Tiny Buddha

Tag: Love

  • The Love We Wish the World Had

    The Love We Wish the World Had

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The Lie We’re Told About Love

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

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

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

    The Roadblocks to Leaving

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

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

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

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

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

    It was in saving myself.

    The Cost of Leaving

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

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

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

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

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

    What I Know Now

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

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

    Here’s the radical truth I finally embraced:

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

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

    Leaving Comes in Bursts and Choices

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

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

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

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

    The New Love I Choose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    To her, I say:

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

    If You’re There Now

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

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

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

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

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

  • 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.

  • The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love

    The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love

    “Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.” ~Jack Kornfield

    Her absence lingers in the stillness of early mornings, in the moments between tasks, in the hush of evening when the day exhales. I’ve gotten good at moving. At staying busy. At producing. But sometimes, especially lately, the quiet catches me—and I fall in.

    Grief doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s a whisper, one you barely hear until it’s grown into a wind that bends your bones.

    It’s been nearly three years since my daughter passed. People told me time would help. That the firsts—first holidays, first birthday without her—would be the hardest. And maybe that was true.

    But what no one prepared me for was how her absence would echo into the years that followed. How grief would evolve, shape-shift, and sometimes grow heavier—not lighter—with time. How her loss would uncover older wounds. Ones that predate her birth. Wounds that go back to a little girl who never quite felt safe enough to just be.

    I’d like to say I’ve spent the past few years healing. Meditating. Journaling. Growing. And I did—sort of. Inconsistently. Mostly as a checkmark, doing what a healthy, mindful person is supposed to do, but without much feeling. I went through the motions, hoping healing would somehow catch up.

    What I found instead was a voice I hadn’t truly listened to in years—my inner child, angry and waiting. While this year’s whirlwind pace pulled me further away, the truth is, I began losing touch with her long before.

    She waited, quietly at first. But ignored long enough, she began to stir. Her protest wasn’t loud. It was physical—tight shoulders, shallow breath, scattered thoughts, restless sleep. A kind of anxious disconnection I kept trying to “fix” by doing more.

    I filled my days with obligations and outward-focused energy, thinking productivity might shield me from the ache.

    But the ache never left.

    It just got smarter—showing up in my body, in my distracted mind, in the invisible wall between me and the world.

    Until the day I finally stopped. I don’t know if I was too tired to keep running or if my grief finally had its way with me. But I paused long enough to pull a card from my self-healing oracle deck. It read:

    “Hear and know me.”

    I stared at the words and wept.

    This was her. The little girl in me. The one who had waited through years of striving and performing and perfecting. The one who wasn’t sure she was lovable unless she earned it. The one who held not just my pain but my joy, too. My tenderness. My creativity. My curiosity.

    She never left. She just waited—watching, hurting, hoping I’d remember.

    For so long, I thought healing meant fixing. Erasing. Becoming “better” so I wouldn’t have to feel the ache anymore.

    But she reminded me that healing is less about removing pain and more about returning to myself.

    I’m still learning how to be with her. I don’t always know what she needs. But I’m listening now.

    Sometimes, she just wants to color or lie on the grass. Sometimes she wants to cry. Sometimes she wants pancakes for dinner. And sometimes, she wants nothing more than to be told she’s safe. That I see her. That I won’t leave again.

    These small, ordinary acts feel like re-parenting. I’m learning how to mother myself, even as I continue grieving my daughter. It’s a strange thing—to give the care I long to give her, to the parts of me that were once just as small, just as tender, just as in need.

    I’ve spoken so much about the loss of my daughter. The space she once filled echoes every day. But what also lingers is her way of being—her authenticity. She was always exactly who she was in each moment. No apologies. No shrinking.

    In my own journey of trying to fit in, of not wanting to be different, I let go of parts of myself just to be accepted.

    She, on the other hand, stood out—fearlessly. The world called her special needs. I just called her Lily.

    Her authenticity reminded me of something I had lost in myself. And now, authenticity is what my inner child has been waiting for—for so, so long.

    Sometimes I wonder if the universe gave me Lily not just to teach her but to be taught by her. Maybe our children don’t just inherit from us—we inherit from them, too.

    Her gift, her legacy, wasn’t just love. It was truth. The kind of truth that comes from living as you are.

    Maybe her lesson for me is the one I’m just now beginning to accept: that being fully myself is the most sacred way I can honor her.

    It’s not easy. The adult in me wants a checklist, a result, a clean timeline. But she reminds me: healing isn’t a destination. It’s a relationship.

    It’s a relationship with the past—yes—but also with the present moment. With the part of me that still flinches under pressure. With the softness I once thought I had to abandon in order to survive.

    I’m learning that my softness was never the problem. It was the silence that followed when no one responded to it.

    She is the key. The key to my own heart.

    It doesn’t always come in waves.

    Sometimes it’s a flicker, a breath, a quiet knowing that I’m still here—and that they are, too.

    My daughter, in the memories that move like wind through my life. And my inner child, in the softness I’m learning to reclaim. In the space where grief and love hold hands, we all meet.

    Maybe that’s the lesson she’s been shouting all along: that we can’t truly love others if we abandon ourselves. That within our own hearts—tender, bruised, still beating—lies the key to beginning again.

    We can’t mother our lost children the way we once did.

    But maybe, in their absence, we can begin to mother the small, forgotten parts of ourselves—with the same love, the same patience, the same fierce devotion.

    Maybe that’s how we honor them—not by moving on, but by moving inward.

  • I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

    I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

    “The only people who get upset when you set boundaries are the ones who benefited from you having none.” ~Unknown

    For most of my life, I lived with a quiet ache, a longing I couldn’t quite name but always felt. I wanted to be chosen. Not just liked or tolerated, but fully seen, wanted, and loved.

    That longing shaped so many of my choices. I over-gave in relationships, staying in situations far longer than I should have, and shrank myself to be accepted.

    I didn’t know it at the time, but I was trying to fill an emptiness that had started years before, an emptiness born in silence and absence, in words left unsaid and emotions left unacknowledged.

    You see, I grew up in a household that looked stable from the outside when, in reality, the opposite was the case.

    My father was a brilliant and accomplished professor but emotionally unreachable. He was a provider, but not someone I could run to, laugh with, or open to. Our conversations rarely went beyond school and grades—never “How are you feeling?” or “What’s on your heart?”

    Affection wasn’t part of the language we spoke at home. I learned early that performance was prized, but vulnerability was not. That I had to know things without asking, succeed without stumbling, and carry weight without complaint.

    As a child, you don’t have the language for the emotional neglect that comes as a result of this, but you feel it in your body. You sense the void.

    Even before I could articulate words, I felt more comfortable with paper than with people. I didn’t speak until I was four and carried a piece of paper everywhere I went, using it to express what I couldn’t say out loud.

    Writing became my voice before I had one. But even that was dismissed. My father didn’t see value in it. And so, the message was reinforced again: What I loved didn’t matter. Who I was wasn’t enough.

    And over time, I internalized that belief. I carried it into my teenage years and well into adulthood, thinking love had to be earned through sacrifice or silence.

    I struggled with setting boundaries because I didn’t want to be “too much” and drive people away. I mistook people-pleasing for kindness, over-accommodation for loyalty, and emotional exhaustion for love.

    My longing for connection often led me into relationships where I gave more than I received. I wanted so badly to be seen, to feel chosen, to matter to someone in the ways I never felt I did growing up.

    But the more I sought love externally, the more disconnected I became from myself. My self-worth was tangled in how others treated me, how well I performed, how little I complained, and how much I could endure.

    One of the most defining relationships of my life culminated in an engagement. At the time, it felt like a dream come true. Here was this successful, handsome man who made six figures and stood over six feet tall. And he chose me. He was also spiritual and into meditation, something I had been exploring with the Buddhists, so I felt this deep alignment with him. It felt like a sign that maybe I was finally enough to be loved fully.

    But in hindsight, that relationship mirrored all the unresolved wounds I hadn’t yet faced. Without realizing it, I had found someone who was essentially my father, an engineer, emotionally unavailable, with a temper and narcissistic tendencies. I was literally about to marry my father. When it ended in 2014, it left me feeling like I had failed, not just in love, but in my identity.

    I didn’t realize it then, but the engagement wasn’t just a romantic loss; it was the collapse of the illusion I had built to protect myself.

    Prior to the engagement, I had already spent years performing at work, in friendships, and in love. The little girl who once ached to be seen had grown into a woman who poured herself into everything and everyone, just to feel worthy of being chosen.

    At work, I became a relentless overachiever. I tied my value to performance, convinced that if I exceeded expectations, my bosses, my colleagues, anyone would have no choice but to love me. I wasn’t just doing my job; I was doing the most, all the time. Not from ambition, but from a quiet desperation.

    But overgiving didn’t bring admiration; it brought disrespect. I ended up with bosses who were bullies. I remember one vividly. I had worked hard on a project with a team, believing it would finally earn his approval. He looked at it once, then threw it in the trash right in front of me.

    Still, I stayed. Still, I tried harder. Still, I chased the validation that never came. Because deep down, I thought I had to earn love. That if I just proved myself enough, someone would finally say, “You’re worth it.”

    It wasn’t just at work. In friendships, I bent myself backwards to belong. I mirrored the habits of others just to stay close. If they drank, I drank. If they were into something I didn’t enjoy, I pretended to love it.

    I mistook blending in for bonding. I didn’t know that a healthy connection doesn’t require self-erasure.

    And in romantic relationships? The pattern deepened.

    The first guy I dated was vulnerable, open, willing to truly see me. But I couldn’t handle it. His tenderness felt foreign, uncomfortable even.

    Because I’d never known that kind of love. I didn’t think I deserved it. I told myself I wanted someone “edgier,” but the truth was, I was more familiar with emotional unavailability than emotional safety.

    And so, I gravitated toward men who couldn’t love me well. Men who ignored me, mistreated me, made me feel small. I shrank to fit their needs.

    I became who I thought they wanted—changing my interests, compromising my values, giving all of myself just to be chosen. And I settled. I accepted crumbs and called it a connection.

    There was Matt, someone I’d known in college as a friend. When we started dating later, I thought maybe this was it. But he’d spend time talking about the women he found attractive right in front of me.

