Nathan Llera (@nathan91) - Collective Profile | East Hemet, US Teacher Healer Director. Okay, I figured out this app is wholesome. Is it also the place to connect with other young millionaires? 😂 Follow @nathanllera on Instagram. Recent posts: a man wearing sunglasses and a black t-shirt is taking a selfie in the driver's seat of a car. the reflection in his sunglasses shows buildings and vehicles., the sky is a dramatic blend of bruised purple-black and bleeding orange, suggesting an apocalyptic event pressing down on the horizon. the radio display shows static, indicating a loss of signal amidst the unfolding crisis., a man stands on a rocky outcrop overlooking a serene body of water with mountains in the distance, bathed in the warm glow of a sunset. the image features the title "what the water already knew" and the author's name, nathan llera, overlaid on the sc, a man with curly hair and a mustache wears sunglasses and earbuds while sitting in the driver's seat of a car., a glowing, anatomical heart is depicted floating above an open hand, radiating vibrant, colorful energy. the image promotes 'pranic healing for cardiovascular support,' emphasizing balance, energy, and heart health., a close-up shot of a golden book with tibetan script and the words "om mani padme hum" printed in teal. the book is placed on a dark surface, with a red cloth featuring intricate patterns and symbols in the foreground. in the background, shelves are, a man is pictured in front of a wall with blue and orange lighting. text overlay reads "gentle pranic healing sessions at 1 am in the morning!" with a laughing emoji., a man with glasses and a mustache is sitting in the driver's seat of a car., a man with short brown hair, stubble, and a mustache wears black sunglasses and a black t-shirt. he is taking a selfie in the driver's seat of a car., a man with a mustache takes a selfie in a floral print shirt. the text overlay reads, "only good shall come from me, only good shall come back to me....", a man with a mustache takes a selfie, using a filter that gives his skin a pinkish hue. he is wearing a dark t-shirt and has a playful expression., a text-based post featuring a poem titled 'fixed signs, broken time' about love, loss, and the passage of time., a man with curly hair and a mustache smiles at the camera in a selfie. the background shows a bookshelf and a plant, with a colorful gradient overlay on the left and right sides of the image., a man with a mustache is shown with his eyes closed and his hand raised in a gentle wave. text on the screen reads "getting well with a wave of a hand.", a man with short, dark hair and a mustache looks directly at the camera. he is wearing a black t-shirt and is in a kitchen setting., .

Nathan Llera @nathan91

Okay, I figured out this app is wholesome. Is it also the place to connect with other young millionaires? 😂

East Hemet, US

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Thy Will Be Done You texted back and something in me that had gone quiet started singing again. I know better than to build a house on a single message. I know hope can run ahead of truth like a dog off its leash. But I am a hopeful person, it’s not something I do, it’s something I am. I want you. Not the idea of you, not the ache shaped like you, you. The life we said out loud we both still missed. My person. So I bring that want to the altar and I don’t shrink it to make it holy. I lay it down whole, still beating, and I say the hard sentence anyway: Thy will be done. Not because I’ve let go of wanting I haven’t, and I won’t pretend to. But because I can’t see the end of this story from where I’m standing, and gripping the pen tighter has never once written it faster. Let me keep talking to you without performing calm I don’t have. Let me keep hoping without mistaking hope for a guarantee. Let me hold my own life steady with these same two hands that are reaching for yours. If it’s a door, let me walk through it slow, and honest and let me still be someone who knows how to love without needing it back. Either way, thy will be done. I’ll keep my hands open. That’s the only part that was ever mine to do.

Invisible Helpers I did not walk into this world empty-handed, did not arrive unaccompanied, did not stumble onto this earth with nothing behind me but silence. Look closer. Look again. Behind me stands my grandmother’s hands, still folding dough, still folding time, still teaching me that patience is its own kind of power. Behind me stands the friend who stayed when staying cost him something, who loved me before I knew how to love myself, and left that lesson here when he left everything else. Behind me stand the ones long buried, who are not gone, only rearranged, who whisper through the things they taught me, who show up in my hands, my voice, my spine. I am the sum of every kindness that refused to disappear. I am not one man standing on this stage I am a chorus. I am a hundred hands at my back, a hundred voices under mine, saying rise, saying go on, saying you were never meant to do this by yourself. So when I speak, they speak. When I stand, they stand. When I am afraid, I remember I was not born alone into this world, and I was never meant to leave it that way either. I carry them. They carry me.

