Tiny Buddha

Tag: boundaries

  • Learning to Feel Safe Resting After a Lifetime of People-Pleasing

    Learning to Feel Safe Resting After a Lifetime of People-Pleasing

    “Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.” ~John Lubbock

    For years, I thought exhaustion was a sign I lived fully and did my best that day. I felt proud of being exhausted. I squeezed every bit out of the day, and there was nothing left.

    If I felt tired, I pushed myself to do just one more thing. It was always just one more thing. If I needed to lie down, I scolded myself for being weak. Around me, it seemed everyone else could keep going—working late, saying yes to every request, holding it all together, and getting everything done.

    So I pushed harder. I drank more coffee, ignored the pounding in my chest, and told myself I’d rest “later,” as a reward. And when that later finally came, I was so exhausted and empty, all I managed for myself was the easiest available comfort food and plopping down in front of the TV.

    Deep down, I wasn’t just tired from doing too much. I was tired from being someone I thought others needed me to be. I gave my everything, and nothing remained for me.

    I was tired from people-pleasing.

    When Rest Feels Unsafe

    People-pleasing is often misunderstood as kindness, but at its core it’s a survival strategy. Psychologists call it the “fawn response.” When fight or flight aren’t possible, some of us learn to stay safe by appeasing others—saying yes, staying agreeable, avoiding conflict at all costs.

    This might protect us in unsafe environments, but over time it takes a toll. The body stays on high alert— scanning for others’ needs, monitoring their tone of voice, ready to jump in and smooth things over.

    In that state, rest doesn’t feel like an option.

    When I tried to pause—sit quietly, lie down, even take a slow breath—my body rebelled. My chest buzzed with tension. My throat tightened, as if rest itself were dangerous. Doing nothing felt risky, as though someone might be upset or reject or abandon me if I wasn’t useful.

    So I stayed in motion. On the outside, I looked capable, dependable, “good.” On the inside, I was running on fumes.

    The Cost of Never Stopping

    When rest feels unsafe, exhaustion becomes a way of life.

    The body breaks down. I developed a stress knot in my shoulder, poor posture, and constant fatigue.

    The mind spirals. Anxiety grew louder, whispering that I wasn’t doing enough.

    The heart aches. Saying yes when I wanted no left me resentful and empty.

    I thought if I could just be more disciplined, I’d manage. But discipline wasn’t the problem—my nervous system was.

    It had learned, long ago, that slowing down invited danger. So it kept me on guard, pushing, performing, and erasing myself—all in the name of safety, belonging, being approved of and perhaps accepted.

    Realizing Rest Is Part of Healing

    The turning point came when I read about trauma and the nervous system. I learned that exhaustion and restlessness weren’t proof that I was lazy or broken. They were survival responses. My body wasn’t fighting me—it was protecting me, the only way it knew how.

    That realization softened something inside. For the first time, I saw my fatigue not as failure, but as evidence of how hard I’d been trying to survive.

    If my body could learn to see rest as danger, maybe it could also relearn rest as safety.

    Gentle Practices for Making Rest Safer

    The change didn’t come overnight. But step by step, I began inviting rest back into my life—not as laziness, but as medicine.

    Here are a few things that helped:

    1. Start small.

    Instead of trying to nap for an hour, I practiced lying down for five minutes. Just five. Long enough to notice my body but short enough not to panic. Over time, those five minutes grew.

    2. Anchor with touch.

    When rest stirred anxiety, I placed a hand on my chest or stomach. That simple contact reminded me: I’m here, I’m safe.

    3. Redefine rest.

    I stopped thinking rest had to mean sleep. Rest could be sitting quietly with tea, staring at the sky, or listening to soft music. It was anything that let my nervous system breathe.

    4. Challenge the story.

    When the inner critic said, “You’re wasting time,” I gently asked: Is it wasteful to care for the body that carries me? Slowly, I began rewriting that story.

    What I’ve Learned

    Rest still isn’t always easy for me. Sometimes I lie down, and my chest buzzes like it used to, urging me to get back up. Sometimes guilt whispers that others are doing more, so I should too.

    But now I understand: these feelings don’t mean I’m failing at life. They mean my body is still unwinding old survival patterns.

    And the more I practice, the more I see rest for what it truly is:

    • A way to reset my nervous system.
    • A way to honor my limits.
    • A way to reclaim the life that people-pleasing once stole from me.

    I used to believe safety came from doing more. Now I see that safety begins with stopping.

    Closing Reflection

    If you’ve ever avoided rest, told yourself you couldn’t afford to relax, or felt guilty when you tried, you’re not alone. Many of us carry nervous systems that equate worth with usefulness and safety with exhaustion.

    But what if the truth is the opposite? What if rest is not indulgence but healing? What if slowing down is not selfish but necessary?

    Rest may not feel natural at first. It may even feel unsafe and bring up feelings of panic, pressure to get going again, or a sense of falling behind. But with gentleness, patience, and compassion, the body can relearn what it once forgot: that it is safe to stop.

    You are not weak for needing rest. You are human. And in a world that pushes constant doing, choosing to rest might be the bravest thing you can do.

  • How to Stay Kind Without Losing Yourself to Toxic Behavior

    How to Stay Kind Without Losing Yourself to Toxic Behavior

    “The strongest people are the ones who are still kind after the world tore them apart.” ~Raven Emotion

    A few months ago, I stopped being friends with my best friend from childhood, whom I had always considered like my brother.

    It was a tough decision, but I had to make it.

    In the past five years, my friend (let’s call him Andy) had become increasingly rude and dismissive toward my feelings.

    Not a single week went by without him criticizing me for being optimistic and for never giving up despite being a “failure.”

    Still, I tried to be understanding. I really did.

    I knew he was always stressed because he was going to graduate from college two years later than his peers.

    And I knew he felt insecure about not being as rich and successful as “everyone else.”

    But one can only take so much, and after so many years, I just couldn’t anymore.

    It’s hard to keep showing up with warmth and patience when the other person not only doesn’t appreciate you but even attacks you for being “naive in the face of reality.”

    (Yeah, he’d somehow convinced himself that I was in denial about my lack of success—as if the only way to react to failure were to get angry and frustrated.)

    If you’ve always tried your best to be kind and gentle, you too might have been in a similar situation and wondered at least once, “Why bother?”

    Because even though we don’t expect trophies or medals, a complete lack of appreciation can become difficult to accept after a while, and a simple “thank you” can start to matter more than we wish it did.

    I’ll admit that, because of Andy, I almost gave up on being a kind person multiple times.

    Luckily, I didn’t, and in the months that led to my difficult decision, I learned some important lessons on how to stay kind even when it starts to feel like there’s no point to it.

    I hope these lessons will help you stay true to yourself, too.

    1. Make sure you’re not using kindness as a bargaining chip.

    Just as positivity can become toxic, there is such a thing as a harmful way of sharing kindness.

    Here’s what I mean.

    In my teenage years, I used to be what some would call a “nice guy.”

    You know, the type of guy who prides himself on being nice, except he’s really not.

    In typical “nice guy” fashion, I treated kindness as a transaction. (”I’m doing all these things for them, so they should do the same for me” was a typical thought always floating in my mind.)

    I would be nice and generous to others, but I would always compare what they did for me to what I had done for them.

    Then, if they didn’t reciprocate in a way that I found satisfactory, I would secretly start to resent them.

    It’s not my proudest memory, but it shows how even something positive like kindness can be weaponized.

    And it’s not just “nice guys” who do that, either.

    Many parents make the same mistake: they try to guilt their children into showing gratitude or obedience by bringing up all the sacrifices they’ve made for them.

    Of course, all this does is make the kids feel bad and even distrustful, as they may start to wonder whether their parents’ sacrifices were made out of love or selfish motives.

    Because when kindness is given conditionally, it stops being about helping—it becomes about satisfying one’s desperate need for appreciation.

    Needless to say, this is unhealthy for all parties involved.

    That’s why it’s best to…

    2. View kindness as an expression of who you are.

    It’s easy to forget—especially when it goes underappreciated for too long—that kindness should be, fundamentally, an expression of yourself.

    You are kind because it’s who you are, not because you want someone else’s approval.

    When I look back on my friendship with Andy, I’m obviously not happy about all the times he attacked my self-esteem, dismissed my feelings, and put cracks in our relationship without a second thought. However, I can at least be proud that I didn’t let that break me and instead stayed strong.

    Because that’s what this is about.

    Being kind, even in the absence of thanks, is an act of self-respect.

    It’s not about wanting others to notice.

    It’s about staying true to yourself, regardless of how unappreciative others might be.

    3. Remember you’re allowed to withdraw your kindness.

    Kind people always struggle with this.

    We worry that if we quit going above and beyond for someone, it might mean that we’re not good people anymore.

    This is why it took me so many years to finally stop being best friends with Andy: I was afraid of being told I wasn’t really kind after all.

    I didn’t want that to happen, so I kept being as generous as possible, despite how often he hurt me.

    For years, I kept cooking, doing the dishes, vacuuming, mopping, and doing all sorts of chores that normally would be divided equally among roommates.

    I wanted to do my best to give him as much time and space to focus on his studies (although I was in his same situation and had my own studying to do).

    I refused to see that he didn’t plan on treating me any better.

    In fact, years before, he’d already made it clear he didn’t believe I deserved to be repaid for all the things I did.

    Yet, I just let him disrespect me and hurt me and kept being kind to him. Because kindness shouldn’t be conditional, right? Because it should just be an expression of yourself, right?

    But here’s what I now understand: just because you shouldn’t expect people to treat you well in exchange for your kindness, it doesn’t mean you should accept being treated badly.

    There’s a limit to how much thanklessness you can tolerate before it starts eating you up inside.

    You have every right to pause or withdraw your kindness when you’re being treated poorly. This is about setting healthy boundaries. You’re not being selfish or arrogant.

    I can’t believe how long it took me to realize that unconditional doesn’t mean boundaryless.

    Kindness with zero boundaries isn’t kindness at all but self-abandonment.

    There’s nothing noble about completely neglecting yourself just to be as generous as possible to someone else.

    Be kind because that’s who you are, but don’t let yourself be taken for granted.

    4. Don’t let negative people convince you to quit.

    We all know people who are never content with feeling miserable by themselves, so they try to make others feel just as miserable.

    And when they keep criticizing you for being a “goody two-shoes” just because you have a positive attitude, it’s hard to stay unperturbed.

    You may even start to question yourself and if you should maybe stop being a positive person.