    And Dustin, I paid for his flight to come see me when I lived in Texas. Even paid for a coach to help him find a better job. Not because I had to, but because somewhere inside, I believed that love could be bought.

    After all, that’s what I had learned. My father gave gifts, not affection. Money, not presence. So I repeated the pattern, hoping financial sacrifice would lead to emotional intimacy.

    I slept with men who didn’t care for me. I stayed with partners who didn’t choose me. I even cheated, sometimes with men who were already in other relationships because if they were willing to risk what they had for me, then maybe I mattered. Maybe I was special.

    But the truth is, I was still that little girl with the paper in her hand, trying to speak a language no one around her understood. Still aching to be seen. Still hoping someone would say, “You are enough.”

    These pains would then become the very ground where the seeds of transformation would be planted.

    But healing didn’t come all at once. It came quietly, slowly.

    At first, I didn’t know where to start. All I knew was that something had to change. I was tired of feeling stuck in the same cycle, repeating the same patterns, and finding myself in relationships that only brought more hurt.

    I knew I needed space to figure out why I kept choosing unhealthy relationships and why I was drawn to people who couldn’t truly love me.

    In early April of 2015, I made one of the hardest phone calls of my life. I called my mom to tell her I needed a break. None of us were familiar with boundaries back then, but I knew I had to find myself outside of my family’s influence. We both cried on that call. I couldn’t give her a timeframe as I had no idea how long this would take.

    My dad didn’t take it well. Shortly after, he left me a voicemail, convinced I’d joined some kind of cult. He felt like I was turning my back on him. For almost two years, I kept my distance. I’d send cards on holidays, but I didn’t call or text. I needed that space to heal.

    The first move I made was joining a twelve-step program aimed at breaking free from addiction. That’s where I met Gina. She became more than just a mentor, a guide.

    She helped me dig deeper into the underlying issues I hadn’t acknowledged before. I also cut ties with people I thought were my friends because I realized they didn’t genuinely care about me. Instead, I slowly started building healthier relationships.

    A big part of my journey was introspection. I started asking myself the hard questions:

    Why do I keep picking unavailable men?

    Why do I keep repeating the same toxic patterns?

    What does a healthy relationship even look like?

    It was uncomfortable, but I knew I had to figure out why I was drawn to those situations and how I could change. I wanted to understand my own behaviors and patterns so I could break free from the cycle.

    I went to therapy, tried acupuncture to help me sleep, and even explored Buddhism to find some inner peace. I attended a Methodist church, hoping to reconnect with a sense of faith and community.

    Showing up to these places on my own without the crutch of a friend or a partner was a huge step for me. I began to realize the strength in simply being present and curious on my own.

    I also started exploring concepts that would change my perspective on relationships entirely.  Someone introduced me to attachment theory and trauma bonding, and it was like a light bulb went off. Suddenly, I had names for the patterns I was trapped in.

    I learned that I was “avoidant”—someone so terrified of being truly known because deep down, I didn’t believe I had anything worthwhile to offer. Yet I kept gravitating toward people who were emotionally withdrawn, just like my father. I had to chase them for any scrap of affection or attention. Later, I discovered this was called trauma bonding, where you develop feelings and loyalty toward someone who’s treating you poorly. It was a revelation that both devastated and freed me.

    I read books by Brené Brown, went on retreats, and soaked up as much knowledge as I could. I was desperate to understand myself, so I kept asking questions, taking notes, and allowing myself to be vulnerable in safe spaces.

    One of the biggest breakthroughs came when I realized how much anger I was holding onto. I remember a conversation with my mom. I was so angry that she kept trying to fix me or give me advice when all I needed was to just be. She’d send me books on anger management, text me inspirational quotes, or tell me what she thought was best for me. Every gesture felt like another reminder that who I was wasn’t enough.

    That’s when it hit me: I didn’t just hate the advice. I was angry at myself, at my own patterns, at feeling stuck. I knew I couldn’t keep living like that, so I chose to take a two-year break from my family to sort through those emotions.

    I wanted to connect with people not out of guilt or obligation, but because I genuinely wanted to be around them.

    The shift was gradual, but I started to see progress when I could attend community events alone, like the Buddhism gatherings or church services. Those first few times, I felt terrified and hesitant, questioning whether I belonged there. But once I actually showed up, something shifted. I felt empowered in a way I’d never experienced before.

    I was finally showing up as myself, not performing or trying to be what I thought others wanted. I was vulnerable and honest about when I wasn’t okay, and that honesty was freeing.

    I came to terms with my relationship with my dad by forgiving him. I used to carry so much resentment, but I learned to see him for who he was, not who I wished he would be.

    The full forgiveness came years later when I started my own relationship coaching business. I realized that without his emotional unavailability, without all that pain he caused, I wouldn’t have been driven to dig so deeply into my own wounds. In a strange way, he helped me find my calling and ironically, he hates that I’m a relationship coach now. There’s something deeply satisfying about finally being my own person. Since I’ve learned to accept myself, I can accept and forgive him fully. Acceptance didn’t mean agreeing or condoning his behavior, but it allowed me to let go of the hurt.

    I could be around him without the weight of past pain.

    Healing didn’t mean I stopped making mistakes, but I’ve learned to choose myself, to honor my feelings without needing validation from others.

    And if you’re reading this, I want you to know: Healing is messy and nonlinear, but it’s worth it. You don’t have to perform for love.  You don’t have to prove your worth. You just have to start slowly, with the smallest act of truth.

    For me, that act of truth—what Martha Beck calls “the way to integrity” was the simple but profound realization that I didn’t have to earn love from my dad, my teachers, my bosses, or anyone else. I was worthy of love just by being me. What a relief that was.

  • The Truth About Why I’ve Ghosted People (and What I’ve Learned)

    The Truth About Why I’ve Ghosted People (and What I’ve Learned)

    “Ghosting is cruel because it denies a person the chance to process, to ask questions, or to get closure. It’s emotional abandonment, masquerading as protection.” ~Dr. Jennice Vilhauer

    I never set out to ghost anyone.

    In fact, I used to hate ghosting with the burning fury of a thousand unread dating app notifications. I told myself I’d never be that person—the one who disappears mid-conversation, fails to reply after a good date (or sends a very bland thank you message), or silently vanishes like a breadcrumb trail to nowhere.

    And yet… here I am. Writing a post about how I’ve ghosted people.

    Not because I’m proud of it. Not because I think it’s defensible. But because I’ve come to understand why I’ve done it—and what that says about dating culture, emotional patterns, and my own very human flaws.

    So, if you’ve ever been ghosted and wondered what was going through the other person’s head—or if you’ve ghosted and don’t quite understand your own behavior—this is for you.

    Because behind every silence is a story.

    A Pattern Primed by the Past

    Let’s start with this: I didn’t begin my dating journey with cynicism. I started like many people— hopeful, curious, wide-eyed.

    But after a few rounds of being ghosted myself, misled, or strung along by people who said all the right things but meant none of them, my hope began to erode. Slowly, subtly, like a stone smoothed down by constant friction.

    Over time, the pattern looked like this:

    • Match with someone promising.
    • Exchange funny, thoughtful messages.
    • Maybe go on a date or two.
    • Then, suddenly… nothing. Silence. A flatline.

    It wasn’t always dramatic. Sometimes the conversations just faded. Other times, it was abrupt. I’d be mid-conversation and—boom—gone. No explanation, no closure. Just another digital ghost in the machine.

    And while I knew intellectually that this was “part of online dating,” it still landed. It primed me to expect disappointment. To approach each new match not with optimism, but with quiet dread.

    Eventually, I started thinking:

    What’s the point? They’ll probably flake anyway.

    Ghosting as a Defense Mechanism

    So, where does my ghosting come in?

    At first, it was subtle. Maybe I’d take a little longer to reply. Or I’d go silent on someone who seemed nice but who I didn’t feel an immediate spark with.

    I’d tell myself:

    • “I don’t owe them anything.”
    • “They probably don’t care.”
    • “It’s better to fade than force it.”

    But the truth is, my ghosting wasn’t about them. It was about me.

    It was a reflection of my fear of disappointing someone, my lack of emotional bandwidth to explain myself, and my protective instinct kicking in when I sensed something familiar—and not in a good way.

    I had been ghosted so many times that I began to preemptively disengage before anyone could do it to me.

    If you leave first, at least you’re not the one being left.

    It’s a faulty logic, but when you’ve been conditioned by repeated negative experiences, you start to default to protection over connection. And ghosting—silent and sudden—is the ultimate form of emotional self-preservation.

    Cynicism in the Profile Scroll

    Online dating is like a mental rollercoaster of judgments, hope, disappointment, and the occasional serotonin spike when someone has a dog and knows how to use punctuation.

    But over time, I noticed something about how I was engaging with profiles:

    I wasn’t curious—I was critical. I wasn’t open—I was braced for disappointment. I’d read bios looking for reasons to notengage, rather than to connect.

    Somewhere along the line, dating apps stopped being exciting and started feeling like a parade of micro-rejections—even when I was the one doing the rejecting.

    I became a dating cynic in a world that rewards detachment. I looked at profiles and thought:

    “This guy probably lives with his ex and/or is married.”

    “He looks like a player and lacks authenticity—even though I was going on very little evidence.”

    “He’ll definitely tell me he’s ‘not looking for anything serious’ but still want attention and the accompanying ego boost.”

    And even if someone seemed genuinely kind, I’d think: What’s the catch?

    That mindset doesn’t just hurt others. It corrodes your ability to be present, vulnerable, or sincere.

    Ghosting as Avoidance, Not Malice

    Here’s what I’ve realized through self-reflection and a few too many red wines while watching reruns of “Love at First Sight”: ghosting is not about cruelty. It’s about avoidance.

    Ghosting feels easier than:

    • Crafting a rejection message
    • Sitting in the discomfort of someone else’s disappointment
    • Risking an awkward reply, or worse, an argument

    It’s quick. It’s clean. It’s also emotionally lazy.

    But when your emotional reserves are running low—especially from repeated rejection, indifference, or burnout—ghosting can feel like the only viable exit strategy.

    That doesn’t make it right. But it makes it understandable.

    And often, people ghost not because they don’t care but because they’re overwhelmed by the possibility of caring and not knowing what to do with it.

