Tiny Buddha

Tag: Peace

  • The Prowler in My Mind: Learning to Live with Depression

    The Prowler in My Mind: Learning to Live with Depression

    “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” ~Leonard Cohen

    When depression comes, I feel it like a prowler gliding through my body. My chest tightens, my head fills with dark whispers, and even the day feels like night. The prowler has no face, no clear shape, but its presence is heavy. Sometimes it circles in silence within me. Other times it presses in until I don’t know how to respond.

    In those moments, I feel caught between two choices: do I lie still, hoping it passes by, or do I rise and face it? Often, I choose lying down—not out of paralysis but patience. Sometimes the only way to coexist with the shadow is to rest, to surrender for a while, to let sleep take me. And sometimes, when I wake, I feel a little lighter. Not free of the prowler but reminded that it is possible to live alongside it.

    Carl Jung once wrote, “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in our conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” I know this to be true. The more I try to push my depression away, the heavier it becomes. But when I bring awareness—even reluctant awareness—its power weakens.

    The Shadow as Teacher

    The shadow is not only my enemy. It also serves as a teacher. Depression forces me to face the parts of myself I would rather outrun: shame, grief, fear, anger, discontent. But it also carries hidden truths. Jung suggested that the shadow holds not just what we reject but also forgotten strengths and possibilities.

    For me, the shadow’s message is humility. It reminds me I am not in control, that I can’t polish myself into perfection. It pushes me to listen more deeply—to the pain I carry and the struggles I see in others. It insists that healing doesn’t come from pretending the darkness isn’t there. It comes from being willing to see it.

    Buddhism and the Prowler

    Buddhism gives me another way to see this. The Buddha taught that suffering doesn’t just come from clinging to what we crave; it also comes from turning away from what we don’t want to face. That turning away is called aversion.

    When the prowler moves through me, my instinct is always to turn away. I want to push it out, distract myself, pretend it isn’t there. But each time I run from it, the shadow grows stronger.

    In meditation, I practice staying. I sit and breathe, whispering silently, “May I be free from fear. May I be at peace.” I’ll be honest, sometimes these words feel empty or even silly. They don’t always lift me. But saying them creates a pause—a moment of willingness to stay instead of running. The prowler doesn’t vanish, but it softens a little under the light of compassion.

    Creativity and the Shadow

    I’ve also discovered that my documentary work—filmmaking, writing, teaching—is only authentic when I acknowledge the shadow. My camera becomes a mirror. When I pretend everything is light, the images feel flat. But when I allow the complexity of shadow into my seeing, the work has depth.

    When I sit with people to listen to their stories, I often sense their shadows too—grief unspoken, fear beneath the surface, contradictions in how they see themselves. I can recognize those shadows because I have lived with mine. Facing my own shadow allows me to meet others with greater truth and compassion.

    To create honestly means letting the shadow into the frame. Without it, there’s no contrast, no tension, no truth.

    Caregiving as Light

    One of the greatest gifts in my life now is caregiving for my ninety-six-year-old mother. These small daily acts bring moments of unexpected reprieve.

    I remember one morning, bringing her a simple breakfast—just toast and tea. She looked at me and smiled, her face lighting up with gratitude. In that moment, the prowler loosened its grip. It was such a small thing, yet it fed the part of me that wanted to live.

    Playing her old-time tunes on my Gibson mandolin does the same. When I see her foot tapping or hear her hum along, something shifts inside me. Caregiving sheds light into the darker places of my heart. The simplicity of preparing food or sharing music reminds me that love and service are stronger than despair. These acts don’t erase the shadow, but they bring balance, showing me I am more than my depression.

    Feeding the Shadow, Feeding the Light

    I’ve come to see that I sometimes feed my depression. Not on purpose, but through worry, anxiety, and rumination. Each time I circle the same fears, I am handing the prowler a meal.

    And then there are other times when I feed something else. The words of meditation may feel hollow, the wolf story may sound idealistic, but the simple acts are real: making my mother breakfast, playing her a mandolin tune, writing with honesty, or even just breathing one steady breath.

    It reminds me of the well-known story of two wolves: A grandfather told his grandson that inside each of us are two wolves. One is fierce and destructive, filled with anger, envy, fear, and despair. The other is peaceful and life-giving, filled with compassion, hope, and love. The boy asked, “Which one will win?” The grandfather replied, “The one you feed.”

    For me, both wolves are real. The prowler and the peaceful one live side by side. I don’t deny my depression. I know it is part of me. But I also know I can choose, moment by moment, which one I will feed.

    Presence with the Shadow

    The prowler still comes. I suspect it always will. Some days it circles silently like a vulture. Other days it urges me to lie down and surrender. And sometimes, when I wake, I feel a small relief—a reminder that coexistence is possible.

    This is what presence has come to mean for me. Presence is not escaping into light or denying the dark. Presence is staying with what is—the prowler, the heaviness, the caregiving, the fear. It means breathing with it, resting with it, even sleeping with it, without running away.

    Both Jung and the Buddha point in this direction. Jung says we cannot become whole without making the darkness conscious. The Buddha says we cannot be free if we turn away in aversion. And I have learned that I cannot create or care for others or live fully if I refuse to face the prowler inside me.

    So I continue step by step. I breathe. I stay. I rest. I create. I bring my mother breakfast. I play her mandolin tunes. I feed the peaceful wolf. I coexist. The shadow still prowls, but I am here too—more awake, more human, more present.

  • How a Simple Object Helped Me Slow Down and Breathe

    How a Simple Object Helped Me Slow Down and Breathe

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

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

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

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

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

    Why the Small Things Matter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    A Simple Invitation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Why Some Family Members Keep to Themselves

    Why Some Family Members Keep to Themselves

  • From Pain to Peace: How to Grieve and Release Unmet Expectations

    From Pain to Peace: How to Grieve and Release Unmet Expectations

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

    Before 2011, I had heard many spiritual teachers talk about “accepting what is.” It sounded nice in theory, like good mental information to chew on. But it didn’t feel embodied. I understood it intellectually, but I wasn’t living it.

    Then I attended a weekend intensive with a teacher I deeply respected, and something in the way he explained it hit deeper. It wasn’t just talk. The essence of his words turned a spiritual idea into something I could start to live.

    In that talk, he shared a story about a father whose son had become paraplegic. The father was devastated because he had so many expectations—that his son would go to college, graduate, get married, and have children. But those dreams died the day of the accident.

    The father was still living in a mental loop: “I should be going to his graduation.” “I should be at his wedding.” He couldn’t let go of the life he thought his son was supposed to have.

    The teacher explained that the father needed to grieve his expectations, not just in his mind, but in his body. That hit me hard. It was like an athlete expecting to win a championship and then getting injured. They’re stuck in that same mental trap: “I should have had that career,” and they suffer for years because life handed them a different card.

    That story cracked something open in me.

    The Weight of ‘Shoulds’ on the Body

    I’m someone who tends to be idealistic. I had high expectations for myself, others, and how life was supposed to go. And when people didn’t live up to those ideals, whether in business, relationships, or everyday interactions, it really hurt. I believed people should be honest, ethical, and truthful. They shouldn’t lie; they shouldn’t manipulate. I had a long list of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” that governed how I expected life to go.

    When life didn’t meet those expectations, I felt disappointed, angry, even hateful at times. My body held the tension. I had chronic stress, emotional pain, and health challenges. For six months, I was even coughing up blood, and doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. Looking back, I see now that I was holding on so tightly to my expectations that my body was breaking under the pressure.

    This is what that teacher was pointing to: that to truly accept what is, we have to grieve our expectations on a body level. It’s not enough to tell yourself affirmations like “just accept it” until you’re blue in the face. You have to feel where your body says, “No.”

    That means noticing: does your body feel heavy? Is your heart tight or tense? If there’s anything other than lightness or peace, then there’s something you haven’t grieved or released.

    By staying present with those sensations, without trying to fix or change them, you start to feel shifts. The signs of release are subtle but real: yawning, tears, vibrations, or a sense of energetic movement. It’s like something in your nervous system finally says, “Okay, I can let go now.”

    Letting Go Became the Practice

    After that retreat, I spent the whole summer sitting with these “should” beliefs. Every day, I made time to observe my thoughts and emotions. I noticed how often I was clinging to ideas like “I should have done this” or “they shouldn’t act that way.” It was uncomfortable at first. I didn’t realize how much I had been carrying around.

    I committed three to four months to this work. Being self-employed gave me the space to dive deep, and I felt it was necessary to do my own inner work before I could help others with theirs. I probably put in hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours during that time.

    Through that commitment, I released huge chunks of subconscious programming I didn’t even know were there. I realized I had inherited a lot of my “should” thinking from my upbringing. My mother also had strong expectations; when things didn’t go her way, she’d have intense emotional reactions. I had absorbed that pattern without realizing it.

    At the end of those few months, I felt like I had begun the real journey of embodying spiritual growth. Not just reading about it. Living it. Accepting what is became something I could feel in my bones, not just think about.

    But that was just the beginning.

    Acceptance Happens in Layers

    Over the next ten years, I noticed a pattern: about every six months to a year, a similar trigger would arise. Same emotion, same resistance, but less intense. The duration of my suffering shrank, too. What used to upset me for weeks now only remained for a few days, then a few hours.

    I came to understand that accepting “what is” happens in layers, like peeling an onion. At first, I released the more obvious emotional charges held in the heart or gut. But as time went on, I discovered deeper, more subtle conditioning stored in the nervous system, bones, tailbone, even in my skin and sense organs.

    The body doesn’t release it all at once—maybe because doing so would overwhelm the system. With each layer that releases, it feels like the body grants permission to go deeper.