    But let me assure you: letting negative people decide what kind of person you should be and what kind of life you should live is NEVER a good idea.

    Because, again, some people just want to tear others down.

    You could change your whole personality and become exactly like them, and they would still criticize you and judge you.

    Why? Because the reason they hurt others in the first place is that they’re (unsuccessfully) wrestling with their own problems.

    It’s not about you being “too nice” or “fake.” It’s about them not being able to find it in themselves to be patient and generous and always choosing to just lash out instead.

    Good people are never going to criticize you for being kind.

    Even if they believed that your brand of kindness might not be pleasant in some instances, they’d just tell you. They wouldn’t try to make you feel bad.

    Stay True to Yourself

    When kindness feels thankless, it’s easy to wonder if it’s even worth it—especially if the thanklessness comes from someone we care about.

    I’ve been there more times than I can count, and yes, it always feels awful.

    But kindness isn’t merely a way to please others—it’s how we respect ourselves.

    You have the right to press PAUSE or STOP when someone disrespects you too much.

    You don’t have to let others take you for granted just because you’re worried they might have something to say about your genuineness.

    Because, honestly, what if they did?

    You don’t need their approval.

    You’re kind because you’re kind. It’s that simple.

  • 5 Surefire Signs You Grew Up with an Emotionally Immature Parent

    5 Surefire Signs You Grew Up with an Emotionally Immature Parent

    “There’s no such thing as a ‘bad kid’—just angry, hurt, tired, scared, confused, impulsive ones expressing their feelings and needs the only way they know how. We owe it to every single one of them to always remember that.” ~Dr. Jessica Stephens 

    All children look up to their parents from the moment they enter this world. They have this beautiful, pure, unconditional love pouring out of them. Parents are on a pedestal. They are the ones who know what’s best! They are the grownups showing us how to do life!

    We don’t think for one moment that they could be showing us the wrong way.

    I, like many others, adored both my mum and dad. I could not see their flaws, their pains, or their trauma. I just loved them and wanted to spend time with them. If they shouted at me and told me I was wrong, I trusted that they were right, no question.

    When I had non-existent self-esteem, anxiety, and suicidal ideation because I believed I was not good enough, I blamed that 100% on myself. I had unconsciously recorded all those moments when their behavior had made me feel not good enough as my own fault for being ‘bad,’ not considering they could have had something going on themselves.

    When I struggled in romantic relationships, always chasing unavailable men, I held myself responsible and never for one minute thought that this pattern of behavior stemmed from my relationship with my parents. I believed what they had told me in different ways—that I was the problem!

    The reason I struggled in relationships, I later discovered, was that my parents were not actually okay when they were parenting me because of their own traumas and were emotionally immature.

    Here are five signs you had emotionally immature parents and how may it impact you.

    1. Their feelings and needs were more important than yours.

    Emotionally immature parents can be incredibly self-absorbed and distracted by their own feelings and emotions, and they want their child, you, to regulate them.

    For example, when my mum was upset, I would be affectionate toward her and soothe her. As I got older, she would be angry with me if I was not there to soothe her when she needed it, saying I was selfish and she had no one. I believed her.

    I was off playing with my friends and being a child, but this was not allowed if it meant I couldn’t meet her needs and calm her emotions. As a result, I learned it was not safe to choose my needs over hers, as she would withdraw her love from me, which felt so scary. My heart would race, and I would feel terror take over my body.

    As an adult, this meant I believed I was responsible for other people’s emotions, and if they were angry or upset, it was my fault. So I would always walk around on eggshells just in case someone might attack me for upsetting them. Because I believed everyone’s pain was my fault, I attracted more relationships like the one with my mum. These relationships made me feel powerless.

    2. Expressing your feelings or needs was not safe.

    When you expressed a feeling and it was met with a negative reaction from your parent, it created a world of panic inside your body. For example, sharing how you were struggling could have been met with a comment about how their lives were so much worse and you should stop being so dramatic.

    Expressing a need, like asking for a ride somewhere, could have launched an attack about how selfish you were—and didn’t you realize how hard your parents were working!

    So what happened? You stopped expressing your feelings and needs and buried them deep. (For me, I topped them with ice cream and sugar for comfort.) As an adult, you may now be so cut off from your own emotions and needs that you act as if you don’t have any.

    3. They did not take responsibility for their actions.

    They’d say or do something that really hurt you, but they wouldn’t acknowledge it, nor apologize. In fact, they may have just carried on as normal.

    Your relationship with them was not repaired as a result. You may have tried to resolve the situation, but you were the only one trying, and you may even have found yourself blamed for something you didn’t even do. The whole situation would leave you feeling crazy and like you didn’t know what’s true. You may even have started thinking it was your own fault.

    As an adult, you might repeat this dynamic in other relationships, feeling powerless to repair and resolve issues that arise. This leads to resentment and staying in unhappy relationships because you don’t know it can be any other way.

    4. They have no idea how to regulate their emotions.

    They walked around triggered by their emotions all day. They had no idea how to bring themselves back into balance. They’d come home exhausted from work, but rather than doing something to discharge from the day, they’d get stuck in their chores and then take out their emotions on others due to resentment over being so tired.

    They also might have had no idea what they were feeling. Maybe they were constantly angry because they lacked the self-awareness to recognize they were really feeling sad or anxious or overwhelmed. And because they didn’t know what they were feeling, they had no idea what they needed to do to feel better.

    5. You were forced to grow up before your time.

    It wasn’t okay for you to be a child. They found it way too stressful, so you were encouraged to be a little adult. Maybe even a little adult that parented them. It was also not safe for you to be a child. You couldn’t be loud or silly, as they could have lost their temper, so you walked around on high alert waiting for this. You may have learned to be the calm one because your parents weren’t.

    I found myself getting involved in their very grown-up arguments as a child just to try and keep the peace in the house. This is not the role of a child. If you had the same experience, you may find yourself attracting similarly codependent relationships as an adult.

    —

    If this childhood sounds like yours, you are not alone. There are many of us. There is an inner child within you that missed out on so much love, nurturing, encouragement, and balance, which could be the reason you are struggling now as an adult.

    It is not because you are not good enough or because you are to blame for everything. It is because you were raised by emotionally immature parents. Effectively, you were raised by children in adult bodies.

    You could still be dealing with these patterns as an adult with your parents, as they could be children in even older bodies now!

    Learning how to be emotionally mature yourself so you don’t repeat the patterns with your own children is a wonderful gift to be able to give them, but also it means you can have healthy relationships and find peace within. Healing and reparenting your inner child means you will be able to express your emotions and have boundaries so others don’t think it is okay to do the same to you.

    I used to feel powerless when people treated me like this, not just with my parents but in other relationships too. I would try to be whatever they wanted me to be, but they would still react in the same ways no matter what I did. Stepping back from them and focusing on healing my inner child, understanding her feelings and needs, and holding space for her has changed my life. I was able to become the parent I always longed for.

    I understand now that my parents were emotionally immature, as they were raised by emotionally immature parents too. They were mature with money and jobs, but with emotions, they were out of their depth because no one showed them how to manage them, and unfortunately, they never learned.

    But we can be the generation that breaks this pattern by being the emotionally mature parent we needed. We can be the example of healthy relationship dynamics that we never had.

    **This post was originally published in 2022.

  • Work Is Not Family: A Lesson I Never Wanted but Need to Share

    Work Is Not Family: A Lesson I Never Wanted but Need to Share

    “The paradox of trauma is that it has both the power to destroy and the power to transform and resurrect.” ~Peter Levine

    I was sitting in the conference room at work with the CEO and my abusive male boss.

    The same boss who had been love-bombing and manipulating me since I started nine months earlier, slowly pushing my nervous system into a constant state of fight-or-flight.

    When I was four months into the job, this boss went on a three-day bender during an overnight work conference at a fancy hotel in Boston.

    He skipped client meetings or showed up smelling like alcohol, wearing yesterday’s clothes.

    When I texted him to ask where he was, he replied, “I f**king hate you.”

    When my CEO found out and called me five minutes after I got home, I told him I trusted him to handle it however he saw fit.

    I really believed he would. But over the next five months, the abuse didn’t stop. I just didn’t know it was abuse yet.

    He was over-the-top obsessed with me. He regularly told me:

    • “You’re going to make so much money here.”
    • “You have the ‘it’ factor.”
    • “You know how I feel about you.”
    • “I’m going to fast-track you.”
    • “You’re such a good culture fit.”
    • “This has been your home all along.”

    He told me everything I wanted to hear.

    I had spent the prior fifteen years in corporate America, wondering where I belonged. Wondering where my work family was.

    At first, I felt like I had finally found it.

    Then the attention escalated. What started as friendly check-ins became constant interruptions. The group Teams chats turned into direct messages. The work texts turned into personal texts—at night and on the weekends.

    He asked to go to dinner with me and my husband. He offered to buy me lunch while ignoring my coworkers. He brought in cookies for the office but made sure I knew they were for me. He singled me out in meetings and asked how I was doing while ignoring everyone else.

    I told myself, “There are worse things than your boss liking you.” But over time…I started to feel unsafe.

    My body started to send signals. I was having panic attacks on Sunday nights. I couldn’t sleep. I found myself using PTO just to get away from him. My fight-or-flight response was fully activated, and I finally had to admit I wasn’t in control anymore.

    Eventually, a coworker reported it to the CEO. Which brings me back to the conference room.

    I sat across from the CEO, body tense, heart racing, but filled with hope. I was ready for resolution. Support. Justice.

    That’s not what happened.

    Whatever the CEO said that day affected me in a way I didn’t expect. I felt minimized. Judged. Dismissed.

    Then my body reacted.

    The pressure in my chest started to build until I couldn’t control it anymore. I started shaking—full-body, uncontrollable shaking. I tried to sit still, tried to pretend nothing was happening, but it was too late.

    There was no hiding it. No escaping it.

    Just a forty-two-year-old corporate woman, uncontrollably shaking in a conference room across from the CEO.

    I excused myself and ran to the restroom.

    I lay on the floor of the public bathroom and cried harder than I ever had. My body was forcing the energy out of me. There was nothing I could do but let it come out.

    Once the tears slowed, I left the building as fast as I could.

    What had just happened to me?
    Why did it feel like a gaping wound had opened in my chest?
    Why did I feel physically damaged?

    It would take almost a year before I understood: that was trauma. That was new trauma layered on top of old trauma.

    Almost exactly twenty years earlier, I had been sexually assaulted by a coworker.

    I reported it to the police, and they didn’t even take a statement. I was sent away. Dismissed. Minimized.