    The Cycle of Ghosting

    When ghosting becomes the norm, we all lose. It creates a culture where:

    • We dehumanize the people we talk to.
    • We second-guess our self-worth.
    • We become afraid of emotional exposure.
    • We settle into half-hearted connections because we don’t expect real ones to last.

    It breeds mutual distrust, and that, ironically, makes ghosting more likely.

    I started to see it like a self-perpetuating loop:

    Get ghosted → become jaded → ghost others → deepen the culture of avoidance.

    And yet, I also realized something else: If I wanted to break the loop, someone had to go first.

    What I’ve Learned (That Might Help You Too)

    Here’s what’s shifted for me over time:

    1. Avoidance doesn’t spare feelings. It just delays discomfort.

    Telling someone you’re not feeling a connection is awkward. But not telling them leaves them confused, maybe even hurt. And it leaves you carrying emotional clutter.

    2. Emotional boundaries are not the same as emotional withdrawal.

    It’s okay to not continue a conversation. It’s okay to end things after a date. But doing so with clarity and kindness (even a single line) is far more respectful than silence.

    3. Ghosting devalues human connection, even in small ways.

    When you ghost someone, you’re subtly reinforcing the idea that people are disposable. And in doing so, you chip away at your own sense of connection.

    4. Cynicism protects, but it also prevents.

    Expecting the worst can be a shield, but it also blocks the good. Staying open, curious, and kind—even after heartbreak—is the bravest thing you can do.

    What I Try to Do Now

    These days, I approach online dating differently. Not perfectly. But more intentionally.

    If I’m not interested, I’ll say something like:

    “Thanks for the chat. I don’t think this is a match, but I wish you well!”

    Simple. Kind. Closure. Done.

    And if I’m feeling overwhelmed and don’t have the bandwidth to connect, I pause. I take a break. I don’t keep conversations going just for the dopamine or out of obligation.

    Because being honest and respectful, even online, feels a lot better than the lingering guilt of another message left unanswered.

    Final Thoughts: Honesty and Authenticity Over Evasion, Always

    Ghosting may be common, but it’s not benign. And while I’ve done it (more than once), I’ve also learned that it’s often a reflection of internal burnout, fear, or cynicism—not cruelty.

    But we can do better. We can date better.

    Not by being perfect, but by being aware. By choosing clarity over comfort. By remembering that every profile we swipe on is a real person with hopes, fears, and a heart that deserves kindness. Ultimately, we are looking for love, appreciation and a sense of connection.

    So, to everyone I’ve ghosted, I’m sorry. Not just for the silence, but for assuming you wouldn’t care. For using detachment as protection. For forgetting the humanity behind the screen.

    And to anyone struggling with the messy world of online dating: you’re not alone. And you’re not broken. You’re just trying to find something real in a world that often rewards pretending and external validation.

    Keep showing up. Keep being honest. Keep being you.

    Even when it’s awkward.

    Even when it’s scary.

    Especially then.

  • Walking My Mother Home: On Aging, Love, and Letting Go

    Walking My Mother Home: On Aging, Love, and Letting Go

    “To love someone deeply is to learn the art of holding on and letting go—sometimes at the very same time.” ~Unknown

    Nothing has softened me—or challenged me—like caring for my ninety-six-year-old mother as she slowly withdraws from the world. I thought I was strong, but this is a different kind of strength—one rooted in surrender, not control.

    She once moved with rhythm and faith—attending Kingdom Hall for over sixty years, sharp in mind and dressed with dignity. She’s a fine and good Christian woman, often compared to Julie Andrews for her beauty and radiant grace. But now, she rarely gets out of her robe. She sleeps through the day. The services she once cherished are left unplayed. She says she’s tired and feels ‘off.’ That’s all.

    I ache to restore her to who she was. But no encouragement or gesture can bring that version of her back. Something in me keeps reaching for her past, even as she settles into her present.

    As someone used to teaching, creating, and mentoring, I’ve built a life around helping others move forward. I’m solution-oriented. I try to inspire change.

    But I can’t fix this. I can’t lift her out of time’s embrace. Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” That quote feels especially personal now. Because I can’t change what’s happening to my mother—but I can soften my resistance. I can change the way I show up.

    Walking Each Other Home

    There’s a beautiful quote by Ram Dass that returns to me in this quiet moment: “We’re all just walking each other home.” I think about that when I bring her a bowl of soup, hold her hand, or whisper, “I love you.”

    I’m not here to bring her back to life as it was. I’m here to walk beside her—gently, imperfectly, faithfully—as she lets go of this chapter.

    I think often of Pope John Paul II, who remained remarkably compassionate while bedridden in the last days of his life. As his body failed, he interpreted his suffering not as a burden, but as solidarity with the poor and the sick. His vulnerability became a doorway to greater understanding. That vision moved me deeply. Because that’s what I hope to do—not just care for my mother but be transformed by the act of caring.

    I’ve studied meditation. I’ve written and taught about presence in filmmaking. But this—daily care, raw emotion, the unknown—is the deepest form of mindfulness I’ve ever known.

    Thich Nhat Hanh teaches that “When you love someone, the best thing you can offer is your presence.” So I try to be there. Not fixing. Not explaining. Just breathing. Just sitting beside her.

    In Buddhism, impermanence is not a punishment—it’s a truth. Everything beautiful fades. Clinging brings suffering. Peace comes from loving without grasping. That’s what I’m learning, slowly, as I witness her journey unfold.

    Some days, I feel like I’m failing. I lose patience. I say too much, and I say it too loudly. But I show up again. I apologize. I soften. I learn.

    There’s a quiet kind of love growing in me. It doesn’t look like grand gestures. It looks like warming her tea with honey. Adjusting her blanket. Noticing she’s cold before she says a word. This is slow-burning compassion—the kind that asks nothing in return. It’s not about being a hero. It’s about being human.

    I used to think wisdom came from those who spoke the most. But now I see that some of the greatest teachers say little at all. My mother, mostly silent now, is teaching me about humility, aging, and surrender.

    Like Pope John Paul II, I want to turn my suffering into understanding. To feel my heart break open—not shut down—and to know that this is not just her time of transition, it’s mine too.

    Lately, my own health has begun to shift—macular degeneration, diastolic heart failure, near-blindness, persistent fatigue, and a growing sense that I, too, am aging. At first, I resisted. I wanted to stay useful and strong. But now, I see these changes as reminders: to live gently, to love fully, and to be present. My body is not the problem—it’s the messenger. And its message is simple: this isn’t about me. It’s about how well I show up for her.

    So what is it that I’m learning here in this strange, quiet space between caregiving and grief?

    • You don’t have to be perfect to be present.
    • Love doesn’t always look like joy. Sometimes it looks like patience.
    • Letting go isn’t failure—it’s an expression of grace.
    • Even in loss, there is growth.
    • The end of one life chapter can open your heart to all of humanity.

    A Whisper Before Sleep

    Each night, I make sure she’s ready to sleep. Sometimes she’s dozing. Sometimes she’s half-aware. Sometimes she’s just staring at the TV. But every night, I whisper, “I love you, Mom.” Maybe she hears me. Maybe not. But I say it anyway—because love, at this point, is more about presence than response.

    And now, another quiet miracle has entered her world. Nugget—the small, grey-furred cat who is super cute and equally crazy—has become her closest companion. My mother never cared much for animals. She found them messy, distant. But Nugget changed all that.

    This tiny creature curls at her feet, climbs into her lap, and purrs without question. And my mother responds—stroking her fur, talking softly, calling her ‘my little kitty.’ It’s pure, surprising, and profound. Nugget brings her back to the present in ways I cannot. She opens a door to tenderness that has long remained closed.

    My mother still shares vivid stories from the distant past, though she forgets what happened an hour ago. Still, she knows me. She knows Nugget. And for that, I am grateful.

    I still wish I could do more. But I show up—quietly, imperfectly, with love. I walk her home the best I can.

    And in that walking, in that surrender, I’m beginning to understand what it really means to be alive.

  • The Truth About Self-Worth: We Don’t Need to Earn It

    The Truth About Self-Worth: We Don’t Need to Earn It

    “Success isn’t about what you do; it’s about who you are. Just existing—waking up, breathing, being present—is enough.” ~Unknown

    On my third trip to the emergency room, I lay in a hospital bed, ten weeks pregnant and nine kilograms lighter. I had just vomited for the forty-seventh time that day. My body felt empty, but the nausea never stopped. An IV dripped fluids into my arm, and I didn’t swallow anything for the next five days.

    Hyperemesis—a rare and severe condition that affects about 1% of pregnancies—typically subsides by twelve weeks. For me, it lasted my entire pregnancy.

    For fifteen years, I measured my worth by what I did. If I exercised, ate well, showed up for my friends and family, and worked hard—then I could go to bed knowing I was a good person. That was my framework. My safety net.

    Now, I couldn’t do any of it. I could barely move.

    And for the first time in my life, I asked myself: Who am I if I can’t do anything at all?

    Six months of pregnancy, living in survival mode—failing to meet a single requirement on my self-made checklist for being a good person—I hated the person I had become.

    The Framework That Held Me Together (Until It Didn’t)

    For years, my sense of worth was built on a framework—one I had carefully constructed to keep myself on the right path. If I could tick off all the boxes, I could go to bed knowing I was enough. It gave me structure, a sense of control, and a way to measure whether I was living up to the person I believed I should be.

    This checklist was my identity. It was how I knew who I was and that I was good.

    At first, this framework served me well. When I left the structure of school, this checklist gave me direction.

    It kept me disciplined, motivated, and focused on self-improvement. But beneath it all, there was fear—that if I didn’t check every box, I would somehow fail at being a good person.

    The voice in my head wasn’t encouraging; it was demanding. Slowing down felt like slipping. No matter how much I did, there was always more to prove. Nothing was good enough, fast enough, or impressive enough.

    Then, when Hyperemesis stripped me down to a barely functioning shell of myself, the framework collapsed. I wasn’t showing up for anyone. I wasn’t achieving anything. And without those measures of success, I felt like I had lost myself. My identity. My sense of worth. If my worth had always been something I had to earn, what happened when I could no longer earn it?

