The Mechanic of Destiny: Why I Finally Handed Over the Steering Wheel.

The Mechanic of Destiny: Why I Finally Handed Over the Steering Wheel

I spent fifteen years of my life measuring existence in millimeters and megapascals. In the world of geological engineering, specifically within the brutal, frozen depths of the Canadian North, you learn very quickly that nature is a force you cannot negotiate with. My life was defined by the industrial hum of Snap Lake, the biting cold of the Northwest Territories, and the rigid protocols of diamond mining. In that world, if you aren't a meticulous mechanic of your environment, things collapse. I carried that "mechanic's mindset" with me everywhere, long after I left the mines.

For a long time, I believed that life was a workshop, not a road. You know that feeling when you are constantly “under the hood,” your hands covered up to the elbows in the black oil of old traumas, technical debts of the past, and the incessant need to fix something? For decades, I was the chief mechanic of my own destiny. A geologist by profession, a mineralogy engineer by education, but in my soul, an eternal repairer of breakdowns that never seemed to end. My field was the study of solid matter, but my life often felt like quicksand.

The architecture of my life looked perfect on the outside—the degrees, the career, the perceived stability of a scientist. But the “internal plumbing”—those deep, invisible pipes through which our life energy flows—kept bursting. I spent an incredible amount of strength just to stay at zero. I was so busy repairing the infrastructure, patching holes in a sinking ship, that I had no strength left to enjoy the peace that comes after the storm. I survived a divorce that tore up my roots, defeated an illness that threatened to extinguish my light, and navigated the emotional tectonics of adoption and immigration. I handled these events like an engineer: with checklists, repairs, and a grip on the steering wheel that turned my knuckles white.

My struggle with control began in a dusty classroom in my childhood. I can still see myself as a little girl, my hand shooting up into the air with such force I nearly tipped my chair over. "Ask me! Ask me now, or I’ll forget!" I would cry out. I lived in a constant, breathless fear that the moment would evaporate if I didn't grab it with both hands. I was the child who wept in the middle of a store because a pack of stickers wasn't in my hands the second I saw them. I believed that if I didn't force the world to move, it would simply stop.

This frantic energy followed me to Vancouver and eventually across the ocean. I was tired of friction. I was tired of fighting my own system. And then, a quiet but decisive shift occurred. A while ago, as I was walking the streets of Paris, watching the light bounce off the sand-colored facades of the old buildings, I realized one thing: I am done being the mechanic. I realized that if a life system is to be a true “container” for energy, it must not be complicated. It must not require constant, agonizing vigilance. It must become invisible.

Today, sitting in Paris—the city that finally gave me my health and my voice—I feel like a driver who finally enjoys the scenery. In fact, I have an even better image: I am the co-driver. I have a “driver,” destiny or divine providence, to whom I have finally handed over the steering wheel. I say where I want to go, where my heart calls, and then I lean back and enjoy. From the first to the last minute, every second has become pure pleasure. No more cramps in my hands from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. No more fear of swerving off the cliff, because now I trust the Road.

People often ask me: “Sanja, how are you not afraid to open up publicly? To write, under the name Magma Star, about cancer, about pain, about your divorce?” The truth is simple—I rejoice in my life choice to write. Opening the soul is not a weakness; it is a process of crystallization. Just as minerals under tremendous pressure and temperature turn into precious stones, my experience turns into something valuable the moment I put it on paper. When I open up, I am not "fixing" anything anymore. I am simply observing the beauty of the minerals that have formed.

Truth never loses its shine. My words are my strength, my “Malachite Peace.” They are a reminder of the difficult path I traversed so I could sit peacefully today in this “car” of life. This is my personal geology—digging through layers of sedimentary pain until you reach that diamond called peace. Writing for me is an act of purifying the soul; it is sifting the sand until only the pure gold of gratitude remains in the sieve.

The lesson from Paris was the most beautiful tectonic shift in my life. Meeting the love of my life and getting married at 45 completely disarmed me. It was not an explosion that destroyed; it was a silence that built. Suddenly, I no longer hear the noise from the outside. I no longer see anyone trying to disrupt my peace or question my worth. When you love the man you chose and who chose you, he becomes your safe harbor, your stable tectonic plate on which you can build a castle.

To those of you who feel buried under stones right now: If you are currently deep in debt, going through a grueling divorce that drains your soul, or battling an illness that steals your strength, it feels like an entire mountain has fallen on you. I know that feeling of cold darkness. But remember geology: everything has its time. The Earth changes constantly, even when we don’t see it. There is a time of earthquakes and a time of erosion, but after them inevitably comes a time of renewal. This is a natural, infallible law.

Be patient with yourself. Don’t blame yourself if you’re right now “fixing the plumbing.” But strive to build a life where you can eventually be the co-driver. Seek salvation in the little things—in the smell of coffee, in the color of the sky, in a single sincere sentence. Stop being just the mechanic fighting the breakdowns. Start building an infrastructure that will support you—surround yourself with people who love you, thoughts that empower you, and systems that save your energy.

When the foundations of your soul are solid, when the “geology” of your interior is sorted out, you no longer have to think about survival every second. You just show up, sit down, and let love and life drive you through your very own, blood-and-tears-earned peace. My final destination wasn't a place; it was the moment I let go of the wheel and realized the Universe is a much better driver than I ever was.