Tiny Buddha

Category: Blog

  • What Happened When I Stopped Expecting Perfection from Myself

    What Happened When I Stopped Expecting Perfection from Myself

    “There is no amount of self-improvement that can make up for a lack of self-acceptance.” ~Robert Holden

    Six years ago, I forgot it was picture day at my daughter’s school. She left the house in a sweatshirt with a faint, unidentifiable stain and hair still bent from yesterday’s ponytail.

    The photographer probably spent less than ten seconds on her photo, but I spent hours replaying the morning in my head, imagining her years later looking at that picture and believing her mother had not tried hard enough.

    It’s strange how small moments can lodge themselves in memory. Even now, when life is smooth, that picture sometimes drifts back. The difference is that I no longer treat it as proof that I am careless or unloving. I see it as a reminder that no one gets it all right, no matter how hard they try.

    I tend to hold on to my “failures” long after everyone else has let them go. My daughter has never mentioned that photo, and one day, if she becomes a mother, she might discover that small imperfections are not proof of neglect. They can be a kind of grace.

    For most of my life, I thought being a good person meant being relentlessly self-critical. I stayed up too late worrying over things no one else noticed, like an unanswered text or a dusty shelf before company arrived. Sometimes I replayed conversations until I found the exact moment I could have been warmer or wiser.

    The list was endless, and my self-worth seemed to hinge on how perfectly I performed in every role. Somewhere along the way, I started expecting myself to already know how to do everything right. But this is the first time I have lived this exact day, with this exact set of challenges and choices.

    It is the first time parenting a child this age. The first time navigating friendships in this season. The first time balancing today’s responsibilities with today’s emotions.

    The shift came on a day when nothing seemed to go my way. I missed an appointment I had no excuse for missing, realized too late that I had forgotten to order my friend’s birthday gift, and then managed to burn dinner. None of it was catastrophic, but the weight of these small failures began to gather, as they always did, into a heaviness in my chest.

    I could feel myself leaning toward the familiar spiral of self-reproach when I happened to glance across the room and see my daughter. And in that instant, a thought surfaced: What if I spoke to myself the way I would speak to her if she had made these same mistakes?

    I knew exactly what I would say. I would remind her that being human means sometimes getting it wrong. I would tell her that one day’s mistakes do not erase years of love.

    I would make sure she knew she was still good, still worthy, and still enough. So I tried saying it to myself, out loud. “We all make mistakes.”

    The words felt clumsy, almost unnatural, like I was finally trying to speak the language I had only just begun to learn. But something inside softened just enough for me to take a breath and let the day end without carrying all its weight into tomorrow.

    Self-compassion has not made me careless. It has made me steadier. When I stop spending my energy on shame, I have more of it for the people and priorities that matter.

    Research confirms this truth. Self-compassion is not about lowering standards. It is about building the emotional safety that allows us to keep showing up without fear.

    And here is what I have learned about actually practicing it. Self-compassion is not a single thought or mantra. It’s a habit, one you build the same way you would strength or endurance.

    It begins with noticing the voice in your head when you make a mistake. Most of us have an internal commentator that sounds less like a mentor and more like a drill sergeant. The work is in catching that voice in the act and then, without forcing a smile or pretending you are not disappointed, speaking to yourself like someone you love.

    Sometimes that means literally saying the words out loud so you can hear the tone. Sometimes it means pausing long enough to remember you are still learning. Sometimes it means choosing kindness even when shame feels easier.

    It also helps to remember what self-compassion is not. It is not excusing harmful behavior or ignoring areas where we want to grow. It is acknowledging that growth happens more easily in a climate of patience than in one of punishment.

    The science supports this. When we practice self-kindness, our stress response begins to quiet, and our nervous system has a chance to settle. This does not just feel better in the moment; it makes it easier to think clearly and choose our next step.

    I’ve noticed other changes as well. Self-compassion makes me braver. When I’m not terrified of berating myself if I fall short, I am more willing to try something new.

    I take risks in conversations. I admit when I do not know something. I start things without obsessing over how they’ll end, and when mistakes inevitably happen, I don’t have to waste days recovering from my own criticism.

    Sometimes self-compassion is quiet, like putting your phone down when you begin to spiral through mental replays. Sometimes it is active, like deciding to stop apologizing for being human. Sometimes it is physical, like unclenching your jaw or placing a hand on your chest as you breathe.

    Over time, these small gestures add up. They rewire the way you respond to yourself, replacing the reflex of blame with the reflex of care.

    We are all walking into each day for the first time. Of course we will miss a detail or lose our patience. Of course we will get things wrong.

    But when we meet ourselves with kindness instead of condemnation, we remind ourselves that love, whether for others or for ourselves, has never depended on perfection.

    And that lesson will last far longer than any perfect picture.

  • How to Return to Emotional Safety, One Sensory Anchor at a Time

    How to Return to Emotional Safety, One Sensory Anchor at a Time

    “In a sense, we are all time travelers drifting through our memories, returning to the places where we once lived.” ~Vladimir Nabokov

    I found it by accident, a grainy image of my childhood bedroom wallpaper.

    It was tucked in the blurry background of a photo in an old family album, a detail I’d never noticed until that day.

    White background. Tiny pastel hearts and flowers. A border of ragdoll girls in dresses the color of mint candies and pink lemonade.

    My body tingled with recognition.

    It was like finding a piece of myself I didn’t remember existed. Not the grown-up me, but the girl I used to be before a career, a mortgage, and the heavy quiet of adult responsibility.

    The Pull of the Past

    When I was small, the world felt bigger in a softer way.

    Colors seemed brighter, objects more alive, and the smallest things—the feel of my favorite stuffed animal companion in my hand, the scent of my mother’s bathwater—carried entire worlds of meaning.

    These aren’t just memories; they’re sensory anchors.

    I could forget a conversation from last week, but I can still picture the exact shade of the mint-green dress my wallpaper girl wore. I can still feel the gentle indentation of her printed outline, as if the wallpaper itself had texture.

    These details, it turns out, were never gone. They were simply waiting for me to come back.

    Nostalgia as a Regulation Tool

    I didn’t realize until recently that revisiting those sensory anchors could calm my nervous system.

    Of course, I know not everyone remembers childhood as safe or sweet. For many, those early years carried pain or fear. Some people find their sensory anchors in different chapters of life—a first apartment, a quiet library corner, or a beloved chair in adulthood. Wherever they come from, anchors can be powerful.

    For me, nostalgia isn’t about wanting to live in the past. It’s about finding small pockets of safety I can carry into the present.

    Touching the soft yarn hair of a Cabbage Patch Kid isn’t just cute, it’s grounding. Seeing those pastel hearts reminds my body what peace once felt like, and in that moment, I can feel it again.

    A few months ago, one of my children was in the hospital for a week. Those days blurred together: the beeping machines, the too-bright lights, the smell of antiseptic in the air.

    One afternoon, while she slept beside me in that cold plastic hospital chair, I scrolled on my phone and stumbled upon an online image of a toy I used to have. That single memory opened a door. I looked for another, and another. Each one reminded me of something else I had loved.

    Before I knew it, I was mentally compiling a list of toys I’d like to find again, and how I might track them down.

    That feeling—the rush of familiarity, the gentle spark of recognition—was more than just pleasant. It was regulating. In those moments of quiet, I felt a warmth that had been nearly forgotten.

    When she woke and the noise and decisions returned, I carried that warmth in my belly like a hidden ember.

    The Practice of Returning

    Since then, I’ve begun weaving these cues into my home.

    My shelf holds a cheerful line of 1980s toys in the exact colors I remember. At night, the soft glow of the wooden childhood lamp I sought out warms my space with a light that feels like safety.

    These touches aren’t just décor; they’re part of my emotional toolkit.

    When I feel overwhelmed, I step into that corner, touch the toys, take a slow breath, and remember who I was before life got so loud.

    Some of my collection lives in my walk-in closet, tucked away just for me. I choose when and how to share it. Sometimes I don’t share it at all. That privacy feels important, like holding a small, sacred key that unlocks a door only I am meant to open.

    This practice can look different for others. A friend of mine grew up with an entirely different story. His childhood was full of absence and stress, and he never had the GI Joes he longed for. Now, as an adult, he collects them one by one. For him, this is not nostalgia but repair, a way to heal by finally holding what once felt out of reach.

    How You Can Try It

    If you’d like to create your own version of a ritual of return, here’s how to begin:

    1. Identify your sensory anchors.

    Think about colors, textures, scents, or sounds from your happiest memories. If childhood feels heavy, look to other times. What do you remember most vividly? A kitchen smell? A favorite song? The feel of a well-loved blanket?

    2. Find small ways to bring them back.

    This doesn’t have to mean collecting big, expensive items. It could be a thrifted mug, a playlist of songs you loved at age eight, or a single scent that transports you.

    3. Use them intentionally.

    Place these cues where you’ll see or touch them often. Incorporate them into a morning or evening routine. Let them be part of how you calm yourself, not just pretty objects but companions in your present life.

    Why It Matters

    We can’t go back, and we don’t need to.

    But we can return, in small ways, to the places inside us where we first felt safe, joyful, or whole.

    For some, that means reclaiming the sweetness of childhood. For others, like my friend with his GI Joes, it means rewriting the story and creating what was once missing. Still others may anchor themselves in completely different seasons of life.

    What matters is the act of returning to something steady, something that belongs to us now.

    Each time we do, we carry a little more of that peace forward into the lives we are living now.

    I’m still searching for that childhood wallpaper—online, in vintage shops, in the corners of the internet where people post long-forgotten designs. The search brings almost as much joy as the finding.

    Because every time I search, I’m not just looking for wallpaper. I’m putting my hand on the door handle of memory. And when that door opens, I meet myself.

  • Healing Without Reconciling with My Mother and Learning to Love Myself

    Healing Without Reconciling with My Mother and Learning to Love Myself

    “Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we’ll ever do.” ~Brené Brown

    Several years ago, I wrote a heartfelt letter to my estranged mother, articulating my deep feelings about her perceived lack of empathy and care. My intention in writing the letter wasn’t to ignite conflict; it was to sincerely share my perspective.

    Rather than lashing out with blame, I expressed my profound sadness about feeling parentless and the struggle of raising myself without parental love and guidance, something I desperately needed at times.

    I bared my soul, detailing the emotional turmoil our relationship has had on me as an adult, and expressed the longing for connection that always seemed just out of reach.

    After completing the letter, I did something I thought at the time was a bit reckless: I mailed it. Now looking back, I realize it was a courageous step toward advocating for my emotional health, confronting my truths head-on.

    I had no expectations and was prepared for any outcome, including silence, which often felt like our norm. However, mailing it felt like a cathartic release and was undeniably liberating.

    Months passed without a response. I had kept my expectations low but remained hopeful that perhaps she would reflect on what I had shared and gain some insight into our dynamic. Then, almost nine months later, I found myself at a family gathering out of state, and she was there. I had a vague notion that she might show up, but I hadn’t put too much thought into it.

    A rush of panic enveloped me, especially knowing my children didn’t even recognize her. My husband supported me, rubbing my back to help me through the initial shock of seeing her after so many years.

    As conversations swirled around me, I felt an odd sense of being at an event together yet acting like strangers. Though it wasn’t much different from before, I had openly shared a vulnerable part of myself in that letter, which she never acknowledged receiving.

    During the gathering, we barely spoke; our unresolved past loomed between us like an unbridgeable chasm. As the event was wrapping up, my family and I collected our jackets to leave, and then she walked over to me.

    With a sincere expression, she said, “You were right, and I’m sorry.” That was all that passed between us, and then I left. As I walked out the door, a wave of sadness crashed over me, not just from the validation but from the acknowledgment of our painful reality.

    In that moment, I recognized that while the deep understanding I’d once yearned for might never materialize, that exchange marked a significant turning point in my healing journey.

    Through this process, I learned invaluable lessons about boundaries—how to say no without guilt, to stop explaining myself, and to recognize when emotional distance is an act of self-respect rather than rejection. I discovered that safeguarding my emotional space was not just essential but necessary for my well-being.

    Although my connection with my mother remains the same, my inner transformation has been profound.

    I still grapple with sadness that my children will not know their grandmother, leaving me with a wound that is still healing. However, I have learned the art of giving and receiving love in healthier ways. I prioritize open communication with my children and partner, ensuring that their feelings are validated, something I wished for during my upbringing.