    That’s when I realized the flaw in my system: it was built on conditional self-worth. As long as I kept up, I was safe. But the moment life forced me to stop, the framework didn’t hold me—it crushed me. Life was only going to get more complicated with kids, and I didn’t want it to feel this hard forever. More than that, I didn’t want them inheriting this checklist as a way of living.

    Rebuilding From the Bottom Up: A Shift in Perspective

    Hitting rock bottom can be an incredible gift. With nowhere lower to go, it becomes a chance to rebuild in a simpler, more aligned way—letting go of what doesn’t serve you.

    A framework can be useful—until it becomes a cage. When discipline is fueled by fear, it exhausts us. True growth doesn’t come from relentless self-monitoring, but from knowing you are already enough. It comes from showing up, doing your best, and trusting that’s enough.

    Talking things through with a psychologist, it became obvious: the checklist that once gave me security had become a restrictive system holding me back.

    I decided to trust the extensive research that shows leading with self-compassion drives success and happiness by turning setbacks into growth, reducing stress, and helping us become more present people.

    The hard part was learning to believe it—not just in my head, but in my gut. That kind of shift takes time, patience, and a steady mindfulness to gently bring yourself back when you drift.

    Doing Things Out of Joy, Not Obligation

    When I used to run, it was with a fierce determination to get to the finish. Quickly. And it was never fast enough. I didn’t use a social fitness tracker because no run I ever did was perfect enough to represent who I thought I should be.

    When I started to exercise again after surviving the pregnancy and transitioning from a place of self-judgment to self-compassion, my mind was blown.

    The voice in my head was kind and understanding and came from a place of love. When pushing for another lap, my thoughts would wander to words of encouragement. “Okay, do another lap, but stop if you need—you’ve already come so far!” I felt complete gratitude.

    The rules I had followed for years didn’t disappear; they transformed from needs to wants—and never musts.

    I still love to move my body, but I do it because I can and because I want to, not because I have to.

    I still care for the people around me, but not at the expense of myself.

    The things that once felt like obligations became absolute pleasures. And the best part? There are no repercussions if I don’t do those things. I either let it go without thought or reflect and learn from my actions. Without judgment.

    You Are Enough, Always

    Your worth isn’t something to prove—you are enough just by existing.

    It doesn’t need to take a crisis to realize this. Checklists, measuring, self-checking, the relentless need to keep up—they are never what make you worthy. Letting go of that weight doesn’t mean losing yourself; it means freeing yourself.

    Start noticing the voice in your head. Is it pushing you out of fear, or guiding you with love? Self-compassion isn’t about doing less—it’s about doing things from a place of kindness, not criticism. You can still strive, grow, and show up—but now, it’s because you want to, not because you have to. And that changes everything.

    Shift the script. You don’t have to do more. You don’t have to be more. You already are enough—always.

  • What My First Heartbreak Revealed About My Self-Worth

    What My First Heartbreak Revealed About My Self-Worth

    The first time I got my heart broken—really, painfully broken—I remember feeling too ashamed to ask for support. I didn’t talk about it with anyone because, at the time, there weren’t many people I trusted with such a raw and tender part of myself.

    I cried a lot, so people around me knew something had happened, but looking back, I think it’s tragic that I had no friends or family I felt safe enough to open up to. No bestie to cry into a tub of ice cream with. Tragic, but also a bit revealing.

    Like all painful experiences of loss, it eventually became more bearable. I resumed my regular routines. Heartbreak is just another part of life, and we move on as time passes, right?

    It was over a decade later when I chanced upon a letter I had written to my ex shortly after our breakup. I found it at my parents’ house in the pocket of an old pair of pants, in a drawer full of remnants from those restless years of young adulthood when I had no true home of my own.

    My stomach sank as I pulled it out, recognizing it instantly. Had someone found it and read it? Imagine that. Shame outweighed curiosity even all those years later. But the envelope was still sealed. It had his name written on the front in my handwriting.

    The letter was written to him, but it was always meant for me. I had been drowning in misery when I wrote it, and re-reading the words pulled me right back into that pain. But with years of distance, I saw something I couldn’t have grasped back then.

    At the time, I had believed the pain was all about losing him—that I couldn’t imagine not being with him anymore. Missing him felt like a black hole in my life, one that only he could fill. And yes, part of my pain was indeed about him. But if I’m being honest, our connection was never strong enough to justify the depth of pain I felt when it ended.

    The true source of my pain—the visceral agony of the weeks that followed—was not about him at all. It was about what his rejection confirmed for me.

    I’m not enough.

    That is why the whole experience was so closely tied to feeling shame as much as (or more so) than feeling grief. Every insecurity I had carried since childhood—not smart enough, not interesting enough, not attractive enough, not cool enough, not sexy enough, not fun enough—felt legitimized the moment he decided I wasn’t for him. Losing him was a personal failure and a reflection of my insignificance.

    Even more than that, I realized that our entire relationship had been a desperate attempt to prove my own worth. If I could be loved by him, then maybe I was good enough. That was my only focus. And in making that my focus, I sabotaged the relationship.

    In the early days, I was being me. That’s what had sparked the attraction. But once we committed, I became hyper-aware of everything I thought I needed to be in order for him to keep wanting me. I stopped being present. I stopped enjoying him. Without even realizing it, I created drama—not because I wanted to, but because I needed him to prove he cared enough to stay. I was so obsessed with being enough for him that I never paused to ask myself if he was enough for me.

    I didn’t know it then, but breakups don’t just hurt because of who we’ve lost. They crack open something deeper. They expose wounds we didn’t even know we were carrying.

    At the time, I looked at other people—especially my ex—who seemed fine, and I convinced myself that something must be wrong with me. But looking back, I see how misguided that was. I wasn’t broken. I was reckoning with my own self-loathing. Without support. Without any reason to see how human it was.

    I wish I had known that the pain of a breakup isn’t necessarily just about missing someone. It’s also about what the feeling of desertion stirs up in you. It’s about how the sudden loss of connection can make you question your own worth.

    I tried to be strong by pushing through, distracting myself, pretending I was okay. I tried to hate him, fixating on all his flaws. But avoidance isn’t healing—it only postpones the inevitable. The feelings I refused to process didn’t disappear; they resurfaced in my self-doubt, in my choices, in the quiet moments when no distraction was enough.

    Standing in my parents’ home that day, I was able to see the missed window of opportunity. I understood how going through that alone due to my shame never gave the experience a chance to be properly digested. The same inner critic and shame resurfaced again and again in the years that followed until eventually, I was brave enough to do the work and step into a version of myself who believes in my inherent value.

    If I could go back, I would tell myself a few important things:

    • This isn’t something to just get over. It’s something to move through. The pain isn’t here to break you—it’s asking for your attention.
    • Real strength isn’t pretending you’re fine. It’s allowing yourself to feel what needs to be felt. It’s getting the right support, whether from a therapist, a coach, or a trusted guide. It’s letting the experience change you—not by making you harder, but by making you whole.
    • Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean waking up one day and realizing you no longer care. It means learning from the loss. Understanding yourself more deeply. Stepping forward with a clearer sense of what you truly need and deserve.

    I can’t go back and give my younger self this wisdom. Who knows if she would have been ready to listen anyway? But I can offer it to anyone who might be there now—wondering why it still hurts, wondering when they’ll finally be “over it.”

    The truth? The most painful moments of our lives often carry the greatest invitations for self-discovery. Normalizing our pain and meeting it with self-compassion can unlock massive personal growth.

    We don’t get through life unscathed. We will be hurt. We will face pain. We will have to accept the incomprehensible.

    But if we learn to turn inward—to become a safe refuge for ourselves, filled with kindness and understanding—we can evolve. We can transform our lives rather than repeat the same lesson over and over, carrying that wisdom into our next experience.

    So here is my wish for all of you with a broken heart. May you meet your pain so it won’t just wound you but shape you into a truer version of yourself. Stay in your heart.

  • How I Stopped Hiding Myself for Love and Approval

    How I Stopped Hiding Myself for Love and Approval

    TRIGGER WARNING: This post includes a brief mention of childhood physical abuse and may be triggering to some readers.

     “The person who tries to keep everyone happy often ends up feeling the loneliest.” ~Unknown

    It’s Christmas morning. I’m seven years old. I sit on the hardwood floor with my sisters, in my nightgown surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper. I grab the next present to open. I tear off the paper. It’s a ballerina costume with a pink leotard, tutu, and pale pink tights.

    As soon as I thank my adoptive parents, I leave the room with my new gift, keeping it hidden behind me. I get upstairs to my bedroom and stand in front of the mirror, rushing to get it out of the package and put it on, struggling to get the different fabrics to cooperate.

    When I finally get it on my body, I run back downstairs with a big smile, excited to surprise everyone and maybe even earn some laughs. My heart races with excitement. I enter the living room. My adoptive parents look at me. I scan their faces for smiles. The smiles don’t come.

    “What the hell did you do! You ain’t supposed to put it on yet!” Mom yells.

    My heart’s beating loud. Why are they angry? I can’t understand the mean words my parents hurl at me. Dad gets up from his chair and attacks me. When he’s done, my face is hot and my hair disheveled. I hang my head and go back upstairs to my bedroom to change out of the costume. I look in the mirror at myself. ‘I’m so stupid.’ I think. I will never misread them again.

    I was taken from my birthmother at ten months old and placed with foster parents who abused me, and despite this being common knowledge, they were allowed to adopt me.

    Adoptees, even without abuse from adoptive parents, become experts at adapting. We know our family arrangement came to be because our birth parents weren’t up for the task of holding onto us; the reason doesn’t matter because children can only point inward. Beneath the surface, many adoptees carry an unconscious belief that sounds something like this:

    “I am bad and unlovable. That is why I was not worth keeping the first time. If I can become whoever my adoptive parents want me to be, I will prevent being abandoned again.”

    So, adoptees learn to bend and shift, careful not to incite disappointment or anger from their adoptive parents. For example, I didn’t dream of being a dancer as a child. I’d never taken a ballet class or even expressed an interest in it. So when I opened that costume on Christmas morning, I saw it as a clue. My eagerness to be a show pony in a ballet costume was an instinctual reaction because it meant earning a higher approval rating from my scary adoptive parents. But obviously, I read it all wrong.

