Tiny Buddha

Tag: personal growth

  • Why Listening Matters More Than Giving Advice (A Barbershop Lesson)

    Why Listening Matters More Than Giving Advice (A Barbershop Lesson)

    “Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” ~Stephen R. Covey

    I used to think running a barbershop was all about haircuts, schedules, and keeping clients happy. I measured success by the number of chairs filled, how quickly we moved through the day, and whether everything ran smoothly. Efficiency felt like the most important thing.

    Then one afternoon, a moment with a customer changed everything.

    Mr. Hicks, a regular, came in looking unusually quiet. He slumped in my chair, barely making eye contact, and gave only short, mumbled answers when I tried to make small talk. Normally, I would have filled the silence, tried to keep him talking, or offered advice. But that day, I paused. I simply listened. I let him sit in silence as I worked, resisting the urge to speak unnecessarily or try to “fix” anything.

    Minutes later, he began to share struggles he had been carrying for months—tensions at work, family challenges, the weight of constant exhaustion. By the time I finished his haircut, he looked lighter, calmer, almost relieved.

    I realized I hadn’t needed to give advice. I hadn’t needed to solve his problems. I had only given him my attention. That day, I learned a lesson I carry with me every time I sit behind the barber chair: listening is a gift, patience is a practice, and presence can heal in ways words sometimes cannot.

    This lesson didn’t just apply to Mr. Hicks. Over time, I began noticing similar moments with other clients, apprentices, and even friends and family.

    A young apprentice, struggling to perfect his techniques, came in one morning looking defeated. Instead of correcting him immediately, I stepped back, watched, and let him try on his own. When he finally turned to me for guidance, the lesson became his own. The joy on his face was more rewarding than any praise I could have offered.

    I’ve come to understand that patience isn’t just about waiting. It’s about presence. It’s about fully engaging in the moment, without rushing to the next task. In a barbershop, it’s easy to feel pressured—clients waiting, appointments lined up, every second seeming valuable. But slowing down and giving someone your full attention creates connection in a way speed never can.

    One afternoon, I faced a particularly challenging situation. A client came in visibly frustrated and tense. Every suggestion I made seemed to irritate him further.

    I could have taken offense or brushed him off, but I tried a different approach. I listened not just to his words but to the subtle cues: the tone of his voice, the tension in his shoulders, the hesitation in his movements.

    Slowly, he began to relax, and by the time I finished, he was calmer, smiling, and expressing gratitude. That experience reinforced that sometimes, people need more than advice. They need acknowledgment and space to be heard.

    I’ve also carried these lessons beyond the shop. With friends, family, and even strangers, I try to pause before responding, asking myself whether I am truly listening or just waiting to reply. I’ve noticed that when I give people room to share openly, relationships deepen and grow more authentic.

    Running a barbershop has taught me humility. Not every story is easy to hear, and not every challenge can be solved with words or actions. But being present, patient, and genuinely attentive is a form of service that often matters more than technical skill. I’ve learned that my role isn’t always to fix problems but to create a safe space where people feel seen, understood, and valued.

    There have been moments of personal growth too. Early on, I struggled with impatience, rushing through tasks, wanting instant results, and missing the subtle cues from those around me. By paying attention to the human side of my work, I’ve learned to slow down, notice details, and respond thoughtfully rather than react impulsively. This patience has spilled over into other areas of my life—how I manage stress, handle conflict, and nurture relationships.

    I’ve also discovered that listening can transform the listener as much as the speaker. Each story I hear challenges me to see the world from a different perspective. I’ve developed empathy I never knew I had, realizing that everyone carries burdens and struggles silently, searching for someone willing to simply acknowledge them. This awareness has made me more compassionate, not just in the shop, but in every interaction.

    Sometimes, the lessons come in unexpected ways. I remember a shy teenager who came in for his first haircut. He was nervous, almost silent, and seemed unsure of how to interact. I spoke less, observed more, and let him get comfortable.

    By the end of the session, he was laughing, joking, and sharing stories. That simple act of patience, giving him room to open up, reminded me that growth often happens quietly, in small, unassuming moments.

    Through all of this, I’ve realized that patience and listening are not passive acts. They are active choices we make every day. They require mindfulness, attention, and the willingness to put another person’s experience before our own need to act or respond. Running a barbershop taught me that these choices, repeated over time, build trust, deepen relationships, and foster genuine human connection.

    If there’s one takeaway I can share, it’s this: slow down, be present, and listen. Whether in a barber’s chair, a living room, or a workplace, giving someone your full attention is a rare and valuable gift.

    You don’t need special training or expertise, just the willingness to be patient, notice, and understand. The lessons you learn, and the growth you experience, will stay with you long after the conversation ends.