    To find and clear these deeper layers, I learned muscle testing from the Yuen Method of Chinese Energetics that helps uncover subconscious resistances. Muscle testing was quite a powerful experience, teaching me to intuitively talk to the body to find and release unconscious ancestral conditioning and forgotten traumas that are decades-old or generational programs located in different body areas.

    My Personal “Should”: Loved Ones Should See My Good Intentions

    For example, I used to hate it when my father made negative assumptions about my good intentions or deeds. Instead of appreciating my efforts, he would criticize them, leaving me with the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough for him.

    This took me many years to work through, and each year, with each trigger, I discovered so much conditioning. I would have emotional meltdowns; my body would be tense and angry, just like my mom, because that’s how she is. From working on these triggers over the years, he can hardly get a reaction out of me anymore.

    I was essentially reacting in a hardwired way. When my father made negative assumptions about my mom, she would often respond with emotional meltdowns and angry outbursts. I realized I had inherited the same pattern.

    Over the years, each time my father pushed a button, I had to do continuous work on the different layers of conditioned reactions in specific areas of the body. His button-pushing became a gift: it constantly revealed more hidden layers of emotional reactivity.

    These days, if he makes negative assumptions, it might still bother me a little, but it’s nothing like the angry, hateful emotional reactions I used to have. If my body still reacts slightly, it’s giving me feedback, making me aware that there is still unconscious conditioning that needs to be released.

    If you do this work, over time, you will notice your loved ones may still push the same buttons and sometimes even say unkind words or behave in ways that used to deeply hurt you. But your triggers and reactivity can be significantly reduced.

    You won’t take their words or actions as personally anymore. Instead, there’s a growing sense of love and acceptance—for yourself, the situation, and your loved ones, regardless of what they do. Doing this work feels like moving closer to unconditional love, or at least as close as we can get.

    The Ongoing Unfolding of Acceptance

    This process taught me that accepting what is isn’t a one-time breakthrough. It’s a slow unwinding of everything we were taught to expect, demand, or resist. It’s a return to what’s actually here, moment by moment, breath by breath.

    Even now, I still get triggered. But I’m better at meeting those moments with curiosity instead of judgment. I know the signs in my body. I can feel when something hasn’t been grieved yet.

    If you’re like me, if you have a long list of “shoulds” about yourself, about others, about life, maybe it’s time to sit with them. To feel where they land in your body. To grieve the life you thought was supposed to happen.

    Because healing doesn’t come from controlling life. It comes from letting go of the fight against it. It comes from feeling into what is, with an open heart and a patient presence.

  • The Unexpected Way Jiu-Jitsu Brought Me Back to Myself

    The Unexpected Way Jiu-Jitsu Brought Me Back to Myself

    “You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are.” ~Maya Angelou

    There was a time in my life when everything felt heavy, like I was constantly carrying around a weight that no one else could see.

    I wasn’t in a crisis, exactly. I was functioning, showing up, doing what needed to be done. But inside, I was struggling to stay afloat—trapped in my own head, questioning my worth, and unsure how to move forward.

    One evening, I walked into a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu class for the first time. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know the rules, the language, or even how to tie the belt on my gi. But I was drawn to it—maybe because I was desperate for something to pull me out of my mental spiral. I needed structure. I needed challenge. I needed escape.

    What I didn’t expect was that BJJ would become more than a physical outlet. It became a form of therapy. A place where I could reconnect with my body when my mind felt like a battlefield.

    Finding Peace in the Pressure

    On the surface, BJJ looks intense—people grappling, sweating, fighting for control. But underneath, it’s a quiet game of survival. You breathe. You adjust. You adapt. You keep going.

    There were moments when I would be pinned, completely stuck, with someone twice my size on top of me. I’d panic. My breath would quicken; my thoughts would race. But then I’d hear my coach’s voice in the background: “Slow down. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

    That simple instruction saved me more than once—not just on the mat, but in life.

    Over time, I started to notice something: I was calmer outside of training. More patient. More aware. Jiu-Jitsu didn’t fix my mental health overnight, but it gave me tools to deal with the days when everything felt like too much.

    Losing It… and Finding It Again

    Of course, progress isn’t a straight line. After a few years of training, I got injured. Not once—multiple times. Each injury forced me to stop, rest, and reckon with the fear that maybe I wouldn’t return.

    Without Jiu-Jitsu, I felt lost again. That familiar darkness crept back in, and I realized how much I had come to rely on the practice to stay grounded. But eventually, I returned. Slower, more cautious, but more appreciative than ever.

    I realized it wasn’t about being the best or earning stripes. It was about showing up—for myself.

    What I’ve Learned

    I used to think healing meant getting rid of pain. Now I understand it’s more about learning to live with it—and learning how to move with it, not against it.

    Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu taught me resilience, yes. But more importantly, it taught me presence. You can’t be stuck in your head when someone’s trying to choke you out. You have to be here, now.

    That practice of presence changed how I approached everything else—relationships, work, rest. It helped me become someone who doesn’t give up so easily, even when things get hard.

    Why I’m Sharing This

    Maybe you’re not into martial arts. Maybe you’ve never set foot in a gym. That’s okay. This isn’t about Jiu-Jitsu—it’s about finding the thing that brings you back to yourself. That reminds you of your strength when you’ve forgotten it.

    It could be yoga, running, painting, journaling, hiking, music. It could be therapy. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it helps you come home to yourself.

    If you’re going through something right now, I want you to know: You’re not weak for struggling. You’re not broken. And you’re not alone.

    Find your mat—whatever that looks like for you. And when you do, keep showing up. You might be surprised at how strong you already are.

  • I Don’t Have to React

    I Don’t Have to React

  • How to Make Peace with Uncertainty—One Ritual at a Time

    How to Make Peace with Uncertainty—One Ritual at a Time

    “Rituals are the formulas by which harmony is restored.” ~Terry Tempest Williams

    Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual.

    One day, it’s a relationship you thought would last. Another, it’s a career path that suddenly dissolves. A health scare. A financial setback. Aging parents. A terrifying diagnosis. A global pandemic.

    If you’re lucky, you haven’t experienced all these—yet. But let’s be honest: we are all living in the liminal.

    The space between what was and what will be is where most of life actually happens. Yet we rarely talk about how to be there. We try to optimize or escape, hustle or numb—anything to avoid the discomfort of not knowing.

    But here’s the surprising truth: making peace with uncertainty isn’t about having more control. It’s about learning how to ride the waves instead of being pulled under by them.

    And this is where ritual offers its quiet power.

    Not necessarily the capital-R kind that requires incense and Gregorian chants—though those can work, too. I mean small, intentional actions that create a rhythm for your day, ones that help you feel grounded even when the ground feels shaky.

    Ritual as Refuge

    When my father died unexpectedly, I learned firsthand how ritual can hold you when nothing else makes sense. In the chaos of grief, it was the mourning rituals of our community—the wakes, the casserole meals, the familiar hymns filling the church—that kept us afloat.

    These weren’t grand solutions. They didn’t fix the pain. But they gave it shape. And that shape gave us something to hold onto.

    That’s the gift of ritual.

    Even now, in the most ordinary parts of my life, ritual keeps me tethered when the world is spinning.

    Sometimes it’s lighting candles for a weeknight dinner, and other times it’s stepping outside for a “noticing walk”—just a few minutes spent paying attention to the natural world around me. These rituals might look simple on the surface, but underneath, they’re working hard, stitching meaning into my day and helping me to remember who I am.

    Why Ritual Works When Life Falls Apart

    There’s a reason that rituals have been practiced across every known culture. Some anthropologists even consider ritual to be the cornerstone of civilization. Rituals help us mark time, create order, and tap into meaning—even when the future feels wildly out of reach.

    Unlike habits, which aim for efficiency, or routines, which often become mindless, rituals ask for your presence. They carry emotional weight. And they don’t have to be long or elaborate, but what they do require is intention and reverence.

    That morning walk with your dog? It can become a ritual if you treat it as a moment to breathe, notice the sky, and anchor into the now. Lighting a candle before bed. Saying a blessing before a meal. Writing a three-line journal entry each evening.

    These are not “life hacks.” They’re reminders that even in times of chaos, you still get to choose how you show up. And that choice—however small—is powerful.

    Ritual Isn’t About Perfection—It’s About Presence

    One of the biggest misconceptions about ritual is that it has to be rigid. But rituals can—and should—evolve. They aren’t meant to control life but to help us meet it with steadiness. They can also be fun!

    Rituals gain meaning not just from repetition but from what they’re rooted in. That’s why I encourage people to connect their ritual practice to a personal “North Star”—a set of core values or a vision for who they want to be in the world. When the external world feels chaotic, this internal compass becomes essential. Even the smallest ritual, when aligned with your deepest values, can become a powerful act of coherence.

    I often say, “You don’t need more time. You need more intention.” Just a few minutes of conscious action, aligned with your values, can shift your whole experience of the day.

    Especially when the day is hard.

    That’s the quiet gift of ritual: it won’t remove uncertainty, but it will remind you who you are meant to be in the face of it.

    The Neuroscience Behind Rituals

    There’s also something deeply physiological happening with ritual. When we engage in intentional, values-driven actions—especially those with structure and sensory richness—we begin to rewire our brains.

    Neuroscientists call this neuroplasticity. Repeating actions with emotional meaning strengthens neural pathways and helps us build resilience. Rituals aren’t just symbolic. They are embodied tools for transformation.

    Even the structure itself has benefits. Just a few minutes of focused, positive experience each day can begin to shift how we feel—and how we function.

    How to Begin

    If life feels unpredictable right now (and even if it doesn’t), try this:

    Choose one part of your day you can reclaim—a moment that already exists. Maybe it’s the minute before your morning coffee, the transition between work and dinner, or the final few breaths before sleep.

