Tiny Buddha

Tag: endings

  • When Friendship Is One-Sided: Letting Go of Someone Who Was Never Really There

    When Friendship Is One-Sided: Letting Go of Someone Who Was Never Really There

    “Finally, I realized that I was never asking too much. I was just asking the wrong person.” ~Unknown

    Friendship should nourish the soul. And in my life, for the most part, it has. I have a small, longstanding circle of friends steeped in a long-shared history. We’re basically a real-life, thirty-five-year-long John Hughes film.

    However, every now and then, a hornet in disguise has buzzed into my life and stung.

    He was one of them. A bad sting.

    Love Bombing

    Right off the bat, knowing him felt amazing.

    I was still reeling from the aftereffects of living with an abusive man who died a few months after I finally got away. Emotionally raw, my nervous system felt like it was covered in third-degree burns being scrubbed with a Brillo pad.

    But this new friend? He felt safe. Quiet. Peaceful.

    He wanted to see me multiple times a week. He introduced me to his child. We spent time watching TV, going out for drinks and dinner, living in what felt like a comforting routine. His good morning texts became a comfort for my sleepy eyes.

    It felt good. Really good.

    Until it didn’t.

    A Bouquet of Red Flags? For Me?

    Small things began happening that just didn’t sit well.

    He began to speak ill of others in our mutual friend group. If he’s talking about them like this, what is he saying about me? Then I’d dismiss it. No, Jennifer. He’s a good friend.

    Once, when I asked him to repay money he owed me, I received a semi-scathing text accusing me of not being a “real friend,” because “real friends” don’t expect repayment. Am I here to subsidize your income?

    You’d think I walked away entirely at that point. No, not quite.

    When There’s No Communication, There’s No Friendship

    Instead, I drank too much one night and made out with him. (Stop judging me.)

    I felt uncomfortable and needed to talk about it. I asked if I could come over for a quick chat. He declined. He was “too busy gardening.”

    Right. Gardening. Okay.

    The good morning texts stopped. The invitations to hang out vanished.

    Days later, I texted, “Are you upset with me? We usually see each other all the time, and I haven’t heard from you.”

    His reply: “I’m not upset.” No explanation. No elaboration.

    Five weeks passed. Silence. Crickets.

    And it hurt—more than I expected. I had let someone in after a traumatic experience. I was vulnerable, open, willing to trust again. But the friendship only existed on his terms. Everything was fine—until I asked for emotional accountability.

    Inner Work and Uncomfortable Truths

    After doing a lot of inner work, I realized something painful: I have a pattern of projecting qualities onto people that they simply don’t possess. I want people to be kind, emotionally intelligent, and loyal. So, I make them that way in my mind.

    But people are who they are—not who I wish them to be.

    And for my own well-being, that pattern had to end.

    Not everyone is ready to do the work. And that’s fine. I can only be responsible for my healing, my boundaries, my growth.

    In any relationship—be it romantic, familial, professional, or platonic—every individual has a right to be seen, heard, and valued. To be acknowledged as a complete person with thoughts, feelings, and needs.

    Our voices and wants should be respected and celebrated. Without this foundation of trust, emotional safety, and genuine connection, we begin to feel invisible, diminished, or invalidated.

    And sometimes the most loving thing we can do for ourselves is to leave a space that no longer aligns with who we are.

    It’s not about giving up on people too quickly but recognizing when staying becomes a quiet betrayal of our own needs.

    Self-Respect and Goodbye

    So how did I move forward?

    After acknowledging a deeper truth—that I had lived in a place of unworthiness for far too long, repeatedly allowing myself to be manipulated and emotionally abandoned—I decided to no longer chase breadcrumbs and worked hard on setting clear boundaries. And if those aren’t respected, I give myself permission to walk away.

    And I walked away from him. I declined invites where I knew he’d be present and performed a digital detox: the phone number, the photos, the threads—all deleted. Unfollow. Unfollow. Unfollow.

    And none of it happened out of anger or malice, but from a place of peace. A place of self-respect.

    In the end, we teach others how to treat us by what we allow, and leaving is sometimes the most powerful way to be seen and heard—by ourselves most of all.

    I was whole before I met him. And I remained whole after saying goodbye.

    A Final Note

    Not every friend is meant to stay. Not every connection nourishes the soul.