Without Your Rhythm No one gives you your rhythm. But dancing with someone you chose completely, and losing that dance, guts you the same. I just miss you. I’ll love you anyway, quietly, while you keep your distance like a punishment I’m still serving. My head says the dance is over. My heart won’t hear it. It still wants to fall asleep beside you, to cook the dinner, to wait by the door, to cancel plans because staying in was better. I want that back. Tonight, I don’t know how to carry the wanting.

come home to me if you ever find yourself homesick for me, know that I still remember the sound of the keypad beeping by the front door. don’t hesitate to come back, punch in the code and walk through like you never left. I remember your favorite foods, what I used to cook for you, what we ordered when neither of us felt like cooking. I won’t ask you to explain. I won’t acknowledge the absence of you all these months or your sudden reappearance. instead, I will ask what you’re in the mood for, whether I should start cooking or just call it in. don’t be afraid to come home to me. I am still here. I’ve been listening for those familiar beeps since the day you walked out and didn’t come back in.

Pillar From a Distance I keep circling the thought that real love might mean leaving, that the kindest thing my hands could do is open. But my dear, I can’t. You dismantled every wall I built to keep the world out, and now there’s nowhere in me that isn’t yours. I can’t fix you. That was never mine to carry. I can only fix me, slow and unglamorous, and still I ask the question I know better than to ask: can we heal side by side, or is that just another way of reaching for your hand when I should be letting go of it? Probably the wrong approach. I know. So here’s what’s true instead: I miss you. I was ready to give so much, all of it, without counting. But some love doesn’t get to be close. Some love becomes a pillar instead, something steady, something that holds its ground from a distance, in the quiet architecture of prayer, asking for your peace even when I can’t be the one standing next to you in it. I love you. That part isn’t complicated. The rest is just learning how to love you with my hands finally still.

Plummet Yesterday the tears wouldn’t quit their falling, today there’s just this flatness, gray and stalling. I want to snap my fingers, rewind the tape, find the version of me before this shape, before the waiting for the day to end, before I learned that numb could be a friend. But there’s no rewind button, no do over, just this ground beneath us, spinning over and over. Save your tears for a slower song, ‘cause the world don’t stop for how long you’ve been gone. So I get up. So do you. So does everyone still falling through the dark toward another sun. This planet’s cruel and precious in the same breath, it doesn’t pause for grief, it doesn’t pause for rest. We’re not healed, we’re just moving, and that has to be enough: one foot forward through the wreckage, one more day of this rough love.

The Last Two Hours Flash Fiction Don’t ask why but the world is ending. My parents and I said our goodbyes, and they asked me where I was going. “[Name],” I said, his name registering with them both. They'd always known I loved him. I drove. The sky had gone the color of a bruise, purple black bleeding into orange, like something enormous was pressing down on the horizon. The radio was static now, every station gone quiet or screaming the same warning until even that cut out. The streets were chaos, cars abandoned at angles, doors flung open, engines still running like their owners had given up mid thought. I swerved around a stalled minivan, clipped a trash can, didn't stop. People ran in every direction and no direction; some didn't run at all, just stood in the road, looking up. I almost killed myself twice. Once when a truck blew a red light and missed me by inches. Once when I looked up and the sky rippled wrong, the road bending for one long heartbeat before I wrenched it straight again. The barricades came up fast, orange sawhorses, flashing lights, nobody left to man them. I left the car running in the street, door hanging open, and I ran. I hit the first barricade at a sprint and went over more than through it. The second I climbed, fingers scrabbling, and fell hard on the other side, then kept moving, because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant realizing how little time was left. His street. I knew it before I could read the sign, the slant of his porch light, the tree that always dropped its leaves too early. I ran up the walkway with my chest on fire, my hand already raised to knock before I'd reached the door. He answered before I finished. Tears in his eyes, like some part of him already knew I'd come. The world went dark, but quietly, peacefully. Our embrace the last thing to happen in billions of years of life.