    Add a layer of intention to it. A breath. A word. A gesture. A prayer. A pause.

    Then go one step further: connect that moment to your core values.

    Ask yourself: What intention do I want to bring to this part of my day? Maybe it’s compassion. Maybe it’s strength. Maybe it’s a simple commitment to being present.

    Let that idea guide how you show up in your ritual. You could even write it down or say it aloud. When your ritual reflects your core values, it becomes more than just a habit—it becomes a practice of alignment.

    Need help identifying those values? Ask:

    • How do I want to show up in this moment?
    • What would my highest self do here?
    • What really matters to me—when all the noise falls away?

    Repeat your ritual every day. Not rigidly, but reliably.

    Then notice what shifts.

    You may still be in the unknown, but you won’t be untethered. You’ll have created a sacred pause. And in that pause, you might find the steadiness you didn’t know you had.

    Ritual as Resistance—and Renewal

    In a culture that values productivity over presence, taking time to ritualize your day can feel radical. But it’s also deeply restorative. Ritual reminds us that we are not machines. We are humans, longing for connection, coherence, and care.

    Whether you’re lighting a candle or taking a breath, whether your ritual is silent or sung, solo or shared—it matters. Not because it will solve every problem, but because it helps you face those problems with clarity and heart.

    In uncertain times, ritual won’t hand you a map.

    But it will remind you where your compass is.

  • More Energy, Less Regret: Your Guide to a Sober Summer

    More Energy, Less Regret: Your Guide to a Sober Summer

    “Believe you can, and you’re halfway there.” ~Theodore Roosevelt

    We are used to people talking about Dry January or Sober October but rarely a Sober Summer. That doesn’t seem to be a thing—but what if it was? What if it could be your reality this year?

    I knew I wanted my relationship with alcohol to be different at many points in my twenties, thirties, and forties, and in the summer of 2017, I decided, “This is it—I am going to choose a different path.”

    That day in June left me with a terrible hangover the next morning. I didn’t parent well, I ate all the foods I wouldn’t normally, I underperformed at work, and I went to bed early in a fog of regret, shame, and guilt.

    I’d love to tell you that was my last drinking day, but it wasn’t. It took me another two and a half years from that point to get to the start of my sober life. One thing holding me back was thinking about all the things I was going to miss out on. I knew I could do a month of not drinking—I’d done that before—but three months, six months, a year… that felt like a big deal.

    January is sometimes seen as a reset time of year. Perhaps finances are a little tighter, maybe you already drank enough over the winter period, and a break from alcohol is seen as ‘socially acceptable’ in January.

    October has gained traction over the last few years as another ‘break from alcohol’ month. It fits neatly in that point between summer and Christmas and lends itself to a month of non-drinking because we might need a reset after the excesses of the vacation period.

    What I now know, after more than five years of being a non-drinker, is this: We don’t need to be confined to other people’s expectations of when it’s a good time to have a break from alcohol, and also, it doesn’t have to be for a fixed thirty days. We are allowed to make our own rules, challenges, or well-being experiments when we want to and for however long we want to.

    When I initially decided that I was going to set myself an experiment and choose not to drink for one year, I really worried about all the summer fun I might miss out on. I usually switched my regular drinks around for the summer. Red wine and heavy cocktails were out, and rosé wine and spritz cocktails were in… in abundance.

    That first sober summer I worried about how I would navigate a friend’s wedding without champagne for the toast, how I would do a festival without a bottle of beer, and what other people would think of me if I didn’t bring a bottle of wine to a BBQ.

    It all seemed like too much to process and too much to try and work out. In the end, I decided to come up with some strategies to support myself. I had worked for over twelve years in a local government role, supporting people with their substance use and misuse, and it was time to start listening to my own good advice.

    I realized I needed some compassionate self-talk, some scripts to use for other people’s comments, and some practical steps to follow to navigate events where alcohol was going to be served.

    If a sober summer sounds like a good idea for you, then here are five pointers (and some journal questions) to support you in finding your sober serenity.

    1. Be intentional.

    Don’t see drinking as inevitable. Give yourself plenty of joyful thoughts, feelings, and choices around being a non-drinker.

    Choose: How would you like to think about alcohol?

    Examples: I chose to see alcohol as an unnecessary addition to this day. I know that alcohol won’t help me connect authentically with those around me today.

    Choose: How would you like to feel about alcohol?

    Examples: I feel empowered in my choice not to drink today. I feel joyful about being hydrated and clear-headed through this weekend.

    Choose: How would you like to behave around alcohol?

    Examples: I behave in a neutral way around alcohol; I neither want it nor think about it. I behave as if alcohol has little meaning to me.

    Picture it all in your mind’s eye, write it down, and talk to yourself about it. This will support you to make it your reality.

    Know that you are likely to enjoy some physical benefits from a sober summer quite quickly—think improved sleep, better cognitive function, clearer skin, and more.

    2. Have answers ready for social situations.

    What will you say to other people when you arrive at social events, and they ask why you’re not drinking? Do you need to say anything? Will you make it no big deal that you’re not drinking?

    Perhaps you’ll just say, “Thanks, I’ll have a ginger beer,” or “Thanks, I’d like a sparkling water.”

    Do you need or want to say anything at all? You will never owe anyone an explanation for your behavior around choosing not to drink.

    What you drink when you get to a party/gathering/dinner might feel important to you. Is it an event where you will have to choose from the drinks on offer, or is it an event where you can take your own? If you know the answer upfront, you can decide on a plan.

    Want to know what is super important about answers to questions like these? Planning them and then following through. It will do wonders for your self-esteem and confidence to arrive home from a social event knowing you can rely on yourself to follow through on what you decided.

    3. Avoid summer stress and overwhelm.

    What can you do to simplify your life this summer? Can you reassess the social activities that you were thinking of? Can you say no to some invitations that don’t fill you with joy? Can you do more of what you really like doing?

    See this time as an experiment. If you are not 100% sure about what you love doing in the summer, now is a great time to explore and find out.

    The emotional space created by removing alcohol allows you to reconnect with yourself and identify which social situations truly energize you versus those you merely tolerate with a glass in hand.

    4. Find your peace or your emotional middle point.

    So often we drink in the summer to relax, distract, numb out, or relieve boredom. You can find better habits that support your emotional, physical, and spiritual health in other ways.

    Are you going to enjoy a meditation practice? Are you going to spend more time outdoors? Are you going to start journaling?

    Will you recognize what you want to distract or numb yourself from? Will you recognize why you might need alcohol to make events feel more fun or exciting? What are the things that feel uncomfortable for you?

    5. Try these ideas as an experiment.

    You don’t have to commit to quitting drinking forever if that feels wrong or too difficult right now. Just enjoy what is ahead for the next couple of months. See how you feel doing a sober summer. See if you feel more serene and then reassess in autumn.

    Experiment and explore new drinks. How about a ginger beer, a lime cordial and club soda, or a Shirley Temple? The alcohol-free beers, no-alcohol sparkling wines, and botanical drinks are worth exploring too.

    A sober summer can serve as a conscious experiment in intentionality. It doesn’t have to be about permanent abstinence but rather creating space to re-evaluate your relationship with alcohol on your own terms. Enjoy!

  • How I Stopped Overthinking and Found Inner Peace

    How I Stopped Overthinking and Found Inner Peace

    “You don’t have to control your thoughts. You just have to stop letting them control you.” ~Dan Millman

    For as long as I can remember, my mind has been a never-ending maze of what-ifs. What if I make the wrong decision? What if I embarrass myself? What if I fail? My brain worked overtime, analyzing every possibility, replaying past mistakes, and predicting every worst-case scenario.

    Overthinking wasn’t just a bad habit—it was a way of life. I’d spend hours second-guessing conversations, worrying about things beyond my control, and creating problems that didn’t even exist. It felt like my mind was running a marathon with no finish line, and no matter how exhausted I was, I couldn’t stop.

    But one day, I reached a breaking point. I was tired—tired of the mental noise, tired of feeling anxious, tired of living inside my own head instead of in the present moment. I knew I had to change.

    The Moment I Realized Overthinking Was Stealing My Peace

    It hit me during a late-night spiral. I had spent hours replaying a conversation, obsessing over whether I had said something wrong. My heart was racing, my stomach was in knots, and I couldn’t sleep.

    In that moment, I asked myself: Is any of this actually helping me?

    The answer was obvious. My overthinking had never solved anything. It had never prevented bad things from happening. It had only drained my energy and made me miserable.

    That night, I made a decision: I would stop letting my thoughts control me. I didn’t know how yet, but I knew I couldn’t keep living like this.

    How I Learned to Quiet My Mind

    Overcoming overthinking didn’t happen overnight. It took patience, practice, and a willingness to let go of control. But here are the key things that helped me find peace:

    1. I stopped believing every thought I had.

    For years, I assumed that if I thought something, it must be true. But I started noticing that most of my thoughts were just stories—worst-case scenarios, exaggerated fears, self-doubt.

    So I began questioning them. Is this thought a fact, or is it just my fear talking? More often than not, it was the latter.

    By learning to separate reality from the stories in my head, I loosened the grip overthinking had on me.

    2. I created a “worry window.”

    At first, I thought I needed to stop worrying completely, but that only made me stress more. Instead, I set aside a specific time each day (ten to fifteen minutes) when I allowed myself to worry as much as I wanted.

    Surprisingly, this helped a lot. Instead of overthinking all day, I trained my brain to contain my worries to one small part of the day. And most of the time, when my “worry window” came, I realized I didn’t even need it.

    3. I practiced “letting thoughts pass”

    One of the biggest shifts came when I stopped trying to force my thoughts away. Instead, I imagined them like clouds in the sky—passing through, but not something I had to hold onto.