    Some buzz in for a bit, give a quick sting, and buzz right back out.

    The lesson? To stop letting ourselves be stung over and over again.

  • When Someone You Love Shuts the Door

    When Someone You Love Shuts the Door

    “It is one thing to lose people you love. It is another to lose yourself. That is a greater loss.” ~Donna Goddard

    We didn’t mean to fall into anything romantic. It started as friendship, collaboration, long voice notes about work, life, trauma, and healing. We helped each other solve problems. We gave each other pep talks before difficult meetings. He liked to say I had good instincts; I told him he had grit.

    We shared vulnerabilities like flashlights in the dark—he told me about getting into fights, going to jail, losing jobs because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. I shared about growing up in a home with yelling, hitting, and silence, and how I used to chase validation in relationships just to feel seen. Somewhere in there, something sparked.

    By early May, the friendship shifted. There was a night we were sitting together, talking about emotional sobriety, when I felt it: the weight of his gaze, the stillness between us. We kissed. And then we didn’t stop. I didn’t expect it, but I also didn’t resist it. It felt natural, like picking up a conversation we didn’t realize we’d already started.

    But like many things built on intensity, it became complicated fast.

    He opened up about wanting to explore something sexually that I couldn’t. It may have felt like shame to him, but that wasn’t my intention—I was simply clear: I wouldn’t feel safe there. He was hurt. Said I’d stepped on his vulnerability. And I didn’t respond perfectly. I froze. That’s what I do when I feel pressure or threat. I don’t yell or lash out—I go quiet, retreat inward, try to understand what’s happening before I respond.

    Still, I thought we’d moved past it. I gave him space while traveling, and when we reconnected, he told me he was in love with me. That he accepted my situation. That it was worth it. That he’d be patient.

    So I met him in the middle. I softened. I opened a little more.

    He was a recovering alcoholic—sober for nearly nineteen years. He had wrecked two long-term relationships in the past, he told me. He’d been arrested multiple times, fired for outbursts, and said he was trying to do better now. I believed him. I saw the way he loved his dog training clients, how he was trying to build something on his own terms.

    I shared my own journey—how I’d sought approval in the arms of others when I felt dismissed or invisible in my marriage. How I went to SLAA and learned to sit with my feelings instead of running from them. How I founded a company, Geri-Gadgets, inspired by caring for my mom during her dementia journey. He understood the grief of losing a parent slowly. His mom had dementia too. We bonded over what that does to you—how it softens certain edges while sharpening others.

    We had history, shared values, hard-earned wisdom. That’s why I was so unprepared for how it ended.

    It started with a question. I asked him what I should wear to dinner with his sister and brother-in-law after a meeting we were attending together. He responded by sending me a photo of a woman in a short leather outfit, over-the-knee stiletto boots, and a dominatrix pose.

    I stared at the image, confused. Was it a joke? A test? A dig? Given my past—the abuse, the trauma, the very clear boundaries I’d communicated—I didn’t find it funny. I felt dismissed. Mocked, even. I made a comment about the woman’s body, not because I cared, but because I was triggered. Because I didn’t know how to say, This hurts me.

    That set off a chain reaction.

    We were supposed to be working on something together—a potential hire for his business—but the conversation turned tense. I felt myself shutting down. I needed time to process. I called to talk, to break through the tension with an actual voice, but he wouldn’t answer. He refused to talk to me—until he’d already decided to be done.

    By the time we finally spoke, it was over. He’d already shut the door. The ending didn’t come in one moment—it came in his silence, his refusal to engage when I needed him to. It came when vulnerability met a wall.

    This kind of ending triggers old wounds. The kind that taught me to freeze when someone withdraws love. The kind that makes me overfunction to earn back safety.

    I was the child who was hit and then ignored. My father would scream and slam a strap against my legs, then bury his head in the newspaper and pretend I didn’t exist. Those are the things that shape a nervous system. Those are the stories we carry into adulthood, whether we want to or not.

    In past relationships, I chased. I made excuses. I convinced myself it was my fault. I’d think: If only I were more accommodating… less sensitive… sexier, smarter, cooler… maybe they’d stay. But not this time.

    This time, I sat with the ache. I let it wash over me. I didn’t rush to fix it or fill it. I didn’t reach out. I didn’t beg for clarity or closure. I cried. I journaled. I went to meetings. I talked to trusted friends. I worked. I kept my boundaries intact.

