Remembering Wholeness

The birth clearing. Tuttle argues the birth experience stamps lifelong emotional patterns. A premature baby may grow into an adult who rushes and waits anxiously; an overdue one chronically runs late; a Cesarean birth can seed people-pleasing or stubbornness. She claims anyone born before the year 2000 entered an energy of struggle, and a birth clearing is the single most impactful shift she recommends.

One example: John, overdue and blamed for nearly killing his mother at birth, spent his life believing he could not have his own life without harming her. Sonja, born via Cesarean and told she was an inconvenient diva, became a chronic people-pleaser until she reframed her birth story and learned to assert her needs.

Two kinds of bad feeling. Tuttle separates negative emotion into self-generated criticism and worry versus a genuine guidance system alerting you that your current thoughts or choices are off course. Feeling bad is information: it means your attention has drifted to what you do not want. Rather than wallowing or suppressing, she advises pausing to ask what belief or choice is producing the discomfort, then redirecting.

She illustrates with Steve, a chronic worrier who believed worry proved love and prevented disaster. He married a fellow worrier and their shared anxiety cut them off from clear decision-making. Worry, she argues, is a false sense of control: bracing for hurt so you are never surprised by it, a pattern common among those with traumatic childhoods.

Life as a play you cast. Tuttle frames every person in your life as an actor performing a script you wrote, entering to teach lessons you came to learn. When you blame, resent, or rage at someone, you have forgotten you handed them their part. If you refuse the lesson, you attract someone else to play it, usually more intensely.

Her visualization: picture everyone on a stage, thank them for their roles, invite those with negative scripts to burn them, and let a new script direct everyone to honor you, because you now honor yourself. The catch: people can only play the negative part while some part of you still believes you deserve poor treatment. Her most personal example is reconciling with her abusive father through a dream reframe.

The body as message center. Tuttle claims illness frequently originates in unexpressed emotion and limiting beliefs lodged at a cellular level, drawing on Louise Hay's catalog linking criticism to arthritis, resentment to cancer, guilt to pain. The body signals imbalance so you will clear the deeper disharmony; treating only the physical symptom lets the underlying pattern resurface elsewhere.

She describes finding a breast lump in her forties, researching its supposed emotional roots (over-mothering, difficulty releasing children), adjusting her behavior with her dating daughter, visualizing white light, and finding the cyst gone at her surgical appointment. She also warns against fusing diagnosis with identity: saying I am diabetic instructs every cell to comply. Instead, frame it as a past condition with a message to decode.

The desire-belief gap. Tuttle offers a diagnostic for why manifestation stalls. Rate your desire for something 0 to 10, then rate your belief that you can have it. Most people want a new outcome at a 10 but believe it possible at only a 3 or 4. That gap, not weak desire, blocks results. Her fix: do not shrink the desire, energize the belief up to match.

Her creation process runs five steps: know what you want, ask a higher power, believe without doubt, let go and allow, and express gratitude on receiving (which restarts the cycle). She adds tools to pump up belief: energy circles, acting as if, and imagining the worst outcome to defuse fearful attachment, since neediness itself kinks the flow.

The transition person. Borrowing family therapist Carlfred Broderick's phrase, Tuttle describes certain individuals assigned to interrupt destructive generational cycles, absorbing the inherited poison and refusing to pass it forward so the lineage after them runs clean. Abuse, addiction, poverty consciousness, and depression, she argues, transmit across generations until someone clears them.

When you heal, you free not only yourself but ancestors and descendants, because everyone is energetically networked. She invokes the four-minute mile: once Roger Bannister broke the barrier in 1954, others quickly followed, as if a collective ceiling had lifted. Her most dramatic case is Karla, who arrived in a wheelchair with dissociative identity disorder from ritual abuse and, over months, integrated her personalities and rebuilt her life.

Sensory prayer. Tuttle argues prayer with feeling is far more potent than mental petition. When asking for something, imagine what it would look, sound, smell, taste, and feel like as if already real. She prayed for rain by imagining the sound of drops, the smell on cement, the darkened sky, and reports the rain came. Praying for money, she carried cash to feel it, changed her ringtone to a money-themed song, even smelled the bills.

Her reasoning: the physical body vibrates slowest of the four bodies (spiritual, mental, emotional, physical), so engaging the senses grounds an intention into material form. She also insists God does not decide whether you may have something; you hold that power through asking, believing, and receiving.

How to keep yourself stuck. Tuttle warns that talk therapy and support groups, tools she values, can trap people when the focus stays fixed on the past and on retelling the wound to receive sympathy. If you need a group to validate you, you still believe you are not enough. Attachment to the story of a childhood from hell keeps recreating its effects in adult life.

Her alternative is inner-child work: from 1999 to 2004 she journaled with her wounded younger self, writing questions with her dominant hand and answers with her non-dominant hand to engage the emotional brain. The goal is to become the adult who finally hears and validates that child, so you no longer need your story for support and can release it.

Poverty versus prosperity consciousness. Tuttle treats money like air: a resource there is plenty of, made scarce only by belief. She catalogs poverty-consciousness beliefs (money comes only from hard work, rich people are crooks, poverty keeps me humble) and contrasts them with prosperity affirmations. Every anxious transaction broadcasts lack; every peaceful one signals abundance.

Her behavioral tricks: always carry cash so you can honestly answer that you have money, pay bills in gratitude, and play a game where you imagine an endless supply of hundred-dollar bills replacing themselves as you spend. She shares her own decade of financial struggle after moving to Utah, which drove her to study money's laws and eventually create a popular money course. The struggle, she argues, seeded the solution.

Old energy versus new energy. Tuttle's culminating claim is that humanity is graduating from an old paradigm where struggle and suffering were the required medium for spiritual growth into a new one where growth can come through joy, ease, and deliberate creation. The old belief that life must be hard, she says, is imprinted in every human, but it is now optional.

Contrast still exists (you cannot know joy without having known pain) but struggle no longer must. The question she poses shifts from how much pain can you endure to how much joy can you hold and how long can you hold it. She frames the challenges of 2020 as a collective crossroads inviting people to reclaim their power rather than default to fear.