    Whenever I noticed myself overthinking, I’d take a deep breath and say to myself: I see this thought, but I don’t have to engage with it. And then I’d let it go.

    4. I focused on the present moment.

    Overthinking is all about living in the past or the future. So, I started grounding myself in the present.

    Simple things helped:

    • Focusing on my breath when my mind started racing.
    • Noticing small details around me—how the sun felt on my skin, the sound of birds outside, the smell of my coffee.
    • Reminding myself: Right now, in this moment, everything is okay.

    The more I practiced this, the easier it became to step out of my mind and into my life.

    How Life Changed When I Stopped Overthinking

    I won’t pretend my mind is quiet 100% of the time. Thoughts still come, but they no longer control me.

    Now, instead of analyzing every possible outcome, I trust that I’ll handle whatever happens. Instead of reliving past mistakes, I remind myself that I am constantly learning and growing. Instead of worrying about what others think of me, I focus on how I feel about myself.

    Most importantly, I’ve found something I never thought was possible: peace.

    A Message for Anyone Struggling with Overthinking

    If you’re stuck in an endless cycle of overthinking, I want you to know this: You are not your thoughts.

    Your mind will always try to keep you safe by analyzing, predicting, and controlling. But you don’t have to engage with every thought that comes your way.

    Peace isn’t about never having anxious thoughts—it’s about learning to let them pass without letting them rule your life.

    And trust me, if I can do it, you can too.

    While these tools can be powerful, it’s also important to recognize that overthinking doesn’t always come from everyday anxiety. If your thoughts are tied to past trauma or feel too overwhelming to manage alone, please know there is no shame in seeking help. For those living with PTSD or deep emotional wounds, professional support from a therapist can offer safety, healing, and guidance tailored to your experience.

    You don’t have to go through it alone—and needing support doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.

  • Why I Don’t Want to Become Enlightened Anymore

    Why I Don’t Want to Become Enlightened Anymore

    “Being free isn’t actually that easy.” ~Unknown

    I’ve always been an achiever. I’ve worked hard to reach goals: I was good at school, then got a good job, and ended up making good money. My colleagues valued my clear view of the goal, my ability to break down the big task into parts that one can work on, casting it all as individual problems that one can solve. I was diligent, hard-working, and reliable. An employer’s dream employee.

    At the same time, I’ve always had a wish to be “free.” Not so much from outer constraints, but from inner ones—depressive episodes, difficult feelings, painful experiences. It sounds terribly naive when you put it like that, but I guess it was a wish to live “happily ever after” at some point in the future.

    And I was willing to work hard to achieve that, too.

    In hindsight, it all seems clear how that was bound to fail. But working hard was the one thing I knew how to do, so I applied it to everything, including the wish for happiness, the wish for inner freedom.

    I tried a range of different things and ended up connecting with Buddhism. I think what appealed to me was the clear outline of a path to achieving happiness, the methods, and the way the goal was described: enlightenment, awakening, the ultimate inner freedom. So I learned about the methods and began applying myself to them.

    With my scattered mind, I sat down trying to watch my breath. With aching knees, I sat for hours repeating mantras, counting how many repetitions I “got in,” making progress toward the numeric goal of 100,000 repetitions of various things. That took years.

    I think my wife noticed long before me that there was something unhealthy in my approach. She pointed out how I came down the stairs with a “forced smile” after a long meditation session. She tried to encourage me to “live.” It was no good; I wouldn’t listen.

    The harder I tried to work at it, the more frustrated I became. Since I didn’t see the progress I craved— like peace of mind, like mental calm—I thought the solution was clear: I had to try harder. Devote more time to it, reduce other activities more. Retracting from the world, rather than living in it, my wife called it.

    The big irony was that, in order to feel more alive, I cut myself off from life more and more. I tried to achieve inner freedom by applying the same habitual patterns that governed my life: striving hard, unrelentingly.

    I once saw a postcard with the drawing of a parrot walking out of its birdcage, while wearing a small birdcage like a helmet around its head. The words on the card said, “Being free isn’t actually that easy.” I think it summarizes very well how I was trapped trying to be free.

    When my tenacious striving ended up threatening my marriage, I sought help from a therapist, and that’s when things started to change.

    I became aware of the pattern I was caught in. The narrow-mindedness of feeling that I had to achieve something big. The unspoken wish that one day, someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, “Well done.” The rejection of life in the name of an abstract goal—ironically, in my case, the goal of wanting to be truly alive.

    I can’t say change happened overnight, although there was this one therapy session where I had a sense that I could feel that inner truth of just being, of awareness. That felt real and true—and much more than any external rules and descriptions of a path, it has been my compass, my guiding light ever since.

    What amazes me most is that for so many years, I just didn’t see the obvious: that I was applying my habitual patterns of ambition and goal-oriented striving to meditation, to the search for inner freedom. How on earth did I not see that?

    Frankly, I think it’s like with the fish and the water. The joke of the old fish meeting two young fish and asking them, “How’s the water today?” and the young fish responding, “What do you mean, water?” It’s so around you, so much an integral part of your lived experience, that you don’t even notice.

    After that recognition, I think the process has been gradual, and I would say it’s ongoing. The key thing is that I recognize striving as striving now. I’m in touch with the emotional tone that comes with it and have gradually learned to take it as a warning sign. Whenever I feel the narrowness of wanting to achieve, I now pause to check if I’m just digging myself into a hole again.

    As a result, there is now a sense of acceptance, of acknowledging that some things cannot be achieved by willpower. That feeling alive isn’t really something you can work at. In fact, today I’d say it’s the opposite: the way to feel alive is to relax into the reality of the moment, again and again. It’s admitting to myself what’s really there, in every situation, pleasant and unpleasant. It’s breathing with the pain, cherishing the pleasant moments. Valuing the people in my life.

    In short, I’ve given up on the “big goals.” I still meditate every day, but I do it differently now: I always try to work with what’s really there in that particular moment—sitting quietly with the breath on some days, working with emotions on others, maybe formulating wishes for well-being on the third day… There are so many options, and the key to making it a living practice, for me, has been to allow myself to start with what’s really there, every day anew.

    If any of this rings a bell, if you feel stuck trying to live a meaningful life, here are the lessons I’m drawing from my experience.

    1. Choose a direction, not a destination.

    To me, owning my life is a cornerstone. Grabbing the steering wheel, deciding on my own priorities rather than simply living according to a script that’s provided from the outside. So I totally stand by that original aim of wanting to live with inner freedom.

    In fact, if you don’t already have a clear sense of what you want your life to be, I strongly recommend taking some time to explore that question for yourself. There are great methods for this—reflective prompts or journal exercises that help you envision your ideal future.

    I’ve realized that what matters most is the direction I’m giving to my life—not so much a specific outcome, let alone a timeline for achieving it. Attainable goals have their place with respect to the outside world, such as working toward an education or a place to live, but with respect to inner processes, I’m now convinced that you cannot force things. At the same time, my orientation in the present situation matters deeply and makes all the difference.

    2. Be patient and gentle with yourself.

    This is the hard part for an achiever like me. My habitual disposition is wanting to measure progress. So after I realized the dead end I had maneuvered myself into with that goal-oriented approach to meditation, it’s been an ongoing challenge. The creature of habit in me continues to want to “be good at it,” to achieve.

    The process has been, and continues to be, getting to know that driven feeling and learning to actively soften it whenever I notice it. One helpful practice has been tuning into the tone of my inner voice—the one reminding me to let go of goals and relax. How friendly or harsh does it sound? And if it’s rather impatient, can I soften that too?

    Suddenly, rather than chasing some goal, I’m exploring what’s really there in myself, discovering and cultivating a friendly stance every day anew.

    3. Connect with your inner compass.

    I’m a rational person, and I often insist on spelling out the reasons for a decision. As far as things go in the world out there, I think that’s useful, even though I tend to overdo it sometimes.

    At the same time, I believe that I have an “inner compass,” which I discovered during my therapy sessions and that I find difficult to put into words. It’s a sense of whether something feels right that I can somehow feel in my body.

    I value this sense as extremely precious, even though I cannot describe it well. This inner compass is the most important guiding principle for me regarding “inner” topics, which cannot always be explained through logic or reason. It’s about whether something feels healthy, whether it seems to move you in the right direction.

    Tuning into this compass, even when I can’t explain it, helps me stay true to myself, no matter what situation I’m in.

    —

    To me, the result of applying these principles has been great. I guess I won’t be enlightened any time soon, but the good thing is, I’m much happier with that now than I’ve ever been in my life.

  • Trichotillomania to Triumph: How I Found Acceptance and Freedom

    Trichotillomania to Triumph: How I Found Acceptance and Freedom

    “Your either like me or you don’t. It took me twenty-something years to learn how to love myself. I don’t have that kinda time to convince somebody else.” ~Daniel Franzese

    Everyone has a bad habit or two, right? Whether it’s a major vice or a minor annoyance, we all feel the discomfort of at least some behaviors we would rather not have.

    You know, like nail biting, hair twirling, procrastination, having a car that doubles as a convenient trash receptacle…

    I’ve been guilty of all the above at one point or another in my life, but the one that has had the biggest impact on me is trichotillomania, or hair pulling.

    If you’re not familiar with it, “trich” is a condition akin to OCD (but not actually a type of OCD, as it is often mistaken for) in which people experience difficult-to-control urges to pull their hair out.

    Cases vary from mild to severe, and some pullers are able to manage their urges with strategies and coping tools so that their hair loss can go undetected by the casual observer. However, other sufferers are so afflicted by it that they end up missing entire rows of eyelashes or eyebrows or even become completely bald as a result.

    Chances are you know someone with this condition, although you may be unaware of it because so many people suffer in shame and silence. Estimated rates of trich in the US are about 1-4% of the population (although the actual number is probably much higher due to underreporting), making it about as common as having red hair.