    My brain had filed this memory away. But my body remembered.

    That moment in the conference room—being in a position of vulnerability, being ignored, unheard, unprotected—triggered a trauma response that had been waiting quietly inside of me for decades.

    My brain couldn’t tell the difference between past and present. It just knew I wasn’t safe. So it mobilized. It tried to protect me. And it left me raw, shut down, and checked out from the world—including my own kids—for a long time afterward.

    It was the worst time of my life.

    Several months after the conference room incident, I got a new job.

    It wasn’t easy to leave despite everything that had happened. I liked my job. I was good at it. My coworkers were my friends, and we had been through so much together. But I had become a shell of myself, and leaving seemed like the only way to get myself back.

    Even so, the first six months at my new job were not easy. I remained hypervigilant and emotionally reactive. Standard feedback and performance reviews brought me right back to that conference room, no matter what was said.

    That’s when I learned: trauma doesn’t stay with the toxic job. It comes with you. And this was trauma.

    What I Learned About Trauma

    I needed to learn everything I could, so I enrolled in a trauma-informed coaching program and studied my experience through that lens.

    From a trauma perspective, I learned:

    • The brain constantly scans the environment for safety and danger, a process called neuroception.
    • My brain perceived danger in countless ways during my employment and alerted me through my nervous system.
    • I rationalized those signals away, telling myself I could handle it.
    • But the signals—racing heart, insomnia, panic, emotional reactivity—only got louder until they could no longer be ignored.

    It felt like my body was attacking me. In reality, it was trying to save me.

    Trauma is what happens when your system struggles to cope with overwhelming distress, leaving a wound behind. Those wounds don’t need your permission to exist; they only need a trigger.

    That day in the conference room, multiple unhealed wounds surfaced all at once—sexual trauma, financial trauma, friendship trauma, life purpose trauma, and institutional betrayal trauma.

    The new trauma stacked on the old was simply too much for my system to manage. So my body did what it was designed to do: protect me.

    Learning this allowed me to release the shame I was carrying. It allowed me to have compassion for myself and others.

    It made me stop looking backward and start looking forward.

    What I Learned About Work

    While I was learning about trauma, I started asking bigger questions in my new role as an HR consultant.

    I had never worked in HR before, so I studied every conversation, policy, and process to understand how the system works behind the scenes and to view my own experience through the employer’s lens.

    Who really has the power?
    What rights do employees have?
    What responsibilities do employers have to protect them?

    Here’s what I learned:

    • The employment agreement is simple—employees agree to perform the duties on their job description, and employers agree to compensate them for performing those duties.
    • Both parties can end the agreement at any time.
    • HR and employment attorneys are paid to protect the company from risk. Period.

    That’s it. Anything beyond that is optional, unless required by law.

    Work is a contract. It is not a family. It is a system built for labor, not love.

    And this system is not immune to abuse. It is not immune to trauma.

    Just because it’s a professional setting doesn’t mean it’s a safe one. And just because you’re a high performer doesn’t mean you’re not vulnerable to harm.

    The idea that work is a family, that it should provide belonging, meaning, and loyalty, didn’t come from nowhere—it reflects how work itself has changed over time.

    In the past, belonging came from many places at once: tight-knit communities, extended families, faith traditions, and work that was often woven into local or family life.

    When industrialization pulled people into factories, corporations, and offices, many of those community anchors began to lose influence. To fill the void, workplaces leaned into family language—promising connection and loyalty in exchange for more of people’s time, energy, and devotion.

    For a time, many companies did try to live up to that promise with pensions, long-term employment, and mutual loyalty between employer and employee.

    But as work has become more globalized and transactional, that loyalty has faded. Today, organizations still borrow the language of family, but the commitment is one-sided. When it serves them, they lean on employees’ devotion; when it doesn’t, the illusion disappears.

    That’s how we know work is not family—because families don’t withdraw love, belonging, or loyalty the moment it no longer serves them.

    What Helped Me Heal

    The good news is healing is possible.

    For me, healing meant more than just learning about trauma in a classroom and HR policies in an office. It meant implementing daily practices into my life that rebuilt my sense of safety and helped me trust myself again. This included:

    Monitoring my nervous system and honoring my body’s responses to triggers.

    I started noticing the small cues—a clenched jaw, a racing heart, a stomach that wouldn’t settle. Instead of pushing through, I learned to pause, breathe, and respond with care. These moments of noticing became the foundation of feeling safe in my own body again.

    Exploring my past experiences with compassion instead of judgment.

    For years, I believed I had compassion for myself, but it was shallow—more like telling myself to “let it go” than honoring what I had lived through. It wasn’t until I became aware of the experiences that shaped my patterns and behaviors that I finally understood real self-compassion.

    Recognizing the subconscious behaviors that put me at risk.

    Perfectionism, rationalizing red flags, unhealthy coping strategies—these were patterns I had carried for decades. Becoming aware of them gave me the power to make different choices, rather than repeating the same painful cycles.

    Setting boundaries at work to protect my energy and healing.

    I learned how to say no without guilt, how to step away from people who drain me, and how to handle the frustrations of work without getting emotionally activated. Boundaries have become an act of self-love.

    Honoring the complexity of the human body and lived experience.

    This was the hardest lesson of all. I carry a body, brain, and nervous system that remember everything I’ve been through, even the parts I’ve tried to forget. My responsibility now is to honor that complexity in every environment I step into—including work.

    That doesn’t mean molding myself to whatever the workplace demands. It means protecting my well-being first and remembering that I am more than a role, a paycheck, or the approval of others.

    It took time, but these practices slowly closed the wound that had once left me gasping for air on the floor of that bathroom. The open wound in my chest has now been closed for over a year and has been replaced with peace.

    That day in the conference room broke me. But it also cracked me open. I put myself back together, stronger than ever.

    And you can, too.

  • 3 Surprising Causes of Burnout That Most People Miss

    3 Surprising Causes of Burnout That Most People Miss

    “Love yourself first and everything else falls into line.” ~Lucille Ball

    The first time I experienced burnout, I was twenty-six.

    I was at the height of my career in London, doing it all, and yet I somehow found myself back at my parents’ house, sobbing in my mom’s car, after signing myself off from work, not having a clue how I landed there.

    Burnout isn’t just about being tired from overexertion. It’s when we reach physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion after pushing ourselves past our capacity for too long.

    When we finally stop, often against our will, all the confusing symptoms surface. We feel overwhelmed, out of control, like we’re going mad. That was me at twenty-six, right when I thought I should have been thriving.

    To give you some background, I was managing several boutique fitness studios in London, working under a highly demanding boss whose mood could swing and affect the whole office. I wasn’t much of a party girl, but I was still burning the candle at both ends, socializing with friends on the weekend and running around meeting demands during the week.

    The burnout crept in slowly, starting with crying over the smallest things, gaining weight despite all the exercise I was doing, never being able to switch my mind off, and feeling constantly wired and overwhelmed with emotions I didn’t understand.

    Burnout shows up differently for everyone, and I believe many of us live with a chronic, low-level version we don’t even notice until our well-being starts to fall apart.

    At the time, I thought burnout was just about long hours and stress. But over the years, I realized there were deeper, less obvious reasons behind mine.

    So, let’s get into the three not-so-obvious causes of burnout that most people miss.

    The Hidden Pressure to Prove Your Worth

    One of the biggest things I’ve learned about myself in the last ten years is that I’ve always had a need to prove myself. I’ve never quite felt good enough, and it’s always affected my confidence.

    I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. We all struggle with our confidence and worth, wanting to prove ourselves—to the people we work for, to our parents, to our partners, and to the world.

    However, I wasn’t conscious of this when I was younger. I knew I had a strong drive within me to work hard and meet other people’s demands, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with needing to prove myself.

    I’ve come to see that many of us have a core wound around self-worth, even the most confident among us, and we all need to work on accepting, embracing, and loving ourselves exactly as we are.

    But when we’re not conscious of our inner drivers, we can blindly rush into life, not understanding what’s really motivating our actions. For me, my lack of confidence played out in my need to please my boss, to the point where I was no longer conscious of my needs or desires.

    Her disapproval terrified me. I dreaded missing her calls or not replying to her emails fast enough. I anticipated her demands constantly, beating myself up if I misjudged a situation or fell short.
    It was a constant strain on my nervous system.

    I pushed myself harder and harder until I simply couldn’t cope with the pressure. I couldn’t bear to let her down in any way, and if I did, I chastised myself for not doing better, for not being better.

    The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I had to leave work early, to her great annoyance, to meet my mom, who’d booked a mother-daughter photoshoot (something I definitely wasn’t looking forward to, given the state of stress I was in).

    All I remember is crying on the subway on my way there and not stopping even as the concerned makeup artist was trying to sort out my puffy eyes. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, and it was too much.

    That’s when I began to understand that burnout isn’t just about physical overwork. It can come from the emotional pressure we place on ourselves, such as the pressure to meet expectations, to keep people happy, and to prove our worth to those that we feel we constantly need to impress.

    It’s only when we realize that our well-being is far more important than our productivity that we can start to recognize how our need for approval is driving our actions and start to gently and lovingly address the deeper root cause.

    Why Burnout Thrives Without Boundaries

    One of the worst things about this need to prove myself was that my boss also recognized it and took advantage of it.

    At the time, I didn’t even know what boundaries were. I wanted to keep everyone happy, spinning plates and spreading myself thin.

    We’re conditioned to believe that it’s wrong to be selfish, that we shouldn’t say no, and that we need to put others’ needs before our own, but at what cost? Well, the cost is often our own happiness and well-being.

    We often think of boundaries as physical, but they are also mental and emotional.

    We may have shut our computer, but are we still thinking about the meeting tomorrow morning? We may have left the office, but are we anxious that we’ll forget to send that important email?

    I used to feel this dread in the pit of my stomach every morning on my way to work as I wondered what I might have gotten wrong or forgotten to do. It was like my mind couldn’t switch off, and it drove my stress levels higher and higher.

    One of the reasons why boundaries can feel so challenging is when we attach ourselves to the thing that we do, making it our identity, our purpose, and all that we are.

    Whether our burnout comes from being a parent, being a caregiver, being an employee or entrepreneur, or any other roles we hold, we need to remember to create a sense of healthy separation from what we “do,” because that is not all that we are.

    This is such an important boundary for us to create.

    We are human beings, not human doings. When we mistakenly attach our worth, our identity, or our purpose to what we do rather than who we are, that boundary becomes blurred.