Stop letting your pain sit and rot inside you. Move it. Turn it into something, a page, a canvas, a melody, a deeper conversation with someone who actually sees you. Your body isn’t storage for everything that’s ever hurt you. It’s not built to hold that weight forever. So take the pain out. Put it somewhere it can actually become something.

What the Water Already Knew Am I screaming into the void? LOL

Still Here, Still Whole Some mornings his shape is still in the room not him, just the outline where he used to stand, a color I haven’t finished fading yet. Loving him was red, burning maroon, the kind that doesn’t ask permission to hurt. Moving on is greyer than I thought it’d be, some days golden, some days nothing at all. I know I’m still caught in that doorway. I let myself know it without living only there. Because here is the mortar, warm from my hands. Here is the oil steeping amber in the window. Here is a stranger’s shaking voice on the phone, and me, saying tell me where it hurts and meaning it for both of us. I can’t fix my own color yet. But I can still mix medicine for someone else’s, still find the right words, still listen like presence itself was a remedy. Grief sits in the corner while I work. It reaches for me on ordinary days. I let it, then go back to the tending the herbs, the sentence, the person across from me. I don’t know when I’ll walk out of that doorway. But my life is good, plainly, unperformed — full of colors I’m still learning to hold, red and grey and gold, all at once, all mine.

Still need a haircut but geez what’s up with this SoCal heat… “and I’ll be right here with you till the end…”

I don’t know if this is the place for a little poetic theme. Feels like I need to get this out. Eighteen Months Eighteen months ago, something in me went quiet. Not the kind of quiet that heals. The kind that hollows. I have buried people I loved and grieved them true, but nothing prepared me for this. A loss with no casket, no ceremony, just an absence that keeps unpacking its bags and staying. I keep waiting for the version of me that laughs without checking first if it’s allowed to. I don’t know if he’s coming back. I only know I’m still here, still breathing through the parts that don’t make sense yet.

The Mantra of Mercy and Compassion (my thoughts) Om Mani Padme Hum Six syllables. The jewel in the lotus. The whole Buddhist path to compassion, compressed into a sound you can carry in your chest all day. It’s the mantra of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva who hears the cries of the world and cannot look away. Om Mani Padme Hum is the vow to keep your heart open anyway. Let’s heal together, find the common ground, and not let anger dictate how we interact with the world. Gentle curiosity will win over brute strength.

Armor, Amor There was a season I built without wanting to build, moved through days like a soldier who forgot the war was over, stacking small victories with hands that didn’t care if they were mine. I didn’t want to be alive. And still, I was unstoppable. Funny, the things you can carry when you’ve stopped asking why you’re carrying them. Armor. Amor. Maybe not the same root, no shared blood in the dictionary, but try loving anyone without first setting the shield down. Try surviving anything without first picking it up. Paulo said the universe conspires to help you get what you want. El universo conspira para que realices tu deseo. Nobody says what happens when you want nothing, when the wanting itself goes quiet, and you still show up, still build, still finish the thing. Maybe that’s its own kind of conspiracy. Maybe the universe doesn’t wait for desire. Maybe it just waits for you to move, armor on, heart still somewhere underneath it, beating on principle. But when the will comes back, when I want to be here again, when aliveness isn’t a chore but a current, that’s when the armor finally comes down. That’s when I stop surviving the wanting and start becoming it. And when you want something, all the universe conspires to help you achieve it. I believe that now. Not because I always wanted to live. But because even when I didn’t, something in me kept building anyway, and called it nothing, and it was everything.

Without Your Rhythm I’ve tried every shape a day can take alone, then crowded with friends, then family, then quiet again, circling back to the same unsteady beat. No one gives you your rhythm. But dancing with someone you chose completely, and losing that dance, guts you all the same. Fault or no fault, it guts you the same. They say feeling is vast, endless, but I doubt I’ll touch even a fraction of it this time. I just miss you. Call it mawkish. Call it too much. I’ll love you anyway, quietly, while you keep your distance like a punishment I’m still serving. That’s alright. The dance isn’t over. My head says otherwise, but my heart won’t hear it. My heart still wants to fall asleep beside you and wake up the same way, to cook the dinner, to wait by the door, to make plans just to cancel them because staying in with you was always the better plan. I want that back. And tonight, for the first time, I don’t know how to carry the wanting.