    Because here’s what I’ve learned: I am worth calm. I am worth communication that doesn’t punish. I am worth someone who doesn’t confuse intensity with depth.

    He said I pivoted. But what he saw as inconsistency was actually growth. I was honoring a boundary. I wasn’t trying to wound him—I was trying to protect myself. And yes, sometimes that looks messy. Sometimes healing doesn’t come in a neat package with perfect communication and the right amount of eye contact. Sometimes it means making the best decision you can in real time with the nervous system you have.

    I had let him in. I trusted him with my story, my body, my boundaries. I showed up with care and effort and consistency. But I can’t control how someone receives me. I can only control how I respond when they shut the door.

    And this time, I didn’t run after it. I let it close. Gently, painfully, finally.

    Losing him hurt. But losing myself again would’ve hurt more.

    If you opened yourself up to someone and they rejected you, remember it’s not a reflection of your worth. And sometimes when someone walks away, it’s for the best if them staying would have meant you abandoning yourself.

  • Liminal Space: Where Painful Endings Can Become New Beginnings

    Liminal Space: Where Painful Endings Can Become New Beginnings

    “New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.” ~Lao Tzu

    Life has a way of pushing us into the unknown, often through experiences that initially seem devastating. These moments of profound loss and confusion, however, can lead to transformative new beginnings. My journey is a testament to this truth, and I want to share some pivotal experiences that illustrate how painful endings can become gateways to new paths.

    Years ago, Steve Jobs gave a commencement speech at Stanford University, where he shared three stories from his life, highlighting how it’s only through looking back that we can connect the dots. Inspired by his speech, I want to share three stories from my life, showing how new beginnings have become apparent as I stepped into the liminal space, embraced the unknown, and accepted endings.

    Liminal spaces are those in-between moments when one phase of life ends, and the next has not yet begun. These are periods of uncertainty and discomfort, but they are also filled with potential for profound transformation. It’s in these spaces that we can let go of the past and open ourselves to new possibilities, even if the transition feels unsettling.

    From Failure to Triumph in Music Technology

    As a teenager, I was deeply passionate about music technology. I received good feedback from my teachers and was considered one of the top students in my class. My predicted grades were excellent, and I felt confident about my future in this field.

    However, when the AS (advanced) level results came in, I was devastated to see a U in music technology. My teachers had not adequately prepared us for the curriculum, leading to unexpectedly low grades across the board.

    This setback forced me to reconsider my future plans. It was a crushing blow; all my dreams seemed to crumble in an instant. The frustration of feeling let down by my teachers, combined with my own sense of failure, was overwhelming.

    I vividly remember sitting in my room, staring at the results, feeling a mix of anger and despair. The thought of giving up on my passion crossed my mind more than once.

    I remember feeling so lost. I was at my friend Mike’s house, chatting with him and his girlfriend, trying to figure out my next steps. I had given up on music technology and was looking at other courses at the local college—anything to get a qualification worth something.

    I considered health and social care, thinking, “I’m quite good with people; maybe I could do something like that.” But it wasn’t what I wanted to do—it was just a desperate attempt to find something, anything, that felt achievable. I was at such a low point, feeling completely devastated.

    Mike sat me down and reminded me of my strengths. He said, “Gord, you’re one of the best sound engineers I know. You run the production at our church better than anyone else. You can’t give up on this.”

    His words hit me hard. I had been running sound at our church and playing in one of the worship bands, alternating between playing drums and managing the sound. Mike’s belief in me reignited a spark of hope.

    Encouraged by Mike’s words, I decided not to give up on my dreams. Instead, I enrolled in a music technology course at a local college. The difference was striking—the course was far more comprehensive and practical.

    Unlike the largely theory-based classes in school, where the teacher read from a textbook and we copied answers, this course was hands-on. We used the equipment, practically making music, running shows, and recording albums.

    Being able to tangibly use a reverb unit or a compressor, rather than just listening to the same audio file and being told what it sounded like, provided immense benefit to my learning. The practical experience with up-to-date equipment was a game-changer.

    I thrived in this new environment, pouring my heart and soul into my studies. After two years, I graduated with a triple distinction, equivalent to three A’s at the A level. This achievement was a direct result of the painful ending of my initial school experience, which pushed me toward a more suitable and enriching path.