    Not everyone is fortunate enough to have their experiences acknowledged. Many of us carry the weight of unvalidated pain, silently wishing for recognition that our feelings matter. The journey of writing a letter reinforced the power of self-love as a transformative force, even in the absence of answers or sincere apologies.

    Self-love for me is about nurturing inner compassion for myself and understanding and recognizing the validity of my feelings, independent of external validation.

    The seeds of self-love began to flourish in my twenties with small acts of kindness toward myself, moments of self-forgiveness, and the courage to question the beliefs I’d carried since childhood.

    It was a crucial period when I started to challenge the idea that my worth depended on pleasing others, and I allowed myself to feel fully—to name and honor my emotions without shame or self-censorship.

    During this time, I began seeing a therapist, which offered me a safe space to examine how my sense of worth had been shaped by my mother’s unpredictable affection and the silence that shaped me when it was withheld.

    Books like Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents by Lindsay C. Gibson and The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown helped me understand and reframe these patterns, guiding me toward self-compassion and a more stable sense of self-worth.

    With the support of a nurturing chosen family and the continued guidance of therapy, I’ve been able to unravel beliefs that no longer serve me—such as the idea that my worth depends on others’ approval, that my emotions should be contained to keep the peace, and that love must be earned through perfection or compliance. Letting go of these patterns has allowed me to reclaim my sense of self and to honor my feelings as both valid and necessary.

    As I contemplate this recent encounter with my mother, I see the evolution of my perspective since I began advocating for my emotional well-being. I’ve come to understand the delicate balance between expectations and reality—the longing for a different kind of relationship coexisting with the acceptance of what is. It’s a balance that asks me to hold compassion for her limitations while still protecting my own heart.

    Each lesson I’ve embraced about self-love has become foundational—learning to set boundaries without guilt, to speak my truth, and to treat myself with the same tenderness I once reserved for others.

    These shifts have reshaped not only my relationship with myself but also how I engage with the world around me. Now, I give and receive love in healthier, more meaningful ways, ensuring that my relationships are grounded in mutual respect and appreciation.

    This healing journey has profoundly shaped my approach to parenting. I aim to teach my children the significance of setting boundaries and advocating for their emotional well-being, rather than simply seeking to please others or maintain peace at all costs. They see a mother who is honest about her feelings and who takes care of herself instead of abandoning herself, which serves as a powerful lesson that goes beyond words.

    While my relationship with my mother may never be what I hoped for, it has guided me toward a fuller sense of self and a more authentic, balanced way of loving. And I’m committed to continuing on this healing journey. I’ve unearthed the strength within me to heal and evolve—strength that exists independent of external acknowledgment.

  • When the Person You Love Is Disappearing into Addiction

    When the Person You Love Is Disappearing into Addiction

    “Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and myself at the same time.” ~Prentis Hemphill

    I thought I had seen the worst of it. I thought I knew what it meant to watch someone you love disappear into addiction. My mother taught me that lesson long before I was old enough to truly understand it.

    Growing up, I saw her sink deep into heroin. I learned to read the signs before she even spoke. I knew when she was high. I knew when she was lying. I knew when she was gone, even when she was sitting right in front of me. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. I was just a child, powerless in the shadow of a disease that stole her piece by piece.

    Now, decades later, I am living that heartbreak again. Only this time, it’s my husband.

    It’s a different substance—alcohol instead of heroin—but the same slow disappearance. The same unpredictable moods. The same sense of walking on eggshells, wondering which version of him will walk through the door. And the same helplessness, watching someone I love unraveling, knowing I cannot save him.

    But there is one thing that’s different this time: me.

    The Moment That Broke Me Again

    It was just another night that should have been nothing. That night we had gone out to a comedy show, and at first, everything was great. Good times, laughing, reminiscent of the old times, and yes, drinks were flowing, and everyone was in good spirits.

    But as the night went on and he had a few too many, things shifted. He started acting out a bit—being loud, joking in ways that felt disrespectful. There was a couple sitting in front of us, the woman also drunk, and her partner looked embarrassed and frustrated.

    Somehow, he and that couple’s energy fed off each other, and before long, he started flirting with her right in front of me.

    Later that night, when I brought it up and told him how hurtful it was, he said, “Why are you upset? None of this matters.” He explained that it didn’t matter because, in his mind, I wasn’t going to do anything about it anyway—that I wouldn’t leave or hold him accountable.

    That was the moment that really broke me, because it showed me exactly how little respect or value he placed on my feelings and boundaries.

    Those words stopped me cold. At first, rage flared, hot and bright. But then something in me shifted.

    I heard not just the words, but the pattern behind them—the pattern I’d been ignoring.

    I realized this wasn’t the first time he’d humiliated me, embarrassed me, or disrespected me. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten drunk, lashed out, and expected me to sweep it under the rug. And it wouldn’t be the last—not unless I changed something.

    Boundaries, Therapy, and the Pushback

    We are still together, but the way we are now is not the way we were before. We are doing the work.

    Therapy has been instrumental in addressing the root cause of his alcoholism—unpacking generational patterns and confronting the reality of what we’d normalized.

    For me, it meant recognizing that many behaviors I tolerated weren’t love but survival mechanisms shaped by my childhood. For him, it meant accepting that seeking help wasn’t weakness but courage.

    The first hurdles were admitting the problem and agreeing to seek help—both met with pushback.

    As an African American man, my husband struggled with the stigma around vulnerability, especially regarding mental health and addiction. Generational beliefs had taught him that asking for help threatened his sense of strength.

    Early therapy sessions were marked by defensiveness and silence, but patience and difficult conversations slowly shifted his perspective, especially when his mother told him that he was mirroring his father. She began telling him stories of how his father’s drinking affected their marriage. Even though she stayed with him, if things were different, she would have left.

    She also told him that I am not her, and if he doesn’t make a change, I won’t stay because I don’t have to. He realized that he was choosing alcohol over our relationship, but he didn’t know how to separate it from himself, as it has been a part of how he functions for so long.

    It is an inner struggle he is facing, but with honesty, strength, and dedication, he will continue to fight to become the true man he and I know he can be.

    The Work We’re Doing

    Therapy has helped me understand that contrary to what I experienced growing up, love without respect isn’t love at all.

    On my end, it’s been about patience and empathy, without excusing harm. On his end, it’s been about acceptance, accountability, and a willingness to face the truth, even when it’s ugly.

    We’ve set clear boundaries. If he crosses those lines, there are consequences.

    One boundary he must not overstep is respect. I love my husband, but I love myself just as much. I also told him if it comes to separation, just know I didn’t leave—you did when alcohol became more important than our relationship.

    We both understand this is a difficult situation that requires understanding and compassion, but consequences are final and forever life-changing. This mustn’t continue because this isn’t living. It’s just existing, and I choose to live.

    The progression is day by day. We still encounter stalemates, and we embrace them and push through them together. I know he truly wants to get better, not just for us but mainly for his own well-being.

    We have agreed that the cycle stops here, even if it means rebuilding everything from the ground up.

    Choosing Myself Without Leaving

    Choosing myself doesn’t mean walking away right now. For me, it means staying without losing myself. It means protecting my peace, even in the same home. It means no longer excusing disrespect just because it comes from someone I love.

    I am not the same person who silently absorbed my mother’s chaos. I know now that I can’t heal someone else by destroying myself.

    Some days, it’s still heavy. Some days, I still see my mother’s shadow in the bottom of his glass. But I’m learning to separate his fight from mine.

    I love him, but I love myself too. And I am finally learning that those two things can exist together—as long as I hold the line.

    If you are in a relationship touched by addiction, know this: you are allowed to choose yourself. You are allowed to demand respect. And you are allowed to break the cycle, even if you stay.

  • The Invisible Prison Shyness Builds and What Helped Me Walk Free

    The Invisible Prison Shyness Builds and What Helped Me Walk Free

    “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” ~Anaïs Nin

    When I think back on my life, shyness feels like an inner prison I carried with me for years. Not a prison with bars and guards, but a quieter kind—made of hesitation, fear, and silence. It kept me standing still while life moved forward around me.

    One memory stays with me: my eighth-grade dance. The gym was alive with music, kids moving awkwardly but freely on the floor, laughing, bumping into one another, having fun. And there I was in the corner, figuratively stomping paper cups.

    That’s how I remember it—like I was crushing cardboard instead of stepping into life. I can even smile at the image now, but at the time it wasn’t funny. I noticed another girl across the room, also standing alone. She was beautiful. Maybe she was waiting for someone to walk over. But in my mind, she was “out of reach.” My shyness locked me in place, and I never moved.

    It wasn’t a dramatic heartbreak—just another reminder of how many moments slipped by.

    The Pattern of Missed Chances

    That night was only one of many. Over the years I missed far more opportunities than I embraced: the conversations I didn’t start, the invitations I quietly avoided, the women I admired from a distance but never approached.

    Shyness never really served me. I hated it, but it was powerful. I carried it into my adult years, and though I fought hard to loosen its grip, it shaped how I lived and related. Over time I changed; I’d call myself “reserved” now rather than painfully shy. But the shadow is still there.

    Shyness as a Prison

    Shyness isn’t just being quiet. It’s a whole system of fear and self-consciousness: fear in the body, doubt in the mind, and inaction in the world. It feels like safety, but it’s really confinement. It builds walls between you and the very connections you long for.

    I’ve come to see shyness as a kind of “social yips.” Just as an athlete suddenly freezes when overthinking the simplest movement, I froze in moments of connection. I knew what I wanted to do, but my body wouldn’t follow. And like the yips, the more I thought about it, the worse it became. Buddhism later helped me see that the way through wasn’t forcing myself harder but loosening my grip—letting go of self-judgment and stepping into presence.

    Zorba and the Choice to Say Yes

    As I look back, I know not every missed chance would have been good for me. Sometimes the lure of conquest was more about ego than true connection, and saying no spared me mistakes.

    But there’s another kind of moment that still stings. In Zorba the Greek, Kazantzakis has Zorba say, “The worst sin a man can commit is to reject a woman who is beckoning.”

    The point isn’t about conquest—it’s about clinging. If you say yes when life beckons, you can walk away later without wondering forever. You’ve lived it, and it’s complete. But if you turn away, you carry the ghost of what might have been. That ghost clings to you.

    I know that ghost well—the ache of silence, the memory of walking away when I might have stepped forward. Those are the regrets that linger.

    A Buddhist Lens on Shyness

    Buddhism has helped me understand this prison in a new way. The Buddha taught that suffering arises not from life itself but from how we cling to it. My shyness was stitched together from craving, aversion, and delusion.

    The walls of my prison looked solid, but they weren’t. They were only habits of thought.

    Buddhism also teaches dependent origination: everything arises from causes and conditions. My shyness wasn’t my identity. It was the product of temperament, upbringing, culture, and adolescence. If it arose from conditions, it could also fade as conditions changed. It was never “me”—just a pattern I carried.

    And at the heart of it all was attachment to self-image. I was afraid of being judged, of looking foolish, of failing. But meditation taught me that the “self” I was defending was never solid. Thoughts pass, feelings change, identity shifts. When there’s no fixed self to protect, the fear loses its grip.

    Regret Without Clinging

    The memories of shyness still emerge from time to time. They’re not paralyzing anymore—I don’t live locked in that cell—but when they rise, they sting. They make me feel foolish, like a prisoner might feel when looking back on wasted years, replaying choices that can’t be undone.

    What I try to do now is not cling to them. I can see them for what they are: moderately unresolved regrets. They will probably always flicker in my memory. But instead of treating them like permanent failures, I let them pass through. They remind me I am human, that I once hesitated when I longed to act, and that I don’t have to make the same choice now.

    Regret, I’ve learned, can also be a teacher. It shows me what I value most: presence, intimacy, connection. It reminds me not to keep living behind walls of hesitation.

    Buddhism teaches that memory—whether sweet or painful—is something the mind clings to. But the door of the prison has always been unlocked. Freedom comes when we stop pacing the cell and step into the present.

    Saying Yes

    One memory from later in life stands out. I was in my twenties, still shy but trying to push past it. Someone I admired invited me to join a small group heading out after class. Everything in me wanted to retreat, to say no. But that time, I said yes.

    It wasn’t a great romance or life-changing event. We just shared coffee, talked, laughed a little. But what mattered was that I had stepped forward. For once, I wasn’t left haunted by what if. I walked away lighter, without clinging. That small yes gave me a glimpse of freedom.

    I’m still not outgoing. But I am no longer the boy in the corner, stomping cups while everyone else dances. I can step forward, even when my voice shakes. I can risk connection without assuming others are out of reach.