  • How Menopause Exposed the Hidden Trauma I Spent Years Ignoring

    How Menopause Exposed the Hidden Trauma I Spent Years Ignoring

    “There is no way to be whole without first embracing our brokenness. Wounds transform us, if we let them.” ~Sue Monk Kidd

    Menopause flagged up everything unresolved, unmet, and unchallenged and asked me to meet it with grace.

    I’m not saying it was an overnight thing—more like a ten-year process of discovery, rollercoaster style. One of those “strap yourself in, no brakes, no seatbelt, possibly no survival” rides.

    If I’m honest, the process is still unfolding, but with less “aaaaggggghhhhh” and more “oh.”

    Having mentally swapped Nemesis Inferno for It’s a Small World, I can now look back with deep compassion for that younger version of me at the start of perimenopause.  She was the one frantically Googling her way through a vortex of symptoms, never quite able to figure out whether it was a brain tumor or an underactive thyroid gland.

    It all started when I was around thirty-five (for context, I’m now forty-nine). I’d just moved to Brighton from Cheshire to do a degree in songwriting at BIMM and threw myself into it with all the gusto of a twenty-four-year-old; after all, I had it…the gusto, that is.

    That first year was wild, to say the least, but then, the ground beneath me started to fracture.

    My mind would go blank on stage. The keyboard started looking like a fuzzy blob of jelly. My heart would pound through the night for no apparent reason. I gained a spare tire around my middle. I’d walk into town and have a panic attack, clutching the wall of a bank while strangers side-eyed me with pity or concern.

    My libido shot through the roof like a horny teenager. The rage was volcanic, and my poor partner couldn’t even breathe next to me without triggering a tirade (I see the dichotomy too).

    It was a maelstrom of symptoms that even Dr. Google couldn’t unpack, and yeah, neither could my actual doctor, but that’s for another time.

    The real unraveling came when I went on tour with a band at age forty-two.

    It was supposed to be fun-fun-fun, except it wasn’t. It was hell-hell-hell. Ten days, and I slept properly for only one of them. I came home wrecked, assuming that once I returned to my bed and the stability of my beloved, I’d be fine.

    But I wasn’t. That’s when insomnia truly began. I’d ‘learned’ how not to sleep, and now my mind was sabotaging me on a loop.

    In desperation, I booked in with a functional medicine practitioner who ran some lab tests. The results were “low everything,” and that was the first time I heard the word perimenopause.

    I didn’t think much of it at the time—standard denial. But the word lodged itself somewhere.

    Around the same time, I was running a speaker event in Brighton and immersing myself in therapeutic modalities as part of my own healing.

    Music, my first (well, actually second) career, had started to feel more frightening than exhilarating. In my search for calm, I stumbled upon a modality called RTT, a kind of deep subconscious reset done under hypnosis, which changed everything for me and launched me into a new career pathway.

    As I continued learning and applying what I was discovering, a huge lightbulb moment landed:

    “Hang on… A lot of the stories I’m hearing from women in midlife involve more than just symptoms; they involve deep, relational wounds.  I wonder if there’s a link between menopause symptom severity and childhood experiences?”

    So, I turned to Google Scholar to see if anyone else had spotted this link, and sure enough, there it was.

    I came across a 2021 study in Maturitas that found women with higher ACE (Adverse Childhood Experiences) scores were up to 9.6 times more likely to experience severe menopausal symptoms, even when things like anxiety, depression, and HRT were factored in. That blew my mind.

    Another 2023 study from Emory University showed that perimenopausal women with trauma histories demonstrated significantly higher levels of PTSD and depression than those in other hormonal phases. That explained so much of what I was feeling too. 

    And then I found a 2017 paper in the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry showing that women who experienced two or more ACEs were over 2.5 times more likely to have their first major depressive episode during menopause, even if they had no prior history of depression. 

    Finally, a recent 2024 review framed early trauma as a key driver of hormonal sensitivity, especially during life transitions like perimenopause. It helped me see that my struggles weren’t random or my fault; there was something a lot deeper at play.

    But I was still confused. What was the biological mechanism behind all of this?

    Dun dun dah… I found a peer-reviewed paper in Frontiers in Medicine that helped me connect the dots. Take a breath.

    In trauma-exposed women, our GABA receptors become altered. These receptors, which help calm the nervous system, rely on a metabolite of progesterone called allopregnanolone. But trauma can disrupt both our ability to break down progesterone into allopregnanolone and our ability to receive its effects at the cellular level (because the GABA receptors become dysfunctional).

    So basically, that means even if we have enough progesterone, we might not be able to use it properly. The ensuing result is that we become more sensitive to hormonal fluctuations, and we can’t receive the soothing effects we should be getting from progesterone.

    As I began to piece all this together, I was forced to confront something in my own history.

    Because frankly, I thought I had a happy childhood.

    That is, until I came across a concept that stopped me in my tracks. It felt so close to home, I literally clapped the book shut.