    Reflecting on this journey, I am reminded that, at the time, the failure felt like the end of the world. But looking back, it was the catalyst that pushed me to where I needed to be. It’s often in these moments of despair that we find our true path.

    A Crisis of Faith and a Spiritual Awakening

    Five years later, I found myself deeply entrenched in the evangelical Christian church. My journey began with a strong interest in production, which led me to volunteer in the production team at a much bigger church. My skills in sound engineering grew, and I started getting freelance work managing sound at events.

    This exposure led a pastor to suggest I join their leadership course—a gap year in preaching and pastoral leadership. During this gap year, I picked up numerous skills in leading groups, mentoring, coaching, and pastoring people. I also delved deeply into theology, finally having the resources to explore all the questions I had been harboring.

    After completing the leadership course, I began working for the church, doing marketing for one of their programs. I introduced new initiatives and received positive feedback from my managers.

    Despite the positive feedback and new initiatives I’d introduced, during my probation meeting after six months, my line manager’s manager told me I had not met my targets. This came as a shock because I knew it wasn’t true, which my line manager (who was shocked at the decision) privately confirmed. It coincided with a period when the church hadn’t met its financial goals from a recent giving service. I strongly suspect I was let go due to budget constraints, but they couldn’t admit that, so they blamed my performance.

    Despite being let go, I took on a leadership position, pastoring a graduate connect group of about forty people, and continued freelancing in production for the church. I was also in the discernment process for becoming a vicar—a two-year journey I had started at the beginning of my gap year. This process involved deep reflection, guidance from mentors, and assessments to determine my suitability for ordained ministry.

    During a weekend retreat, while leading a worship session, the weight of my doubts and questions came crashing down on me. I found myself on my knees, desperately seeking divine guidance. In that moment of vulnerability, I had a profound realization.

    I had confined my understanding of the divine to the walls of the church, limiting my spiritual growth. As I looked around, it felt as though my faith was in ruins, but beyond those ruins, I saw a beautiful expanse of possibility.

    This epiphany led me to leave the church and embark on a new spiritual journey. I moved to a different city, took a job in the charity sector, and began exploring different spiritual practices. I started meditating, reading about various spiritual traditions, and connecting with nature in a way I never had before.

    This painful ending of my conventional faith was the gateway to a broader and more fulfilling spiritual path. I discovered a spirituality that was personal, expansive, and deeply resonant with who I was becoming.

    Leaving the church was one of the hardest decisions I ever made. It felt like I was betraying a part of myself and my community. But in that liminal space, I found a new understanding of the divine that was more inclusive and expansive. This taught me that faith is not about rigid adherence to doctrines but about a personal and evolving relationship with the divine.

    Rediscovering Myself During the Pandemic

    Two years ago, during the lockdown, I was working for a large technology company in one of their shops. It was a well-paying job, and I excelled at it.

    This was my dream job since I was a kid, and it provided security and stability. However, the lockdown provided an unexpected opportunity to reconnect with my spirituality.

    Before the pandemic, I attended a meditation retreat in Valencia. Seeking to make meditation a more integral part of my life, I spent time at a spiritual center in the mountains, learning transcendental meditation, Tai Chi, and yoga. I also learned to use a pendulum to connect with my intuition, which became an immensely helpful practice.

    During the pandemic, between the first and second lockdowns, I was at a friend’s house, and they offered to give me a tarot reading. I’d always been taught to avoid tarot due to its links to the occult and predicting the future, which didn’t interest me, but my friend explained over some libations that it could be used to understand the present and gain insights into current situations. Reassured and feeling confidently inebriated, I accepted.

    After the reading, they asked if I would give them one in return. I agreed, and to my surprise, they found my reading insightful, noting that I provided more depth than the guidebook interpretations. Encouraged, they gifted me the tarot deck, and I began practicing earnestly.

    When the second lockdown began, I found myself with ample free time. I practiced tarot readings tirelessly, offering free readings on social media and dating profiles. The response was overwhelming, and I conducted hundreds of readings for strangers, honing my skills, deepening my connection to the practice, and helping people find clarity in the here and now.

    However, as I returned to work, my mental health began to deteriorate. The demands of the job, combined with the unresolved issues I had been exploring, became too much to bear. I experienced a severe mental health breakdown and was signed off sick.