    This life-saving skill of adaptation permeates any relationship that poses a risk for leaving adoptees with a broken heart. It can become so pervasive that by the time adoptees enter adulthood, they’ve had little to no experience exploring their own needs, wants, or desires—because they’ve spent their entire lives becoming who the person in front of them wanted them to be.

    My husband and I gave our daughter a “yes day” a couple of years ago, where she created a list of fun things to do, and within specific parameters, we had to say “yes.” This involved her choosing our outfits for the day, a trip to Dave and Busters, a silly string fight, designing specialty chocolates at the Goo Goo Cluster shop downtown, and a candy buffet for dinner. My husband and I delighted in her joy that day.

    Later, when my daughter asked, “Mom, what would you want to do if you had a ‘yes day?’”

    I felt a burning in my chest, realizing I couldn’t answer her. And when an idea did come, like seeing a concert or dining at a specific restaurant, I knew I’d feel guilty for asking the rest of my family to join me because it wasn’t their thing. My inability to tell my child what I like was a powerful teaching moment, and a call for change.

    I began therapy in my early thirties, intent on resolving the thick layers of trauma and loss that created this barrier between the me that operated out of fear of abandonment, and my true self. Traditional talk therapy with a therapist specializing in trauma, EMDR, EEG neurofeedback, and accelerated resolution therapy slowly chipped away at that barrier. With every victory, I learn more about myself and feel more at ease in the world.

    Resolving trauma is dissolving shame. For me, shame has kept me from knowing myself and focusing solely on the happiness of the people around me for fear of being left or in danger if I fail.

    Loneliness is a consequence of being a chameleon who doesn’t know who she is. How can I expect genuine connection if I’m not allowing people to accept the real me? As a shame-filled person, I chose relationships with people who mirrored my low self-worth back to me. How can I expect genuine connection in relationships like that?

    Authentic relationships are a natural consequence of dissolving shame. Being seen, loved, and accepted for our true selves is the antidote to loneliness.

    For anyone out there who bends and shifts to maintain connection with the people they care about, ask yourself, “If I had a yes day, how would I spend it? Do the people in my life care enough about me to come along and delight in my joy?”

    If that question feels uncomfortable—if the people who come to mind would groan, flake, or dismiss it—I see you. I’ve been there. But healing begins with allowing yourself to imagine something different. Imagine being surrounded by people who celebrate and cherish the real you. Imagine what it would feel like to be loved that way.

    Because that kind of love is possible, and you deserve it.

  • How to Make the Most of Our Time with the People We Love

    How to Make the Most of Our Time with the People We Love

    “Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” ~Robert Brault

    With only a few more months until my son leaves for college, I am a mindfulness teacher wrestling with my own heart and mind.

    While avoiding the frequent mom conversations about “empty nesting,” I’m struggling to admit that my last child leaving home may be harder than I thought. Ironic, since working skillfully with difficult emotions is exactly what I teach.

    Every school event I attend feels like a heavy, steady march toward graduation day. Yesterday in the high school gym, I was sandwiched between two other senior moms bawling their eyes out. Their minds and emotions were far in the future, already experiencing that final goodbye hug on college move-in day.

    While I was feeling some of the same emotions, that experience gave me a clear insight: I don’t want to miss the time I have left with my high school senior because I’m living my life as if he’s already gone. Then, a poem by Bashō flashed in my mind:

    Even in Kyoto
    hearing the cuckoo’s cry
    I long for Kyoto

    You know when a poem perfectly crystallizes an emotion you’re feeling? This one nails it. The feeling of being in the presence of something tremendously special and beautiful while holding it so tightly that you’re missing it before it’s gone. The more I explore it, the stronger it gets; an eerie feeling of longing for something while still enjoying it.

    My less poetic version might be:

    Only four months left
    Laughter coming from his room
    My heart aches already

    I considered asking for a weekly “mother/son date” for the rest of the school year, but I know better. His senior year should be focused on his own priorities, not my emotional needs as a parent.

    So, while he’s out enjoying his senior year, what can I do to get the most out of MY remaining time with him so I don’t have regrets of my own?

    Then it came to me. Savoring.

    It dawns on me that I already have the perfect tool for this situation. The mindfulness practice of savoring. We normally think of savoring as it relates to food, like consciously enjoying a bite of high-quality chocolate. With mindfulness, you can savor anything. A sunset, the scent of a flower—even a person.

    Remembering this gives me an idea of how to get the most out of my time with him, rather than missing it thanks to an anxious mind living full-time in the future.

    Previously, I’ve used the practice of savoring to increase the intensity and appreciation of positive experiences and emotions, and it worked. So, why not now? It also feels right because it’s a “stealth” mindfulness practice, something I can do without him even knowing I’m doing it.

    Now, I’m eager to begin applying what I teach, and being more present for this important relationship in my life. I start off using a popular mindfulness practice known by the acronym “S.T.O.P.”

    When savoring a person’s presence: I Stop, Take an intentional deeper breath, Observe the moment using my five senses, and Proceed with awareness.

    The “secret sauce” is the Observe stage, which involves leaning into my five senses: seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling/sensing.

    Now, instead of multi-tasking while we’re in the kitchen together, I pay close attention to information coming in through my five senses. I also try to practice high-quality listening. This kind of listening differs from normal conversation where we are half-listening and half-thinking about what we’re about to say back. Here, I’m simply trying to listen with my whole heart.

    The interaction wraps up with the last stage: Proceed with awareness. I bask in the warm feeling I get from being with him and let it imprint on my heart. The mindfulness soon wears off, and that’s okay. I know I’m not always aiming for this kind of heightened state of awareness.

    I let out a big exhale now that I’m less anxious about the next four months. Auto-pilot interactions are replaced with a sense of calm and connection. Each day, I pick at least one interaction where I make a focused effort to savor his presence and appreciate the richness of our simple everyday moments together.

    This afternoon, the smell of steak on a cast iron skillet draws me into the kitchen. I give full attention to the new baritone voice as he speaks, closely admire the way he peels the garlic like a trained chef, and smile at a ray of sun hitting the strands of gold in his hair.

  • Why Holding Space Is Better Than Gripping for Control

    Why Holding Space Is Better Than Gripping for Control

    “Anything you can’t control is teaching you how to to let go.” ~Unknown

    There’s a story I read to my children, an old piece of African folklore. In the tale, a clever jackal outwits a mighty lion by convincing him that the rock ledge above them is about to collapse. The lion, believing the jackal’s warning, uses all his strength to push up against the rock, holding it in place.

    The jackal promises to return with a branch to support the ledge, but instead, he makes his escape. Hours later, exhausted, the lion finally collapses, throwing his paws over his head in fear—only to realize the rock was never going to fall. It had been holding itself up all along.

    By believing the jackal’s story, the lion not only lost his chance at a meal but also drained himself completely. His muscles trembled, his breath came ragged, his energy was spent. The rock had never needed his strength at all.

    I thought about this story the other day—not while reading to my children, but in a moment of quiet realization. A wave of exhaustion and relief hit me. I could feel the weight dropping from my shoulders, as if I were lowering my own arms from the rock ledge, only just realizing it had never needed my help.

    For years, I have tried to hold up things that were never mine to carry—relationships, outcomes, even the way the world moves. Intellectually, I’ve known for a while that control and perfectionism are two traits I need to release in order to heal and move forward. And yet, the need for control is so deeply ingrained that it slips in sideways, undetected, just when I think I’ve cracked the code.

    Take my writing, for example. It has always been driven by twin needs: first, to express myself, to shape my creativity and voice; but second, to make a difference—to shift the broader story unfolding on the global stage. Underpinning this is the belief that if I work hard enough, craft my words carefully enough, maybe I can influence something bigger than myself.

    But as I pictured the lion straining against the rock, I saw myself in him—struggling to change the world, to make an impact. And just like the rock ledge, the world moves as it always has, with or without my effort. No amount of willpower will shift it.

    At first, this realization felt disheartening. But then I saw it for what it was: an opportunity. A chance to redirect my energy toward what I can control—my own choices, my own growth—rather than exhausting myself trying to push against something that will never move.

    The same is true in my relationships. When I see family or friends struggle, my first impulse is to jump in and fix it for them. If I can’t fix it, I tell them how they should fix it. And when they don’t, I wait impatiently for them to act on my plan.

    Acceptance has always felt like forfeit, like giving in. But real love isn’t about control. It isn’t about making someone else change. If anything, my pushing only gave others something to resist—an excuse to avoid looking inward and making the change themselves.

    Just the other day, my son James banged his head. What followed was typical for him—rather than running to me for comfort like his sisters, he ran away crying, shouting, “Go away!” when I approached. It broke my heart.

    I didn’t listen. I inched closer, swatting away his flailing limbs, trying to soothe, trying to help, trying to fix. But the more I reached for him, the more he recoiled. My love felt like pursuit—like pushing, pulling, prodding. I was trying to make things better when what he needed was for me to simply be there, steady and patient, until he was ready to come back on his own.

    It’s hard to let go. Hard to accept that I can’t protect, guide, and mold everything as a parent, a partner, a daughter, a friend. But even a four-year-old sometimes needs the space to find his own way through. Sometimes, the best—the only—thing I can do is stop pushing and hold the space for him to find himself.

    Surrender is not passivity. Letting go of control doesn’t mean doing nothing—it means shifting my focus inward, toward what I can change: myself, my choices, my own growth. It means holding space for those I love, trusting that they will find their own way.

    The message was driven home again in the quiet of my dreams. I saw a large and beautiful rainbow-colored ring—bold, unconventional, unlike the traditional platinum engagement band. It shimmered with something deeper: a different kind of love, one unconstrained by rigid expectations.

    The next morning, as if to affirm the message, James’ tiny hand slipped into mine in the kitchen. With a delighted giggle, he rolled a bright, multi-colored playdough ring onto my finger.

    I looked at him, at his joy, at his offering. And I understood.

    Love isn’t about clinging, controlling, or shaping something into what we think it should be. Love is flexible. Love is colorful. Love is personal. And sometimes, love simply holds space, waiting patiently for the moment we are ready to return to it.

    This realization carries a tinge of sadness. How many years have I spent striving to move boulders that were never mine to shift?

    But beyond the sadness, there is also joy—deep, unshakable joy—in realizing I am free. Relief in knowing I don’t have to hold up the world, my friends, or my family.