    It’s called enmeshment trauma.

    It’s a type of relational trauma that often leads to symptoms of CPTSD (which, just to remind you, tends to flare up during menopause). But the thing is, enmeshment hides in plain sight often under the guise of “closeness.” We prided ourselves on being a close family… too close, in fact.

    I was an only child with nothing to buffer me from the scrutiny of my parents and the emotional load they placed on me. They’d confide in me about each other as if I were their best friend or therapist. I didn’t know it then, but their lack of emotional maturity meant they were leaning on me for unconditional emotional support. I was a good listener and a very tuned-in child.

    I became parentified. Praised and validated for my precociousness, while being robbed of the ability to safely individuate. I was “allowed” to find myself, but the price I paid was emotional withdrawal from my father, equally painful as we’d been so close.

    It was confusing and overwhelming, and I had no one to help me metabolize those feelings. It wired me for hyper-responsibility, anxiety, and guilt. Not exactly the best recipe for a smooth menopause transition, which requires slowness, ease, and softness.

    As a textbook “daddy’s girl,” I unconsciously sought out older men, bosses, teachers, even married guys. Their energy felt familiar. Meanwhile, emotionally available prospects seemed boring, even if they were safer. That attachment chaos added more voltage to the CPTSD pot I had no idea was simmering under the surface of my somewhat narcissistic facade.

    The final ingredient in this complex trauma marinade was a stunted ability to individuate financially. I was still clinging to my parents’ purse strings at age forty-four. The shame, frustration, and despair all came to a head when I dove into the biggest self-sabotaging episode of my life:

    I decided to leave my long-term relationship.

    He was my rock and my stability. But “daddy’s girl” wanted one last encore. And when he refused to take me back, despite my pleading, it was a mess. But, in a twist of grace, my father had taught me grit. How to get out of a hole. And that’s exactly what I did.

    I learned to stand on my own two feet financially. I learned the power of committing to one person and treating them with respect. I learned to set boundaries and become deliciously self-preserving with my energy, because that’s what the menopause transition demanded of me.

    And if it weren’t for those wild hormonal shifts, I’m not sure I’d have learned any of this.

    Through my experience, I’ve come to see that menopause isn’t just a hormonal event. It’s a complete life transition, both inner and outer. A transition deeply influenced by the state of our nervous system and our capacity for resilience and emotional flexibility.

    For those of us with trauma, this resilience and flexibility is often impaired. Hormone therapy can help, yes, but for sensitive systems, it’s only part of the puzzle. And sometimes, it can even make things worse, especially if not dosed correctly.

    As sensitive, trauma-aware women navigating these hormonal shifts, there’s so much we can do to support ourselves outside of the medical model.

    Slowing it all down is one of the most powerful ways we can create space for the ‘busy work’ our bodies are diligently undertaking during this transition. Gentle, nourishing movement. Yoga Nidra. Early nights. Simple, healthy meals. Earthing and grounding in nature. Magnesium baths. Dry body brushing. Castor oil packs. Vaginal steaming. Think: self-care on steroids.

    But perhaps the most radical thing I ever did was to carve out more space in my diary just to S.L.O.W.  D.O.W.N.

    Now, eighteen months post-menopause, I find myself reflecting.

    What did she teach me?

    She flagged up everything unresolved, unmet, and unchallenged.

    She showed me where I was still saying yes to others and no to myself.

    She taught me that I need more space than society finds comfortable.

    She helped me let go of beauty standards and gave me time for rest.

    She absolved me of guilt for not living according to others’ expectations.

    She reframed my symptoms as love letters from my inner child, calling me home to myself.

  • The Power of Imperfect Work in an AI-Driven, Perfection-Obsessed World

    The Power of Imperfect Work in an AI-Driven, Perfection-Obsessed World

    “Have no fear of perfection—you’ll never reach it.” ~Salvador Dalí

    We live in a world that worships polish.

    Perfect photos on Instagram. Seamless podcasts with no awkward pauses. Articles that read like they’ve passed through a dozen editors.

    And now, with AI tools that can produce mistake-free writing in seconds, the bar feels even higher. Machines can generate flawless sentences, perfect grammar, and shiny ideas on demand. Meanwhile, I’m over here second-guessing a paragraph, rewriting the same sentence six different ways, and still wondering if “Best” or “Warmly” is the less awkward email sign-off.

    It’s easy to feel like our messy, human work doesn’t measure up.

    I’ve fallen into that trap plenty of times. I’ve delayed publishing because “it’s not ready.” I’ve rerecorded podcasts because I stumbled on a word. I’ve tweaked and reformatted things no one else would even notice.

    Perfectionism whispers: If it isn’t flawless, don’t share it.

    But over time, I’ve learned something else: imperfection is not a liability. It’s the whole point.

