You Can Hold Both Creating and Crumbling
Sep 03, 2025
The beauty of beginning again is not always found in the glittering spark of creation—it often lives in the quiet, smouldering ashes of what once was.
Every ending carries a story.
Every crumble whispers lessons.
Every collapse holds within it the secret blueprint of rebirth.
This is the second blog in the third series of my writing journey, a new rhythm to add to the heartbeat of Wild Wellness with Hannah and the Wild Wellness Blog.
I am calling it “You Can Hold Both.”
The Wild Women series began last year, and it still has many voices waiting to rise—women from myth, history and everyday life who have inspired, impacted and ignited my own path. These women represent courage, creativity and resilience in forms both fierce and tender.
The Ignite series continues to spark light every Tuesday, a weekly invitation to fan the flames of curiosity, imagination and inner power.
Those blogs are my compass points, reminders that each of us carries an eternal flame that can be stoked, shared and sustained.
Now, as naturally as the moon waxes and wanes, and the sun rises and dips, the third blog series You Can Hold Both has now revealed itself.
This series was born from an inner knowing I could no longer ignore: that life is not meant to be lived as either/or. It is not neat or linear, not a tidy succession of one box ticked after another.
Life is cyclical.
Life is paradox.
Life is both messy and miraculous.
We are meant to carry opposites.
We are meant to hold contradictions and allow them to dance side by side.
The most-read blog this month has been You Can Hold Both Sensational Standards and Self-Compassion.
It resonated so deeply because so many of us are walking this wild edge. Learning to demand more from ourselves, while also softening into radical tenderness. Learning to rise higher, while also knowing when to rest.
That paradox is not weakness.
It is wisdom.
The You Can Hold Both series will continue to remind us that we don’t have to choose one truth over the other.
We are wide enough, wild enough and wise enough to hold both.
To create something beautiful, you often have to let something else fall apart.
To birth a vision, a dream or enter a new season of your life, you may first need to crumble beneath the weight of what you have outgrown—what has outlived its purpose.
We live in a culture that fears endings.
We are taught that destruction equals failure, that breaking apart means we are broken, that collapse is something shameful to hide away.
When we widen our lens, we see it differently: destruction is not punishment—it is sacred preparation.
We are taught that destruction equals failure, that breaking apart means we are broken, that collapse is something shameful to hide away.
When we widen our lens, we see it differently: destruction is not punishment—it is sacred preparation.
A crumbling can be a clearing.
It is the storm that sweeps through the forest, scattering debris yet fertilising the ground for the seeds hidden beneath.
It is the fire that looks destructive but restores balance, making way for new growth. It is the fall of a tower that reveals the skyline beyond.
When we resist the crumble, we cling to what no longer serves us. We white-knuckle grip a version of life that was never meant to last forever.
When we surrender—when we allow the unraveling—we create space for what is ready to arrive.
When we surrender—when we allow the unraveling—we create space for what is ready to arrive.
Creating and crumbling are not opposites—they are dance partners. One cannot move without the other.
To hold both creation and crumbling is to trust that the falling apart is not the end.
It is the opening.
It is the threshold.
It is the necessary soil for creation to bloom.
When I am in the middle of my own crumble—when the ground feels shaky and everything I knew seems to be dissolving—I return to this affirmation: “I trust the crumble. I trust the clearing. I trust that what falls away makes space for what is meant to grow.”
Nature is always teaching us how to hold both.
Think of the forest.
A storm rips through.
Trees are toppled. Branches scatter. The soil churns.
Trees are toppled. Branches scatter. The soil churns.
At first glance, it appears to be devastation. Yet, within the fallen logs mushrooms emerge. The churned earth becomes a cradle for seedlings. The sunlight, once blocked by towering branches, now spills onto the forest floor where new growth takes hold.
The collapse is not the opposite of life—it is part of the rhythm of renewal.
Our lives are no different.
🔷 A relationship ends. In the ache of heartbreak, you discover your truest self waiting to be reclaimed.
🔷 A career path crumbles. In the uncertainty of transition, you find the work that was always whispering to you beneath the noise.
🔷 An old belief shatters. In the shards, light streams through, illuminating truths you could not see before.
🔷 A friendship drifts apart. Though the silence feels like loss, it opens the space for connections that honour the person you’ve become.
🔷 A home is left behind. Moving boxes and tearful goodbyes give way to fresh walls where new memories will grow roots.
🔷 A project fails. What felt like wasted effort becomes the fertile compost for a more aligned creation.
🔷 A routine breaks down. The disruption is frustrating at first, but soon you find yourself moving with a rhythm that feels more authentic and free.
🔷 Your body changes. An illness, injury, or shift in season humbles you—and in slowing down, you discover deeper ways of listening to your body’s wisdom.
