I didn’t always believe in past lives. I grew up more familiar with cups of Yorkshire tea
than cosmic contracts, and was more inclined toward getting on with things than
pondering soul agreements. And if you’d told me years ago that certain relationships
arrive carrying the residue of other lifetimes, I’d have nodded politely and changed
the subject. Preferably to the weather. And yet, some people walk into your life and
upset that tidy way of thinking.
Some encounters feel oddly familiar for reasons you can’t sensibly explain as though
you’ve skipped the introductions and gone straight to the reckoning. It’s as if your
emotions arrive fully formed — devotion, irritation, responsibility, tenderness, dread
— without the courtesy of a gradual build. You find yourself reacting rather than
choosing, pulled into patterns you don’t remember agreeing to, yet somehow
recognise all the same. These are often called karmic relationships. Not because
they are romantic or dramatic — though they can be — but because they carry
unfinished business.
I met one such relationship just as everything familiar in my life was starting to come
undone — and, as is always the way, not somewhere sensible, but in Africa. Of all
places. Because apparently my soul has a sense of humour and a flair for the
dramatic. There I was, a working-class woman from Yorkshire, who considers a
strong cup of tea and tarot reading spiritual practice, suddenly tangled — quite
literally — in what can only be described as a karmic warrior battle. with a Lion
Tamer. An actual, real-life Lion Tamer. Not metaphorically. Properly. The sort of
situation where, had you described it to me beforehand, I’d have said, “Oh aye, very
likely,” and carried on buttering my toast.
I’ve also learned — the hard way, as always — that karmic relationships aren’t
meant to feel nice, romantic, or wrapped in love and light. Sorry if that bursts the
bubble, but I’ve never been one for cushioning the truth. I’m more the pull-the-
plaster-off-quick type of girl. Believing karmic relationships are painless is a bit like
being told weight loss is easy and comfortable. Anyone who’s actually done it knows
that’s nonsense. If there’s no discomfort, no change in habits, no hard moments,
then nothing real is happening. Karmic relationships are no different — if someone
says they’re meant to feel wonderful and affirming, they’re leaving out the work.
These confrontational relationships exist to knock you out of habits you’ve been
dragging around for far too long — the over-giving, the over-explaining, the putting
up with things because it feels familiar or because you’ve convinced yourself it’s “the
right thing to do.” The discomfort isn’t the problem; it’s the point. These karmic debts
don’t hang around because they’re healthy — they hang around because you know
them well and keep stepping into the same role without questioning it. Clearing
karma isn’t about fixing the relationship or ending it neatly. It’s about clocking what
you’re doing while you’re doing it and deciding, often mid-mess, that you’re not
playing that part anymore. When the role stops, the pull does too. That’s what real
spiritual freedom looks like — not floating above it all, but finally refusing to repeat
what never worked in the first place.
Now here’s the bit most people dodge. The real work of a karmic relationship isn’t
sorting the other person out — it’s dealing with what they kick up in you. The anger,
the fear, the resentment, the weakness you’d rather pretend you don’t have. These
relationships drag that stuff into the open so it can’t hide anymore. Karma clears
when you stop chucking the blame outward and take responsibility for what’s yours
to carry and change. When you feel it properly instead of acting it out, the grip
loosens. What ends isn’t the connection — it’s the version of you that needed it in
the first place. The relief that comes with this isn’t joy exactly — it’s more like the
body exhaling after years of holding itself tense without knowing why. And here is
where the Yorkshire in me insists on chiming in: if spiritual awakening always looked
serene, we’d all be queueing up for it. In reality, it looks like confusion, heartbreak,
emotional overreaction, and the humbling realisation that you’ve been taking yourself
far too seriously. Awakening has a sense of humour — usually at your expense —
and it doesn’t ask permission first.
When I met him, the Lion Tamer, we clashed immediately. There was no gentle
unfolding, no sense of ease. It felt like two warriors recognising each other across a
battlefield, both still armed, both unwilling to lower their guard. In my understanding,
this wasn’t the first time our souls had met. In a past life, we stood on opposite sides,
and I survived while he didn’t. This time, the fight wasn’t physical — but the tension
was just as real. What made it worse — and far more confusing — was the sexual
attraction. It was undeniable. Intense. The kind that pulls you forward even when
every sensible part of you knows better. We were deeply, almost violently drawn to
each other, passionate in a way that made no sense alongside the constant clashes.
One minute we were pulled together, the next we were at odds, both too strong-
willed to surrender. As my Yorkshire self would put it: it was a right bloody mess, and
I knew it. I helped him in many ways though? I wanted to see him succeed. Beneath
that support, maybe, was something heavier — a sense of responsibility, maybe
even guilt, as if I owed him something from long ago. When I discovered he had lied
to me, that he was married, that he had used me and cheated with other women, it
felt like the roles had reversed. His betrayal cut deeply, and part of me wondered
whether this was his reckoning — his way of settling an old score.
What mattered wasn’t what he did next. It was what I did.
In the past, I would have met this with anger — blocked him, shut the door, gone for
revenge ten times over. This time, I didn’t. What actually shifted was how I chose to
see it. Every instinct in me wanted to harden, blame myself, or turn the anger
outward — because that would’ve felt familiar and justified. Wishing him well felt
wrong at first, almost ridiculous, like letting him off the hook. Where I’m from, you
don’t thank someone for hurting you — you tell them where to go and get on with it.
But I realised I wasn’t doing it for him. I was doing it because carrying bitterness was
poisoning my own insides, and I’d done nothing to deserve that. Letting go of the
blame — especially the blame I’d put on myself — cleared something heavy out of
me. Thanking him for the experience wasn’t noble or easy; it was practical. It
stopped the damage spreading any further. That’s how the darkness shifted — not
by pretending it didn’t hurt, but by refusing to let it take up any more space in me.
Once it was gone, there was room for something far better to settle in.
What I finally understood was this: I wasn’t meant to fight him, tame him, or prove
myself against him. He lived by power — control, dominance, survival — the king of
his own jungle. I met that energy with strength too, and for a while we grappled, each
refusing to yield. But I wasn’t here to win a battle. I was the lioness, not the opponent
— and I didn’t need to bare my teeth to know my power. This time, I chose
something different. I stepped out of the fight altogether. I didn’t wrestle, didn’t attack,
didn’t become vicious to survive. I held my ground in calm, and in that stillness the
dynamic collapsed. The light didn’t roar or dominate — it simply remained. And that
was enough. The light won, not by force, but by no longer needing to prove itself.