    No one knew I was pulling my hair out for twenty years.

    I was twelve years old (trich commonly starts in adolescence) when my mom noticed that I had a couple of bald spots on my head. I honestly didn’t know the damage I was doing at first. Sure, I knew I played with my hair a lot and sometimes pulled it out, but surely, I wasn’t doing it enough to cause bald spots, right?? It was unclear, so I kept quiet as she made an appointment for me to see the doctor about it.

    When the first treatment for a fungal infection of the scalp didn’t yield improvement, the next step was to see a dermatologist. By that time, I knew I was the one causing my hair loss, but my shame and confusion kept me from speaking up about it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stop.

    The dermatologist ran some tests, including a biopsy, and diagnosed me with alopecia areata, a medical condition resulting in hair loss. Conveniently for me, around the same time, my grandpa developed (a real case of) alopecia areata. And when we were informed that it was a genetic condition, no one really questioned it for me.

    As a teen, it required much effort to style my hair to hide my bald spots, and from time to time I had to clean up my secret pile of hair between my bed and the wall, but mostly I went on to live a normal life. I found out in my mid-teens, while reading an article in the teen magazine Cosmogirl, that what I did had a name—a complicated one that I wouldn’t be able to remember for years, but it was my first inkling that I was maybe not alone in my weird compulsion.

    I graduated high school, got my associate’s degree, then got married and had kids. I was incredibly embarrassed about my missing hair, but when it couldn’t be concealed, I relied on the medical condition as my trusted excuse, even to my husband.

    I was thirty-two years old and working toward my master’s degree when I sat down in an on-campus therapist’s office and opened up for the first time ever about my hair pulling. The eighty-mile distance between home and school, plus the promised confidentiality of therapy helped ease my fears that others would find out just enough for me to go through with it.

    He was a new therapist, still in training. After I disclosed my humiliating habit, I remember he asked me, “Why are you shaking?”

    “Because I’ve never told anyone this before.”

    As I answered, I could see the surprise on his face. “You’ve never told anyone?”

    I saw him one more time before he completed his training and transferred me to another, more experienced, therapist. Now two people knew my life-long secret. It’s no exaggeration to say that this new therapist guided me to life-changing insights, but he still knew nothing about how to treat trichotillomania. “Let’s focus on all the other stuff first,” he redirected.

    A few months later, I collected enough courage to share my problem again with a close friend whose daughter had OCD. She felt safe because I had heard her talk with such concern and care for her daughter. Afterwards, I asked her, “Do you think I’m crazy?”

    Not long after, I disclosed my hair pulling to my husband, and he responded with what I now call “pseudo-support.” He wanted me to be helped, but only if he could be my savior. He was okay with me telling a couple of people in his family, but no one else.

    I had learned about a national conference hosted by an organization called TLC for people who pulled their hair or picked their skin, and I wanted to go. My husband agreed that it might be helpful but didn’t think I was capable of making the trip by myself (because I would almost certainly get lost in the airport or encounter some other tragic mishap), so he offered to come along.

    I attended the conference alone after I moved out and filed for divorce.

    What I experienced at the conference was incredible. I was surrounded by hundreds of people, knowing that I wasn’t being judged and learning more about trich in these few days than I had been able to in the years prior.

    At dinner that evening, I sat at a large round table for eight, chatting about our experience with hair-pulling and skin-picking. For the first time, I talked about my hair pulling as freely as I would have said what city I had flown in from. The experience was liberating, and I could feel the shame slowly starting to melt away.

    Gradually, I shared my trich with an ever-growing list of people, each time feeling a little less worried about their reaction. I began to weave it into casual conversations rather than treating it as a huge burden for me to offload.

    When I started dating again, I decided to tell men up front to help “weed out” anyone who had a problem with it. By then, I was cautiously optimistic that I might be worthy of acceptance, and anyone who responded with judgment wasn’t a good fit for me.

    Surprisingly, as I continued to speak up, I found that the information was generally well-received. Some people shared that they also had trich or knew someone who did. Others were curious and asked questions to understand it better. In other situations, the conversation just moved along naturally.

    Of course, there were occasional encounters where I felt awkward or misunderstood, but I kept moving forward in my quest to be seen. Over time, I realized that I had been hanging on to my secret for so long based on inaccurate assumptions that others would not accept me if they knew… but I was proving myself wrong with every new person I opened up to.

    Today, I’ve found that wigs are the perfect solution for me, and as many other wig-wearers have experienced, they’ve become a fun hobby. Wigs keep my hands from stealthily navigating to my hair to pull, and even when I do play with my (purchased) hair, the sensation stays in my hands rather than tracking to my scalp to initiate an urge. I’ve also noticed that the slight pressure on my head from the wigs significantly reduces my urges to pull.

    When someone compliments my hair, I’m very open about my wigs, and when curious minds ask why, I confidently share that I have trich. I understand that I could hold a boundary and decline to provide an explanation, but I choose to take the opportunity to spread awareness.

    It was not easy or comfortable transitioning through my paralyzing shame to radical self-acceptance, but it’s been well worth the journey. Through these experiences, I have a deeper understanding of shame, confidence, acceptance, and myself.

    I’ve learned that shame is toxic and isolates us from truly meaningful connections. When we hold a part of ourselves back in our closest relationships, we tell ourselves that we aren’t good enough just as we are. This perpetuates the belief that we are broken or unworthy and can only be accepted if we portray an alternate version of ourselves to the world.

    I’ve learned that when it comes to confidence, it’s best to start with a leap of faith, because waiting to feel confident first rarely works out. The transformation starts with us entertaining the idea that we might not be rejected if we share our true selves, then taking action to test it out.

    I’ve learned that we are all worthy—just as we are, no modifications needed, no strings attached—and when I accept myself for who I am, others follow along. When I encounter someone who expects me to be fundamentally different to fit their own agenda, I choose to limit the energy I put into that relationship.

    Most importantly, I’ve learned the power and freedom of being true to myself, and I won’t keep that a secret.

  • When Healing Feels Lonely: What I Now Know About Peace

    When Healing Feels Lonely: What I Now Know About Peace

    “Avoiding your triggers isn’t healing. Healing happens when you’re triggered and you’re able to move through the pain, the pattern, and the story, and walk your way to a different ending.” ~Vienna Pharaon

    I thought I had figured it out.

    For a year, I had been doing the “inner work”—meditating daily, practicing breathwork, journaling, doing yoga. I had read all the books. I had deconditioned so many behaviors that weren’t serving me: my need to prove, my need to compare, my negative thought patterns. My self-awareness was through the roof. I had hit that deep, deep place in meditation I read about in the spiritual texts. I met my soul.

    I had stripped my life down to the essentials: no coffee, no alcohol, no meat, no distractions. My morning routine was bulletproof: journal, read a spiritual text, do yoga and breathwork, meditate.

    I distanced myself from many—putting up boundaries to some of the closest people to me because they “didn’t understand.” I spent my days mainly in nature, alone, in so much stillness and presence. I had finally found peace. Or at least, I thought I had.

    And then I went to a silent retreat in Bali.

    I flew across the world, ready to spend eleven days in complete silence, fully immersed in my inner world. I thought it would deepen my peace, open me up to even more divine inspiration, that it would solidify all the healing I had done.

    I had no idea it was about to rip me open.

    For the first three days, I was in heaven. I was more present than I had ever been in my life. The sound of the river, the feeling of the breeze on my skin—it was intoxicating. I felt like I could stay there forever. I felt like I was home, internally and externally.

    But on day four, everything cracked wide open.

    Suddenly, the emotions I thought I had healed—the ones I had spent months working through—came flooding back like a tidal wave. It all started with comparison. Comparing myself to other people at the retreat. Comparing my body, my flexibility in yoga class, my skin, my beauty.

    I was so confused—I had the awareness to know this wasn’t “good.” I had the awareness to realize this was me defaulting to all these old thoughts and behaviors.

    My mind started battling itself—and then I dove right into the “worst” behavior I thought I had healed: judgment. Judgment of others and judgment of myself.

    What was going on?! Hadn’t I already done this work? Why was I back here again?

    More and more emotions started coming up. I felt so unworthy again, like I hadn’t done enough work on myself. Like this past year was done all wrong, like it was wasted. Like I misunderstood the assignment.

    And that’s when it hit me: I had mistaken solitude for healing.

    Those few months before the silent retreat, I had wrapped myself in solitude like a safety blanket. I had avoided anything that triggered me—situations, people, even certain thoughts. I had created boundaries—not just with others, but with life itself.

    I was at peace… but I wasn’t living.

    I had gone so far into solitude, into stillness, that I had disconnected from the very thing that makes life meaningful—other people. I had tricked myself into thinking I had found peace when, really, I had just found another version of control.

    But control isn’t healing—it’s just another way of trying to feel safe.

    Turns out, I wasn’t at peace—I was chasing again. And this time, I was chasing enlightenment. It looked different from my old pursuits—more noble, more spiritual—but it was still a chase. And I will say honestly (and not egotistically), I reached enlightenment. I know I did. I reached Samadhi, consciousness, pure bliss. But then I started chasing that state, trying to make sure I was always in it. And the only way I could stay in it was by being alone.

    That’s where the control came in. I thought I had relinquished my need for control. I thought I was free. And in some ways, I was. But in other ways, I was meticulously curating every single detail of my life to make sure I could always remain in that blissful state. Control had woven its tentacles into my spiritual practice, and I didn’t even realize it.

    I needed to be isolated, as much as possible, to maintain my peace. I had convinced myself that this was my purpose. That this was my highest path.

    But that also made life so… lonely. Yes, it was peaceful. But suddenly I realized I missed my friendships. I missed my family. I missed all the people who triggered the heck out of me.