New haircut 😊

8 Billion Eight billion souls on this spinning stone, and still, somehow, I find you alone in every crowd, in every street, the one face my heart won’t repeat. I love you past the edge of words, past what’s fair, past what’s deserved a kind of love that doesn’t bend, that has no season, knows no end. In my chest it stays unbroken, a promise that stays even unspoken. Wherever the distance has taken you, I’m here. I’m waiting. I’m still true. So find your way back through the noise, back past the static, back past the choice back to the place where you are known, back to the heart that calls you home.

A Bridge, Held Open Today I sit with something like relief, you let me in, if only for a breath, a door cracked open after so much quiet, and I walked through it gently, glad to help. I don’t know what you’re carrying these days, the weight you haven’t said, the load unnamed, but I know love has never left the room, and gratitude still calls me by your name. Even distant, even brief, even small, a few words reaching out is still a bridge. I’ve held the hope of it in open hands, waiting at the edge, and at the ridge. You are the light. I’ve watched for you so long, steady in the dark, refusing to go dim. Not an ending but a place to walk toward, the far edge of the tunnel, glowing, and it’s him, it’s you, it’s always been you at the end of it. And the bridge, I don’t just hold it, I am building it, plank by plank, with patience as my tool. Not to cross alone and wave from the other side, but to walk it together, step for step, both of us, you moving toward the light, me moving toward you, meeting somewhere in the middle of what we’re making. Not rushing you. Not needing it complete. Just grateful for the ground we found today, a single step, however far apart, still counts as walking the same way, toward the light, across the bridge, together.

What the Tears Won’t Do I found out, and the finding didn’t break me open. It just stopped something, quiet as a door easing shut in another room. I keep waiting for the sob, the old kind that used to fold me in half, but it comes up short now, water without weather behind it. I sit here. That’s the whole verb. Not moving is its own kind of work when the floor won’t tell you which way is forward. They say find purpose, they say love again, they say happy like it’s a light switch and not a room you have to relearn in the dark, hands out, shins bruised on furniture you used to know by heart. I don’t understand anything. Not why it ended, not why my body forgot how to finish crying, not what I’m supposed to want now. But maybe not understanding is just honesty standing still. Maybe the answer isn’t a door but a season, and I am so early in it, still counting the ways I don’t have to know yet.

Ex? No, he is not my ex, not my past, not my enemy. He is the guy I once loved with every piece of my heart. The one I dreamed of forever with. He is the guy that taught me what love feels like both beautiful and painful. He’s the reason I cried, the reason I smiled, the reason I believed in love. Maybe he’s no longer mine, but in the quiet corners of my heart, he will always remain my greatest love story.

Felt cute, might delete later 😂 I'm clearly not taking this app seriously at all

Well, I used a filter. Whatever, my skin looks decent anyway. #Avene & CeraVe

i had become so accustomed to holding the sword that i forgot my hands were made for gentler things for wildflowers for healing for reaching instead of defending and maybe that is what safety is remembering who you were before the armor

More poetry I’ve been dabbling in the last year and a half. Fixed Signs, Broken Time They said we were fixed and true, two stubborn stars that don’t know how to move, I held on like the water holds a stone, you stayed like earth stays, even left alone. Still checking clocks like they’ll turn back for me, still tracing patterns where you used to be, the calendar moved on, I didn’t note it, some part of me just never got the memo. They say the stars don’t lie, but I’m not sure, if fixed things stay, why aren’t you here anymore? I read the horoscope, it says let go, my chart says patience, but my heart says no. Time’s supposed to soften what I feel, but I don’t fade, I just conceal, I wear the calm like it’s a second skin, while somewhere underneath, I’m still stuck in the version of us that never said goodbye, still arguing with ghosts, still asking why you left me here to drown in all the things we never wrote back down. They said we’d balance, fire held by ground, but grounding isn’t holding when it’s gone. So here I am, still fixed, still moving.

Smiling and Dialing- think I need a haircut 😅

I’m beyond grateful to have Pranic Healing in my life. It’s such a powerful modality, yet so subtle, you don’t always feel a dramatic shift in the moment, but over time you notice: more clarity, more calm, more resilience. The energy work happens quietly, underneath the surface, and the results speak for themselves. Grateful for this practice, and for everyone on this same healing path. 🙏

Everything will be okay.