    Shyness may still whisper in my ear, but it no longer holds the keys.

    What I’ve Learned

    • Shyness was my inner prison, but the bars were made of thought, not stone.
    • Not every conquest would have served me—but turning away from true openness creates the sharpest regret.
    • Regret is painful, but it can teach us what matters most.
    • Memories of missed chances still surface, but I don’t have to cling to them.
    • Freedom doesn’t come from rewriting the past, but from choosing differently now.

    I still carry the memory of that eighth-grade dance, the girl across the room, the echo of other missed chances. But I don’t cling to them anymore. They remind me that presence is always possible—because freedom isn’t found in “what if.”

    It’s found in saying yes when life beckons and in stepping out of the prison of hesitation, here and now.

    To anyone reading this who has ever stood in the corner of their own life: the prison you feel around you was never locked. You can step forward, however awkwardly, and find freedom in the present moment.

  • How a Simple Object Helped Me Slow Down and Breathe

    How a Simple Object Helped Me Slow Down and Breathe

    “Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.” ~A.A. Milne

    It was a Wednesday afternoon, and I was sitting in my car, too overwhelmed to turn the key in the ignition. My phone had been buzzing all day with work notifications, and the mental list of things I needed to do was growing faster than I could breathe.

    Somewhere in the middle of my swirling thoughts, I reached into my coat pocket and felt something smooth and cool. It was a tiny amethyst I’d tucked there weeks ago, almost as an afterthought.

    I held it in my palm, noticing its weight, its texture, the faint warmth it picked up from my skin. Slowly, my breath deepened. My shoulders relaxed. For the first time that day, I felt just enough space between myself and the chaos to think clearly.

    That moment taught me something I hadn’t realized before: big changes don’t always come from big actions. Sometimes, the smallest things—the ones you can hold in the palm of your hand—can pull you back to yourself.

    Why the Small Things Matter

    For most of my life, I believed that fixing problems required a full reset—a new job, a big trip, a total life overhaul. If I was stressed, I thought I needed to clear my schedule completely. If I was sad, I thought I had to “solve” the sadness before I could feel better.

    But that afternoon in my car changed my perspective. It wasn’t the crystal itself that “fixed” me. It was the way that small, tangible object interrupted my spiral long enough for me to breathe.

    That was the first day I started carrying a stone in my pocket—not for magic, but for mindfulness. It became a reminder that no matter where I was or what was happening, I could pause. I could choose a different response.

    Over the weeks that followed, I started noticing how these tiny moments of pause changed the course of my days. Holding that stone at my desk before a meeting. Resting it in my hand before bed instead of scrolling my phone. Each time, I felt more grounded, more present, more myself.

    I realized it wasn’t just about the crystal. It was about creating a bridge—something physical that pulled me out of my head and into the moment. For someone else, it might be a smooth pebble from the beach, a favorite coin, or even a small piece of fabric.

    The power wasn’t in the object itself. The power was in what it represented: a conscious choice to stop, breathe, and reconnect.

    Looking back, I can see how much I underestimated the small things. I used to believe they were insignificant compared to “real change.” Now I know they’re the foundation for it.

    Because when you can find peace in the smallest of moments—sitting in your car, holding a stone, breathing deeply—you’re not just surviving. You’re building the capacity to handle life with more grace.

    A Simple Invitation

    If you’re feeling overwhelmed, you don’t have to change everything at once. Start small. Find one object that feels comforting in your hand. Carry it for a week, and whenever your mind starts to race, hold it and take three deep breaths. Notice what shifts.

    It may seem too simple to matter, but that’s the point. The smallest things are often the ones we return to again and again. Sometimes, they don’t just take up space in your heart—they help you find your way back to it.

  • The Hardest Person to Be Honest with Is Yourself

    The Hardest Person to Be Honest with Is Yourself

    “You cannot heal what you refuse to confront.” ~Yasmin Mogahed

    At sixteen, I walked out of my mother’s house with track marks and a half-packed bag. No big fight. No slammed door. Just the silent resignation of someone who couldn’t look his mother in the eye anymore. I wasn’t leaving home—I was bailing on it. On everything.

    I didn’t know the word “addiction.” Well, I knew it; I just didn’t understand it. I didn’t know that the flu I kept getting was withdrawal. I thought I was just weak. A loser. A burnout who couldn’t even use the right way.

    Over the next few years, I would burn through twenty-two treatment centers and detoxes. Not metaphorically. I mean actual beds, actual paperwork, actual roommates, each one thinking they’d seen someone like me before. I gave every counselor the same script:

    I’m ready this time. I just need a reset.

    I’d be out within days. Sometimes hours.

    I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t even close.

    The Real Lie

    You’d think the biggest lie I told was to my family. Or the judges. Or to all those people who loved me even when I gave them nothing back.

    But the worst lies? They were internal.

    I told myself:

    “This is just a phase.”

    “I can stop if I want.”

    “I’m only hurting myself.”

    I convinced myself that survival was the goal. Not growth. Not connection. Just survive the day, or at least numb it out enough that it passed quietly.

    That internal voice doesn’t yell. It whispers. It’s slick. And when you’re lonely, exhausted, and chemically dependent, it becomes your best friend. Your only friend.

    A Moment I Can’t Forget

    One night in my early twenties, I found myself strapped to a hospital bed in Delaware after a suicide attempt that didn’t go as planned. I came to with tubes in my arms, the taste of iron in my mouth, and the sterile white ceiling staring back at me like it knew something I didn’t.

    There was no grand awakening. No movie-scene moment with tears and violins. Just silence, and this strange, unfamiliar feeling: I’m still here.

    Something cracked open that night—not in a way anyone else could see, but in the quiet back room of my own awareness. A voice I’d been ignoring for years—maybe my whole life—started whispering a little louder.

    I didn’t listen to it right away. I moved to Florida not long after, trying to outrun the damage and the shame. Spent nearly a decade bouncing through treatment centers, sober houses, friends’ couches—living on repeat. That voice showed up now and then, like a static signal in the background. But I was still too busy numbing out to really hear it.

    And then one day, years later, something changed. I finally stopped trying to shut it up. I sat still long enough to let it speak.

    The first thing it said wasn’t poetic or profound. It was blunt. Look around. So I did.

    And what I saw hit me like a slow-building wave:

    I was in Arizona. Thousands of miles from my family.

    I had a daughter, two years old, living in another state—barely part of my life.

    I missed everyone. I missed myself. And I was scared.

    That voice didn’t accuse or condemn. It just kept going:

    You’re allowed to want more. You can change. Start now.

    Where I Finally Stopped Running

    I got sober in Arizona on September 26, 2010. But the real work, the soul-level renovation, started in the days and weeks that followed.

    There was no lightning bolt, no sudden surge of motivation. Just a quiet commitment to stop lying to myself.

    Healing came in moments that felt ordinary:

    Brushing my teeth in a sober living house and actually looking in the mirror. Making it to a job on time. Letting someone ask how I was—and answering without deflection.

    I learned that sobriety wasn’t just about quitting substances. It was about telling the truth. Especially to myself.

    I stopped performing. I stopped pretending I was fine. I let myself want better, and then, I started doing the boring, uncomfortable, necessary things that actually create change.

    Arizona, the place I’d originally come to because of a fling, became the ground where I finally planted roots. The place where I learned how to show up—not just for others, but for me.

    What I Know Now (That I Wish I Knew Then)

    We don’t change because someone tells us we should. We change because something inside us starts to believe, however faintly, that we’re capable of more.

    The catch is: You have to stop bullshitting yourself first.

    That means:

    Calling out the voice in your head that wants to keep you small.

    Sitting in discomfort without escaping.

    Letting people in, even when it feels like exposure.

    You don’t have to have it all figured out. Most people don’t. But you do need to get honest about where you’re at, and what that place is costing you.

    Sometimes rock bottom isn’t a single event. It’s the accumulation of tiny self-abandonments that pile up until there’s barely any of you left.

    For Anyone in the Thick of It

    If you’re reading this in the middle of your own mess, I won’t throw platitudes at you. Life isn’t a Hallmark movie, and recovery isn’t a montage.

    But here’s what I can offer:

    You’re not broken. You’re buried.

    There’s still a version of you under the pain, the denial, the self-sabotage. And that version doesn’t need to be created from scratch; it just needs to be remembered.

    You don’t need a plan. You need a moment. One honest, gut-level moment where you stop running. That’s enough to start.

    And yes, it’ll be uncomfortable. But growth always is.

  • Relief from Relentless Thoughts: Reclaiming My Mind from OCD

    Relief from Relentless Thoughts: Reclaiming My Mind from OCD

    “Don’t believe everything you hear—even in your own mind.” – Daniel G. Amen

    This quote might sound like something you’d read on a coffee mug or an Instagram quote slide. But when your own mind is feeding you a 24/7 stream of terrifying, intrusive thoughts? That little phrase becomes a survival strategy.

    Sure, I have lots of strategies now. But they weren’t born from a gentle spiritual awakening or a peaceful walk in the woods. They were born out of a relentless, knock-down, drag-out fight with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). A fight that started when I was a kid and stole years of my life.

    Let me be blunt: OCD is not quirky or cute. It’s not about liking things tidy or being “a little type A.” It’s a full-body, panic-inducing disorder where your brain screams, “You are in danger!”—even when there’s no actual threat.

    It’s counting in desperate loops. It’s having rituals you don’t understand but can’t stop doing. It’s fear that feels like a gun pointed between your eyes, triggered by nothing more than a thought. I know because I have OCD, or I guess I should say “had” OCD.

    Life with OCD: A War Inside My Head

    From the time I was young, my brain was hijacked by fear. Fears that something terrible would happen. That I’d lose people I loved. That I’d be misunderstood, unworthy, unforgivable. These thoughts didn’t just whisper—they screamed. And my body listened: sweaty palms, racing heart, shallow breath. Over and over, even though nothing was really wrong.

    To cope, I created rituals—compulsions that promised relief but never delivered. I’d roll my neck a certain way, flex my wrists, blink, swallow, count in rapid-fire succession—anything to feel right again. But it never really worked. Four was my magic number for a long time. I could fly through sixty-four sets of four faster than you’d believe. Still, the anxiety roared back every time.

    Want a picture of what this looked like? Here’s one from high school: I’m sitting at the kitchen table. I glance—again—at the round straw basket on the wall. I roll my neck, flex both wrists, blink, swallow. Damn it. Not right. I start the sequence again. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. Again. And again. Four sets of four, done four times. Still not right. I’m drowning in invisible urgency while everyone else is just trying to eat dinner.

    I had objects in every room of the house, each one assigned to a ritual. A cherry wood clock. The edge of a curtain rod. A fluorescent light tile. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t even understand it. And I definitely didn’t enjoy it. OCD stole my time, my energy, and my sanity. If I didn’t do the rituals, I was consumed by dread. If I did them, they were never good enough. It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don’t existence.

    Thoughts That Terrified Me

    The content of my fears changed over time, but the intensity didn’t. Sometimes the dread was vague. Sometimes it was specific and disturbing—violent images, inappropriate sexual thoughts, blasphemous phrases. I obsessed that I’d pick up a knife and hurt someone. That someone I loved would die because I breathed the wrong way.

    I couldn’t write without rewriting. I couldn’t look in a mirror without fearing I’d become vain. I drew invisible lines on the floor to protect people. I had to sit a certain way, speak a certain way, think a certain way. And God help me if a “bad” thought popped into my head mid-ritual—I had to start all over again.

    At one point in college, while stuck in an endless loop of trying to put a piece of paper in a folder “just right,” I ended up stabbing a pencil into my thigh out of sheer mental exhaustion.

    I truly believed I was broken.

    Finding a Name—and a Way Out

    I didn’t even know it was OCD until I stumbled across a book and then saw a video showing other people’s compulsions. It was a holy shit moment. You mean someone else can’t fold a towel just once either?

    Once I had a name for what was happening, I could begin to untangle it. I learned that my brain was sending false messages—and that I didn’t have to obey them. A psychiatrist once explained it with a triangle: Most people’s thoughts bounce between points and move on. Mine got stuck in the triangle and just spun endlessly.

    Knowing that helped. But what really changed everything was discovering mantras.

    How Mantras Helped Me Rewire My Brain

    My mom—who also struggled with OCD—started making up little phrases with me to cut through the noise. The one that changed everything?

    “That’s a brain glitch. I don’t have to pay attention to that.”