    Because in complete silence and solitude, I saw the truth—what makes life “life” is being in relation to something or someone.

    The truth is, real peace isn’t found in avoiding life—it’s found in moving through it. It’s found in the moments when we feel everything, when we get hurt, when we love, when we mess up, when we forgive.

    That’s what life is. That’s what healing is.

    And go figure—it took complete silence to show me that.

    On my second-to-last day at the retreat, I sat by the river and watched a single leaf fall into the water. Those beautiful big leaves that look so thick and robust, so durable. The current swept it along, pushing it under rocks, pulling it back up, flipping it over, tearing its edges on twigs lodged in the riverbed.

    But here’s the thing—no matter what, the leaf kept moving. It got stuck every now and then, but somehow, it would dislodge—a bit more broken and bruised but still moving.

    And so do we.

    No matter how much life twists us, no matter how many emotions hit us like waves, we are meant to flow with it, not run from it. Not avoid it.

    What Silence Taught Me About Real Peace

    1. Solitude is a tool, not a destination.

    Alone time is valuable, but true healing happens in relationship—with people, with challenges, with the messiness of life.

    2. Emotions are a gift, not a burden.

    I thought I had reached enlightenment by avoiding pain, but real peace comes from feeling everything—joy, sorrow, frustration, love—and moving through it.

    3. You can’t control your way into peace.

    I thought if I just kept my environment “pure,” I could protect my sense of calm. But life isn’t about control; it’s about trust.

    Flow with life, even when it hurts. That leaf in the river reminded me—life will push, pull, and test you, but you are meant to navigate it, not resist it.

    So yes, silence is important. Solitude is powerful. But the work? The real work is out there. In the messy, beautiful, heart-wrenching, soul-expanding experience of being human.

    And that’s the lesson I carried with me—not just when I finally opened my mouth to speak again, but into every moment of life that followed.

  • Breaking Free: Healing from cPTSD and Reclaiming My Life

    Breaking Free: Healing from cPTSD and Reclaiming My Life

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

    In 2011, my world shattered. My mother passed away, and with her, the fragile scaffolding that held my life together. It wasn’t just grief. It was as if her death unearthed a deep well of pain I had been carrying for years.

    Looking back, I can see that I was living with complex PTSD (cPTSD), though I didn’t have the language for it at the time. cPTSD is a condition that often results from prolonged exposure to trauma, leaving deep emotional scars. It manifests as a constant state of hypervigilance, emotional numbness, and difficulty forming healthy relationships.

    What I did know was that my inner world was in chaos, and the external one soon followed. The grief triggered a flood of emotions that I couldn’t control or understand.

    In the months after her death, I unraveled completely. I blew up my marriage in what felt like a frantic attempt to escape my pain. I pushed people away, made reckless decisions, and sank into a despair that seemed bottomless.

    I was living through what some call the “dark night of the soul,” a period of profound spiritual and emotional crisis. At the time, it felt like I was losing everything, but in hindsight, it was the beginning of something much deeper. It became a journey into the core of who I was and a reckoning with the pain I had carried for so long.

    Finding the Root of the Pain

    When I finally sought therapy, I began to understand the roots of my suffering. Growing up, my relationship with my mother was complicated. She could be physically harsh, and there were no displays of affection or love. I don’t recall hugs or comforting words, and as a child, that left me feeling unseen and unworthy.

    Everything began to change when I was in my twenties and my mother was diagnosed with cancer. It was as if the illness softened her, and for the first time, I began to see a different side of her. She became a wonderful grandmother. She was gentle, patient, and loving in ways I hadn’t experienced as a child.

    When my mother passed, I was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of grief that felt far too immense for the relationship we’d shared. Even a friend remarked on it, leaving me grappling with a mix of confusion and guilt.

    But my therapist offered a perspective that changed everything. This grief wasn’t just about losing my mother. At its core, it was the raw mourning of a lifetime of unmet needs: the love, safety, and connection I had longed for as a child but never received. It was the ache of realizing that door was now closed forever.

    The cPTSD diagnosis was, in some ways, a relief. It gave me a framework to understand the hypervigilance, emotional flashbacks, and deep sense of unworthiness I had carried for so long.

    But understanding wasn’t enough. Despite the insights therapy gave me, I still felt trapped in my pain. It was like standing at the edge of a vast chasm, seeing the life I wanted on the other side but having no idea how to cross it.

    That’s when I met my yoga guru, a man whose wisdom became a bridge to healing. Through his teachings, I learned to hold my past with compassion, to forgive where I could, and to see myself as worthy of love and peace.

    The First Lesson: Be

    Working with my teacher, I was desperate for relief. I wanted him to give me a roadmap, a step-by-step plan to fix what was broken. Instead, he offered me something far simpler, and infinitely more challenging.

    “Be,” he said during one of our first sessions. “Just be.”

    At first, I didn’t understand what he meant. Be what? Be how? I was used to striving, fixing, doing. The idea of simply being felt foreign and, frankly, useless.

    But he was patient. He encouraged me to sit with myself, to notice my breath, my body, my thoughts, and my emotions without trying to change anything. In those early days, the practice felt unbearable.

    My mind was a whirlwind of guilt, shame, and grief. Sitting still felt like sitting in the middle of a storm. But slowly, I began to notice something. Beneath the chaos, there was a quiet stillness. A presence that wasn’t swept up in the storm.

    For the first time, I began to glimpse the part of me that wasn’t defined by my pain.

    The Second Lesson: Be With

    “Be with what arises,” my teacher would say. “Don’t push it away. Don’t cling to it. Just be with it.”

    This was perhaps the hardest lesson for me. My instinct was to avoid pain—to distract myself or numb the discomfort.

    But my teacher gently guided me to do the opposite. He encouraged me to meet my emotions with curiosity instead of resistance. One day, I told him, “I can’t stop feeling this sadness. It’s like it’s swallowing me whole.”

    He nodded and said, “Then be with the sadness. Sit with it. Let it show you what it needs to show you.” So I did. I sat with my sadness, my anger, my fear. I stopped trying to fix them or make them go away.

    And as I did, I began to notice something profound: the emotions weren’t as overwhelming as I had feared. They ebbed and flowed like waves, and when I stopped resisting them, they began to lose their grip on me. I realized that my suffering wasn’t caused by the emotions themselves but by my resistance to them.

    By being with them, I allowed them to move through me instead of staying stuck inside me.

    The Third Lesson: Let It Be

    The final lesson my teacher gave me was perhaps the simplest and the most profound: “Let it be.” This wasn’t giving up or resigning myself to suffering. It was acceptance.

    Not in the sense of liking or approving of everything that happened, but in the sense of allowing life to unfold without clinging to how I thought it should be.

    One day, during a particularly difficult meditation, I found myself flooded with memories of my mother. The grief was overwhelming, and I wanted to push it away. But my teacher’s words echoed in my mind: “Let it be.”

    So I did. I let the memories come, the grief wash over me, and the tears fall. And then, as quickly as it came, the wave passed. In its place was a quiet stillness, a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in years.

    Letting it be didn’t mean I stopped feeling grief or sadness. It meant I stopped fighting against them. I stopped clinging to the idea that I needed to be “healed” or “fixed” to be whole.

    I began to trust that I could hold space for my pain without being consumed by it.

    The Freedom of Letting Go

    Through these lessons—be, be with, let it be—I began to experience a freedom I never thought possible. I realized I am not my pain. I am not my past. I am the awareness that holds all of it.

    Healing wasn’t about erasing my trauma. It was about integrating it, making peace with it. I no longer had to be defined by the pain of my past.

    Lessons for You

    If you’re going through a similar storm, here are some insights that helped me:

    • Be present: Start by simply being with yourself. Notice your breath, your body, and your emotions without judgment.
    • Be with what arises: Allow your emotions to surface without trying to fix or change them. Meet them with curiosity.
    • Let it be: Accept life as it is. Don’t fight against it. Let things unfold without trying to control them.
    • Trust the process: Healing is not a quick fix. Be patient with yourself, knowing that in time, the storm will pass.

    The dark night of the soul wasn’t the end for me. It was the beginning of something much deeper.

    If you’re in the midst of your own crisis, remember, you are not your pain. You are the vast sky that holds it all. And within that sky, there is a peace that no storm can take away.

  • The Changes I’m Making to Stop Wasting My Limited Time

    The Changes I’m Making to Stop Wasting My Limited Time

    “Contentment has more to do with a heart of joy as life unfolds than it ever will with a life filled with stuff.” ~Kate Summers

    Recently, an older friend who was no longer able to attend to life without assistance was placed in a senior care facility. From my observance, she seemed content, and her relatives confirmed that when they visit, they find her awake and alert, propped up in bed or sitting in a chair, peacefully gazing out her window.

    One of my immediate thoughts when reflecting on my visit was, we should all be so lucky to enter our final years in a mind space of inner peace and contentment.

    The hope to be content in the final years of life is not a new concept, but the idea of a “bucket list” and the quest to achieve it is. The term bucket list was introduced in 1999 and solidified into pop culture with the subsequent release of a movie.

    For those who are unfamiliar with the expression, a bucket list consists of a catalog of experiences and adventures that someone wants to have before they kick the bucket, meaning die. The idea is that if someone checks off all the items on their bucket list, their final stage of life will be bearable because they will be satisfied with how they spent their time.

    The visit to see my friend put the time I have remaining into perspective. As I approach sixty years old, the truth that in twenty-five years I will be eighty-five is inescapable. The fact that the twenty-five years between thirty-five and sixty had gone by in the relative blink of an eye caused me to pause and think.

    What did I want to do and experience before my final stage was upon me?

    My mind went immediately to my hobbies and interests, and although I could think of many goals to strive for, nothing seemed important or compelling enough to be considered for my bucket list.

