By Todd Oja

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on this whole ‘Allowing’ thing that Adamus has, with persistent encouragement, nudged — okay, sometimes bludgeoned — us to embrace. It’s been “encouraged” for so long, I think I was a young man (and not as wise) when it started.

Adamus is guiding those who are willing to embark on an accelerated path to mastery while serving as both provocateur and companion to those ready to step into sovereignty.

When I was learning to meditate, the inner narrator was running the show – the internal commentator endlessly judging, labeling, and framing every experience. I hadn’t yet developed the skill to observe this narrator. So, my version of Allowing meant tolerating those layers of noise, letting them be without resistance, gently guiding my attention back to that elusive sense of quiet calm. Looking back, I wonder if it was true presence I touched — or just a clever pause in the thought-stream, orchestrated by the narrator.

Still, my nervous system found calm and peace. I reached a point where I could feel my breath breathing me. My reactionary, trigger-happy emotions were much more grounded and balanced. I was able to effectively recognize where my thoughts would go, while not confusing that with “reality.”

It’s been a journey that has stirred up and unraveled layers of stuff. Is there an end to the parade of what’s been waiting in line to surface? It feels endless. Hmm, maybe it’s a good thing I started as a young man…

I remember a powerful experience from childhood, when I was around seven or eight years old. I woke in the middle of the night with a bolt of panic, unable to feel my body. Not like a numb limb, but total absence — no body, no space, no color, no light. It was like floating in a void of absolute nothingness. And yet… I was aware. That awareness was witnessing the absence itself. Panic set in as I tried to orient. Maybe I’m dead? But even that thought didn’t fit. What exactly was aware and observing?

Consciousness doesn’t disappear when distractions do, not even when the body fades from awareness. If anything, it sharpens. It witnesses the no-thing and remains aware of it.

There’s a resonance many Shaumbra recognize in Adamus’ messages. It’s not just intellectual; it’s visceral. A sentence can hit like a tuning fork, vibrating in the body, bypassing thought entirely. Those who don’t feel it usually drift away; no need to force anything. Those ready for it somehow find their way, and those who aren’t, well, they’ve got other adventures to explore. No judgment, just different timing.

I’m learning that Realization isn’t a medal you earn or a milestone you reach. Not that I thought it would be, but honestly, I wasn’t remembering what it was. It isn’t marked with a confetti cannon and a congratulatory handshake; it unfolds in layers, spirals, and paradoxes. One day you’re confident, the next you’re humbled. Sometimes within seconds. Times like those, I feel like I’m auditioning for the role of village fool — and nailing it far too often. These days I’m either showing promise with fewer auditions… or I’ve mastered the part so well that there’s no competition.

Trust gets tested the most when the old, hidden wounds surface. It’s easy to trust in theory — when things are calm, outcomes align with expectations, and insights flow like poetry. But when the repressed scars rise like ghosts through the cracks, trust starts to stretch. The mind panics. The system looks for something — anything — to grab. Stillness feels threatening. Allowing starts to seem like surrendering control to the unknown. And yet, that’s the razor’s edge where real mastery begins.

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This new light is relentless. It doesn’t let shadows hide. It burns through the distractions, stripping away the noise we used to numb ourselves. Benching — this practice of calm, neutral allowing — has a way of flushing everything to the surface. Not with force, but with inevitability. And for me, what arose was anxiety. Not from the outside, but the residue of a childhood where stillness was never safe.

Remembering the quiet tension of childhood. A house where walking on eggshells wasn’t a metaphor — it was the daily requirement for emotional survival. Hyper-vigilance became my sixth sense. Stillness was never safety; it was the warning before the eruption. And in the absence of noise, my nervous system braced for impact. I learned to poke the bear just enough to make the chaos predictable, because predictable felt safer than silence.

When thought quieted, I was forced to meet what had been buried underneath. Busyness had been a survival tool, not a flaw. Constant thinking, scanning, reacting — that kept the demons at bay. But in the calm of Allowing, I saw where the real tension lived: in the fear of stillness, in the belief that peace was a trap. The absence of distraction wasn’t relaxing. It was exposing.

Mastery, I’m learning, isn’t found in transcending discomfort; it’s in being with it. Being with silence, anxiety, emptiness… and still choosing to remain present.

For some, absence brings serenity. For others, like me, it meant peeling away a false comfort I had built around noise. In the stillness, I saw how much I had depended on distraction to keep from feeling what was always there. But the truth was waiting behind the noise. And it was never out to hurt me. Just to be seen.

For those new to Crimson Circle, Adamus’s suggestion to “drop doubt” isn’t just advice — it’s a portal. Doubt clouds the trust required for this path. Trust doesn’t mean blind faith, and it’s not obedience. It’s a quiet inner knowing that keeps you aligned when the ground under you feels like it’s dissolving. And in today’s world, where trust has eroded at nearly every level, reclaiming it within ourselves may be the most radical act we can commit to.

Whether you’re reading this article (and if you’ve made it this far — seriously, bless you), watching a Shoud online, or showing up in person, you might feel something… missing. That’s not an oversight.

It might be the absence of hierarchy. The lack of a sign-up form, a certification track, or a spiritual leaderboard. It might be that no one’s trying to fix you.

Maybe what you’re missing isn’t a feature; it’s your old conditioning, falling away. Maybe it feels unsettling not to have someone tell you where you rank, or how far you’ve come, or what’s next. Maybe you miss the structure of the spiritual game. And maybe… that’s exactly what you’re ready to outgrow.

Allowing absence — true absence — isn’t passive. It’s powerful. Even when the distractions served a purpose, their absence leaves room for something deeper to arrive.

What comes next? It’s already on its way — I’m just clearing the front porch.

Welcome to the path of Mastery — where absence isn’t emptiness, but the spaciousness for truth to arrive unforced.