    It sounds simple, but that phrase became a mental lifeline. It helped me step back, call out the OCD lie, and redirect my focus. It was a way to challenge the urgency of the thought without getting pulled into the ritual. And it worked—not overnight, but consistently, over time.

    Then I read Brain Lock by Jeffrey Schwartz, which broke down the exact same strategy: identify the thought, reattribute it, and refocus. I realized—I’d already been doing that with my mantras. They were helping me rewire my mind. That realization was empowering. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I was retraining my brain.

    Mantras, OCD, and the Messy Middle of Healing

    Slowly, imperfectly, I stopped fighting my thoughts and started getting curious about them. I began to notice how fear hooked me—and how I didn’t have to take the bait.

    My mantras started piling up on sticky notes everywhere. They were grounding. Sometimes funny. Sometimes serious. Sometimes just sarcastic enough to cut through the noise in my head. But they worked. They reminded me of what was true. They gave me just enough space to respond differently.

    Because here’s the thing: OCD doesn’t run my life anymore. Sure, the tendencies still flare up under stress—but I have tools now. I have perspective. And I have mantras.

    Not the fluffy kind that pretends everything is fine. The gritty, scrappy, fiercely compassionate kind that says:

    • Yes, your brain is being loud right now—and you’re still allowed to rest.
    • Uncertainty is uncomfortable, not dangerous.
    • You are not your brain.
    • You can let go. Even if you have to do it a hundred times.

    If you’re someone who struggles with relentless thoughts—whether it’s OCD, anxiety, or just the everyday noise of being human—I hope this inspires you to craft your own phrases, rooted in your values and the kind of life you want to move toward, or mantras that remind you to ignore that harsh inner critic and the fears that lurk in your mind.

    You’re not alone.

    Your thoughts are not always true.

    And you are allowed to let go of thoughts that do not serve you.

    Even if you have to let go over and over and over again. That’s okay. That’s the work.

    Don’t believe everything you think. But start believing that you can heal.

  • When Love Isn’t Enough: How I Found Healing After Emotional Abuse

    When Love Isn’t Enough: How I Found Healing After Emotional Abuse

    “You can’t save someone who isn’t willing to participate in their own rescue.” ~Unknown

    You and I have been doing the work. Talking. Writing. Processing.

    Everything I’m focused on right now—in my healing, in my spirit, in my writing—is love. Becoming love. Living in love. Returning to love.

    And yet, there’s a chapter of my life that continues to whisper to me: Why wasn’t love enough?

    I spent nine years in a relationship that left me anxious, confused, and small. I was always on edge. Walking on eggshells, never knowing whether I’d be met with affection or fury. He could be charming one moment and cruel the next. A Jekyll-and-Hyde personality I came to normalize.

    I stayed longer than I like to admit because I believed, deep down, that my love could heal him. If I just loved harder, more purely, more selflessly, maybe I could soften his edges. Diminish the rage. Make him whole.

    But no matter how hard I tried, it didn’t work.

    He still raged. He still criticized. He still looked at me like I was the problem.

    Eventually, I had to face a truth I never wanted to admit: Love, at least mine alone, wasn’t enough to change him.

    The Lie We’re Told About Love

    So many of us are raised on the idea that love conquers all. That it’s our job to be patient, forgiving, and understanding. That if we just hold space long enough, people will change. Heal. Transform.

    But here’s what I’ve learned the hard way:

    • Love only transforms when both people are willing participants in healing.
    • Love cannot live where there is no safety.
    • It cannot grow in an environment ruled by control or fear.
    • And it cannot thrive when one person is constantly shrinking just to survive.

    The Roadblocks to Leaving

    Leaving was complicated. We didn’t live in a bubble. There were family, friends, colleagues, and the church, each with strong opinions.

    “God hates divorce.” That was the message drilled into me. Sometimes in whispers. Sometimes in shouts.

    In the church, women are told to submit. But submission, to me, always meant a mutual dance. A respectful exchange of give and take, compromise, and safety. Not suppression. Years later, I finally heard the words “submission without suppression,” and something clicked.

    Another moment of clarity came when I heard: God cares more about the human in the relationship than He does about the institution of marriage. That truth was liberating. It helped me accept that even if I wasn’t being physically abused, I was still being harmed in ways that mattered.

    At the time, I thought I was in a crisis of faith. But my soul knew better: it wasn’t faith that was broken. It was people. My spirit whispered that the path forward wasn’t in saving the marriage.

    It was in saving myself.

    The Cost of Leaving

    Leaving wasn’t just about walking away from one man. It meant losing entire circles of connection.

    My ex’s family had been part of my daily rhythm with shared meals, holiday gatherings, and weekend adventures. That familiar pattern disappeared overnight.

    Even friendships I thought were my own slipped away. Some didn’t understand my choice. Others quietly withdrew, perhaps uncomfortable with divorce itself, or perhaps with me choosing a new path. I’ll never know for sure.

    The losses were painful. I had to sit with the ache, mourn the empty spaces, grieve the old circle. But slowly I began to see: some people are only meant to walk with us for a season. Growth means outgrowing certain spaces and opening to new ones.

    Healing came with the release of those no longer meant for me, so I could make room for the ones who were.

    What I Know Now

    It took years—and therapy, journaling, truth-telling, and self-forgiveness—to admit that I wasn’t weak for staying. I was loving. I was loyal. I was trying.

    But the love I gave wasn’t being received. It wasn’t reciprocated. And it wasn’t respected.

    Here’s the radical truth I finally embraced:

    My love was never the problem. It was real. It was whole. It was enough.

    But it could never replace the work someone else refused to do.

    Leaving Comes in Bursts and Choices

    Leaving doesn’t happen all at once. It comes in bursts and choices.

    There was the physical leaving, which involved moving out of our home and subletting a college apartment that no thirty-six-year-old should have to reside in.

    And then came the months of separation and eventually divorce—difficult conversations, compromises, and grief. Along the way, a new friendship was strengthening and shifting.

    From the day I met Jim, I was drawn in by his smile, his laugh, his kindness. Over time, a deep trust and mutual respect developed. As the distance between my ex and me grew, Jim and I grew closer. We came to a crossroads, another choice.

    The New Love I Choose

    When I first left, I clung to the idea of remaining friends with my ex. Coffee together. Kind words. Civility. But I quickly realized two things: first, that wasn’t in his nature. And second, it wasn’t fair to Jim.

    Jim listened patiently as my ex talked about “winning me back.” Then, with kindness and clarity, Jim said, “You need to choose, because I’m not going to stay in limbo while you figure things out.”

    It wasn’t an ultimatum meant to control me. It was a boundary meant to protect his heart. And in that moment, I felt the difference between destructive love and healthy love.

    Healthy love stands firm without hostility. It respects both people. It asks for clarity, not chaos.

    Today, my life looks radically different. I’m in a partnership built on respect, kindness, trust, and healing.
    A relationship where I feel safe, seen, and loved without having to earn it.

    And yet, sometimes I still look back. Not with longing but with tenderness for the woman who stayed.

    The woman who tried. Who hoped. Who believed love could fix what was broken.

    To her, I say:

    You were doing your best with what you knew at the time. It’s okay that you thought love could be enough. It’s okay that you tried. And it’s beautiful that you eventually walked away.

    If You’re There Now

    If you’re in a relationship where love feels like walking on eggshells, where you’re exhausted from trying to be “enough,” hear this:

    • You don’t have to fix anyone.
    • You don’t have to stay to prove your love.
    • You are not the reason they’re angry, critical, or cruel.

    You are allowed to leave in the name of love. Especially the love you owe yourself.

    And if you’re in the messy middle, give yourself grace. Know this: it’s okay to love again and still feel trauma. To still get triggered. To mourn, rage, regret.

    It’s okay to cry, even when you’ve moved on and built a healthier life. Tears are part of release, part of healing, part of love finding its way back to you.

  • Sound as Medicine: A Healing Journey

    Sound as Medicine: A Healing Journey

    If you’ve felt overwhelmed lately—by responsibilities, by the pace of life, by the noise in the world—you’re not alone. Many of us are moving through our days on autopilot, carrying stress in our bodies that we barely notice until we finally slow down.

    When that goes on long enough, the body tightens. The breath shortens. The nervous system stays braced for impact, even when nothing is immediately wrong.

    This is why practices that help us reinhabit the body and soothe the nervous system can feel so powerful. They remind us we don’t have to live in a state of tension. We can soften. We can ground. We can exhale.

    That’s what draws me to this upcoming Omega workshop, Sound as Medicine: A Healing Journey, with sound healer and guide Phyllicia Victoria.

    Sound healing may seem simple from the outside—just listening to tones or vibrations—but there’s something profound about how the body responds. When sound is offered with intention, it meets places inside us we don’t always have the words for. It helps settle the thoughts that race, the emotions we’ve tucked away, the exhaustion we’ve been pushing through.

    In this two-hour online experience, Phyllicia will guide you through:

    • Grounding breathwork to help calm and regulate your nervous system

    • Gentle mantra and opening practices to help you soften into your body

    • A live crystal sound bath using bowls, chimes, and voice

    • Journaling and integration prompts to help you carry the experience into your daily life

    No experience is needed. This session is suitable for all levels—you can simply lie back, listen, and receive.

    If you’ve been longing for a pause—a chance to reset, exhale, and remember what peace can feel like—this evening offers that space.

    Sound as Medicine: A Healing Journey
    Date: Wednesday, December 3, 2025
    Time: 7:00–9:00 PM ET (4:00–6:00 PM PT)
    Tuition: Sliding scale $33–$55 (Member price: $35)
    Replay: Available on demand until February 1, 2026

    Learn more and register here.

  • Shifting Out of Survival Mode: Healing Happens One Choice at a Time

    Shifting Out of Survival Mode: Healing Happens One Choice at a Time

    “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” ~Viktor Frankl

    It started as a faint hum—a sense of unease that crept in during the isolation of the pandemic. I was a licensed therapist working from home, meeting with clients through a screen. Together, we were navigating a shared uncertainty, trying to cope as the world shifted beneath us.

    I could feel the weight of their anxiety as they talked about their spiraling thoughts and struggles to feel grounded. What I didn’t realize then was how much of their turmoil was a reflection of my own.

    During those months, I gave my clients all the tools I knew. We talked about mindfulness, grounding exercises, and ways to reconnect with a sense of safety. But the truth? These conversations often felt hollow. It wasn’t that the tools didn’t work in theory—it was that they didn’t land in the body. Fear, disconnection, and panic had rooted themselves deeper than words could reach.

    I began to think, “What would it take for us to truly feel safe again—not just talk about it?” That question became the seed of a larger realization, one that would shift my focus entirely.

    The Missing Piece 

    Years ago, when I first trained as a therapist, I learned about bilateral stimulation (BLS). At its core, it’s a method of gently guiding the brain to process emotions through rhythmic left-right movement. You’ve probably done it yourself, without realizing it—tapping each knee while stressed or walking back and forth to clear your head.

    Clinically, BLS is used in therapies like EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), which helps people process trauma in a way that feels safer and more contained.

    The science behind it is remarkable, but what truly struck me was how intuitive it felt. Trauma often leaves us stuck—in our minds, in our bodies, and in our fight-or-flight response. BLS created subtle shifts, allowing people to process without getting overwhelmed. It was a solution that existed not just in the mind but also in the nervous system.

    Still, I hesitated to fully explore using it beyond therapy rooms. My focus was on the tools within my comfort zone—strategies, worksheets, and techniques that worked well enough. But everything changed when the hurricane hit.

    When Trauma Becomes Personal 

    Hurricane Helene arrived when we were already worn thin. My community in Western North Carolina was still grappling with the fallout of the pandemic, and now, this immense storm came to claim what little stability we had left.

    The destruction wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. Entire neighborhoods were uprooted, including mine. I found myself not as a therapist observing trauma, but as a human immersed in it. Days turned into weeks of survival mode. Displaced families. Empty cupboards. Sleepless nights listening to the rain pound against temporary roofs. My own nervous system was in constant overdrive—frozen between fear and exhaustion.

    And yet, in the fragmented moments of stillness, I noticed something. Healing wasn’t happening in grand gestures or revelations. It was in the small, quiet choices to keep moving forward—packing what I could salvage, helping a neighbor clear debris, or holding my daughter’s hand as we waited in line for supplies. It struck me how easy it is to feel powerless after trauma. Everything feels broken. But healing isn’t about fixing everything at once. Sometimes, it starts with reshaping one moment.