    As examples, I enjoy traveling and have a desire to see all the magnificent natural wonders across the globe and walk in the footsteps of ancient cultures, but I do not see myself in my final years upset because I never made it to Victoria Falls or knelt before the Moai of Easter Island. And I thrive on learning, but earning a master’s degree or PhD will not bring me contentment on my deathbed.

    And what about my friend? I don’t recall her speaking of a list of experiences she desired to have or tangible targets that she strove to hit before her life was over. Yet, as I witnessed, she had entered her final phase of life with an air of inner peace and contentment.

    Throughout our friendship, I observed my friend actively focusing on seeing the glass as half full and consciously concentrating her focus on the bright side of events. She did not cultivate drama within herself, and consequently, she repelled it when others brought it around. And she fostered love for herself and others.

    When the realities of individual agendas and manufactured circumstances triggered a need to respond in a heavy-handed way, she delivered the reprimand swiftly and, as best as she could, without the emotion of hate and thoughts of judgement.

    And the rare time when she fell completely short of her behavioral standards with her thoughts and emotions sinking deep into a dark muck, I observed her climb out, find her light, and move on. She never berated herself for what she referred to as a “little dip.”

    Many times, I asked her how she could rise above the fray of office politics, for example, or shift her focus to what was hopeful and good in an otherwise dreary situation. Her response was unfailingly along the lines of “Why waste time dwelling on unpleasantness?”

    Her words came back to me as I pondered what I wanted to experience and accomplish in the next twenty-five years. How could I spend my time in a way that would leave me content in the final stage of my life?

    Having already run through my goals and desired escapades and determined they were not the answer to what had become a nagging question for me, I reversed the query and asked, “In what ways is my time wasted?”

    My answer came to me the next day. I had just hung up the phone after completing a conversation with a member of my greater social network. Having too little in common to consider her a friend, I find our interactions to be tedious, and we rarely see eye-to-eye.

    She views herself as the victim in all situations and thrives on stress and drama. In this conversation, she expressed that she was feeling left out because a group dinner was scheduled for a night on which she was not available.

    I spent twenty minutes attempting to reassure her the chosen date was not intended to exclude her, that she was a valued member of the group, and similar proclamations. All of them landing on the unfertile soil of her negative self-image. Nothing short of changing the date could convince her the decision was not personal.

    As I terminated the call, I heard myself say, “Well, that was a waste of time.”

    A few days later, I found myself involved in an interaction with a co-worker with whom exchanges typically left me feeling shaken and upset. The pace and tone of that afternoon’s conversation were especially triggering. Once at home, even with the co-worker nowhere near me and the interaction several hours in the past, simply thinking about what had transpired caused my body’s fight-or-flight response system to kick in.

    With limbs ready to spring into action and breath quick and shallow, I hung suspended in a state of physical limbo, waiting to fight a battle perceived and conceived in my head. It took me close to an hour to calm myself down, and afterward the sense of time wasted was palpable.

    At that moment, I committed to not wasting time feeding the unpleasantness created by others and to take responsibility for ways in which I cultivated upset within myself.

    After a bit of reflection, I realized that I disrupted my peace of mind and contentment by:

    • Taking things personally
    • Needing to be right
    • Overreacting by magnifying small issues into major problems
    • Continuing unproductive conversations in my head with others long after they have concluded in real time

    While commitment is the initial action needed for instigating change, practice is the many small steps taken to solidify the habit.

    Over time, I developed a practice that involved morning meditation, journaling, and body awareness.

    • Meditation cultivates a calm mindset, allowing for heightened self-awareness and control of my thoughts and emotions.
    • Journaling gives tangibility to my unpleasant thoughts. By making them visible, I am able to challenge their validity and shift them towards ones that uplift me.
    • Body awareness gives way to enhanced intuition. By paying attention to sensations in my gut and noticing the pace of my heart and breath, I can quickly sense when I am shifting from a responsive, cooperative mode to a reactive, fight/flight approach to a person or situation.

    If you are interested in cultivating a mindset that brings you inner peace and contentment, below are a few tips to get started.

    1. Find a meditation style that works for you.

    My practice utilizes mindfulness, focused, and loving-kindness styles of meditation. Mindfulness meditation allows greater access to my thoughts, focused meditation sharpens my ability to keep my brain from wandering, and loving-kindness meditation cultivates compassion and patience for my ego struggles and those of others.

    Here is a list of the nine most common forms of meditation. A definition of each can be found here.

    • Mindfulness meditation
    • Spiritual meditation
    • Focused meditation
    • Movement meditation
    • Mantra meditation
    • Transcendental meditation
    • Progressive relaxation
    • Loving-kindness meditation
    • Visualization meditation

    2. Write down thoughts and feelings that you struggle with.

    My journal is a loose compilation of thoughts and the emotional responses they trigger. By writing them down, I am able to distance myself from my thoughts and see them from an objective point of view. I am then able to explore alternative thoughts and assess their capacity for cultivating pleasant feelings.

    According to this article, the benefits of journaling include:

    • Stress reduction
    • Increased sense of well-being
    • Distance from negative thoughts
    • Avenue for processing emotions
    • Space to figure out your next step
    • Opportunity for self-discovery

    3. Get in touch with your body.

    Whenever I feel my shoulders creeping toward my ears, my breath becoming shallow, or my digestion being disrupted, I take it as a signal to check in with my brain. A quick scan reveals thoughts and conversations happening in the background that might otherwise have gone unnoticed until they transitioned into action.

    I achieve and maintain my mind/body connection through a combination of contemplative running and intentional stretching. Both of these allow me to focus on my body and become aware of areas where I am holding tension.

    While I chose running and stretching, there are many other methods, such as:

    • Yoga
    • Tai Chi
    • Qi Gong
    • Solo Dance
    • Intentional cleaning

    Above are the ways that I chose to strengthen my commitment to not wasting time wrapped up in someone else’s drama or creating unnecessary turmoil in myself.

    I am far from perfect in this practice. I still catch myself rallying against what I view as someone’s agenda or reacting to what I consider a personal affront, but I am able to quickly identify the thoughts, feelings, and behaviors in real-time and mitigate the damage to my sense of well-being.

    When it comes down to it, the only goal for my life is to cultivate inner peace and contentment. And along the way, connect with and encourage those who, like me, are actively seeking to heal, grow, and live in a space of positivity and love.

  • The Beauty of Being Ordinary: Getting Past Society’s Obsession with Success

    The Beauty of Being Ordinary: Getting Past Society’s Obsession with Success

    “I’ve found beauty in the whimsically ordinary.” ~Elissa Gregoire

    The pervasive message of our time asserts that success is essential in every facet of life, be it education, career, friendships, or relationships. In the relentless pursuit of success, many of us toil ceaselessly, ingrained with the belief that triumph is the gateway to happiness.

    Rewind three decades to when I was ten, and the emphasis was on excelling in school. Family, teachers, and even movies emphasized the narrative that good grades equated to happiness.

    The equation was simple: good grades led to a good job, financial stability, a great partner, and happiness. I clung to this formula, except for a temporarily rebellious phase in college when momentary fun felt more important than grades. Soon enough, I recalibrated my focus.

    Reflecting back, I wish I could have advised my younger self that straight A’s don’t guarantee success or an immediate stellar job but, more importantly, a content life.

    I don’t harbor regrets about discovering this later; however, I would have spared myself unnecessary stress over a single B-, thinking it signaled the demise of my promising future.

    I secured a decent job as a social worker in my professional life. While the financial rewards were modest, I was helping people, which I always wanted to do.

    I gained happiness from helping people, as evidenced by glowing yearly evaluations from my supervisors. Yet, the reality of working with adults grappling with mental health and substance abuse issues challenged the conventional markers of success. The transformation I envisioned for my clients didn’t materialize on a broad scale. Only two clients graduated from high schools and found jobs in my three years, a relatively meager success rate by my grading standards.

    Following my brief period as a social worker, I delved into my passion for writing. This endeavor proved to be one of the most disheartening professional experiences. Rejections outnumbered any I had faced previously.

    Despite the setbacks, I stayed resilient, recognizing that success in writing often hinges on probability and luck. I am determined not to abandon my pursuit of writing because I feel confident that perseverance will eventually tilt the odds in my favor. It is just a matter of time.

    While higher-ups may have expressed dissatisfaction, getting published drew praise. The dichotomy of rejection versus acceptance raises the question of whether one success outweighs numerous failures. Does public recognition invalidate personal setbacks?

    Friendships thrived until my late thirties, but they underwent a shift when I moved to Indiana. Prior successes in maintaining a diverse group of friends diminished, leaving me with acquaintances but no deep connections I craved. Whether due to the pandemic, my age, or the location, I encountered my first failure in forming meaningful friendships.

    Looking at all spheres of my life, I’ve walked a path of moderate success.

    I’ve hovered between not excelling and not faltering massively, settling into a comfortable averageness. The pressure to outperform those around me is always present, but I’ve realized the futility of never-ending comparison. Striving for greatness is admirable but invites overwhelming stress and overwork.

    Being okay with being average doesn’t mean I’m lazy or have no goals. I know some people will always be better than me, and some will be less skilled. But trying to be the best doesn’t have to mean I’m always stressed.

    Ultimately, my journey has been one of navigating the middle ground and avoiding extremes. I haven’t soared to great heights, but I’ve found contentment in averageness. Whether it’s education, career, friendships, or writing, pursuing excellence should coexist with accepting personal authenticity and avoiding the trap of incessant comparison and overbearing expectations.

    Contrary to societal conditioning, being average isn’t undesirable. The happiest people often live everyday lives, enjoying time with family and friends without constantly chasing fame or fortune.

    Choosing a simpler life instead of constantly competing has made me much happier.