    How Denial Keeps Us Stuck in Burnout

    Another major cause of my burnout was my inability, or unwillingness, to be honest with myself.

    I wasn’t conscious of how much I was struggling, and even if I had been, I wouldn’t have admitted it. To do so would have meant facing changes I wasn’t ready to make.

    While change is a constant in all of our lives, it is still something that most of us fear. After all, it’s messy, unpredictable, and uncomfortable.

    Yet, it’s always needed, especially when we suffer from burnout.

    If we don’t change our circumstances, our attitude, or our boundaries, then nothing will change. So, we have to be willing to be honest about what’s not working and start making those all-important changes.

    We can also struggle to be honest about our motivations for staying in burnout.

    I’ll admit that at the time I really liked my life. Or rather I should say, I liked how my life looked. When I turned up late to dinner with friends due to work, I used to complain about work always making me late, but secretly I felt busy, important, and special.

    There’s always a deeply unconscious part of us that becomes attached to the things that hurt us. It’s almost as if we become a martyr in our suffering. Yet, this is just reflective of the deeply unconscious desire to be seen, recognized, and taken care of.

    That’s the tricky thing: when we’re in burnout, we often crave recognition and care from others. But waiting for someone else to rescue us keeps us stuck.

    When I was struggling with burnout, I just wanted someone to notice and tell me what was wrong. I complained about my job to anyone who would listen, but I refused to take any advice. I just kept pushing myself, secretly hoping that one day someone, anyone, might notice.

    Burnout isn’t a cry for help, but it is a cry from within to be taken care of, supported, and nourished. And first and foremost, we need to start looking after ourselves.

    This Is Where Burnout Ends

    If you’re struggling with burnout, please know that you’re not alone. Start by being honest with yourself. Recognize where you’re needing to prove yourself and where you need better boundaries so you can start taking care of yourself.

    These subtle causes may not look like overwork, but they take just as much out of us, sometimes even more.

    The turning point for me was when I admitted I wasn’t coping, signed off from work, and sought support from a holistic practitioner. That was the first time I began to listen to myself, and it opened the door to healing and growth I never could have imagined at twenty-six.

    Ten years later, I’m so grateful for what it taught me. As cheesy as it sounds, it was the breakdown that became my breakthrough. While I still struggle with setting boundaries, feeling “enough,” and being honest with myself at times, on the whole those lessons have made me who I am today.

    It all began with the simple realization that I needed to learn how to take care of myself with the same urgency I once gave to everyone else. And maybe you do too.

  • 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 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.

  • 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 Growth Comes with Grief Because People Still See the Old You

    When Growth Comes with Grief Because People Still See the Old You

    “In the process of letting go, you will lose many things from the past, but you will find yourself.” ~Deepak Chopra

    There’s a strange ache that comes with becoming healthy. Not the physical kind. The relational kind. The kind that surfaces when we’re no longer quite so wired to betray ourselves for belonging. When we stop curating ourselves to fit into spaces where we used to shrink, bend, or smile politely through the dissonance.

    Years of hard work and effort, slowly unwrapping all those unhealthy ways of being in the world, cleaning off my lenses to see more clearly through the eyes of an authentic, healthy me, rather than the over-functioning codependent, perfectionistic people pleaser I had become.

    In the process of becoming, it’s felt—at times—like I’ve lost everything. Not just roles or routines but people too. Many of the main characters who once shared the center stage of my life have quietly exited because the script no longer fits. And the scene now looks quite different. The cast has changed, the lighting is softer, the dialogue less frantic.

    I’m no longer that tightly bound version of me, holding the tension of everyone’s expectations like thread in my hands. I’m a freer version. The one who doesn’t perform for applause or connection. The one who lives more from the inside out.

    And while that freedom is hard-earned and beautiful, it doesn’t come without cost. Growth rewrites the story. Sometimes that means letting go of the plotlines that once gave us meaning.

    I’m not going to pretend I’m completely there yet on this journey of healthy growth toward a more authentic, more empowered version of myself, but I’m far enough along to become more of an observer in my life than completely identified with everything that is happening to and around me.

    Sometimes, though, I find myself standing in front of people who still see the old version of me—the compliant one, the helpful one, the emotionally available-on-demand version who made it easy for them to stay comfortable. But I’ve changed. I’ve chosen sovereignty over survival. Truth over performance. And they don’t quite know what to do with me now.

    And to be fair, it must be pretty challenging to be close to a blogging memoirist. To be clear, in the more than ten years I’ve shared my personal growth journey, I have always sought never to “name and shame,” except for my own epiphanies about myself. But I am writing about real life, and I share it so people who are on a similar journey might not feel so alone; they might find pieces of themselves in my words, and it might help.

    The grace, then, in being in the many relationships that surround me, is not in pretending to be who they want me to be. It’s in standing as who I am, without making them wrong for not joining me.

    That’s the razor’s edge.

    To hold my center while others twist away from it. To love people I no longer align with, without making myself small or them bad. To walk with grace among people who are technically close but emotionally far.

    Because it hurts. That contrast between the curated self I used to be—relationally attuned, endlessly accommodating—and the fuller self I’m becoming—boundaried, expressive, sovereign. It’s not just growth, it’s grief. Grief for the roles I’ve shed, grief for the versions of connection that relied on my self-abandonment, and grief for the quiet, persistent hope that maybe one day they’d really see me.

    But not everyone wants to see clearly; to be fair, I used to be one of them. Some are fighting not to be seen at all.

    And after fighting so hard to be seen, that clash doesn’t just sting—it feels like a threat to our core safety. Especially when we were raised, trained, or wired to find security in others’ approval.

    It’s deeply frustrating when people who claim to value honesty and trust really mean “as long as it doesn’t make me uncomfortable or challenge my narrative.”

    When our authenticity gets met with suspicion, when our reflections are seen as risks rather than offerings, we are speaking a language of truth, and they’re replying in code.

    That’s the heartbreak. And the liberation.

    Because here’s the quietly powerful thing: We’re no longer playing by their rules. We’re not trying to control how we’re perceived. We’re just being—thoughtful, expressive, intentional.

    Well, we’re trying anyway; I’m not quite there yet.

    And that, in a world still steeped in performance and image management, is revolutionary.

    We’re no longer seeking connection through appeasement. We’re seeking connection through presence. Through truth.

    Which means letting relationships be what they are, rather than what we wish they were. It means stepping around old dynamics rather than trying to fix them. It means recognizing patterns—like the nurse archetype, competent and respected, but image-bound and risk-averse—and choosing not to collapse in the face of them.

    I’ve been on the other side. I was that person once, not so long ago, really. Carefully curated. Layered in survival. So my clarity now comes with compassion. But it also comes with boundaries.

    Because I’ve earned them.

    This next chapter? It’s not about being alone—it’s about being true. Not hiding behind titles or roles or team identities, but standing in my own voice, even if no one claps. Even if no one comes. Even if they misunderstand.

    I am the Stag now. Poised. Still. Unapologetic.

    My solitude isn’t survival—it’s sovereignty.

    And my anger? That sacred anger that rises in the face of denial and deflection—it’s not a flaw. It’s a signal. It tells me where the firelight is. It reminds me of what matters. It roots me in the truth that even when others retreat into shadow, I don’t have to follow.

    I can stay lit. I can stay me. I can whisper, “This is me, seen or not.”

    And that’s the power. Not in being understood. But in being whole.

  • What Happened When I Stopped Saying Yes to Everything

    What Happened When I Stopped Saying Yes to Everything

    “Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” ~Brené Brown 

    I used to believe that if someone was in need and I had the ability to help, it was my duty to step in. Whether it was managing caregiving responsibilities for family, fielding crisis calls from friends, or stepping up at work when no one else would, I said yes without hesitation. For me, helping seemed to be the measure of a “good person.”

    But what I didn’t realize is that many of us confuse obligation with responsibility.

    Obligation feels like it’s inherently ours to do, regardless of choice. Responsibility feels like something we voluntarily take on—sometimes because of what we believe is expected or what others have convinced us is ours to carry. The distinction between the two is subtle, but the effects of misunderstanding them are profound.

    The truth is, we’re taught early on that helping others is the right thing to do. And for women, in particular, the world emphasizes that stepping up for others is what defines us as strong, capable, and valuable. So I did. I said yes to nearly every pull on my time, energy, and peace—until my body stopped me.

    The Wake-Up Call: The Day My Body Stopped Me

    You don’t realize how much you’ve given—how much you’ve carried—until your body asks you to stop.

    For me, that wake-up call came in the form of an ulcer. At the time, I couldn’t fathom why my body was failing me. I ate healthily, exercised, and generally lived a balanced lifestyle—or so I thought.

    But what I hadn’t realized—what so many of us fail to see—is that ulcers, burnout, and other stress-related conditions don’t come from what we eat. They come from what’s eating away at us.

    What had been quietly eating away at me were all the pulls on my time and spirit, pulls I had allowed to continue because of my inability to recognize the damage and deliver an emphatic no. Caregiving, crisis management, being the go-to problem solver—these were the things that slowly consumed me as I ignored the whispers of my body and spirit, telling me to pause.

    The ulcer wasn’t just a physical issue—it was a wake-up call. It forced me to confront the weight of my yeses and how they came at the cost of my peace and wellbeing.

    The Power of the Pause: How I Learned to Reassess My Yes

    Healing took time, and it wasn’t just about recovering physically. It was about rebuilding my habits and, more importantly, my mindset.

    I began to understand that every pull on my energy—a friend’s distress signal, a family member’s caregiving need, or even an opportunity at work—wasn’t necessarily mine to answer. I needed to stop operating on autopilot and start responding with awareness. I called this practice the pause.

    Before I gave my yes, I learned to pause and ask myself:

    1. Is this truly mine to do?
    2. What will this cost me in time, energy, and peace?
    3. What is motivating me to say yes—guilt, duty, or an honest desire to help?

    The pause gave me clarity. Sometimes, the answer was obvious:

    • “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
    • “I can help with this part, but I won’t be able to take on the rest.”
    • “No, I can’t. You should ask around to find someone else.”

    Other times, the pause forced me to confront patterns I’d ignored—like over-helping to avoid discomfort or defaulting to yes because I thought no would disappoint someone. Each time I paused, I learned something new about why I was saying yes, and each answer helped me protect my energy more thoughtfully.

    The Pull of Expectations: How Societal Conditioning Shapes Our Yes

    One of the hardest parts of reassessing my yeses was confronting the power of societal expectations.

