The Space Between the Arena and the Circle

A Story of Contrast, Transformation, and the Sacred Art of Being Held

The Universe has a way of arranging experiences with a precision that only makes sense in hindsight.

Abraham Hicks calls it contrast — those moments where life places two opposing realities side by side, not to punish us, but to reveal truth with undeniable clarity.

Only through contrast do we learn to recognise what feels good, what feels aligned, what feels like home in the body.

I didn’t know, as I led my horse Boy into the arena at Equifest, that a doorway had already opened. I didn’t know that the nervous system imprint of that weekend would become the very soil from which a different kind of knowing would bloom only days later. But the Universe knew. The timing was not accidental — it was ceremonial.

The Arena — Where My Body Remembered an Old Story

There’s a particular kind of silence that fills an arena when eyes are watching, when performance is expected, when a part of you believes you must get it right. Boy felt it first — the tightening of my breath, the way my body braced, the invisible thread of pressure that slipped between us like a shadow.

I adore Warwick Schiller and his teachings, and this is not a story of fault or blame — it is a story of my body, my history, and the echo of old conditioning rising like a ghost in the dust of the arena floor.

In that space, I felt myself fold inward. Dysregulated. Frozen. Triggered by the old imprint of obedience. The internal narrative was ancient:

Be good. Do it right. Don’t mess up. Don’t be judged.

It was a younger version of me at the reins — the girl who learned that love and safety were conditional, earned by compliance. My nervous system didn’t care that I am now a grown woman, a mother, a facilitator, a healer. In that moment, my body remembered what it was to be seen in vulnerability without safety.

Boy responded as any sentient being would — especially one as intuitive as him. He told the truth of the room. Not through disobedience, but through honesty.

He showed me what my body was trying to hide.

And so, in that arena, vulnerability felt exposed, not held. I left with a tenderness in my chest, not fully understanding that this experience was not a failure — it was the contrast being set.

The Circle — Where My Body Found a Different Way

Days later, I stepped into a very different container: a 4–day medicine drum journey. Twelve participants and a facilitator — the Shar woman — gathered on a Thursday night, called into sacred circle. The deer hides had travelled from Fiordland. The rims carved from kahikatea. The rākau for our drumsticks waited for us to recognise them. Mine had already found me at Te Arai Point, long before I knew why. Because wairua prepares us long before the mind catches up.

From the moment we entered the space, I felt safer than my body knew how to explain. Safety was not declared — it was embodied. The container was woven with manaakitanga — care, uplift, spiritual hospitality — so tangible I could rest inside it.

Here, vulnerability was not a threat. Here, the shadow was welcomed. Here, I could explore the parts of myself that had been hidden, unseen, unspoken.

We did not learn through instruction — we learned through experience. Through breath, through touch, through story, through presence.We didn’t just craft drums — we birthed them.

I listened to the voices of others — trembling, truth-telling, liberated. I heard their karanga, their wairua speaking, sometimes gently, sometimes in a crack of thunder. And in their courage, I found my own.

As we walked the Medicine Wheel, I felt something ancient move through me. For the first time, I understood what a circle truly is. Not a shape. Not a seating arrangement. A portal. A living, breathing organism of collective soul.

Inside that circle, the facilitator did not stand above us — she stood with us. She held the rim, not the centre. She tended the fire, but did not direct the flame.

This is when I realised: the circle itself was the teacher.

The Contrast — The Universe’s Lesson in Embodied Transformation

It wasn’t until I returned home that the teaching crystallised:

In the arena, my vulnerability was exposed. In the circle, my vulnerability was held.

In the arena, my body armoured. In the circle, my body opened.

In the arena, I sought approval. In the circle, I found belonging.

This contrast — stark, undeniable — showed me what true transformation feels like in the body.

Transformation is not a concept. It is not mindset work. It is not something you understand —it is something you become.

And it can only occur where there is safety for the nervous system and wairua for the soul.

I realised that safe facilitation is not spoken — it is felt.

It is not about tools, techniques, or knowledge. It is about relationship, attunement, presence, and humility.

Horses know this. They require the same conditions humans do. Regulation. Connection. Choice. Space.

Boy was my first teacher. The circle was my second. Both guided me home to a deeper truth:

Transformation and facilitation live in the body, not the mind.

Integration — The Becoming

I emerged from those two experiences changed. Not in a way that is loud or performative —but in a way that is quiet, cellular, honest.

I now know how my body tells the truth of a space. I now know the difference between being seen and being held. I now know the feeling of a container woven with wairua and manaakitanga —the kind of space where transformation is not forced, but invited.

This is the standard my soul now recognises. This is the kind of space I choose to enter. And this is the kind of space I am here to create.

Because to walk between the arena and the circle is to learn that one contracts you, the other expands you. One tests you, the other transforms you. Both have purpose, but only one brings you home.