    During this time, I pursued an autism diagnosis, which brought a new level of understanding and acceptance into my life. The diagnosis was a turning point; it explained so much about my experiences and struggles, and it opened up new ways to approach my life and work.

    While I was signed off, my sister and I went to a Reiki session, and she mentioned my tarot reading skills to the practitioner. This led to an invitation to participate in a Mind Body Spirit event organized by someone the Reiki practitioner knew. This opportunity sparked the idea of turning my passion into a profession.

    I realized that I could help others with the insights and guidance that tarot provided. Starting my own business has been challenging and rewarding, offering me job satisfaction and the flexibility to manage my autism. I might not be making as much money as I did in my previous job, but the fulfillment and alignment with my true self are priceless.

    This experience underscored the importance of listening to one’s inner voice and having the courage to pursue a path that aligns with one’s true self. It also highlighted that sometimes external circumstances, like a global pandemic, can force us into introspection and significant life changes.

    Embracing the Liminal Space

    These experiences taught me the value of the liminal space—the in-between moments when one phase of life ends and the next has not yet begun. It’s a space filled with uncertainty and discomfort, but also with the potential for profound transformation.

    When we fail our exams, question our faith, or face a mental health crisis, we are thrust into this liminal space. It’s only by letting go of what was and embracing the unknown that we can see new paths and opportunities. These transitions, though painful, are necessary for growth and new beginnings.

    In each of these moments, I felt lost and unsure. But it was in these depths that I discovered new aspects of myself and new directions for my life. It’s like Indiana Jones taking a leap of faith into the unknown—the path only becomes visible once we commit to moving forward.

    Reflecting on these experiences, I’m reminded of Steve Jobs’ Stanford commencement speech. He said, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.”

    This couldn’t be truer for my life. At the time, these failures and challenges felt like the end of the world. But looking back, they were the catalysts that pushed me to where I needed to be.

    Each phase of my journey, from music technology to church leadership to personal spiritual growth, has contributed invaluable skills and insights. Although I didn’t become a sound engineer or a vicar, the skills I developed continue to shape my current work and life.

    The guidance, empathy, and leadership techniques I honed are invaluable in my tarot practice. Similarly, my sound engineering skills are utilized in creating recorded readings, guided meditation sessions, and potentially a podcast.

    All these experiences, which seemed devastating at the time, are the reason I’m here today, doing what I love. I’m able to help people, work for myself, set my own boundaries, and create a fulfilling life. This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been thrust into the liminal space.

    So, when life pushes you into the liminal space, embrace it. Let go of the past and open yourself up to the possibilities that lie ahead. New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings, and it’s in these moments of transition that we find our true path.

  • The Tremendous Pain and Beauty of Letting Things Die

    The Tremendous Pain and Beauty of Letting Things Die

    “The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” ~Joseph Campbell

    My husband Jake and I sit in anguish on our beautiful new linen couch, inches away from each other, yet worlds apart. Hours of arguing have left us at another impasse, the stalemate now a decade long.

    I look around in despair at the beautiful life we built together, petrified by the decision I know I have to make. My partner, my friends, the country I live in, the ground beneath my feet—all on the brink of collapse.

    I stare at the ceiling in heartache. What will be left of my life? So begins my descent into the white-hot heartache of letting things die.

    Lost in Translation: Identity and Adaptation

    I’d moved from Australia to the United States ten years earlier to be with my soon-to-be husband.

    This wasn’t a particularly dramatic move for me. I’d spent my whole adult life up until that point traveling and living in foreign countries and, although there was always a natural adaptation period, I managed. In fact, I loved it—I feel born to be foreign.

    So I thought this would be similar; straightforward, even. But I was wrong.

    The nature of being foreign is unfamiliarity. Each day feels like a fragile dance between two worlds that requires a huge amount of personal strength, emotional generosity, and energetic adaptation, because you are perpetually read from a different worldview, which means you likely feel constantly misread and misunderstood, even when you speak the same language.

    Along with that, and the other difficulties inherent in making a life in a foreign culture that I had learned to deal with—having no outlet for huge parts of who I am, constantly navigating an environment that reflected nothing of my values—I now also had to reckon with the need to adapt to my partner’s lifestyle. I needed to be friends with his friends, take the vacations he wanted to take, and fit myself into the predetermined role of “wife” in his life.