    Helping others is often framed as the ultimate virtue—that “good people” step up, solve problems, and make sacrifices when others can’t or won’t. For women, this idea takes on an even sharper edge. We’re taught that caregiving and emotional labor come naturally to us, that putting others first is what makes us valuable.

    The world celebrates women who “do it all,” often without asking what it’s costing them.

    As I reflected on my incessant yeses, I realized how much of this cultural messaging I’d internalized.

    I thought of my younger self, watching the women in my life extend themselves without pause—my mother, my grandmother, my mentors. They juggled caregiving, work, and family without ever asking whether it was sustainable. I thought of the messages I’d absorbed as a child, like the idea that refusing to help when you’re able is selfish, or that good people sacrifice no matter the cost.

    These beliefs shaped how I approached every ask. It wasn’t guilt that pulled me toward yes—it was the weight of these expectations, handed down through generations without question.

    But here’s what I’ve learned: these expectations might shape us, but they don’t have to define us. Balance isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. Redefining responsibility isn’t about rejecting others but about making sure the cycle of overextension stops with us.

    Reassessing and Reconnecting: How Thoughtful Yeses Changed Everything

    Pausing didn’t just help me recover physically—it reconnected me to what mattered most.

    By becoming intentional about my yeses, I was able to show up fully for the people I love without losing myself in the process. Instead of saying yes to everything, I started saying yes to what aligned with my values, what honored my peace, and what made my energy sustainable.

    Thoughtful yeses gave me something I hadn’t had in years—balance. And with that balance came clarity, purpose, and freedom. I let go of obligations that weren’t truly mine, found strength in saying no, and started living in a way that felt authentic rather than automatic.

    It wasn’t just my time and energy that transformed—it was me.

    Closing Reflection: Your Own Litmus Test for Balance

    If you’ve ever felt the pull to say yes without pausing first, I want to encourage you to stop—just for a moment. Ask yourself:

    • Is this truly mine to do?
    • What will saying yes cost me?
    • What is motivating this choice, and does it align with what I value most?

    We’re often told that saying yes is the ultimate virtue. But the truth is, balance is the measure of alignment. It’s not about doing everything; it’s about doing what truly serves both who you are and what the situation requires.

    With every pause, you ask the most important question of all: Does this honor the person I’m becoming?  And from that space of clarity, your yes—when you give it—becomes not just an answer but a gift.

  • She Healed

    She Healed

  • My Quiet Breakthrough: 3 Self-Care Lessons That Changed Everything

    My Quiet Breakthrough: 3 Self-Care Lessons That Changed Everything

    “Rest and self-care are so important. When you take time to replenish your spirit, it allows you to serve others from the overflow. You cannot serve from an empty vessel.” ~Eleanor Brownn

    My breaking point came on a Monday morning at 6 a.m.

    It had been the same routine for months: up at 5 a.m., brush my teeth, put on my workout clothes, move my body, weigh myself.

    On this morning, the scale’s numbers glared back, stubborn as ever. My reflection in the mirror seemed foreign—tired eyes, face still sweaty, a body that felt like a lead weight. Outside, cars hummed past, oblivious. I’d woken early to squeeze in a workout, but all I could do was sit there, shaking with anger—at my body, at the relentless grind, at losing myself… again.

    That moment wasn’t just about the weight. It was the culmination of years of silent sacrifices: waking up much too early to move my body—because when else would I find the time? Cooking dinners through exhaustion, handing out store-bought fig bars while envying the “made-from-scratch” moms on social media, and collapsing into bed each night wondering, “Is this how it is now?”

    The Myth of the “Selfless” Woman

    For a long time, I’d absorbed a dangerous lie: that love and family meant erasing myself. My husband worked opposite shifts, leaving me racing against the clock each evening. We’d pass like ships in the night. Him heading to work as I scrubbed dishes. He envied my evenings at home, imagining cozy nights with the kids. I craved the solitude of his quiet days while the kids were in school, wishing for just one day alone in our empty house.

    Society whispered that a “good” mother was a martyr. But my breaking point taught me a harder truth: selflessness isn’t sustainable.

    When I snapped at my kids one night, abandoning story time and leaving them with a meditation instead, I realized my burnout wasn’t just hurting me—it was robbing my family of the calm, patient mom they deserved. The person I used to be was buried under layers of guilt and exhaustion. I wanted her back.

    The First Rebellious Act

    The first time I locked my bedroom door to exercise, my kids whined outside. “Mommy, why can’t we come in?” Guilt tugged at me as I turned on a workout video, letting their iPads babysit for thirty minutes. My husband supported me but would ask, “Why isn’t the scale moving faster?” I didn’t have answers—but for the first time, I’d chosen myself.

    This wasn’t selfishness. It was survival.

    The Three Lessons That Changed Everything

    1. Being quiet is a radical act.

    I began stealing slivers of silence: ten minutes of morning meditation, walks without podcasts, even turning off the car radio. In those moments, I rediscovered my own voice beneath the noise of expectations. Once, during a chaotic breakfast scramble, my six-year-old dropped a heaping spoonful of oats, spraying the counter and cabinets with the gooey mess.

    Instead of snapping in frustration, I breathed deeply—a skill honed in those stolen quiet moments. I’d found my patience again. “Let’s clean it together,” I said, my calm surprising us both.

    Try this: Start with five minutes of intentional quiet daily. No screens, no lists, no voices telling you how it should be done—just you and your breath. This time isn’t for silencing thoughts but sitting with them.

    2. Progress isn’t linear (and that’s okay).

    When my business flopped on social media, I felt exposed. Like I’d been forced to perform, not thrive.

    Letting go of others’ strategies, I rebuilt quietly: phone calls instead of reels, emails instead of hashtags, intimate workshops instead of lives. It was slower, but mine. One night, my son asked why I hadn’t “gone viral yet.” I smiled. “Because I’d rather talk to you, not my camera.” 

    Truth: Every “failure” taught me to trust my rhythm, not the world’s noise. Do what feels supported, not forced.

    3. Boundaries are love, not rejection.

    My husband started cooking on his nights home, shooing me off to go to meditate or move my body—whatever I needed in the moment. The kids built “cozy corners” with pillows, learning to honor their own need for space. Now, when my son says, “I need alone time,” I don’t panic or prod—he’s mirroring what I finally allowed myself.

    Action step: Name one non-negotiable this week. For me, it’s my morning movement. What will yours be?

    The Ripple Effect of Choosing Myself

    Quiet became my sanctuary. No voices, no demands—just soft lo-fi playlists and the hum of my breath. My business grows steadily, my workouts are kinder, and the scale? It’s just a number now. Progress isn’t a race; it’s the quiet hum of a life rebalanced.

    If I could write a letter to my former self, the woman racing to do it all “the right way” while drowning in guilt for every shortcut, this is what I’d say…

    A Letter to My Former Self

    Dear Matalya,

    You’re not failing. You’re drowning in a sea of “shoulds.” Let go. The dishes can wait. The store-bought snacks are enough. And that voice saying, “You’re selfish”? It’s lying.

    When you rest, the whole family breathes easier.

    —The Woman You’re Becoming

    A Metaphor to Remember:

    Self-care is like lovingly tending a garden. You don’t rush the roses—you water them, step back, and let the roots grow strong.

  • Healing Through Reparenting: The Greatest Act of Self-Love

    Healing Through Reparenting: The Greatest Act of Self-Love

    “When you reparent yourself, you can step in and give your inner child the deep love and attention you may not have had when you were young.” ~Victoria Albina

    Reparenting is not for the faint of heart, but the journey can surely be described as the greatest act of self-love. It’s a gift—a chance to redo some of the painful aspects of childhood and adolescence, but with the awareness of an adult mind. It is also an opportunity to connect much more deeply with ourselves and those we wish to connect with in a more authentic way.

    What is reparenting?

    Reparenting is the process of unpacking childhood wounds and conditioning and getting in touch with our deepest needs, using them as a guide to create a life that’s intentional and aligned with our essence.

    Unfortunately, many of us are born into families, or systems, laden with pre-existing programming, rules, and norms. On top of this, our parents often carry their own wounds, some unaddressed, which can inadvertently pass to us.

    As impressionable children, what we need most is to be seen, nurtured, and loved, to receive guidance and attunement. Without these, conformity begins, shaping us into programmed versions of ourselves that align more with the expectations from our environment rather than our true selves.

    This disconnection breeds inner conflict, leading us to adopt survival strategies to keep safe from perceived dangers like unmet parental desires or wounds. This process is entirely on a subconscious level, which is why it is so destructive.

    When parents choose to bring a child into this world, the expectation is for them to nurture and guide this life in line with what the child needs, but that requires attunement and egos to be left at the door. Unfortunately, many parents live vicariously through their children or remain unaware of their nature, focused solely on their own survival. Worse than that, a lot of parents are emotionally immature and cannot embody true compassion or hold space for views that are different from theirs.

    Curiosity and learning are not values at the forefront. This results in a child losing their essence over time in order to conform and stay safe and accepted in the system. With that comes the erosion of self and the birth of survival mode as we know it. The child loses some of their curiosity and zest for life, which in some cases is replaced with hard rules and expectations. In worse cases, it is replaced with abuse.

    Reparenting is about rebuilding.

    As my therapist vividly described, reparenting is akin to being a contractor, architect, and designer of my existence—deciding what parts of my past to keep, renovate, or dismantle entirely. This metaphor of remaking a house resonated deeply with me after years of suffering from patterns misaligned with my essence.

    In the rebuilding process, I kept aspects of the “home” that I loved. I started to discern what did not fit, what was dated, and what needed a fresh coat of paint. In some instances, I took the proverbial sledgehammer to many walls and started again.

    I started this journey after years of suffering—attracting people and circumstances that weren’t in alignment with my deepest self. I kept reliving childhood wounds because, as they say, “our wounding does the picking until we choose to heal.”

    This doesn’t mean our parents didn’t love us or that they did not do their best. It simply means that we will all be called to dive deeply and, at some point in our journey, ask: Who am I? Who am I without the labels, the roles, the expectations?

    Trauma is not always obvious. It can be as simple as a harsh tone or an unmet expectation. That moment in time is frozen, and the young mind that has not fully developed may create a story that “I am not loveable.”

    In the words of Gabor Maté, “Trauma is not the event; it’s what happens inside of you as a result.”

    This quote captures the journey from trauma as a disconnection from self, toward healing as a return to self.

    Academic pressures in my own life equated grades with worthiness, manifesting in the “good girl” persona. I carried that persona into adulthood, and it manifested in my codependent, people-pleasing ways. I learned to be agreeable and reasonable. That persona kept me ‘safe’—until it didn’t.