    And peace—at last, within reach—in trusting that life is unfolding exactly as it’s meant to, as I slowly, gently, let go.

  • The Power of Finding Love Without a “How To” Formula

    The Power of Finding Love Without a “How To” Formula

    “Know all the theories, master all the techniques, but as you touch a human soul ,be just another human soul.” ~Carl Jung

    For years, I poured myself into learning about love, relationships, and personal growth. I read every book I could get my hands on, signed up for countless classes, and surrounded myself with affirmations, tools, and techniques that promised me the keys to love. I was on a mission, convinced that with enough knowledge, I could finally unlock the door to a successful, fulfilling relationship.

    But no matter how much I learned, how much I transformed my mindset, or how many positive affirmations I repeated, the pieces never quite fit together the way I expected them to. The advice seemed sound, and the changes I made felt empowering—yet when it came to matters of the heart, the answers were often elusive.

    Despite my best efforts to engineer a perfect love life, I had been trying to control something that ultimately falls beyond any framework, theory, or technique.

    In that moment of realization, I finally understood the true meaning behind Carl Jung’s words. Although he originally used this quote in his work as a psychologist, highlighting the importance of connecting with others on a profound, human level, I now see how deeply relevant it is in romantic relationships. I needed to meet myself on a human level before I could meet others.

    Love, much like life, cannot be mastered through intellect alone. It’s not about perfecting a set of rules or following a specific formula—it’s about surrendering to the mystery of being human together, with all our imperfections and strivings.

    The Pursuit of Perfection

    When I first set out on my journey to “become the one” or to “attract the one,” I was searching for the magic formula that would guarantee my ideal relationship. I believed that if I mastered the right mindset, practiced positive thinking, and applied the latest dating strategies, love would be inevitable.

    But somewhere along the way, I began to lose sight of the fact that love is not a destination—it’s an experience. And that experience doesn’t unfold because I’m the most polished version of myself; it emerges when I allow myself to be authentically human.

    Inadvertently, I became misdirected, shifting from living in the moment to striving to solve a puzzle. The irony was that in my pursuit of perfection, I grew more disconnected from my true self. I wasn’t seeking a genuine connection with another soul; I unconsciously focused on proving to myself that I could solve this.

    The Limitations of the “How-To” Guides 

    The more I studied, the more I realized that everything I learned about love came from the perspective of doing. These guides, books, and seminars taught me how to behave, think, or feel in order to attract or maintain love. But none of it resonated with the most important aspect of love: being.

    Love cannot be controlled by a set of principles or techniques. We cannot engineer chemistry, force someone to be the right partner, or create lasting connection through willpower alone. And that’s where I went wrong.

    No matter how much I pushed, tweaked, or optimized myself, something was always missing. And that missing piece wasn’t about improving or refining myself—it was about surrendering to the mystery of love.

    What I needed was a genuine connection to my own heart—raw, messy, vulnerable, and human. It’s about stepping away from our minds and allowing ourselves to engage with each other, body and soul, as the beautiful, complex beings we naturally are.

    Learning the Book Intelligence, But Bringing My Body Along

    I spent years absorbing the wisdom of books, thinking that knowledge would be the key to unlocking love. But while my mind was soaking in all this information, my body was still trailing behind, stuck in old patterns. I realized that no amount of intellectual understanding could transform those deeply ingrained emotional and physical responses.

    And so, I began to lean into them.

    I began to acknowledge my compulsions—those deep, visceral urges I had to seek out drama, romance, and even toxicity. I recognized how I had often fallen into a pattern of addiction to love, driven by an unconscious need to feel validated or to save someone else in order to feel worthy.

    What I came to realize is that we are all, in some way, on the spectrum of addiction shaped by our culture.

    This time, instead of fighting or ignoring those patterns, I chose to work with them. I stopped trying to intellectualize everything and started to listen deeply to my body. I allowed myself to sit with the discomfort—to feel the tension, the longing, the ache—and explore the deeper emotions behind these patterns.

    It felt like I was standing on the edge of the deepest, darkest caverns of my soul, this little girl peering into them, unsure of what I might find. But I knew that to move forward, I had to face what lay within, no matter how frightening it seemed. I allowed myself to feel beyond the fear, pushing past the reflexive bracing that usually stopped me before. Slowly, I began to make peace with them, acknowledging that these were parts of me that needed compassion and companionship.

    By accepting and tending to my body’s responses, I started to shift the emotional energy that had previously held me captive. The more I worked with my body’s sensations, the more I realized that true healing in love doesn’t just come from the mind; it comes from integrating the mind, body, and heart.

    Addiction and the Conditioning of Love

     One huge piece I began to understand as I worked through these emotional patterns was that we are often primed by the world around us to seek out high-intensity emotional experiences, particularly when it comes to love. Our modern world, especially the fast-paced nature of dating today, has trained us to want immediate gratification—both emotionally and physically. We live in such a sensory-driven world that we might not even realize the degree to which we are conditioned to seek intensity in every moment.

    It was like I needed to treat my emotional healing and body healing as a twelve-step process, detoxing from the patterns of seeking quick fixes and instant validation, and instead, focusing on building something deeper and more sustainable.

    It was only when I fully embraced those emotions, instead of avoiding or rushing past them, that a shift occurred. Yes, intellectually I knew the difference, but I had to work with the pulls of my nervous system differently. My body was responding to the signals of “connection” in these instances, but I needed a new discernment about what I was really feeling.

    I began to understand that the addictive pull of romance, drama, and excitement was not the same as true connection. True connection takes time and effort to build—it requires patience, vulnerability, and trust, rather than the constant chase for external validation and peak experiences.

    The Mystery of Divine Timing

    As I began to untangle myself from the addictive cycles of modern romance, I came to realize something even deeper: the magic of divine timing. The pull of romantic desire, with its highs and lows, was no longer the driving force in my life. Instead, I began to see that the beauty of love is not in the chase, but in the quiet, mysterious unfolding of life.

    Divine timing has a way of making us appreciate the journey, the waiting, and the uncertainty of love in a way that we cannot predict. We cannot force love, rush it, or manipulate it into being.

    But when we allow ourselves to be—when we integrate the mind, body, and heart—we create space for the kind of connection that truly resonates with our soul.

    There is sadness in this mystery, yes. The uncertainty, the longing, the waiting—these are all part of the human condition.

    But there is also aliveness in it.

    It is this space of not knowing that teaches us to love harder, to trust deeper, and to embrace the present moment as it is.

    Divine timing is not about waiting passively, but about trusting that when the time is right, love will find us. And when it does, we will be ready—not because we’ve perfected ourselves or our circumstances, but because we’ve learned to lean into the process, to feel every moment deeply, and to trust that love will come when it’s meant to.

    Letting Go of the “How-To” and Embracing the “Being”

    There’s a profound difference between pursuing love through strategies and opening yourself to love by simply being yourself. The former can leave you drained and disconnected from your authentic self, while the latter allows space for genuine connection to flourish naturally.

    When I let go of the idea that I had to do something to make love work, I started to experience relationships in a completely new way. I learned to trust the ebb and flow of connection, allowing the journey to unfold as it was meant to.

    I also began to see love in a more mindful way—no longer limited to romantic love, but as something multidimensional and all around me. Those tender moments of pure kindness, warmth, or generosity from anyone, anywhere, reminded me that I am a human being, not a human striving.

    As I reflect on the lessons I’ve learned, I see that being a “human soul” means embracing the unknowns of life—especially in love. No amount of preparation or knowledge will guarantee a perfect relationship.

    What matters most is that we show up as our true, vulnerable selves. And when we do, love will find us—not as a result of our efforts to attract it, but because it’s part of the natural flow of life.

    Simply Be Human 

    Carl Jung’s words ring truer now than ever: we can know all the theories, master all the techniques, but at the end of the day, we must allow ourselves to simply be human. Being a “human soul” also means allowing others to be human souls too—seeing their messiness with grace, accepting their flaws, and not trying to mold them into something they are not.

    It’s about embracing the beautiful chaos of being human, both in ourselves and in others. The journey toward love isn’t about achieving perfection or solving a puzzle. It’s about being present, trusting the process, and embracing vulnerability. It’s about letting go of the need for control and trusting in divine timing.

    The irony is all the “how-to” guides and strategies for love can only take us so far. At some point, we need to move beyond following instructions and allow ourselves to experience love fully—raw, unfiltered, and human, from the inside out.

    I’ve found a deeper connection happens when we integrate our heart, mind, and body—when we stop compartmentalizing and let all parts of ourselves be present.

    It’s about feeling deeply, thinking honestly, and being grounded in our physical experience. When we show up with this kind of alignment, love is no longer something to chase or achieve but something that flows naturally from within.

    I think it’s beautiful—almost transcendent—to think about love this way, as something that exists in the rawness of our true selves, not in some idealized version of who we think we should be or a checklist to be marked, but the power of connection and the incredible expansion it brings when it happens.

  • Discovering I Lived in Fear, Thinking It Was Love

    Discovering I Lived in Fear, Thinking It Was Love

    “Fear is the opposite of love. Love is the absence of fear. Whatever you do out of fear will create more fear. Whatever you do out of love will create more love.” ~Osho

    I did not realize I was driven by fear for most of my life.

    I thought I was making choices from love by being good, responsible, kind, and successful. Looking back, I see how much of my life was organized around keeping myself safe, and that came from a place of fear.

    From the outside, I looked successful, practical, and just fantastic at adult life. In the quiet moments, which I rarely allowed, I felt dull, disconnected, and like I was watching my life from the outside. I filled those voids and pushed away those feelings by doing. I had no idea that fear was in the driver’s seat. Fear spoke loudly and told me:

    • Keep yourself small.
    • Be careful about speaking up.
    • Try to be as good as others.
    • You’re not smart or good enough and need to work harder and do more.
    • Love has to be earned by proving yourself.

    And because I didn’t know it was fear, I listened. I thought these messages were the truth. I didn’t realize that I lacked the expansive, open power of self-love.

    The Moment I Realized Fear Was Running My Life

    I didn’t recognize fear until it had completely consumed me.