    There’s something extraordinary about just being ordinary and having peace of mind. But it seems like everyone’s always pushing for “more.” Why, when true happiness comes from appreciating what we have and ignoring the pressure to always strive for something bigger?

    Is there ever a conclusion to the ceaseless pursuit of outperforming others? I don’t think so.

    After four decades, I’ve become content with who I am and where I stand. No longer entangled in the web of comparison or the pursuit of outdoing others, I find joy in simply existing where I am.

    I used to feel like I had to be better than everyone else, but that pressure is gone now. I’m much more relaxed and at peace, something I never felt when constantly trying to be the best. I’m happy with where I am now, and I’m enjoying learning about things that interest me. I love this new feeling of calm and am grateful for the experiences that helped me finally accept myself. I am finally at a place of genuine self-acceptance.

  • The Magic of Mindfulness: It’s Never Too Late to Find Peace and Balance

    The Magic of Mindfulness: It’s Never Too Late to Find Peace and Balance

    “If you want to conquer the anxiety of life, live in the moment, live in the breath.” ~ Amit Ray

    On December 12th, 2019, I found myself in a hospital undergoing an exploratory heart catheterization, a wake-up call I could no longer ignore. My health had reached a critical low. I was battling high blood pressure, high cholesterol, prediabetes, and obesity.

    At just fifty-five years old, my long career in automotive manufacturing, with its relentless deadlines, high-pressure demands, and long hours, had caught up with me. The stressful grind had become unsustainable, and I had to make a choice: continue the same path or reclaim my health and happiness.

    That moment in the hospital marked the turning point in my life.

    A Career of High Pressure and Its Costs

    For decades, I poured everything into my career. The industry demanded perfection, quality, efficiency, profitability, and strict adherence to schedules. It was a high-stakes environment that left little room for personal well-being. My mantra of “work hard, play hard” defined me, but over time, the cracks began to show.

    Deadlines left me sleepless; stress fueled poor dietary choices; the constant push for productivity eroded my ability to relax. Though I achieved professional milestones, the cost to my health was staggering.

    Turning to Mindfulness to Heal

    After that fateful day in the hospital, I overhauled my lifestyle, not just physically, as many would do, but mentally and emotionally. While I embraced changes in diet, exercise, and sleep, one of the most transformative practices was mindfulness.

    Mindfulness taught me how to slow down and be present in a fast-paced world. Through meditation and yoga practices, I learned to quiet the mental noise, find stillness, and reset my perspective. This became a lifeline, helping me navigate stress, reduce cortisol levels, and foster resilience in the face of challenges. It wasn’t just about managing stress but about fundamentally reshaping how I experienced life.

    I leaned into the simplest practices, ones that felt natural and sustainable:

    • Breathing deeply: A single, mindful breath calmed my nervous system and reminded me to stay present, no matter how overwhelming life felt.
    • Noticing the now: I focused on what I could see, hear, or feel in the moment, anchoring myself in my senses rather than being swept away by anxiety.
    • Practicing gratitude: Even in life’s storms, there were small moments of light, a kind word, a peaceful morning, or the chance to rest. Finding and holding onto those moments kept me grounded.

    These lifelines weren’t about perfection or rigid routines; they were about creating space for calm in the chaos. Every breath I took reminded me that change was possible.

    Lessons Learned

    Looking back, I recognize that had I incorporated mindfulness earlier in my career, my journey might have been different. The tools I’ve since adopted could have buffered me against the relentless pressure.

    If I had stayed the course without change, I likely would have been on endless medications or facing even worse outcomes. Mindfulness gave me a way out, a healthier, happier path that prioritized my well-being without sacrificing my ambition.

    From Automotive to Biotech

    Today, I am thriving in a new career in biotech, where my passion for innovation is matched by my commitment to maintaining balance. At sixty, I am medication-free and healthier than ever. Mindfulness has become a cornerstone of my daily life, and I’m proud to share its benefits with others as a certified meditation facilitator.

    I share my story because I believe in the power of change at any age. Whether you’re in a high-pressure career like automotive manufacturing or simply feeling overwhelmed by life’s demands, mindfulness can offer clarity, calm, and control.

    It’s never too late to reclaim your health, happiness, and peace of mind.

  • Today, I Refuse to Stress Myself Out

    Today, I Refuse to Stress Myself Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Breaking Free from Resentment: My Journey to Finding Peace

    Breaking Free from Resentment: My Journey to Finding Peace

    “Resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.” ~Saint Augustine

    For years, I was unknowingly poisoning myself in nearly every relationship—whether romantic, work-related, or friendships. It always followed the same pattern: I’d form a deep attachment, throw myself into the relationship, and give endlessly, hoping that if I gave enough, they’d appreciate and value me.

    But instead, it felt like they just took and took, leaving me secretly seething with anger and frustration while I smiled on the outside.

    I was doing all the running—couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they see how hard I was trying? Over time, the exhaustion would set in. Eventually, I’d burn out from the one-sided effort and just give up, walking away hurt and angry, convinced they had wronged me.

    Each time, I added another person to my mental list of people I couldn’t trust. With each disappointment, I trusted fewer and fewer people.

    To protect myself, I started putting up walls, convincing myself I didn’t need anyone. I told myself I was fine on my own. I’d always be the first to step in and help family or friends, but I wouldn’t allow them to help me. I refused to be vulnerable because, to me, vulnerability meant risking rejection. I believed I could do it all on my own—or at least that’s what I told myself.

    When COVID hit, isolation wasn’t a choice anymore—it was forced upon me. Suddenly, I was alone, with no one to turn to because I had pushed everyone away. That’s when I realized just how much resentment had poisoned my life.

    Fed up with the weight it placed on my life, I decided to confront it head-on. I let myself fully feel the resentment, allowing it to wash over me like a wave. It wasn’t easy—leaning into those emotions was painful, raw, and uncomfortable.

    But in that moment, I realized I wasn’t just angry with a few people—I was carrying resentment for almost everyone in my life, even my own mother! The bitterness had been poisoning me for years, and it became clear that it wasn’t just affecting my relationships—it was poisoning my peace.

    That’s when I made the decision to stop drinking the poison. I realized that I had been giving so much power to other people—power over my emotions, my happiness, and even my health. But I didn’t have to. I didn’t need to wait for anyone to apologize or change; I was responsible for my own healing, and I wasn’t going to let others’ actions control my life anymore.

    Self-Realization: The First Step to Letting Go

    Self-realization was the first, and perhaps most difficult, step in battling my resentment. For the first time in my life, I stopped running from the pain and leaned into it instead.

    I started using EFT (Emotional Freedom Techniques) to peel back the layers of emotions I had been burying for years. Through tapping on specific points, I was able to release trapped feelings and bring clarity to the surface. Each tapping session was like lifting a weight off my chest, but it was also incredibly uncomfortable.

    I had to confront memories I had long avoided and acknowledge the emotions I had hidden from for so long.

    What shocked me the most was realizing that I had never given anyone a chance to correct the wrongs I thought they had done. I assumed people knew I was upset, and when they didn’t magically pick up on it, I silently resented them.

    Saying that now, it sounds so ridiculous—how could I have expected people to read my mind? Yet for years, that’s exactly what I did.

    So, I began reframing the narrative. Instead of focusing on how others had let me down, I asked myself: What could I have done differently in those situations? How could I have influenced a different outcome?

    The more I reflected, the more I realized that I had the power to change the dynamics of my relationships. It was a breakthrough—I didn’t need to wait for someone to change or apologize. I had the power to heal myself.

    Testing My New Mindset

    Soon after this realization, I had an opportunity to test my new mindset. I had invited my mum and sister on a weekend getaway, something that meant a lot to me.

    A few weeks before the trip, they both backed out. The old me would have smiled and said, “No problem, that’s fine,” while secretly adding their names to my mental list of people who had wronged me.

    But this time, I did something different. I spoke up. I calmly explained how much it hurt that they were canceling on something so important to me.

    To my surprise, neither my mum nor my sister had any idea their actions would hurt me. They explained that, because I had always been so independent, they didn’t realize how much this trip meant to me.

    For the first time, we had a genuine, open conversation about our feelings, and it actually brought us closer.

    Instead of silently seething and letting resentment build, I communicated honestly, and the outcome was liberating.

    I realized that so much of the pain I had carried in the past could have been avoided if I had just voiced my feelings. That conversation was a powerful reminder that I have the power to shape my relationships, and that sometimes people just don’t know how we feel unless we tell them.

    Moving Forward: Letting Go and Staying Free

    After learning to let go of years of resentment, I realized that staying free required new habits. I needed to guard against falling back into old patterns, so I came up with a few strategies to help.

    First, I ask myself three key questions:

    1. Is this really worth my peace?

    2. Did they intend to hurt me, or could there be another explanation?

    3. What can I do differently in this situation?

    These questions help me pause, reflect, and reframe my thoughts before resentment has a chance to take root. I no longer jump to conclusions or internalize every slight.

    And then there’s my secret weapon—whenever I feel those old feelings of resentment bubbling up, I silently sing the Disney song “Let It Go” to myself!

    I know it sounds silly, but it’s incredibly effective. The moment I start humming that tune, it interrupts my spiraling thoughts and stops me from obsessing over whatever hurt I’m feeling.

    By the time I’ve finished the song in my head, the urge to hold onto those negative feelings has usually passed, and I can move forward with a clearer mind.

    It’s a lighthearted strategy, but for me, it’s a reminder that I have a choice. I can cling to the bitterness, or I can, quite literally, let it go.

    Letting go isn’t always easy, but it’s always worth it. The next time you feel resentment creeping in, remember, forgiveness isn’t for them; it’s for you. It’s time to free yourself from the weight of carrying that poison.