    Lessons from the Debris 

    Trauma changes us. It rewires not only how we view the world but also how we feel within it. I’ve worked with countless clients stuck in the aftermath of trauma—unable to sleep, flooded by overthinking, fearing everything will fall apart again. I thought I understood what it meant to feel this way. Living through the hurricane taught me just how layered and consuming it can be.

    What I learned, though, is that healing is possible. It doesn’t come with a single moment of clarity but rather through consistent, small acts of care. Here are the lessons I carried from that time, ones that I hope may help you too if you’re feeling stuck in survival mode.

    1. Your body speaks—start listening. 

    Trauma often lives in the body long after the event has passed. It’s easy to ignore the signals your body sends—tightness in the chest, a restless mind, or even chronic fatigue. But healing starts with awareness.

    Take note of how you physically feel when panic strikes. Are your shoulders tense? Is your breathing shallow? Engage in small practices to reset your body’s rhythm, like walking, stretching, or even tapping your hands alternately on your thighs.

    2. Safety is built, not found. 

    After trauma, our nervous systems often stay in survival mode, scanning for the next threat. This makes it hard to trust—others, ourselves, or even moments of calm. Rebuilding a sense of safety takes time and consistency.

    Find routines that ground you, like starting your day with a cup of tea or ending it with journaling. These rituals remind your nervous system that you’re not in immediate danger anymore—that it’s okay to exhale.

     3. Healing requires community. 

    One of the hardest things about trauma is the isolation it brings. Whether it’s pride, shame, or sheer exhaustion, it often feels easier to close yourself off. But connection is where healing happens.

    During the aftermath of the hurricane, it was the smallest gestures from community members—sharing meals, checking in, or listening—that reminded me I wasn’t alone. Don’t be afraid to reach out or accept help, no matter how small it feels.

    4. Reset as many times as you need. 

    Healing isn’t linear. You’ll have good days and hard ones, moments of clarity followed by setbacks. That’s okay. The key is learning to pause when you need to rather than pushing through. Whether it’s a deep breath, a short walk, or time to process your emotions, each pause is a chance to reset and start again.

    Moving Forward, One Step at a Time 

    The hurricane didn’t just strip away homes—it also stripped away my old idea of what it means to heal. I used to think it was something that happened after the chaos subsided, when everything was back in order. But I’ve learned that healing works differently. It happens in the middle of the mess, through small, brave acts that remind you you’re still here. You’re still trying.

    Whether you’ve lived through a storm, a personal loss, or a chapter filled with uncertainty, know this: healing isn’t about the destination. It’s about the choices you make in the moment—the choice to pause, to breathe, to ask for help, or to forgive yourself for not having it all figured out. One quiet, powerful choice at a time, you can rebuild.

  • The Lonely Ache of Self-Worth That No One Talks About

    The Lonely Ache of Self-Worth That No One Talks About

    “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” ~Kahlil Gibran

    They don’t talk about this part.

    The hardest part about knowing your worth—after doing the work, setting boundaries, and getting crystal clear on what you want—is the ache.

    Not just any ache. The ache of being awake. The ache of knowing. The ache of not settling.

    I remember the first time I walked away from someone who didn’t mistreat me but who also didn’t quite meet me. I had spent years unraveling my old patterns: the people-pleasing, the over-giving, the “maybe this is enough” mindset. For the first time, I didn’t override my intuition. I didn’t pretend I was okay with something that didn’t feel like home.

    I left. And I felt powerful.

    But two days later, I sat alone on my kitchen floor, not crying, not spiraling—just aching. Aching for company. Aching for closeness. Aching for the comfort of being chosen, even if it wasn’t quite right.

    That’s what no one talks about: the emotional hangover of choosing yourself.

    No one warns you how lonely it can feel when you finally stop contorting yourself to fit someone else’s story. When you stop abandoning yourself just to be loved, there’s often a pause before something new begins. A stillness that used to be filled by “almosts” and “maybes” and “well, at least I’m not alone.”

    When you’ve been used to bending, standing tall can feel stark. Spacious. Bare.

    You’re no longer wasting energy explaining your needs or trying to make the wrong person understand your heart. But that clarity comes with a cost. And sometimes, that cost is company.

    The ache of growth is quieter than chaos, but it cuts deeper. It lingers in the in-between: that sacred space between no longer and not yet.

    There’s grief that comes when we raise our standards. A grief for the illusions we used to cling to. A grief for the comfort of something, even when it wasn’t truly nourishing.

    We don’t talk enough about how healing isn’t just insight and empowerment. It’s also the slow disintegration of everything that used to be familiar. Your old identity. Your old dynamics. Your old sense of “enough.”

    It’s disorienting because the world doesn’t always reflect your new clarity back to you. You may find yourself sitting across from someone on a date, and while they’re kind and curious, they don’t feel like resonance. You may feel unseen in rooms you once blended into easily. You may notice the distance between you and your past life widening without any clear sense of where you’re headed.

    That’s the paradox of healing. You do the work thinking it will bring you closer to connection—and it does. But only to the kind that matches the version of you who did the work.

    And that kind often takes time.

    This is the part most advice columns skip: the emotional soup you wade through after you’ve walked away from what no longer fits.

    It’s thick with contradictions: grief for what you had to leave behind, hope that what you long for still exists, fear that maybe it doesn’t.

    There’s a raw tenderness in the quiet. A new intimacy with yourself that feels more honest but not always more comfortable.

    You might bounce between feeling empowered and heartbroken. Proud of your boundaries one day, questioning them the next. Rooted in self-respect in the morning, lonely by evening.

    This isn’t backsliding. This is integration.

    You’re building something new within yourself. And like any reconstruction project, it comes with debris, dust, and disorientation. But it’s real. It’s yours. And it’s lasting.

    Eventually, something begins to shift.

    One morning, you wake up, and the ache feels less like emptiness and more like spaciousness. You start to trust the quiet. You no longer hide your pain to make others more comfortable. You realize your worth has stopped being a negotiation.

    This is the sacred turning point—when the waiting becomes an invitation. When the pause between what was and what’s coming becomes a place of preparation, not punishment.

    You begin to notice the difference between being alone and being lonely. You stop shrinking your needs just to have someone next to you.

    Your loneliness, paradoxically, becomes a sign of your healing. Because you’re no longer willing to fill the void with what doesn’t serve you. You’re holding your own gaze. And while that might not feel cinematic, it’s powerful.

    Because not everyone gets here. And not everyone stays.

    In the moments when it gets hard, when it feels like maybe you should settle, maybe you are being too much, maybe love isn’t coming after all, I want you to come back to this: I trust that it’s worth waiting for the love I deserve, and that it’s possible for me.

    Repeat it when the doubts creep in. Write it on a Post-it. Say it into your tea. Breathe it into your bones.

    Because you didn’t come this far just to go back to what hurt you. You didn’t do all that work just to re-audition for roles you’ve outgrown.

    You came this far to call in something real—something that honors the truth of who you are now.

    One of the hardest things about this journey is that there’s no timeline. No guarantee. It can feel like you placed a very specific order with the universe and it’s taking forever to show up.

    But here’s what I’ve learned: when you ask for something deeper, more aligned, and more rooted in mutual presence, it takes time. Not because it’s not coming but because you’re asking for more than fast. You’re asking for true.

    And true takes time.

    If you’re feeling lonely on the other side of healing, please hear this: You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just no longer willing to fill your life with noise. You’ve stepped into a deeper honesty with yourself. And that’s rare.

    This is the season of sacred discomfort. A liminal space where the old has gone, but the new hasn’t fully arrived. It’s tender. Uncertain. And wildly fertile.

    Trust the ache. It’s not here to punish you. It’s here to refine you. To shape you into the kind of person who will recognize the love you’re calling in because it will feel like the love you’ve already chosen to give yourself.

    Today, I sit in my own presence and feel mostly calm. Slowly, almost without notice, that refining did its work. The ache has softened. The loneliness has eased. There’s a quiet joy in just being here, in just being me.

    What surprises me most is how peaceful I often feel. Not numb. Not distracted. Not pining for someone to see me. Not begging the universe for faster delivery. Just fully, intimately present.

    It’s strange, but the more I’ve allowed myself to embrace the hurt, the longing, the more open I’ve become to beauty. A song hits deeper. Small moments feel more meaningful. I see love everywhere.

    Life shimmers differently these days.

    And in this calm, I finally recognize just how powerful I am. The ache has carved a wider capacity within me, just as Gibran said. I hold more joy, more love, more connection. And that feels utterly magical.

    So if you’re feeling that ache right now, please remember: the very sorrow that feels so heavy now is making room for a fuller, richer experience of life and love. It’s the foundation for the kind of love that doesn’t ask you to shrink, dim, or settle but invites you to show up as your whole, radiant self.

    And as you release your anxiety about finding someone else, you might find that the greatest love comes from yourself.

  • How I Found My Midlife Roar in the Beautiful Mess of Perimenopause

    How I Found My Midlife Roar in the Beautiful Mess of Perimenopause

    “Menopause is a journey where you rediscover yourself and become the woman you were always meant to be.” ~Dr. Christiane Northrup

    I recently had a healing session with a dear client of mine.

    “Before we begin,” she asked, “how are you?”

    I blinked and said, “Oh, you know, the usual. Just navigating perimenopause. Hallucinating about living alone without my partner one minute and panicking about dying alone the next.”

    She burst into laughter.

    “Oh, thank God,” she said. “I find myself browsing apartment listings weekly. Good to know I’m not the only one.”

    Ah, yes, the sacred scrolls of apartment listings, or how I see it, midlife porn for the spiritually exhausted woman who just wants to drink tea in silence without someone breathing in her direction in the morning.

    Another friend, a psychologist, recently told me her partner kept his old studio even after they moved in together. Every month, during her hormonal spikes, he retreats there for a few days. Sometimes, they upgrade to one night per week in addition to that.

    Brilliant! I call that preventative medicine. Maybe the couple that gives each other space stays together and doesn’t make weird headlines in the “Relationships Gone Wrong” subreddit.

    Because here is the truth no one prepared me for: perimenopause is not just a hormonal rollercoaster; it’s a full-blown existential rave. One moment, I’m craving solitude like it’s a basic human right; the next, I’m sobbing at a dog food commercial and wondering if I’ll end up alone in a nursing home run by AI robots.

    And then there’s the fog that makes my brain feel like a group chat with no admin and everyone talking at once. My short-term memory, once razor-sharp, now resembles a moth-eaten scarf. Entire thoughts evaporate mid-sentence, names disappear like ghosts, and I have started writing everything down so I don’t forget.

    Add to that the sleepless nights, the 3 a.m. existential spirals, and the relief that I’m not suffering from the other fifty-plus perimenopausal symptoms. At least for now…

    It reminds me of my teenage years when I slammed my door (multiple times, one after another, because once wasn’t enough to make my point!), rolled my eyes, and decided everyone was annoying.

    Well, welcome to perimenopause: the reboot. Only now, you can’t blame puberty. And yet, you are expected to function, hold a job, maybe raise a human or two.

    My partner, bless him, is a genuinely kind, grounded man. He cooks. He shops. He walks our Shiba Inu pup. He supports my business and all my spiritual rants. And yet, lately, his mere existence makes me want to silently pack a bag and join a women-only monastery in the Pyrenees.

    My midlife journey is wrapped in complexities. I have an estranged father and a mother with Parkinson’s disease who lives in the UK. Thanks to Brexit, I can’t just pack up and live with her. Nor does she want to leave the UK.

    And I? I’m nomadic by nature. My roots are in motion, more like driftwood than oak, so even if she wanted to join me, there is no permanent place I call home.

    Recently, I signed a power of attorney for my mum’s health and finances. The doctor had suggested it after suspecting early signs of dementia. “It’s best to get your affairs in order now,” she said.

    I nodded. And then, I woke up with a frozen right shoulder the next morning. My body had declared mutiny, and I knew this wasn’t random. My right shoulder was reacting to the invisible weight, the pressure, the emotional inheritance of being the one who holds it all.

    And I can’t help but wonder: how many of us in midlife are carrying too much? How many of us have aching backs, inflamed joints, tight jaws, and no idea that our bodies are the ones screaming when we don’t?

    Our generation inherited the burnout of our mothers and the emotional silence of our fathers. And now, our bodies are saying, “Enough.” And through it all, my body shows up. Even when aching or confused. Even when the wiring feels off. She—this body—keeps holding me. Keeps asking me to come home.

    But amid the aches and obligations, something else began to stir beneath the surface, and I realized that not all is negative. I also recognize midlife for what it is: a powerful transition. A threshold. A sacred invitation to step into deeper sovereignty.

