vacuum up to tackle my bedroom when I saw them: three small, dark droppings on the chair that faces the window. My body froze. My mind raced. Mouse? Rat? I wasn’t sure - but the fear? Immediate.
Suddenly, old memories surfaced. Years ago, rats had taken up residency on the balcony of my previous home, and let’s just say, I didn’t handle it with grace and spiritual poise. It was war. Despite them never harming me directly, my response was clear: fear and, if I’m being honest, hatred. The kind that overrides all your "spiritual" ideals. I’d thought I’d left that behind when I moved. Apparently not.
Looking at those three pieces of poop, my nervous system jumped into high gear. I didn’t just see the droppings - I saw failure. Blame. Victimhood. Within seconds, I had constructed an entire story: I must’ve left the window open too long. I probably left food out. I invited this in. This is my fault. My anxiety shot up like a geyser.
I vacuumed up the evidence quickly, eyes darting around, praying I wouldn’t see anything moving. My body was in full panic mode, my emotions spiraling, my thoughts racing. I texted my daughter - maybe she could check, maybe she’d be braver than me. When she finally responded (bless her for having her own life while I was melting down), she agreed to come by. Relief, kind of.
When she arrived, I quickly learned she shared my feelings about mice: hard no. Still, she did a scan, and like a good teammate, left the final decision - what next? - to me.
I reached out to a friend who confirmed my suspicion: definitely mouse poop. Somehow, hearing “mouse” instead of “rat” gave me a tiny exhale. We made a plan - her husband would come by the next day to take a look.
That night, I barely slept. The light stayed on. I lay half-sitting, fully on edge. My fear-filled imagination had company now - my emotions had climbed aboard. I was all in.
The next morning, I checked the area again. More poop - three fresh ones. I left them this time, evidence for the investigation. I even ordered humane traps, wrestling with the thought of what I’d actually do if one worked. Would I hear it? See it? Could I release it?
Still, I left the window open, hoping this mystery visitor might see the exit and politely leave the way it came. It seemed unlikely, but I was desperate for resolution.
Then came the moment of glory: Pete is on his way. My heart lifted.
I ushered him in like he was a CSI agent arriving at the scene. Upstairs I pointed dramatically - “There, and there. Here’s the timeline. The window was open. These are the new ones. I think they came from that box.” I was so ready for confirmation.
Pete leaned in, looked around. He was calm. Thoughtful. He picked up one of the “droppings,” examined it, crushed it between his fingers.
“It’s ash,” he said gently.
Wait. What?
“Ash,” he repeated, pointing to my long wooden matches nearby. “These are burnt match heads.”
And just like that, my entire story collapsed.
I felt myself deflate. That one assumption - made in a split second - had created an entire internal catastrophe. And he’d just quietly swept it away with one kind truth.
I thanked him. Called my friend and we laughed until we cried.
But I kept reflecting on what had just happened - because this was more than just a funny misunderstanding.
In 24 hours, I had created a full-bodied experience of fear, anxiety, helplessness, and worst-case scenario planning… from three pieces of ash. One thought lit the match, and my mind and emotions ran wild. And the thing is, many of us do this. All the time. Only our stories are longer. More complex. Sometimes they last years.
This is how powerful our inner narratives are.
I realized I was holding onto old threads: “I hate rats.” “Don’t leave the window open - something might come in.” “I’m powerless in the face of what I can’t control.” These weren’t just thoughts. They were beliefs, encoded into my nervous system. And they’d created a whole experience, one that mirrored those very ideas.
Here’s the teaching that revealed itself:
We don’t just interpret life through the lens of what we believe - we create experiences to reflect those beliefs back to us. Not to punish ourselves. But to see. To become conscious. To choose again.
Most of the time, we don’t even realize we’re doing it.
And even when guidance comes in (yes, I did ask Spirit if there was a mouse - they said no), we don’t always trust it. Fear makes us question truth. When we’re in fight-or-flight, we’re not available for calm clarity or divine insight. We’re in survival mode.
So we learn. We soften. We laugh. We release.
And we remember the sacred invitation: to open to the exhale.
I offer you this story - this wild spiral sparked by nothing more than ash - as a mirror, a smile, and an invitation.
To pause.
To question what story you’re in.
To check if the fear is real - or just an old belief asking to be let go.
You are the creator of your experience.
And sometimes, the mouse was never there to begin with.
With love,
Susan