    I shrank myself, silenced my voice, and accepted less than I desired. This caused deep unfulfillment and a lot of internal discord. Do not rock the boat was the theme of my life. Be likable and avoid conflict. Fall in line and make sure that what you do and say is seen as “acceptable.” I am exhausted from reading that. That was me for a very long time.

    Tired of my compromises and yearning for authenticity, I wanted to bring my true self to life—no more diluted versions.

    Reparenting begins with one powerful question: Who am I?

    From there, we ask: What do I want to create? What are my values, needs, and deepest desires? These are not light questions and may take a while to answer, but we have to start somewhere. These questions guided me to explore my triggers—those disproportionate reactions rooted in the past. They serve as guides pointing us to our wounds.

    As my therapist taught me, “If it’s hysterical, it’s historical.”

    Triggers are “normal” responses to unresolved trauma, but they often cause us to react or shut down in ways that don’t serve us. We may never completely eliminate triggers, but we can reduce their charge and effect in our lives.

    By observing my reactions and stories in my everyday life, I was guided to reconnect with younger parts of myself—the parts that had been rejected, buried, or disowned. “What do you need?” is what I asked over and over again.

    I began to act like a loving and present parent with no shame, guilt, or judgment. I just started to listen. I learned about all the ways I needed to love myself more, where in my life I needed to rest, where I needed to speak, where I needed to play, and what I deeply wanted to experience in this life.

    There were many tears and deep pain and shame. I allowed myself to feel it all. I had conversations with many versions of myself, and I vowed to gift the young me with a life built on truth—our truth.

    I also had to get very comfortable with being uncomfortable. I knew that living in truth meant tearing down many delusions and speaking up. This would undoubtedly create chaos in places and circumstances where delusion is the preferred way to live. This meant that I would lose connections. which is a huge hit to our inner child, who will do anything to stay connected to others because it’s familiar, even if it means self-betrayal.

    Inner child work involves acknowledging all of our parts with love and compassion while giving them what they need. This process brings us closer to wholeness and self-understanding. I now have a picture of a young me, who I connect with often. I promised her that I would keep creating a life in line with our core and desires.

    To this day, one of my biggest triggers is anything that represents inequality and unfairness. This stems from many layers of my own wounding, which created a story that “what happens to me is unfair, and I am not worthy.”

    I have learned that there are some battles that are not mine to fight. There are battles that belong to other people. When something affects me personally, I have learned to set boundaries and to express my displeasure in a mature way. I do not need to project my past onto my present or onto others.

    I had to learn about boundaries—a hot topic these days.

    Without boundaries, we cannot be real, nor can we create our best life because our energy is indeed finite. Our time and energy are precious, and we have the right to manage them in line with our values.

    The inquiry begins with: What do I need in this moment given my current capacity? And how can I express that as gently as possible? In some cases, gentleness will not be possible, and in other cases, especially with intimate relationships, you may be called to explain why you are setting a particular boundary.

    This is a highly nuanced process. It takes time and trial and error, and it is ongoing forever! It may feel uncomfortable at first as we get to reconnect with ourselves. Boundaries change over time as we dive deeper into our inner world and we make adjustments along the way. There are no hard and fast rules. But I will note that, to me, boundaries are not passes to act crass and reckless. They are not to be used as electric fences. That will cause more damage and isolation.

    In some situations, a harsh boundary is appropriate when someone clearly does not respect you or what you are expressing. But on the extreme side of the spectrum, I see a lot of people just cutting off others and burning bridges in the name of “self-love.”

    To truly love, one has to take another person into account and try to work with that person’s edges to come to a place of acceptance. This, of course, does not apply to abusive situations. I am referring to personal relationships. We also have to remember that our truth is not the only truth.

    Loving authentically means balancing our needs with others’, recognizing that we all deserve grace, and offering compassion in delivering our truth if the goal is true connection.

    The goal of reparenting is a more authentic life.

    It’s about forgiving our parents—not to erase the past, but to free ourselves from its hold. Forgiveness means releasing resentment, whether we maintain relationships with them or not, and choosing to focus on the life we are building. And where appropriate, we can extract the good that was passed on and capitalize on the lessons learned. Even if the lessons lead to the discovery of who you do not want to be. That has value too.

    Reparenting involves loss—shedding old identities and relationships built on personas rather than authenticity. But it also involves immense gain—the freedom to align with our true desires and essence. In the words of Gabor Maté, “Healing is a return to self.”

    This journey requires radical honesty and accountability. It means asking hard questions, releasing blame, and embracing connection with ourselves and others. On the other side of the pain lies authenticity, fulfillment, and a life that reflects who we truly are.

    I can confidently say that because of this work I am gentler with myself, I use my voice where appropriate, and I am more authentic. In other words, I live in truth.

    Where in your life can you begin to parent yourself? Start with the question: What do I need to feel seen, safe, and nurtured?

  • Empathy Without Boundaries

    Empathy Without Boundaries

  • How to Embrace Elective (not Mandatory) Forgiveness After Trauma

    How to Embrace Elective (not Mandatory) Forgiveness After Trauma

    Do I need to forgive my abusive mother to let go of the past?

    This is the question I found myself grappling with when I started to recover from the pain of childhood neglect. For most of my childhood, I did not have access to a consistent adult who valued me. As a result, I believed that I had no value, and I lived my life according to this belief.

    I treated myself as an invaluable being by denying my needs, catering to everyone else’s, and engaging in relationships with people who sought to benefit from my low self-worth. My physical and mental health suffered. I felt trapped in a cage that I hadn’t built as a child but had taken up residency in as an adult.

    My childhood trauma had negatively impacted my life for over thirty years, and I desperately needed to discover what would help me to move forward. So many people praised forgiveness as a cure-all with moral superiority. They all encouraged  me to forgive my mother.

    Was forgiveness needed to recover from trauma? I turned to experts—therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, and doctors—to find an answer. Their responses? Mixed.

    One therapist told me, “If you can forgive, you should. Forgiveness is the key to healing.”

    A psychologist admitted, “I’ve seen clients who forgave and those who didn’t, and honestly, I haven’t noticed a difference in outcomes.”

    A doctor insisted, “Everyone needs to forgive. Holding grudges harms your mental and physical health.”

    And a psychiatrist offered a more nuanced view: “It all depends on what you need. If forgiveness were a proven cure-all, we’d recommend it universally.”

    The lack of consensus was frustrating. I was desperate to move forward, to let go of the past, and I needed to know—was forgiveness the answer? For the next three years, I delved into this question, interviewing clinicians, scholars, religious leaders, and trauma survivors.

    Here’s what I discovered: Forgiveness is not a one-size-fits-all solution, and it’s never something you should feel pressured or obligated to do. In fact, if you are forced into forgiving, it doesn’t work at all.

    The Power of Elective Forgiveness

    What I learned is that forgiveness can be incredibly freeing—but only if it’s optional, not a requirement. Elective forgiveness is about giving yourself permission to decide what’s best for you. It means you can forgive, not forgive, or even find that forgiveness happens naturally over time without the intention to forgive.

    For me, elective forgiveness became a way to take back control of my healing journey. I stopped worrying about whether I should forgive and instead focused on what I needed to feel safe, process my emotions, and move forward. This approach lifted the weight of mandatory forgiveness off my shoulders and allowed me to make space for whatever felt authentic in my recovery.

    How to Embrace Elective Forgiveness

    If you’re wondering how elective forgiveness might help you let go of the past, here are a few steps that worked for me:

    1. Prioritize your safety.

    For years, I didn’t feel safe having contact with my mother. To protect myself, I chose to establish boundaries, including a five-year estrangement, while we both worked on ourselves in therapy. Only when I felt safe did I consider reconnecting, and even then, forgiveness wasn’t on the table until I felt ready.

    To assess your safety, ask yourself:

    • Am I prioritizing my need to feel safe over the pressure to forgive?
    • Do I understand that forgiveness isn’t the same as reconciliation? (You can forgive without reconciling and vice versa.)
    • What boundaries do I need to feel safe, and how can I communicate them to my offender?

    2. Welcome unforgiveness.

    At one point, I questioned if my inability to forgive was a sign of failure. But I eventually realized that unforgiveness wasn’t a “stage” to get through—it was a valid and necessary part of my recovery.

    Unforgiveness can be a place to rest, reflect, and process your emotions. It doesn’t have to lead to forgiveness—it can be the endpoint or simply part of the journey. The key is to allow yourself to be where you are without judgment.

    3. Let yourself feel anger.

    For a long time, I suppressed my anger because I was taught it was a “bad” emotion. But denying my anger only kept me stuck. Once I gave myself permission to feel it, my anger began to evolve into grief and, eventually, a sense of peace.

    Here’s how you can work with anger:

    • Write a letter to the person who hurt you, expressing your anger. (You don’t need to send it.)
    • Notice where anger shows up in your body. Is it in your chest, your stomach, your fists? What happened when you notice how anger feels in your body?
    • Move your body in ways that match your anger—punch a pillow, stomp your feet, or go for a run. Ask your body, “What do you want to do with this anger?”

    4. Trust the process.

    I’ll admit I’m annoyed when I hear therapists say, “Trust the process.” I want to trust the outcome! But recovery doesn’t work like that. Elective forgiveness isn’t about achieving a specific result—it’s about allowing yourself to explore, feel, and grow without knowing exactly where you’ll end up.

    For me, trusting the process meant accepting that I might never forgive my mother, and I may also forgive her if that’s what I need. I’ve let go of my anger and found some empathy for her, but I don’t love her, and I don’t want her in my life. Is that forgiveness? Maybe, maybe not.

    The more important question is: Do I need to forgive to let go of the past? For me, the answer is no. I’ve let go without forgiving. What do you need to let go of your past?

    Finding What Works for You

    Your healing journey is your own, and no one can tell you what you need to do. There is not one experience or method that works for everyone. Forgiveness might be part of your process—or it might not. What matters most is that you honor your needs, your boundaries, and your emotions. Letting go of the past isn’t about following someone else’s roadmap—it’s about creating your own.

  • How I’ve Become My Own Source of Love and Reassurance

    How I’ve Become My Own Source of Love and Reassurance

    “Create a safe space within yourself that no one will ever find, somewhere the madness of this world can never touch.” ~Christy Ann Martine

    Losing my grandmother was like losing the one person who had always been my anchor. She was my steady rock, my quiet cheerleader, and the only person who truly made me feel that I was perfectly fine, just as I was. I never had to pretend around her or hide my mistakes or messiness.