    I believe that beneath the hormonal rollercoaster lies something deeper: A quiet, seismic shift from performing to becoming. What if midlife isn’t just about loss or exhaustion but also a portal: a wild, fiery, phoenix-shaped portal to something richer and more meaningful?

    In mythology, there is a sacred archetype we rarely talk about: the Crone. The word comes from Old Norse and Celtic roots and was reclaimed by Jungian analyst Marion Woodman and feminist scholars to signify the wise elder woman—she who sees in the dark, who knows, who no longer needs to be pretty or polite.

    She is bone and truth and howl, and what’s even better, she is awakening inside of us, taking up more and more space inside our minds, hearts, and souls.

    Midlife is when we begin to embody her. It’s when we stop whispering and start roaring. It’s when we say, “Actually, no, I won’t do that. I don’t want to. I’m tired. And I need silence, space, and possibly a cabin in the woods with good Wi-Fi and nobody talking.”

    We begin to reclaim our right to be contradictory, to change our minds, to speak from the fire in our bellies instead of the scripts we memorized to be loved.

    I’m proud to announce that my people-pleasing days are over. Gone is the spiritual language I used to soften my rage, to be accepted in the love-and-light circles. I started questioning toxic positivity years ago, but now I am fully allergic to it.

    Don’t tell me “Everything happens for a reason” when there are genocides unfolding as we speak. Don’t tell me to raise my vibration while I’m caring for a mother who might forget my name in the near future. Don’t tell me that anger is a “low frequency” emotion when it’s a healthy response to witnessing atrocities happening everywhere.

    My anger, or sacred rage as I like to call it, is what fuels me to speak up, to raise my voice, to speak about what’s important to me.

    Midlife isn’t just a phase; it’s a rite of passage that comes with many gifts and also responsibilities.

    One: Grounded power.

    While my thirties were spent floating in “ascension” mode—channeling, visualizing, forever raising my frequency—my forties have been a lesson in descension: in landing fully in my body, in the mess, in the moment. In letting my roots grow deep and wild and unafraid. I no longer want to float or ascend.

    Two: Embodied truth.

    Midlife strips us of our masks. I no longer pretend. I tell the truth in my podcast, in my sessions, in my writing. I don’t want clients who expect me to be their guru. I want kinship. I want real, authentic connections.

    And yes, I still have moments of spiraling. I still fantasize about living alone. But I also know now, deeply, that those longings aren’t escapism. They are calls to return to myself, and this return to self needs some form of silence and solitude.

    Three: Fierce compassion.

    I no longer hold back what I feel. But I also no longer feel the need to carry everyone else’s pain. Right now, I am learning to care deeply without losing myself.

    As Anaïs Nin said, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

    Midlife, for me, is the season of blooming open even if the petals are a little singed. I might not go and live alone any time soon, but I will spend a month alone traveling through China this September. And my partner, the understanding man that he is, will stay with my mum to take care of her that month.

    So if you, too, are hallucinating about renting a solo flat, crying over a parent’s future, snapping at your beloved for simply blinking, and wondering who you even are right now, you are not broken. And you are also not alone. You are becoming.

    Welcome to the middle. It’s messy and holy and completely yours. This season isn’t meant to break you. It’s meant to reintroduce you to the version of yourself that was always waiting.

    And if your shoulder or your back starts acting up: Pause. Breathe. Put your hand on your heart and whisper, “I hear you.”

    Then, slowly, powerfully, roar. Because your voice—raw, ragged, and real—was never meant to whisper.

  • When Your Body Is Carrying More Pain Than You Realize

    When Your Body Is Carrying More Pain Than You Realize

    If you live with chronic pain, you already know how exhausting it can be. Not just the physical sensations but the constant trying—trying to push through, trying to find answers, trying to explain something that feels invisible to others. The search for relief can become its own full-time job, and it’s easy to feel discouraged or alone.

    Over the years of running this site, I’ve heard from many people who’ve felt trapped in their bodies, like life was happening around them, not with them. I’ve also connected with many people who learned to bury their feelings (a struggle I know all too well) because they were simply too painful or because they never learned how to embrace and process them. For some people, this emotional holding eventually shows up in the body as tension, fatigue, or chronic pain.

    Pushing things down might look like strength from the outside, but it’s the source of immense suffering that only ends when we face and feel what we’ve been avoiding.

    This awareness is what draws me to Nicole Sachs’ work. Nicole is a therapist, author, and teacher who’s spent over twenty years helping people understand the mind-body connection, and how unprocessed emotions can sometimes show up in the body as chronic pain.

    When we understand how our nervous systems try to protect us, we can gently teach our bodies that they no longer need to stay in defense mode.

    In her upcoming online workshop with the Omega Institute, Introduction to Freedom from Chronic Pain, Nicole will introduce you to her approach to releasing stored emotions so you can reconnect with your body instead of battling it.

    In this 90-minute live session, Nicole will offer:

    • Insight into how the brain and nervous system create chronic pain as protection
    • A guided JournalSpeak exercise to support emotional release
    • A sense of hope and understanding, especially if you’ve felt alone in your experience
    • Time for live Q&A to support your specific questions and challenges

    So many people live with chronic pain thinking they just have to endure it. But healing is possible. It won’t happen overnight, but with the right tools, you can greatly improve the quality of your life.

    If you’re ready to release the pain that’s holding you back, you can learn more and register here:

    Introduction to Freedom from Chronic Pain
    Date: Wednesday, November 5, 6:00–7:30 PM ET (3:00–4:30 PM PT)
    Replay: Available on demand until January 4, 2026

  • When Your Body Betrays You: Finding Strength in a New Identity

    When Your Body Betrays You: Finding Strength in a New Identity

    “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~Rumi

    I didn’t know what it meant to grieve a body that was still alive until mine turned on me.

    It began like a whisper—fatigue that lingered, strange symptoms that didn’t match, a quiet fear I tried to ignore.

    Then one night, I collapsed. I woke up in a hospital room I didn’t recognize, attached to IVs I hadn’t agreed to, surrounded by medical voices that spoke in certainty while I sat in confusion.

    It wasn’t just a diagnosis I was given. It was a line in the sand.

    Before that night, I thought I knew who I was. I had moved across the world for love, leaving behind my home, my language, my work, my identity. I thought that leap of faith had already redefined me.

    I was wrong.

    Illness Doesn’t Just Change Your Health; It Changes Everything

    When you live with chronic illness, the world doesn’t change with you.

    Everyone else keeps moving. Fast.

    Meanwhile, your pace slows to survival mode. Appointments become your calendar. You measure your days in energy—not hours. You go from thinking “I’m strong” to wondering “Am I weak now?” And the hardest part is, people still see you as who you were before.

    But inside, you’re unraveling.

    I remember standing in the shower, my hands trembling, trying to wash my hair, crying because I couldn’t lift my arms long enough. I remember sitting in a café with friends pretending I was fine, while every muscle screamed. I remember how silence became my shield because explaining felt harder than hiding.

    I Had to Mourn My Old Self

    No one tells you how much grief comes with getting sick.

    Yes, I mourned the physical freedom I lost. But more than that, I grieved who I thought I was. The capable one. The dependable one. The one who could do it all.

    I had been that woman.

    Now I couldn’t even cook dinner some nights, let alone help others like I used to.

    And it made me angry. Sad. Ashamed.

    Illness stole not just my stamina but also the image I held of myself. That was the most painful part. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I wasn’t who I used to be, but I wasn’t sure who I was now.

    The Turning Point Wasn’t Dramatic; It Was Quiet

    Healing didn’t arrive with fanfare. There was no great epiphany.

    It came one small moment at a time.

    The first shift happened when I stopped fighting what was. I realized I couldn’t move forward until I stopped clinging to the past. That realization didn’t heal my body, but it softened my soul.

    And that softness became the doorway to something new.

    I began to see that maybe the goal wasn’t to get back to who I was but to become who I could still be.

    That gave me hope—not because things got easier, but because I wasn’t resisting everything anymore.

    What Helped Me Rebuild from the Inside Out

    If you’re facing a change you didn’t choose, especially one that lives inside your body, I want to offer you what I needed most: permission to become someone new.

    Here are a few things that helped me begin again—not as a fix, but as a practice:

    Grieve the old version of you. Seriously.

    Don’t rush past your sadness. Say goodbye to the “you” who did it all, carried everything, said yes, pushed through. That person mattered. They were real. They deserve your tears.

    Grieving isn’t weakness—it’s the beginning of truth.

    Redefine strength.

    Strength is not being able to run five miles or check every task off your list.

    Strength is waking up in pain and choosing to get up anyway—or choosing to rest instead of proving something.

    Strength is asking for help when your whole identity was built around helping others.

    Stop waiting to feel like your old self.

    The truth? You may never feel like your old self again.

    But that’s not a tragedy—it’s an invitation. To live differently. To deepen. To slow down. To choose softness over striving.

    Some days that will feel like a loss. Other days, it will feel like grace.

    Let others in—selectively, honestly.

    It’s okay if most people don’t understand. Find the few who do, or who are willing to listen without needing to fix.

    Speak even when your voice shakes. Share even when you don’t have a tidy ending.

    You’ll be surprised how many people whisper “me too.”

    Make peace with the pause.

    You’re not falling behind. You’re not broken.

    You’re simply in a new season. One that asks different things of you.

    Don’t measure your worth by how fast you move. Measure it by how deeply you stay with yourself, especially on the hard days.

    I wish I could tell you that I handled all of this with grace from the beginning. But the truth is, I resisted every part of it.

    I wanted my old life back. I wanted to prove I was still the same person. So I kept pushing—ignoring symptoms, pretending to be okay, trying to keep up.

    That only deepened the exhaustion, physically and emotionally. My body would shut down for days. I would hide in bed, ashamed that I couldn’t ‘push through’ like I used to.

    What I didn’t realize then was that trying to be who I used to be was costing me who I was becoming.

    There’s a moment I remember vividly: I was sitting at my kitchen table, the afternoon light pouring in. I had a warm cup of tea in my hand. And for once, there was no rush. No guilt. Just a breath. Just presence.

    It wasn’t a breakthrough. But it was something. A tiny opening. A softness. I remember thinking: maybe I don’t need to heal back into the person I was. Maybe I can heal forward.

    This mindset shift changed everything.

    It didn’t fix the illness. But it fixed the part of me that kept believing I had to earn rest, prove my worth, or hide my pain.

    Now, when the flare-ups come—and they still do—I try to meet them with compassion instead of frustration. I speak to myself like I would to someone I love.

    On the outside, not much has changed. But inside? I’ve made space. Space to be exactly who I am, even in discomfort. Even in uncertainty.

    To anyone reading this who feels like their body has betrayed them—who wakes up wondering who they are now—I want to say this: your softness is strength. Your slowness is sacred. Your survival is heroic.

    Even if the world doesn’t see it, I do. And I hope someday, you will too.

    You Are Still You

    There are moments, even now, when I miss who I was before the diagnosis. I miss the energy. The ease. The certainty.

    But I wouldn’t trade what I’ve found: A self that is more tender. More present. More aware of what really matters.

    Illness taught me to slow down. To let go. To stop living as a checklist.

    And it taught me that I’m still worthy, even when I’m not productive.

    If you’re in the middle of an identity shift—whether from illness, loss, divorce, or something else—you are not alone. You’re not broken. And you don’t need to rush toward reinvention.

    You are still you. Just different.

    And that different might be where the real light gets in.

  • The Great Horned Owl That Kicked Me Out of Burnout

    The Great Horned Owl That Kicked Me Out of Burnout

    “When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~Lao Tzu

    I’d known for months that I was burned out.

    The kind of burnout that creeps in quietly—behind your eyes, in your spine, in your calendar. I was volunteering in raptor rescue, monitoring eagle nests as the busy season ramped up, juggling consulting work, supporting adoption placements, writing, creating. I was showing up fully in every space except the one I lived in: my body.

    And yet I refused to let go. I told myself it was just a busy season. That if I could push through, things would calm down. That my exhaustion was noble, temporary, necessary.

    That’s the trap when you build identity around usefulness. You stop listening for limits.

    Raptor rescue had become more than a commitment—it was part of who I was. I loved it. I was invested. I was finally making progress in catching and handling, and every shift brought new confidence. Even after everything I’d learned about rest, boundaries, and overfunctioning, I still couldn’t walk away.

    It took getting kicked in the face by a great horned owl to wake me up. And I mean that literally.