    We made large-scale decisions that seemed like compromises at the time, and I was often genuinely happy to make them in the name of the unit. But with each compromise, a piece of my identity slipped away, and I eventually realized how much of what was true to me was being weeded out of “us” and how little importance I was placing on my own desires and happiness.

    I became deeply alienated in my life and my marriage. I stretched myself so far outside my own skin that maladaptations started to occur. I would find myself in conversation with friends saying things that felt like they were coming out of someone else’s mouth.

    In trying to survive, I’d created a life that reflected little to nothing of my truth, a life that was emotionally, psychologically, and spiritually starving me to death.

    But even when I realized this, I couldn’t bring myself to end it. Deconstructing my half-life seemed worse than living it. I knew it would spark a tsunami of such unknown proportions that it was an absurd decision to make. So I didn’t.

    For months, I coped with my unhappiness, convinced it was better than starting all over with nothing.

    Confronting the Inevitable: Embracing Endings and Loss

    A few years ago, I joined a group that met monthly to grow in death awareness and reckon with the grief and heartache of the little and big endings that occur in each moment, month, year, and lifetime, in preparation for our final ending—death.

    Through it, I realized that I was avoiding the death of my relationship, for fear of enduring the pain that inevitably came with that, and in doing so, I had forced it and myself to be alive in unnatural ways.

    For ten years, my ex-husband and I were two planets orbiting each other—day in and day out. I never thought we would have to live without each other. And even in the later years, despite all we’d been through, I was still in love with him and had great love for him.

    Losing this love came with an immense level of pain—even worse that I thought.

    For six months I walked around feeling like my chest had been ripped open. The pain was not just a fleeting sensation; it was a tangible, daily presence in my life, so intense that by the time the afternoon came around, I could do nothing but lie down on my bedroom floor, the weight of the world pressing down on my chest. The pain was so dense and heavy it felt like it was squeezing the air from my lungs.

    When things we love end or die, we experience pain. Pain and grief are the natural response to death, and to endings in general. But we also have a simple, biological tendency to cling to things that make us feel good and to avoid things that make us feel bad.

    This is a paradox—pain is biologically natural, but we try to avert it. In averting it, we miss the point.

    The Alchemy of Pain: Increased Resilience and Sensitivity

    Pain and fear are so profound that they transform your understanding of life.

    If we’re lucky, we don’t get a lot of opportunities for them over the course of our lives, but they are an important part of nature’s design.

    The human organism evolves through many things, and pain is a very potent catalyst for our evolution. It makes our interior worlds wider and deeper in their capacity to understand and hold life, and the more pain we allow ourselves to feel, the bigger our tolerance for it grows.

    What I came to feel, through the death and ending of my relationship, was more deeply in touch with the nature inside and all around me. It was as though the pain had entered into and worked out all the petrified spaces within me and brought renewed sensitivity back into my life.

    Death and Endings are Not Tragedies

    Death and endings are natural parts of life. To argue with them is like arguing with our need to eat—we only hurt ourselves. More importantly, we rob ourselves of the biological purpose these endings are here to serve.

    I have learned to notice more closely when I’m stopping a death from occurring. I’ve learned to embrace the pain of endings, to love what they’ve done inside me—reshaping my life to bring me to new, more authentic, more deeply fulfilling places I never thought I’d be able to reach.

    My deconstruction still hurts every day, but I am much less afraid of it now. I feel way more in partnership with my fear, and I can now recognize it as a healthy, normal part of my own psychology.

    As I face life’s uncertainty, I know that when this immense level of pain comes again, I will feel it just as much, but the fear will be more tolerable. And I know now to take solace in the beauty and intention of its design—to grow my heart and soul in breadth and depth.

    After a year, my divorce finally came through last week, and when I look around at my life, I realize I was right—not much remains. The people I surround myself with, where I spend my time, and even my business is different.

    It will be a while before I can say my healing journey is complete, but as I continue to sink deep into my bones, to reclaim the parts of me that were lost these last few years, and re-learn how to dream my dreams alone, one thing above all else is clear: I am back in touch with everything inside me again, feeling all parts of my humanity and all parts of my life, and that’s all that matters.

  • New Beginnings

    New Beginnings

  • All Endings Are Also New Beginnings

    All Endings Are Also New Beginnings

    Endings are also beginnings