    She had this way of being present and calm, even when life around us wasn’t, and that gave me a sense of security that, looking back, I had leaned on more than I ever realized.

    Her gentle spirit taught me what unconditional love looked and felt like, and without fully realizing it, I relied on her presence to keep me grounded and to make sense of things when everything else felt uncertain.

    In my eulogy to her at her funeral, I called her “The Mary Poppins of Grandmas, practically perfect in every way.” And she was perfect in my eyes; she always will be.

    When she passed, I felt an incredible emptiness; upon receiving the news, I fell to the floor. I was alone, I couldn’t muster up the strength to lift myself from the floor, and I was crying so hard I started choking. I crawled to the bathroom, thinking I was going to throw up. I was leaning up against the bathtub, sobbing, when a strange sense of peace came over me.

    I started to calm down, and the song “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” popped into my head, creating an earworm repeatedly playing the song. I got up from the bathroom floor, grabbed my phone, and posted a video of the song on my social media profile. I found out later that day that that song was my grandma’s favorite.

    It felt like I’d lost not just her but a part of myself—something I had unknowingly depended on for so long. Her love was a mirror that allowed me to see my worth; I wasn’t sure how to recognize it without her. The grief of her loss was profound, but underneath that grief, I knew something else was stirring. I needed to find the consistency she had provided, but this time, it had to come from within.

    My journey toward healing began with the understanding that if I wanted to feel whole, I had to become that steady, loving presence for myself.

    For so long, I had looked to others for validation, believing that if I gave enough, worked hard, and stayed flexible, I’d finally receive the desperately desired acceptance. But when she was gone, something clicked—I realized no one else could fill that space in my life. It was up to me to find that security within.

    In the beginning, it felt like too much to take on. I faced layers of emotions and beliefs that had been there for as long as I could remember, and the thought of working through all of it was intimidating.

    I saw how often I had tied my sense of worth to what I could offer others, how I felt I needed to prove myself through giving, and how I had relied on external reassurance instead of my inner validation. I had learned to take on the role of the fixer, the supporter, and the giver, often without realizing that I had neglected to support and care for myself.

    With time, I began to understand that, like my grandmother, I needed to cultivate a constant, gentle presence within me that I could turn to, no matter what. I needed to become my safe place, someone I could rely on for kindness and encouragement.

    One of the first steps was creating rituals that mirrored the warmth and steadiness she had always provided me. I would sit quietly each morning, meditating on gratitude and journaling about my worth before I began my day. These small, intentional acts became a way to ground myself, check in, and create a sense of stability in my life.

    I wasn’t naturally good at setting boundaries—I would get an anxious feeling in my stomach when it came to saying no. I was always worried that if I said no, the other person would stop coming around, or I would hurt their feelings, and I would guilt myself.

    Eventually, I reached a point where I knew I had to change things. I was allowing myself to be taken advantage of repeatedly. It went into a pattern of me giving too much, then resenting the other person or people involved and not realizing that the problem was me.

    If I didn’t start respecting my limits, I’d have nothing left to give. Little by little, I practiced saying no without offering a reason or apologizing. It wasn’t easy. It felt foreign at first, like I was somehow selfish for doing it. But with each boundary, I began to feel a new sense of inner strength that I hadn’t felt before. It was like I was finally treating myself with the same kindness I tried to give everyone else.

    Learning to sit with my emotions instead of running from them was the most challenging part. I understood that grief wasn’t something you just “get over.” It’s something you learn to live with. I stopped pushing away the sadness and let myself fully feel it, allowing it to come and go without judgment.

    There were times when it felt overwhelming, but it was also healing. In those moments, I felt almost as if she was still with me, her presence comforting me as if saying, “It’s okay to feel this. It’s okay to let yourself grieve.”

    Through this, I began rediscovering parts of myself I had set aside. I allowed myself to get creative again, expressing things I’d bottled up without worrying about how it would come across. I started journaling daily, writing about my dreams, fears, and memories. These weren’t just words on a page—they were my way of healing, piece by piece, as I found my way back to feeling whole again.

    As time went on, I began to notice a shift. I felt a growing sense of worth that wasn’t based on anyone’s approval. I didn’t feel the same need to prove myself. I slowly accepted my flaws, realizing self-love doesn’t mean perfection. It means patience and the willingness to keep showing up for myself, especially on the tough days.

    My grandmother’s passing taught me one of the biggest lessons of my life: I could be my safe place. I could build a life where I feel valued and loved from within without relying on anyone else to create that for me.

    Of course, there are still days when I slip back into old habits, looking for validation outside myself, but now I know I have everything I need inside. Her memory stays with me as a reminder of strength and love—two things she taught me through how she lived.

    For anyone struggling to find that sense of inner peace, I hope sharing my story shows you it’s within reach. It’s a journey; it takes time, patience, consistency, and commitment, but it’s worth it. Otherwise, you will never gain the sense of peace you deserve. In doing this, I’ve found a calm and self-assurance I never imagined. And I believe that’s something my grandmother would be proud of.

  • Stop Telling Me to Forgive: Why This Isn’t Helpful

    Stop Telling Me to Forgive: Why This Isn’t Helpful

    “If you force yourself into forgiveness before fully feeling and moving through the layers of anger and hurt, it won’t be a clean and true forgiveness but rather a pseudo-virtuous form of bypassing and suppression.” ~Cory Muscara

    A while back, I was invited to a birthday party, and I was genuinely excited to go. But then I learned that someone I no longer associate with—a former best friend—would also be attending. The news stopped me in my tracks.

    This wasn’t just an “ex-friend.” She had once been one of the most important people in my life, but that changed when I went through a painful experience involving a narcissistic individual. When I needed her most, she didn’t stand by me. Instead, she stayed silent, offering no support as I endured gaslighting, invalidation, and manipulation.

    Letting go of the narcissist was clear and necessary, but recognizing that my best friend was no longer safe for me was much harder. It took more than a year of reflection, emotional processing, and painful physical symptoms for me to accept that this relationship was no longer healthy.

    So, I declined the party invitation, explaining to my friend that for my own well-being, I needed to skip the event. But instead of understanding, I received a lecture about forgiveness. “You need to hear the other side,” she said. “There are two sides to every story.”

    Her words stung. Not because forgiveness hadn’t crossed my mind, but because they dismissed the boundaries I had worked so hard to establish. Why is it that when we try to protect ourselves, others feel compelled to challenge our decisions?

    The Problem with Prescriptive Forgiveness

    In our culture, forgiveness is often upheld as the ultimate solution to pain. We see it in inspirational quotes and self-help advice:

    • “Forgiveness is a choice you make to move forward.”
    • “Not forgiving is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
    • “Refusing to forgive keeps you chained to the past.”

    While these ideas sound wise, they often oversimplify the complex process of healing. Forgiveness is not always something you can will yourself into. For those who’ve experienced deep and profound trauma, the mind and body don’t always align. You can tell yourself to forgive, but your emotions and physical responses may resist.

    A More Compassionate Perspective

    For me, the turning point came when I discovered a different definition of forgiveness by Teal Swan:

    “When you’ve experienced profound trauma, the focus shouldn’t be on forgiveness but on healing by creating resolve and experiencing the opposite of the harm. As you heal and find love, safety, and protection elsewhere, forgiveness often arises naturally, as the disruption within you resolves on its own.”

    This shifted everything. It reminded me that forgiveness isn’t something you force; it’s something that flows naturally when healing has occurred. And healing often requires us to focus on what was missing during the hurtful experience.

    How to Support Someone Who’s Healing

    When a friend or loved one shares their pain, the best thing you can do is meet their needs in the moment, not prescribe forgiveness or reconciliation. Instead, offer actions that help counteract the harm they’ve endured:

    • If they feel unsafe, help them feel secure.
    • If they feel unheard, listen deeply.
    • If they feel betrayed, show them loyalty.
    • If they communicate a boundary, honor it.
    • If they feel dismissed, validate their emotions and experiences.
    • If they feel abandoned, stay consistent and present in their life.

    These actions create the foundation for healing, which makes forgiveness—if it comes—authentic and meaningful.

    Let’s Change the Conversation

    The next time someone shares their struggle, resist the urge to suggest forgiveness. Instead, focus on understanding their needs and providing genuine support. Healing doesn’t come from empty platitudes; it comes from connection, empathy, and actions that restore what was broken.

    Forgiveness isn’t a prerequisite for healing. It’s a byproduct of it. And when it happens naturally, it’s far more powerful than anything forced or prescribed.

  • How to Have a Meaningful Holiday Season on Your Own Terms

    How to Have a Meaningful Holiday Season on Your Own Terms

    “Take a little time to be amazed by something you won’t enjoy unless you consciously choose to focus on it. See the things you can’t see when you’re rushing. Hear the things you can’t hear when you’re stressing.  Get so caught up in your senses that everything else seems to stop for a moment—because things don’t actually stop. So we have to be the ones who do it.” ~Lori Deschene

    As December unfolds, I’ve made a conscious choice that feels both liberating and true to myself: I’m celebrating a quiet Christmas at home with just my best friend.

    While my family lives far away, and tradition might dictate buying plane tickets and planning an elaborate holiday visit, I’m listening to a deeper wisdom this year—one that honors my personal growth, sense of balance, and need for peaceful reflection as we approach 2025.

    This decision wasn’t made lightly, but it feels right. Instead of navigating crowded airports, juggling the stress of travel logistics, and potentially diluting my focus on what truly matters to me, I’m creating space for an intentional end to 2024. It’s not about loving my family any less—it’s about loving myself enough to recognize what I truly need right now.

    Examining What Matters

    The path to this decision became clear when I started examining what truly matters to me right now.  While my family gatherings are always wonderful, they also come with different expectations and dynamics—competing priorities and well-meaning but sometimes overwhelming input about each other’s life choices.

    By staying home, I’m creating a sanctuary where I can remain deeply connected to my own inner compass as I prepare for the year ahead.

    My best friend shares this vision of a peaceful holiday. Like me, his family also lives far away, so we’ve embraced the opportunity to enjoy each other’s company this holiday season, celebrating our friendship and shared values. Together, we’re planning simple but meaningful celebrations that focus on joy, rest, and genuine connection.

    Our plans include a holiday movie marathon at home, filled with plenty of festive classics and rom-coms.  We’re also trying out new recipes and baking to our hearts’ content, transforming the kitchen into a festive hub of delicious treats. There’s something powerful about choosing to celebrate differently—about saying yes to what feels authentic rather than what’s expected.