    The Moment It Broke Open

    It was one of my regular volunteer shifts. I’d worked with this particular great horned owl before—had caught her successfully more than once. It felt like business as usual: enter the enclosure, take a breath, begin the catch.

    Except this time, it wasn’t usual. And I wasn’t ready.

    I took my eyes off her for a split second. That’s all it took.

    She flared, leapt, and with perfect precision, delivered a full-force kick to my face before escaping.

    Pain blurred into shock. And then into shame.

    Wounded pride doesn’t begin to describe it. My confidence evaporated. I had spent months building trust, practicing skill, stepping into this work fully. And yet, in one moment, it all felt like it had unraveled.

    I looked at my reflection in the mirror—face aching, spirit heavy—and the truth landed with brutal clarity:

    I’m not on top of my game. And I’m making rookie mistakes. Because I’m too tired to see straight.

    The Grief of Letting Go

    People talk a lot about burnout. But they rarely talk about how hard it is to walk away from something that feels meaningful.

    I wasn’t just physically drained—I was emotionally split. My time in raptor land had changed my life. It gave me resilience I didn’t know I had. It helped me feel grounded during periods of personal chaos. It reminded me that healing is messy and wild and worth it.

    The idea of letting go wasn’t just sad. It felt unbearable.

    And yet, I knew I had to. Not out of failure. Not even out of fear. But because continuing at the pace I was going—without rest, without recalibration—wasn’t sustainable. I was breaking. Slowly. Quietly. And now, visibly.

    Letting go wasn’t graceful. It was layered and raw.

    I cried. I wrestled. I tried to bargain with the truth.

    And when I finally stepped back, I didn’t feel immediate relief. I felt lost.

    The In-Between Is a Sacred Space

    People don’t talk enough about the in-between.

    That space where you’ve left something but haven’t landed in something new. Where you know what isn’t right anymore but aren’t sure what will be right next.

    It’s disorienting. It’s vulnerable. It’s uncomfortable.

    I wasn’t who I used to be—the eager, confident raptor catcher with fresh adrenaline in her chest. But I wasn’t yet someone with clarity about where to go next. My body needed rest. My spirit needed stillness. My heart needed time.

    But my mind? My mind wanted control. It wanted answers. It wanted speed.

    The in-between demanded something softer.

    It didn’t want me to leap. It wanted me to linger. To listen. To relearn what strength looks like when it’s gentle, not forceful.

    It’s the space where grief becomes teacher. Where identity sheds its armor. Where you realize you don’t just miss what you did—you miss who you believed you were when you did it.

    What That Owl Really Taught Me

    Yes, the kick hurt. It disrupted my rhythm. But more than anything, it delivered a message that I had been resisting:

    Even the things that change your life aren’t always meant to stay forever.

    There’s a difference between honoring a season and clinging to it. I wasn’t just volunteering—I was gripping. I was folding myself around an identity that made me feel capable, valuable, essential. I didn’t want to lose it, so I ignored the signs. I numbed out the signals. I kept showing up while my body whispered, “Not this.”

    And then it stopped whispering. It got loud.

    That owl didn’t punish me. She mirrored me.

    And once I heard what she mirrored back—once I stopped resisting the truth—I began to ask what my grip had been keeping me from.

    What Letting Go Made Room For

    Letting go didn’t mean losing everything I loved. It meant loosening my grip long enough for something gentler—and more lasting—to find me.

    I didn’t leave raptors behind. I shifted toward a deeper kind of care—one rooted in conservation, long-term observation, and relational presence. Nest monitoring, habitat awareness, quiet stewardship that still creates impact, but from a place of balance.

    It wasn’t about giving up my place in raptorland. It was about learning to show up differently—without the urgency, without the exhaustion.

    I’m rediscovering who I am in this space now. Someone who listens more. Who stays longer. Who works with the rhythm of the wild, instead of rushing through it.

    Change doesn’t always mean departure. Sometimes it just means choosing a slower path, a softer landing, and a future built on sustainability—in nature and in self.

    If You’re in the In-Between

    If you’re standing in that strange, sacred middle—between what was and what’s next—I see you.

    It’s not weakness to feel unsure. It’s not failure to step back. It’s not quitting to admit you need rest. The in-between is tender. It’s transitional. And it’s necessary.

    Whether it arrives through heartbreak or a literal kick in the face by an owl, change will always come to escort you out of what no longer serves—even when you swear it still does.

    You don’t have to leap before you’re ready. You just have to be willing to pause. To ask:

    What am I gripping that’s already trying to release me?

    What would it mean to let go gently, instead of waiting to be torn?

    Can I honor the season I loved without dragging it forward?

    Your next chapter doesn’t need to arrive with fanfare. It may enter quietly, through silence, through softness, through surrender. But it will arrive.

    And until it does, the pause is not empty. It’s everything.

  • The Hidden Lesson in Projection: It’s Never Really About Us

    The Hidden Lesson in Projection: It’s Never Really About Us

    “What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.” ~Don Miguel Ruiz

    For most of my life, I didn’t fully understand what projection was. I just knew I kept becoming the problem.

    I was “too much.” Too intense. Too emotional. Thought too deeply. Spoke too plainly.

    Again and again, I was blamed, misunderstood, and cast out for holding up a mirror to things no one wanted to see.

    But in my forties, I began doing shadow work in and out of therapy. At first, I thought the shadow was the broken part. The mess to fix. The thing to hide.

    But I slowly realized: the shadow is where the gold lives. It’s the part of us we disown—but it’s also the most authentic expression of who we really are.

    As a little girl, I was naive and blunt in the way that children often are. I remember saying I didn’t want to share the toys I’d just received for my birthday. My stepmother called me spoiled. But I wasn’t being selfish—I was just being honest. The toys were mine.

    What I didn’t understand then was that my words touched a nerve that had nothing to do with me.

    I think, deep down, my stepmother felt she was always sharing my father—with his past, with his pot-smoking, drug-dealing friends—and there wasn’t much left over for anyone else. Adding me into the equation was one more person who might “take” him from her. And when I voiced a desire to keep something all to myself, it reflected something she couldn’t have: all of him.

    Rather than face that pain, she projected it onto me. I became the one who was “too much,” “too selfish,” “too entitled.”

    My father didn’t know—he was always gone. And I was punished, not for being bad but for mirroring what she couldn’t name in herself.

    And so I learned to shrink. To share when I didn’t want to. To give more than I had. To stop being “the problem.”

    But I wasn’t the problem. I was just being real. And being real in a family built on denial was dangerous.

    Eventually, the truth would always find its way out—on my tongue, in my eyes, in the questions that slipped past my filter. And when it did, I paid for it. With silence. With exclusion. With shame.

    Again and again, I internalized it: I talk too much. I am too much.

    But the truth is—I was never the problem. I was the mirror.

    I reflected what others didn’t want to see in themselves. And people hiding from themselves don’t want mirrors near them.

    When someone’s identity depends on a carefully constructed mask, truth feels like a threat. And most people? They’re wearing masks.

    Therapy helped me see it differently. I stopped asking, “What’s wrong with me?” And I started asking, “What if this isn’t about me at all?”

    That question changed everything.

    When someone’s reaction to me was intense or filled with judgment, I learned to pause. To listen more closely.

    And most of the time, I realized they weren’t telling me about me. They were narrating their own wounds. Their history. Their fear. I just happened to be standing close enough to reflect it back.

    Because that’s what mirrors do. They don’t distort. They reveal.

    Eventually, I stopped defending myself. Stopped over-explaining. Stopped pleading to be understood by people who had already cast me in a role I didn’t choose.

    I just stood still. Reflected what I saw. Sometimes I might say, “You seem really bothered by what I just said—what’s that about?” Not because I’m better. Not because I’m more evolved. But because my gift is clarity. I see and name what’s real.

    I still ask for clarity—and that’s the reason for the question. But the question itself often raises awareness of that person’s own motivations, their own inner truth or knowing. Some people pause and reflect. Most don’t—or at least I don’t get to see it. And that’s okay with me.

    I don’t chase belonging anymore. I don’t shrink myself to fit.

    Because now I understand: this is my gift. I see clearly. I speak clearly.

    My clarity doesn’t always make people comfortable. But it’s mine. And I won’t abandon it anymore.

    Because I now know that when someone reacts strongly to me, it’s rarely about me at all. It’s about what my presence reflects. And I don’t need to defend against that—I just need to stay clear, stay kind, and stay me.

  • A Quiet but Powerful Shift: How Slowing Down Transformed My Life

    A Quiet but Powerful Shift: How Slowing Down Transformed My Life

    “Slow down and enjoy life. It’s not only the scenery you miss by going too fast—you also miss the sense of where you are going and why.” ~Eddie Cantor

    In today’s hyper-connected and fast-paced world, slowing down isn’t just rare—it feels almost countercultural.

    For years, I tied my identity to productivity. My self-worth hinged on how much I could accomplish in a day, how many boxes I could check. The busier I was, the more valuable I believed myself to be. But that constant need to perform left me mentally and emotionally drained, disconnected not only from others but from myself.

    The shift didn’t happen overnight. There wasn’t a single moment of clarity, but rather a quiet unraveling of old habits and a tentative embrace of new rhythms.

    It started with one simple change: drinking my morning coffee without looking at a screen.

    Then came short walks without headphones, evenings spent journaling instead of scrolling. I also began ending each day by writing down three things I was grateful for.

    These tiny pauses felt insignificant at first. But gradually, they started to stitch together a new way of being. I noticed my breath more. I felt the texture of sunlight on my skin. I paid attention to the stories I was telling myself—and questioned whether they were even true.

    The more I slowed down, the more I began to hear the quiet voice within me that I had long ignored.

    Slowing down didn’t mean abandoning ambition. It meant redefining it.

    I started asking myself: Is this opportunity aligned with the life I want to create? Am I doing this because it brings me joy or because I feel I should? I said no more often, but with less guilt. I said yes with greater intention.

    Creativity, which had felt like a dried-up well, slowly began to flow again. I wrote not for deadlines or approval but to explore my inner world. I painted, even if the results were messy. I read poetry aloud in the quiet of my room. These acts weren’t about achievement—they were about presence.

    Relationships changed, too. When I wasn’t preoccupied with the next thing on my to-do list, I could be fully present with the people around me. I listened more deeply. I responded instead of reacting. I laughed more freely, loved more fully, and felt a deeper sense of connection.

    I also became more attuned to my body. I noticed when I was tired—and let myself rest. I recognized signs of stress and anxiety and learned not to push through them but to sit with them. I stopped seeing rest as something to earn and began to see it as something essential.

    With time, slowing down transformed from an experiment into a lifestyle. It became a guiding principle rather than a temporary fix. And perhaps the most surprising thing? I didn’t lose momentum—I gained clarity. I pursued goals with greater focus and more ease. I didn’t do more, but what I did had more meaning.

    Slowing down also helped me develop greater resilience. When life inevitably brought challenges, I didn’t spiral into panic as I once might have. I had built up a foundation of calm, a toolkit of stillness, and an ability to ground myself in the present moment. This made me stronger, not weaker.

    I discovered that the richness of life is often found in the pauses—in the moments we allow ourselves to simply be rather than constantly do. The world didn’t fall apart when I slowed down. In fact, it came into sharper focus. I was able to appreciate the subtleties of life: the way a friend smiled, the sound of rain on the roof, the comfort of a quiet evening at home.

    My relationship with technology changed as well. I became more intentional with my screen time, setting boundaries around social media and emails. I reclaimed hours of my day and filled them with activities that nourished me instead of drained me. I learned to value solitude not as loneliness but as sacred space for reflection and growth.

    Slowing down helped me tune into my intuition. I stopped crowding my mind with noise and distraction, and I started listening—really listening—to what I needed. Sometimes it was rest, other times movement. Sometimes it was connection, and sometimes it was solitude. I began honoring these needs without judgment.

    I even noticed changes in how I approached work. Instead of multitasking and burning out, I began focusing on one task at a time. The quality of my work improved, and I found more satisfaction in the process rather than just the outcome. This shift in mindset rippled into every area of my life, bringing more balance and peace.

    Slowing down helped me reconnect with the rhythms of nature. I paid attention to the seasons, the moon, the cycles of energy in my own body. I learned to embrace periods of rest as much as periods of growth. I found wisdom in the stillness.

    If you’re feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or simply disconnected, I invite you to try your own quiet shift. Start small. Five minutes of silence in the morning. A walk without your phone. One deep breath before opening your laptop. These moments add up.