    In March 2020, I sat on my bed, crying, shrouded in the shame of failure. My husband and young kids were on the other side of the door, and I was scared. I did not want to face them and be home with them through the pandemic lockdown,with no school or work as respite.

    I feared that I would fail them, and that I could not hold it together to be the calm, loving mom and wife they needed. Mostly, I was scared of not being able to handle it. My alone time, as much as I was disconnected from myself and filled any quiet with noise and distraction, was when I recharged.

    I had spent so much of my life striving, pushing, proving, and performing, desperate to be good enough.

    But no matter how hard I worked or how much I achieved, it never felt like enough.

    That day, as I sat there, exhausted and broken, a thought rose inside me:

    “There has to be another way. I cannot go on like this.”

    And then, through the heaviness, I heard a quiet voice:

    “The work is inside you.”

    That was the moment everything started to change. I pulled that inner thread, and for the first time, I slowed down enough to feel.

    I let myself be still. I let myself sit with emotions I had spent a lifetime avoiding. Sadness, failure, shame, guilt, and resentment all rose to the surface. And as I unraveled, my heart started to open, and I realized that I had been living in a state of fear.

    I had spent years thinking my way through fear, trying to control it with logic. But real understanding—real change—came when I started listening to my body and its quiet whispers.

    Fear vs. Love

    Once I learned how to connect with my body, I noticed:

    • Fear is loud and demanding, while love is quiet and calm.
      Fear creates internal pressure: “Hurry! Move! You’re late!”
      Love is patient: “Take your time. The right answers are within you.”
    • Fear feels tight, restricted, and on edge, while love feels expansive, open, and at ease.
      Fear comes with shallow breathing, tension in the shoulders, and a racing heart.
      Love brings deep breaths, relaxed muscles, and a sense of wonder.
    • Fear lives in the mind, while love lives in the body.
      Fear spins stories. Love is present.
    • Fear keeps you small, while love invites you to grow.
      Fear says, “Stay where it’s safe.”
      Love says, “Step forward. You can handle this.”

    My biggest realization came with knowing that love doesn’t force or pressure or shame. I lived so many years feeling like I had to tread carefully and not make a mistake, or else I would be in trouble or be discovered as a fraud. This stemmed from childhood, where, as the oldest child, I didn’t want to cause problems for my parents. I know now that was straight out of fear’s playbook.

    Shifting from Fear to Love

    Fear will always be there. It’s part of being human. It’s not all bad. We want to feel fear when there’s real danger. But we don’t want it to be our mindset.

    Here’s what I do now when I feel fear creeping in:

    1. Get out of the mind and into the body.

    You can’t think your way out of fear. Instead, I:

    • Close my eyes.
    • Take a deep breath, inhaling through my nose and sighing out of my mouth.
    • Place a hand on my heart or belly.
    • Notice the sensations in my body—tightness, warmth, buzzing, stillness.
    • Ask myself, “What am I scared of?”

    2. Notice the difference between fear’s voice and love’s voice.

    When making a decision, I ask:

    • Does this thought feel urgent, pressured, or heavy? That’s fear.
    • Does this thought feel grounded, spacious, or light? That’s love.

    3. Move through fear—don’t push it away.

    Fear doesn’t disappear just because we wish it away. As researcher Jill Bolte Taylor says, with any emotion, if we can sit in it for sixty to ninety seconds without attaching a story or thought to it, the fear will pass. This can be uncomfortable and takes some practice.

    Instead of avoiding fear, try saying:
    “I see you. I know you’re trying to keep me safe. What do you want me to know?”

    One morning, after forgetting my son’s backpack at school drop-off, I felt fear in the form of harsh self-criticism. It sat heavy in my gut. I asked it, “What do you want me to know?” It told me I was a failure. As I dialogued with it, I discovered that underneath the anger and pressure was exhaustion—and a part of me that needed rest and reassurance.

    4. Make small choices from love.

    We don’t have to make massive leaps. Even small shifts—choosing self-compassion over self-criticism, presence over anxiety, truth over avoidance—begin to rewire our nervous system.

    Choosing Love, One Breath at a Time

    I spent years letting fear run my life without realizing it.

    I thought I had to think my way through everything. But the moment I dropped into my body, things changed. I am more present, compassionate, curious, appreciative, and embodied.

    Now, when fear arises, I no longer try to silence it. I don’t fight it. I don’t shame myself for feeling it.

    Instead, I breathe. I listen. I notice how it feels. And then I ask myself:

    “Is this fear speaking? Or is this love?”

    And whenever possible, I choose love.

  • Something Amazing About Crying

    Something Amazing About Crying

  • Sometimes Letting Go Is the Ultimate Act of Love

    Sometimes Letting Go Is the Ultimate Act of Love

    “Sometimes letting go is the ultimate act of love—both for the other person and for yourself.” ~Unknown

    I never imagined that the same classroom where I found love would become the first chapter of a story about letting go.

    Ten years ago, as an undergraduate student full of dreams and certainty, I met him. We were classmates first, then friends, and finally, lovers who thought we’d conquered the dating game by finding our perfect match so young.

    During our college years, our bond seemed unshakeable. We even chose to intern in the same city, not wanting distance to separate us. I remember the tiny apartment we’d meet in after long workdays, sharing instant noodles and big dreams. We thought we were building our future together, one shared experience at a time.

    But as graduation approached and those dreams began taking concrete shape, hairline cracks started appearing in our foundation. While I envisioned building a family by twenty-seven, seeing myself hosting Sunday dinners and creating a warm home, he was focused on making his mark in his career. Every conversation about the future seemed to pull us in opposite directions.

    Those differences erupted into arguments that stretched across two years. Each fight left us more entrenched in our positions, unable to find middle ground. What had once been loving support for each other’s goals became a tug-of-war between two different life paths. We kept trying to bend each other’s vision of the future until we finally realized that some dreams can’t be compromised without breaking the dreamer.

    In 2022, after a decade of love, memories, and shared history, our relationship ended. The future I had spent ten years imagining disappeared overnight. Every plan, every dream, every “someday” we had talked about vanished, leaving me feeling like I was free-falling through space without a tether.

    The first year after our breakup was the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced. I was struck down by bronchitis, and in those dark nights of physical and emotional pain, thoughts of giving up crossed my mind. Why should I continue when the future I had built my entire adult life around had crumbled?

    But in those moments of deepest despair, a quiet voice inside me asked, “Why should I give up my life for a rejection? Why should someone else’s inability to choose me determine my worth?”

    That was my turning point. I realized that by entertaining thoughts of giving up, I was rejecting myself far more brutally than anyone else ever could. The end of a relationship, even a decade-long one, didn’t have to mean the end of my story.

    Here’s what I learned about surviving the death of a future you thought was certain:

    1. Your plans changing doesn’t mean you failed. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is acknowledge that two good people can want different things, and that’s okay.

    2. The length of a relationship doesn’t determine its success. Those ten years weren’t wasted—they were filled with growth, love, and lessons that shaped who I am today.

    3. Physical illness and emotional pain often go hand in hand. Taking care of your body becomes crucial when your heart is healing.

    4. The future you imagined isn’t the only future possible. When one door closes, it doesn’t mean you’re trapped—it means you’re being redirected to a path you haven’t imagined yet.

    5. Choosing life is an act of courage. Every morning you get up and face the day, you’re choosing to believe in possibilities over past pain.

    It took me a full year to finally accept that I would never have that particular future I had planned. But in accepting that loss, I found something unexpected—freedom. Freedom to reimagine my life without compromising my core desires. Freedom to discover who I am outside of a relationship that had defined my entire adult life.

    Now, looking back, I understand that the end of our relationship wasn’t just about losing someone I loved; it was about finding myself. In choosing to live, to move forward, to accept the end of one dream as the potential beginning of another, I discovered a strength I never knew I possessed.

    To anyone reading this who’s in the depths of heartbreak, questioning whether they’ll ever feel whole again: you will. Not in the same way—you’ll never be the same person you were before this loss. But you’ll be stronger, wiser, and more authentically yourself than ever before. The future you imagined may be gone, but the future you’ll create might be even better than anything you could have planned.

    Choose life. Choose yourself. Choose to believe that an ended relationship isn’t a failed one—it’s just a completed chapter in your ongoing story.

  • From Awkward to Authentic: How to Show Up as Your True Self in Love and Life

    From Awkward to Authentic: How to Show Up as Your True Self in Love and Life

    “Don’t make yourself small for anyone. Be the awkward, funny, intelligent, beautiful little weirdo that you are. Don’t hold back. Weird it out.” ~Unknown

    You know that moment when you’re mid-conversation, and your brain throws up a flashing neon sign that says, “Abort mission! Abort mission!”

    Meanwhile, you’re left replaying your words like a bad karaoke performance, cringing at every note.

    Or when you’re swiping through dating profiles and mutter, “Why does everyone here look like they’re auditioning for a toothpaste ad?” We’ve all been there. Here’s the thing… we’re so darn busy trying to present a polished, “perfect” version of ourselves that we forget to actually be ourselves, and that’s where the magic happens. Really!

    Authenticity isn’t just some woo-woo concept; it’s scientifically proven to make you more magnetic! When you show up as the real you, things start to shift—in a good way. Let’s ditch the awkwardness and get real, like, laugh-at-your-own-texts and wear-mismatched-socks real.

    A few years ago, I found myself staring at my reflection, frustrated by the need to always have it all together.

    I’d perfected the art of appearing confident, but inside, I felt disconnected from myself, from others, and even from love. That’s when it hit me—my constant reacting to situations, trying to please people, and molding myself into what I thought would be attractive was working against me.

    First, I stopped reacting and started being proactive. Instead of waiting for people to validate me, I took ownership of how I wanted to show up.

    I made sure my actions matched my words. (That’s the true definition of authenticity after all.)

    If I said I valued deep connections, I wasn’t going to hide behind small talk anymore.

    If I said I was looking for a meaningful relationship, I wasn’t going to waste my time with people who were just looking for something casual.

    Then, I gave my dating profile a reality check. No more vague “I love travel, laughter, and good company” fluff.

    I got specific about who I was, the good, the quirky, and the deal breakers. I made it easy for the wrong matches to filter themselves out before we even got to the first date.

    The result? Instead of random, lukewarm connections, I started attracting men who actually got me…

    Me! The real me! Men who read my profile and thought, “Yes! This is my kind of woman.”