    I’m fortunate that my family demonstrates a beautiful kind of understanding, though it didn’t come without a touch of disappointment at first. When I shared my holiday plans, I could sense their initial sadness at us not being together. But that feeling quickly morphed into compassion and love as they recognized how important this choice was for me.

    Their response reflected the very love and support that make our relationship special. They get it—they understand that sometimes taking care of yourself means making choices that look different from the traditional script.

    This conversation helped me embrace my decision even more deeply. It reminded me that love and connection don’t depend on proximity or performance but thrive when we trust each other to honor what we need. 

    New Possibilities and Intentional Celebration

    This simplified holiday season is already opening up new possibilities. Without the usual rush of travel preparations and extensive gift shopping, I’m finding time to reflect deeply on my goals and aspirations.

    My best friend and I are looking forward to savoring time together. What feels especially refreshing is the quiet spaciousness of this season. It’s not just about what we’re doing—it’s about what we’re not doing. There’s no rushing, no overextending, and no pressure to meet anyone’s expectations but our own.

    What makes this setup truly special is how we’re blending celebration with intention. From Christmas through New Year’s Day, we’re creating a space for reflection and renewal. This isn’t just about savoring the holidays; it’s about entering the new year with a clearer sense of what matters most.

    Whether we’re brainstorming dreams for the future or simply enjoying the aroma of freshly baked cookies, this intentionality feels like the perfect way to honor the spirit of the season. It’s a reminder that peace and joy aren’t things we find—they’re things we create.

    Choosing to forgo the usual holiday hustle has also given me an unexpected gift: the freedom to focus on what truly fills me up. Instead of stretching myself thin trying to do it all, I’m finding joy in the simple pleasures—a heartfelt conversation, a home-cooked meal, and the sense of ease that comes with slowing down.

    It’s remarkable how small shifts can create waves of change in so many areas of life. This choice has reminded me that less truly can be more.

    Creating Your Own Meaningful Holiday

    For anyone considering a similar choice, here’s what I’ve learned about creating a meaningful holiday season on your own terms.

    1. Trust your instincts about what you need.

    Sometimes the greatest gift you can give yourself is permission to break from tradition when it serves your well-being.

    2. Simplify your celebrations.

    A meaningful holiday doesn’t require elaborate plans or expensive gatherings. Often, it’s the quieter moments that bring the most joy.

    3. Set loving boundaries.

    If family members express hurt or disappointment through guilt trips or emotional pressure, remember that their reaction often comes from a place of love. You can validate their feelings while still honoring your decision, using phrases like “I know this is different from our usual tradition, and I understand why that’s hard,” followed by a clear, kind explanation of your choice.

    Consider suggesting specific ways to make the holiday special despite the distance, perhaps by having a virtual gift-opening session or planning a dedicated family celebration for another time. This shows your family that you’re still committed to maintaining meaningful connections with them.

    4. Embrace creativity.

    Whether it’s trying out a new tradition, experimenting with a recipe, or simply finding new ways to connect, creativity can infuse the holidays with fresh meaning.

    5. Prioritize rest and reflection.

    The holidays can be an emotionally charged time, so give yourself space to recharge. Whether it’s taking a long walk, journaling, or meditating, moments of stillness can bring clarity and peace.

    6. Create your own traditions.

    A personal ritual, like lighting candles, writing a gratitude list, or hosting a movie night, can be a comforting and grounding way to honor the season. Or create something completely unique that reflects what matters most to you. The point is that you get to choose.

    7. Focus on experiences over material things.

    Instead of stressing over gifts, embrace the simple joys of the season; for example, savoring a favorite holiday meal, watching movies that bring you comfort, or taking a mindful moment to appreciate the little things around you.

    8. Stay flexible.

    Life rarely goes according to plan, and that’s okay. By letting go of rigid expectations, you leave room for unexpected moments of joy and connection.

    Grateful for Change

    As 2024 draws to a close, I’m grateful for this choice to celebrate differently. This low-key Christmas isn’t about what I’m giving up. It’s all about what I’m gaining: clarity, peace, and the joy of honoring my own path.

    In choosing this simpler celebration, I’m not just preparing for a better start to 2025; I’m practicing the art of living authentically right now. And that, to me, feels like the greatest gift of all.

  • It’s Okay to Disappoint People When You’re Honoring Yourself

    It’s Okay to Disappoint People When You’re Honoring Yourself

    “Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” ~Brené Brown

    On a recent day trip to the Yuba River with my daughter and two friends, unexpected tensions arose, offering me a chance to reflect on a lifelong pattern that has often complicated my relationships. It was a beautiful day, and I’d been looking forward to soaking up the sun and relaxing by the water—but my friend had a more adventurous day in mind.

    Though a footbridge led to a clear trail, she suggested we take a more difficult route over steep boulders. Despite my initial hesitation, I went along, wanting to be open to her plans. But as I navigated the rocks with weak knees and slippery Birkenstocks, I started to regret my choice.

    Each step required more balance and focus than I’d anticipated, and as I struggled to keep my footing, I worried about disappointing my friend if I suggested another path. I often find myself accommodating others at the expense of my own comfort—a pattern I’ve been working to untangle for years. Eventually, I did speak up, and as we turned back, I felt pleased reflecting on my growth in honoring my own needs, even though it felt vulnerable.

    However, just as we reached the stairs that would take us to the footbridge, my friend pivoted again. This time, she suggested wading across the river and scaling the rocky bank on the other side. The idea didn’t make sense to me, and I really didn’t want to take this route—but guilt crept in, knowing I’d already resisted one of her suggestions. Feeling that familiar tug of people-pleasing, I once again overrode my own preference.

    So, we waded across, balancing our backpacks and climbing over slippery rocks to reach the opposite bank—which was steep and hazardous. My daughter scrambled up the cliff-like bank with my friend’s help, but as I struggled to find my footing, I could see the anxiety in her eyes.

    In that moment, I realized I was pushing myself to do something that didn’t feel safe for either of us. What was I trying to prove? Why was I putting myself in this stressful situation when it would have been so much easier to just cross the footbridge?

    Ultimately, rather than risk the steep climb, my other friend and I decided to turn back. We waded across the river again and took the stairs to the footbridge I had wanted to follow all along. Reuniting with my daughter and our friend on the other side, we finally embarked on the trail.

    I felt a sense of satisfaction in once again recognizing my pattern of people-pleasing and choosing to change course. However, irritation soon followed—despite passing many perfectly nice spots, we continued hiking as our friend was determined to find a pristine, isolated area to swim. While I appreciated her vision for an adventurous day, I began to feel confined by it, realizing I was still prioritizing her desires over my own.

    We wound up stumbling upon a crowded nude beach—and while I have no judgment against nudity, the situation was uncomfortable for my teenage daughter. My friend tried to convince us to swim past the bathers to find a quieter place, but I knew this wasn’t right for my daughter. This time, I didn’t hesitate. It felt incredibly uncomfortable, but I firmly said no.

    I told my friends I wanted us all to enjoy ourselves at our own pace. So, I encouraged them to keep adventuring while my daughter and I turned back to where we’d started—a spot that had always felt perfectly fine for swimming. My friend seemed disappointed, and guilt once again crept in, but I felt grateful for my decision.

    How often do we let ourselves be swept up by others’ desires, ignoring our own?

    Years ago, I might have felt annoyed or even resentful that my day wasn’t unfolding as I’d imagined. I might have blamed my friend for being “pushy” and not listening. This time, however, I focused on observing my inner reactions rather than letting them take control.

    Each obstacle became an opportunity to examine my responses. I noticed again and again how easily I slip into accommodating others, even at the expense of my own comfort—a pattern rooted in a fear of losing connection.

    I felt no resentment toward my friend; I know she’s simply adventurous and eager to create memorable experiences. Alongside my love for her and trust in her good intentions, I’ve engaged in considerable shadow work. I recognize that judgment and blame are often projections, ways we avoid taking responsibility for our own feelings and needs.

    So, when that familiar pull to please others arose, instead of giving in to resentment or going along just to keep the peace, I practiced something different: listening to my inner voice and aligning my actions with what I truly wanted.

    It took three instances of going along before I finally gained clarity. While openness and flexibility are valuable traits, we must also be willing to risk disappointing others to honor our own needs. Far from weakening our connections, this kind of self-honoring fosters genuine relationships with ourselves and others.

    My daughter and I ended up having a relaxing time in our chosen spot while our friends enjoyed their adventure. When they returned, we all took a final swim together, diving into the cool water and drying off on the warm, sunbaked rocks. On the way home, we shared a fun conversation and even stopped at a roadside stand for some of the best key lime pie any of us had ever had. It turned out to be a wonderful day filled with connection after all.

    Reflecting on this experience highlights common patterns we often encounter: the tendency to please others, the fear of disappointing them, and the guilt that can arise when asserting our needs.

    My relationships and enjoyment of life have significantly improved as I’ve learned to witness and navigate these conditioned responses, ultimately becoming more authentic. This doesn’t mean I no longer face challenges, like the ones I encountered on my day at the river. However, I now navigate these situations with greater ease, and my increased self-awareness has led to continuous growth and a deeper sense of freedom beyond old patterns.

    Based on my experiences, here are some insights that may support you in similar situations—especially when you feel torn between your own desires and the fear of disappointing those around you:

    Pay Attention.

    Notice what’s happening internally and get curious about what triggers you. Identify your inner conflicts—such as discomfort with disappointing others or fear of being seen as selfish. This self-awareness is crucial for navigating your responses authentically.

    Stay Present.

    Focus on the current moment rather than your expectations. Embracing what is allows you to align your choices with reality instead of how you wish things would unfold. Redirect any frustration from unmet ideals into fully engaging with the experience at hand.

    Take Responsibility.

    Avoid blaming others, focusing instead on your own feelings and needs. This empowers you to advocate for yourself in alignment with your values, free from resentment or guilt. By slowing down and reflecting on your choices, you gain clarity and self-compassion. Ask yourself: What do I truly want now?

    Speak Up with Grace.

    Clearly and kindly express your needs and preferences to foster open communication while maintaining connection. Speaking up may feel daunting, but setting boundaries is a vital act of self-love. Trust that your needs are valid and worth sharing and it’s okay to voice them.

    Navigating our experiences in a way that honors our true selves is an ongoing practice. By listening to our inner voice, staying curious about our reactions, and letting go of blame, we create space to pursue our desires without guilt. Each choice becomes a step toward authentic alignment, freeing us from the weight of others’ expectations.