    They’re not about escaping life—they’re about returning to it. You don’t have to escape your life to reconnect with yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is a little stillness. In that space, you might rediscover not just calm—but the truest parts of who you are.

  • You Don’t Have to Be Strong All the Time

    You Don’t Have to Be Strong All the Time

    “Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is to ask for help.” ~Unknown

    We live in a world that praises strength—especially quiet strength. The kind that shows up, gets things done, and rarely complains. The kind that’s resilient, dependable, productive. But what happens when the strong one quietly breaks inside?

    “You are a superwoman!”

    “You’re so reliable!”

    “You’re the glue that holds everyone together.”

    I wore those compliments like badges of honor. For years, I believed them. Not just believed them—I built my identity around them.

    I’ve always been a multitasker. A jack of all trades. I managed work, home, relationships, and a hundred moving pieces in between. I cooked elaborate meals, remembered birthdays, bought thoughtful gifts, checked in on friends regularly, showed up for strangers when needed, pursued hobbies, supported others’ dreams, and pushed through physical pain or emotional fatigue without complaint.

    I was the one people turned to. And if they didn’t turn to me, I turned to them. If someone was going through a hard time, I’d show up with soup, a handwritten card, or a call that stretched for hours. I’d intuit needs before they were spoken.

    And when people said things like “Wow! How do you even manage all this?” or “You’re incredible,” my heart swelled with pride. It felt good to be seen. It felt powerful to be needed.

    But over time, I began to realize something quietly tragic.

    Underneath all that strength was someone tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix—but the kind that comes from years of overriding your own needs for others. The kind that comes from confusing love with over-giving. The kind that sneaks up when you’ve worn the strong-one mask for so long, you don’t know who you are without it.

    I didn’t see it as people-pleasing back then—I truly loved being helpful. I believed that if I could ease someone’s burden, why shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what love looks like? Isn’t that what kindness does?

    But slowly, quietly, invisibly, it was taking a toll on me. My skin had withered, my hair had thinned, and I’d put on weight around my waist.

    As I grew older, I began to feel the shift. The same enthusiasm that once lasted until midnight now faded by sunset. The fatigue wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual. My body wasn’t breaking down, but my soul was whispering, “You can’t keep carrying everything.”

    And eventually, I listened.

    Because something beautiful and painful hit me all at once:

    Strength isn’t about holding it all together. Sometimes, real strength is in knowing when to let go.

    It’s in saying, “I don’t want to be strong today.”

    It’s in resting, without needing to earn it.

    It’s in telling the truth when someone asks, “How are you?” and answering, “I’m actually not okay.”

    It’s in giving yourself permission to be fully, messily, unapologetically human.

    The world doesn’t tell us that. It tells us to hustle. To push. To keep going. That rest is a reward, not a right. That slowing down is weakness. That softness is fragility.

    But now I know that softness is a kind of strength too. A brave kind. A kind that doesn’t scream or perform—it just is.

    So, How Do You Begin Letting Go of the “Strong One” Role?

    Letting go doesn’t mean giving up on your values. It means loosening the grip on the pressure to be everything to everyone. It means rewriting what strength means to you. Here’s how I began doing that:

    1. Check in with yourself daily.

    Ask: What do I need today?

    Not what’s on my to-do list or who needs me, but what would make me feel centered right now?

    Sometimes the answer is water. Sometimes it’s stillness. Sometimes it’s movement, or tears, or music. You won’t know unless you pause to ask. Even five minutes of silence—before bed, in the shower, or while sipping your tea—can reconnect you to yourself.

    2. Learn to receive help.

    You don’t have to carry everything alone. Let someone else cook the meal. Let someone else take the lead. If someone offers support, don’t reflexively say “I’m fine” or “I’ve got it.” Say thank you. Let them show up for you.

    I remember one day telling a friend that I was exhausted and just not in the mood to cook. She offered to send over food, and I accepted it—with gratitude and relief.

    Letting someone care for you like that doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. Accepting help builds connection, allows others to show love, and often brings a quiet joy that’s just as nourishing as the support itself.

    3. Let go of the applause.

    Here’s the hard truth: validation feels amazing—but it can also be a trap. You start doing things not because you want to, but because others expect it from you. The cycle is addictive.

    Ask yourself: Would I still do this if no one noticed or clapped?

    If the answer is no, give yourself permission to step back. Choose joy over performance. Choose peace over praise.

    4. Set soft boundaries.

    You don’t need to explain or justify your “no.”

    For years, I would justify mine, feeling the need to explain or defend it. Slowly, I began changing the narrative. Now, I gently and unapologetically say, “I’d love to help, but I don’t have the capacity right now.” “Can I get back to you on this?”“I need some time for myself this weekend.”

    Boundaries aren’t about pushing people away—they’re about protecting your inner landscape. The more you honor them, the more spacious, calm, and kind your life becomes.

    5. Redefine what it means to be strong.

    We’ve been taught that strength is about endurance, resilience, and never showing weakness. But real strength can also be quiet, tender, and human.

    I remember one day, completely overwhelmed, a close friend came to check on me. When she asked how I was, I couldn’t hold it in—I just broke down. She didn’t try to fix anything; she simply held me, letting me pour out everything I’d been carrying. And in that moment, I felt lighter than I had in months.

    Strength isn’t always in doing more. Sometimes it’s in being fully present with yourself, in your softness, in taking a pause, and in saying “not today” without guilt.

    6. Prioritize rest like you would a deadline.

    Rest isn’t laziness. It’s fuel. It’s sacred.

    You don’t need to wait for burnout to rest. You don’t need to finish everything on your list to earn stillness. Schedule it. Guard it. Honor it.

    Make rest a daily ritual—not a rare luxury. Your body, mind, and spirit will thank you.

    Once I began prioritizing rest, I noticed a shift—not just in my energy, but in my clarity, mood, and ability to truly show up for myself and others. Life felt lighter, and I finally understood that honoring my body wasn’t selfish—it was necessary.

    To Those Who’ve Always Been the Strong Ones

    If you’ve always been the caregiver, the doer, the reliable one… I see you. I honor you.

    But I want to remind you of something you may have forgotten:

    You don’t need to prove your worth through over-functioning. You don’t need to sacrifice your well-being to be loved. You don’t have to keep showing up as the “strong one” when your heart is quietly asking for a break.

    You were never meant to carry it all.

    You can take the cape off now. You can exhale. You can cry. You can be soft. You can ask for help. You can choose rest. You can let someone hold space for you.

    Because you’ve already done enough. Because you are enough. And because strength isn’t about how much you carry—it’s about knowing when to let go.

    Let your new strength be rooted in gentleness. Let your softness lead. Let your heart exhale.

  • When the Body Freezes: On Love and Grief in Midlife

    When the Body Freezes: On Love and Grief in Midlife

    “I was constantly seeking a balance between mourning what’s already been lost, making space for the time and moments we still had left, and making sense of this complicated process that felt like my heart was split between two contrasting realities: hope and heartbreak.” ~Liz Newman

    There is a quiet heaviness that begins to settle into many of us in midlife.

    It doesn’t announce itself with drama. It slips in through unanswered emails from an aging parent, through half-slept nights spent wondering how we will ever afford live-in care, or whether that one fall they had was the beginning of the end.

    It’s not grief exactly. It’s the shadow of grief that lingers before the loss, that creeps in through ordinary moments and whispers that everything is slowly, quietly, but undeniably changing.

    My mother has Parkinson’s. She lives alone in the UK while I live abroad—untethered by design, a traveling healer by choice—except now that freedom feels like it comes at a cost I never calculated.

    She has started falling. Backwards. Her voice is nearly gone. I can barely understand her over the phone anymore, and every time she forgets a detail or struggles to find a word, my stomach knots.

    I wonder when the dementia will get worse and instead of only forgetting my birthday, she will also forget about me: her eldest daughter. I wonder how long she can live on her own. I wonder what happens when things really go south.

    And I panic.

    The truth is, I can’t just pack up and move to the UK. Not anymore. Not with Brexit and visa restrictions. These days, my visits are brief, limited to a few weeks or months at a time. Right now, I’m here for the summer, doing what I can while I can.

    Add to that the financial uncertainty of running a healing business and the lack of steady income to support full-time care. The weight of it all settles quietly. Like many of us, I carry it in silence and swallow the worry. I fold it into my body, into the slope of my shoulders. The right one, to be exact.

    Until one morning I wake up, and I can’t move my right arm the way I used to. Turning it inward sends a sharp pain up through my upper arm. At first, I think I must have slept weirdly. But when the pain lingers for days, my hypochondriac side takes over. I start googling symptoms. And frozen shoulder pops up.

    I pause. Then I type in “spiritual meaning of frozen shoulder.”

    And everything clicks.

    In spiritual traditions, the shoulder is where we carry burdens that were never ours. It’s where we hold onto responsibility, overcare, and all the invisible weight of things unsaid.

    When a shoulder freezes, it may be our body’s way of saying, “I can’t carry this anymore.”

    A frozen shoulder can also signify:

    • Suppressed grief or emotion, often near the heart
    • Over-responsibility and carrying others’ pain
    • Fear of moving forward, or feeling stuck
    • A lack of energetic boundaries
    • A subconscious attempt to halt motion when our lives demand change

    All of these mirror how I feel about my mother. The anticipatory grief. The helplessness. The guilt. The stuckness of being in-between countries, in-between decisions, and in-between who I was and who I need to become. Wanting to take care of her and to sign the power of attorney papers and equally not wanting to do any of it because it’s just so damn painful.

    The Midlife Guilt That Has No Language

    There is no manual for this phase of life. For the moment when your mother still lives but is slipping. When you are still someone’s child but also now the one silently parenting the parent. When love no longer feels light but edged with dread and uncertainty.

    And unlike childhood, this stage has no defined rite of passage. We often endure it quietly, bravely, invisibly. We plan around it. We work through it. We cry into our pillows about it.

    We don’t want to be seen as selfish. We don’t want to fail them. We don’t want to map a life of meaning only to feel like we missed the most important chapter back home. And then the body begins to speak.

    Reclaiming the Self While Loving the Mother

    Healing my shoulder may take time. Physically and emotionally. But it has also been an invitation to ask: Where am I over-caring? Where am I still trying to prove my worth through sacrifice? What if I let myself hold love and limits?

    Maybe I don’t need to force myself to stay for an entire summer out of guilt that I otherwise don’t live nearby.

    I don’t yet have all the answers about my mother’s care. But I know this:

    • I don’t need to disappear to honor her: I don’t need to dim my joy in front of her so she doesn’t feel the contrast of what she’s lost.
    • I don’t need to break to be a good daughter: I don’t need to say yes to every request out of fear that one day, she won’t be able to ask, nor do I need to say “I’m fine” when I’m anything but.
    • I don’t need to put my dreams on hold to make up for the years I wasn’t there, or carry the weight of what I couldn’t prevent.

    Maybe the most radical thing we can do, in a world where many of us live oceans away from aging parents, is to stop blending ourselves into the expectations of those who stayed behind. Our parents. Our siblings. The ancestral and societal chorus of “You owe them everything.”

    Because the truth is we can’t always return. Not like generations before. The village is gone, the visa expired, the life we’ve built stretches across time zones and cultures.

    Maybe we need to learn to soften the guilt without hardening our hearts. I wonder if we can learn how to grieve the distance without erasing ourselves. Can we find a new kind of middle path where love is not measured by geography but by presence, honesty, and the quiet ways we still show up?

    What if love is no longer a burden carved from duty but a bond held with tenderness and boundaries?

    If your shoulder aches too, or your chest feels heavy or your body is acting up in any way, pause. Because we were never meant to disappear into devotion and carry too much. We were meant to love with presence. To grieve with grace. And to remain visible, even while honoring those we come from.

    I have come up with a few journaling prompts I will journal through myself. If they are in any way helpful on your own journey, please feel free to do the same:

    Journaling Prompts for the Tender Weight We Carry

    1. Where in my body am I holding what feels too heavy to say aloud? What does this part of me wish I would finally hear or honor?

    2. What roles or responsibilities have I inherited culturally, ancestrally, or emotionally that no longer feel sustainable? Am I willing to release or reimagine them?

    3. When I think of caring for my aging parent, what emotions arise beneath the surface and beyond obligation? What fears, guilt, or grief live there?

    4. What does love look like without self-sacrifice? Can I write a version of devotion that includes my wholeness?

    5. If my body were writing me a letter right now about how I’ve been living, what would it say? What boundaries or changes might it ask me to consider?

    If you do, share in the comments what realizations came up for you.