    And you know what? It worked. (Insert my no rhythm happy dance)

    My advice? Get clear on your ‘you-ness.’ What makes you you? Is it your laugh-snort combo? The way you know every word to a nineties boy band song? Whatever it is, own it.

    Authenticity isn’t about being flawless; it’s about being aligned with your values and showing up in a way that feels true. Vanessa Van Edwards calls it your “connection currency,” and trust me, it’s priceless.

    Think of your values as your personal Wi-Fi signal. The stronger it is, the more clearly the right people will find and connect with you. No buffering needed.

    Jot down three values you live by, whether that’s kindness, humor, or never skipping dessert. Now ask yourself: Am I living them loud and proud, or are they stuck in airplane mode?

    Ever felt like you’re auditioning for America’s Got Talent on a first date?

    Nobody’s handing out trophies for Most Impressive Overthinker. The harder you try to impress, the more disconnected you’ll feel. People connect with realness, not rehearsed lines or “look-how-cool-I-am” antics.

    The right people don’t need you to dazzle them. They need you to make them feel comfortable. So, lean into being a little awkward; it’s endearing.

    Remember, connection over perfection!

    Next time you’re meeting someone new, replace “What if they don’t like me?” with “What if I don’t like them?” Now you’re the main character. How good does that feel!

    Here’s a fun fact: Your body language speaks before you do. Slouching and crossing your arms? You might as well wear a sign that says, “Don’t talk to me.” Meanwhile, open, confident body language says, “I’m approachable, and I know where the snacks are.”

    Master the “power pose” before any big moment. Stand tall, hands on hips, channel your inner superhero. Two minutes, and you’ll feel unstoppable (or at least like you can handle small talk).

    Nobody connects over surface-level fluff. People want stories that make them feel something, whether it’s a belly laugh or an “OMG, me too” moment. Share the time you accidentally texted your boss instead of your crush or how you once tried to “play it cool” and tripped over your own feet. Vulnerability wins.

    Vulnerability doesn’t mean oversharing. It means inviting someone into your world, not dragging them into your emotional baggage claim.

    If you’re ever in doubt, ask yourself: Would I enjoy hearing this story? If yes, share away. If no, maybe save it for your diary.

    Perfection is overrated. (And exhausting, to be honest.) Did you spill coffee on your shirt before a date? Laugh about it. Did you accidentally wave at someone who wasn’t waving at you? Congratulations, you’re human. Studies (and common sense) show that people find you more relatable when you own your imperfections.

    Think of your quirks as your personal brand. The spilled coffee? That’s your logo. The laugh-snort? Your tagline. Embrace it. It’s unforgettable.

    My first attempt at online dating was like trying to start a campfire in the rain—awkward, messy, and definitely not warm. My profile had over-filtered photos (hello, Insta face!) and a bio that could’ve been written by an HR bot. It attracted matches, sure, but none who actually matched me. I was looking for MY person.

    Then I stopped trying to be someone else and just showed up as myself: goofy, outdoorsy, and a little obsessed with Nutella. My bio became a reflection of my real personality, and my photos were candid moments that made me smile. It worked. The real, authentic matches started rolling in… real, warm, lovely men! Yes, they exist.

    Showing up as your true self doesn’t mean you’ll click with everyone, and that’s the point. Authenticity isn’t about being liked by the masses; it’s about finding your people (or your person) who love you for you.

    So, go ahead, wear the mismatched socks, tell the terrible joke, and let your quirks shine. Because when you’re real, the right people don’t just notice you; they remember you.

    Because your quirks aren’t just lovable… they’re magnetic.

  • The Only People Who Deserve to Be in Your Life

    The Only People Who Deserve to Be in Your Life

  • If You’re Struggling with Your Mental Health

    If You’re Struggling with Your Mental Health

  • Grief Has No Rules: Love, Loss, and Letting Go

    Grief Has No Rules: Love, Loss, and Letting Go

    “Grief never ends … But it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love.” ~Unknown

    “Thank you for letting me know.” The moment I hung up the phone, the tears came. I was confused and caught off guard. Why was I crying over the death of my ex-husband?

    We’d separated six years ago. I had a new partner and hadn’t thought much about him in over three years. So why did his death hit me so hard?

    Big Girls Don’t Cry

    Growing up in Ireland, emotions weren’t something we talked about. Tears were for small children, not grown women. When I was upset, I’d hear the same phrase, “Big girls don’t cry.” It wasn’t meant to hurt me, but it stayed with me.

    I learned to swallow my feelings. Anger, sadness, fear—those were things you kept private. I thought strength meant holding it all in. But as I grew older, that kind of strength felt heavy.

    When my ex-husband died, all of it came rushing back. The sadness, the confusion, the guilt. And then the shame. Why couldn’t I just be stronger? Why couldn’t I pull myself together like I was supposed to?

    Grief and Guilt Collide

    I felt like I was failing. Crying didn’t just feel wrong—it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of my upbringing, of the image I had of myself, and even of my current relationship. I couldn’t stop thinking: What if my partner saw me like this? Would he understand? Would he think I still loved my ex?

    The guilt weighed on me. But so did the fear. I wanted to go to the funeral, but I was terrified. What would his family think if I showed up? Would they see my tears and think I didn’t deserve to grieve? Would they think I was pretending?

    I wanted to hide. I wanted to run away from the emotions I wasn’t supposed to have. But this time, something inside me told me to stay.

    Reaching Out for Support

    I couldn’t carry it alone anymore. The grief, the guilt, the fear—it was all too much. For the first time in my life, I did something I’d always avoided. I reached out.

    I called my mum.

    At first, I hesitated. My instinct was to keep it together, to pretend I was fine. But the moment she picked up, the words spilled out. I told her everything. How lost I felt. How ashamed I was for crying. How afraid I was of what people would think if they saw me like this.

    She didn’t say much at first. She just listened.

    The Power of One Simple Truth

    Then, when I finally stopped talking, she said something simple. “It’s okay to feel this, you know. You loved him once. That doesn’t just go away.”

    Her words broke something open in me. I cried harder than I had in years, but for the first time, I didn’t feel alone in it. She stayed on the phone while I let it all out. She didn’t try to fix it or tell me to stop. She just stayed.

    That moment was a turning point. I started to see that grief wasn’t something to fight against or hide from. It was something I had to let myself feel. And asking for support didn’t make me weak. If anything, it gave me strength.

    Leaning on my mum helped me find my footing. I wasn’t over the loss—not even close—but I felt less trapped by it. For the first time, I could breathe again.

    Facing My Fears at The Funeral

    I arrived early at the church with my friend, my stomach in knots. The air felt heavy, like it knew I didn’t belong here—or at least, that’s what my mind kept telling me.

    A car pulled in beside us, and my heart sank. It was his sister. Without thinking, I slumped down in the seat, silently pleading for the ground to swallow me whole. What am I doing here? I wasn’t sure I could face their grief. I wasn’t sure I could face my own.

    But I’d come this far, and I couldn’t back out now.

    Finding Unexpected Comfort

    Dragging my feet, I walked toward the church door. Each step felt heavier than the last. I caught a glimpse of his brother standing near the entrance, and panic bubbled up in my chest. I almost turned and ran.

    My friend, sensing my hesitation, gently squeezed my elbow. It was a small gesture, but it steadied me. I kept walking.

    Then I saw her—his sister—standing at the church door. Her eyes locked with mine. There was no way out now. I braced myself, expecting a cold stare, a sharp word, maybe even outright anger.

    Instead, she stepped forward. And then, before I could react, she wrapped her arms around me. The hug was warm and full of love. It broke down every wall I’d built up in my mind.

    Finding Solace in Shared Memories

    Inside, the service was simple and poignant. The priest spoke softly, and memories of our life together floated through my mind—some good, some hard, all real. As the coffin was carried out of the church, I felt the tears welling up again.

    My friend placed an arm around my waist and gave me a little squeeze. For a moment, I considered pulling away, trying to summon that old stiff upper lip. Pretending I was fine. But I didn’t. I let the tears fall.

    After the service, the family invited me for a drink. It was an Irish funeral, after all. I hesitated, unsure if I belonged in their circle of mourning, but their warmth melted my fear. As we shared stories about him—some that made us laugh, others that brought tears to our eyes—I realized something profound. We had all loved this man in our own ways, and in that moment, our shared grief united us.

    Carrying the Sadness, Embracing the Joy

    Leaving the funeral, I felt a strange mix of emotions. The heaviness of loss was still there, but so was something else—a sense of lightness, even relief.

    The family’s kindness had reminded me of something I’d forgotten in my guilt and fear. I wasn’t just grieving a person; I was grieving a chapter of my life. My ex and I had shared 18 years together. Those years mattered. They shaped me into who I am today.

    A Beautiful Realization About Love

    At first, I struggled to reconcile those feelings with the love I have for my current partner. I worried that my grief might hurt him or make him feel less important. But over time, I realized something beautiful: love isn’t a competition. There’s space for both past and present love in my heart.

    I still feel sad when I think about my ex. Some days, it sneaks up on me—a song he used to love, a random memory, or even a quiet moment when the world feels still. But I’ve learned that sadness doesn’t mean I’m stuck or broken. It’s just a part of healing, a reminder of the love we shared and the lessons we learned together.

    Lessons Learned Through Grief

    • Grief Has No Rules: It’s okay to mourn someone even if your relationship wasn’t perfect or ended long ago. Grief is deeply personal and unpredictable.
    • Emotions Are Strength, Not Weakness: Feeling your emotions doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. Suppressing them only makes the weight heavier.
    • Ask for Support: You don’t have to carry grief alone. Lean on those who care for you and let them help lighten your burden.
    • Grief and Growth Can Coexist: Mourning someone is also an opportunity to reflect on what that relationship taught you and how it shaped you.
    • Healing Takes Time: There’s no timeline for healing. Be patient and gentle with yourself as you navigate the journey.

    Grief isn’t something we “get over.” It’s something we carry with us, but over time, it becomes lighter. We make space for it, and in doing so, we make space for love, connection, and joy again.

    If you’ve experienced grief, know that you’re not alone. Share your story in the comments below or reach out to someone who can support you. Sometimes, simply being heard can be the first step toward healing.