🔷 An identity dissolves. The title, role, or label you once clung to falls away, and you finally meet yourself without masks.
🔷 A dream delays. The waiting feels unbearable, but in the pause you cultivate patience, resilience, and clarity you wouldn’t have found otherwise.
Each crumble, though painful, is never wasted. It becomes the very soil from which new life rises—wild, unexpected and deeply aligned.
The wild woman within us remembers this. She knows that ruin is not the opposite of creation.
She knows that ashes are sacred.
She knows that ashes are sacred.
She knows you can fall apart and rise again, that you can destroy and create, that you can grieve and grow all in the same breath.
We have been conditioned to see strength as keeping everything together, but wild woman wisdom teaches otherwise: strength is in allowing the crumble.
Power is in letting the tower fall.
Power is in letting the tower fall.
Bravery is found not in clinging but in trusting that the soil beneath your feet will catch you, and from that soil, something even more aligned will grow.
This is the sacred duality: we are allowed to crumble and create, to grieve and to grow, to destroy and to build all at once.
When you are walking through your own storm, you can carry these words as an anchor: Even in the crumble, I am becoming. Even in the storm, I am rooted. Even in the ashes, I am rising.
The beauty of beginning again is not always found in the glittering spark of creation—it often lives in the quiet, smouldering ashes of what once was.
Every ending carries a story.
Every crumble whispers lessons.
Every collapse holds within it the secret blueprint of rebirth.
If you find yourself in a season of crumbling, remember: this too is sacred.
You are not failing—you are preparing.
You are not broken—you are breaking open.
You are not lost—you are making space to be found again.
Creation and crumbling are not opposites—they are threads of the same tapestry, woven by wild, unseen hands.
One clears, the other builds.
Together, they form the wild, intricate pattern of your life.
This is the sacred art of holding both.
To deepen into this wisdom, I invite you to take up your pen and explore the edges of your own creation and crumble
Create a sacred space: light a candle, breathe deeply and open your journal as you gently reflect on these prompts.
Where in my life am I currently creating something new?
Where in my life am I being called to crumble, to let something fall away?
What beliefs or patterns feel like they are collapsing within me?
How could destruction in my life be preparing the sacred ground for creation?
What do I fear will happen if I let it all fall apart—and what freedom might be waiting on the other side?
What small act of creation feels possible for me right now, even in the midst of unraveling?
How do I want to honour the ashes, as much as I celebrate the spark?
🔥 My Pledge to Holding Both
Each time we name our devotion, we anchor it.
Let this pledge tom holding both remind you that you are spacious enough to hold both the crumble and the creation, the falling apart and the becoming:
I pledge to honour the crumble as much as the creation.
I pledge to trust the fall as much as the rise.
I pledge to see destruction not as an ending, but as sacred preparation.
I pledge to hold both grief and growth, endings and beginnings, loss and love.
I pledge to remember I am wide enough to hold both.
I offer you this grounding ritual The Ash and the Seed, to help you honour both the beauty of creation and the inevitability of crumbling.
Find a quiet space where you can sit comfortably.
Place a small bowl, a piece of paper and a seed (or something symbolic of growth) in front of you.
Write down what is crumbling.
On the paper, jot a word, habit, belief, or situation you are ready to release—something that has reached its natural end.
On the paper, jot a word, habit, belief, or situation you are ready to release—something that has reached its natural end.
Burn or tear the paper.
If safe, light it and let it burn in the bowl. If not, simply tear it into pieces, imagining it turning into fertile ash.
Hold the seed in your hand.
Close your eyes and whisper: “From the ashes, new life takes root.”
Plant the seed in soil or place your symbolic token on an altar, as a reminder that every crumble makes way for creation.
The wild woman within you already knows this truth: ashes are sacred.
Ruin is not the opposite of creation—it is part of it. You can fall apart and rise again, you can grieve and grow, you can destroy and create, all in the same breath.
Ruin is not the opposite of creation—it is part of it. You can fall apart and rise again, you can grieve and grow, you can destroy and create, all in the same breath.
What in your life is asking to crumble, so that something truer can be created?
Carry these words with you when the storm feels strongest:
I am not failing. I am preparing.
I am not broken. I am breaking open.
I am not lost. I am making space to be found again.
May you honour the crumble as holy ground.
May you meet your endings with reverence, your beginnings with wonder, and the space in between with trust.
May the ashes remind you that nothing is wasted and may every seed you plant be blessed by the wisdom of what has fallen away.
May you find the courage to release, the softness to rest, the strength to rise and the wild knowing that you are always becoming.
May you always remember: you are wide enough, wild enough and wise enough—to hold both.