    A Table Full of Flaws

    One of the best lessons I’ve ever learned about imperfection came not from writing or technology, but from woodworking.

    About a decade ago, I decided to build a dining table. I spent hours measuring, cutting, sanding, and staining. I wanted it to be perfect.

    But here’s the truth about woodworking: nothing ever turns out perfect. Ever.

    That table looks solid from across the room. But if you step closer, you’ll notice the flaws. The board I mismeasured by a quarter inch. The corner I over-sanded. The stain that didn’t set evenly.

    At first, I saw those flaws as failures. Proof that I wasn’t skilled enough, patient enough, or careful enough.

    But then something surprising happened. My wife walked into the room, saw the finished table, and said she loved it. She didn’t see the mistakes. She saw something that had been made with love and care.

    And slowly, I began to see it that way, too.

    That table isn’t just furniture. It’s proof of effort, process, and patience. It carries my fingerprints, my sweat, and my imperfect humanity.

    And here’s the kicker: it’s way more fulfilling than anything mass-produced or manufactured as machine-perfect.

    Why Imperfection Connects Us

    That table taught me something AI never could: flaws tell a story.

    Machines can produce flawless outputs, but they can’t create meaning. They can’t replicate the pride of sanding wood with your own hands or the laughter around a table that wobbled for the first month.

    Imperfections are what make something ours. They carry our fingerprints, quirks, and lived experiences.

    In contrast, perfection is sterile. It might be impressive, but it rarely feels alive.

    Think about the things that move us most—a friend’s vulnerable story, a laugh that turns into a snort, a talk where the speaker loses their train of thought but recovers with honesty. When was the last time you felt closest to someone? Chances are, it wasn’t when they were polished, it was when they were real. Those moments connect us precisely because they are imperfect.

    They remind us we’re not alone in our flaws.

    The AI Contrast

    AI dazzles us because it never stutters. It never doubts. It never sends an awkward text or spills coffee on its keyboard. AI can do flawless. But flawless isn’t the same as meaningful.

    But here’s what it doesn’t do:

    • It doesn’t feel the mix of pride and embarrassment in showing someone your wobbly table.
    • It doesn’t understand the joy of cooking a meal that didn’t go exactly to plan.
    • It doesn’t know what it’s like to hit “publish” while your stomach churns with nerves, only to get a message later that says, “This made me feel less alone.”

    Flawlessness might be a machine’s strength. But humanity is ours.

    The very things I used to try to hide—the quirks, the rough edges, the imperfections—are the things that make my work worth sharing.

    A Different Kind of Readiness

    I used to think I needed to wait until something was “ready.” The blog post polished just right. The podcast that’s perfectly edited. The message refined until it couldn’t possibly be criticized.

    But I’ve learned that readiness is a mirage. It’s often just perfectionism in disguise.

    The truth is, most of the things that resonated most with people—my most-downloaded podcast episode, the articles that readers emailed me about months later—were the ones I almost didn’t share. The ones that felt too messy, too vulnerable, too real.

    And yet, those are the ones people said, “This is exactly what I needed to hear.”

    Not the flawless ones. The human ones.

    How We Can Embrace Imperfection

    I’m not saying it’s easy. Perfectionism is sneaky. It wears the disguise of “high standards” or “being thorough.”

    Here’s what I’ve found helps me. Not rules, but reminders I keep returning to:

    Share before you feel ready.If it feels 80% good enough, release it. The last 20% is often just endless polishing.

    Reframe mistakes as stories.My table’s flaws? Now they’re conversation starters. What mistakes of yours might carry meaning, too?

    Notice where imperfection builds connection.The things that make people feel closer to you usually aren’t the shiny parts. They’re the honest ones.

    The Bigger Picture

    We live in a culture obsessed with speed, optimization, and polish. AI accelerates that pressure. It tempts us to compete on machine terms: flawless, instant, infinite.

    But that’s not the game we’re meant to play.

    Our advantage—our only real advantage—is that we’re human. We bring nuance, empathy, humor, vulnerability, and lived experience.

    Robots don’t laugh until they snort. They don’t ugly cry during Pixar movies. They don’t mismeasure wood or forget to use the wood glue and build a table that their partner loves anyway.

    You do. I do. That’s the point.

    So maybe we don’t need to sand down every rough edge. Perhaps we don’t need to hide every flaw.

    Because when the world is flooded with flawless, machine-polished work, the imperfect, human things will stand out.

    And those are the things people will remember.

  • How to Stay Kind Without Losing Yourself to Toxic Behavior

    How to Stay Kind Without Losing Yourself to Toxic Behavior

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Here’s what I mean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    That’s why it’s best to…

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

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

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

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

    Because that’s what this is about.

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

    It’s not about wanting others to notice.

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

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

    Kind people always struggle with this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Stay True to Yourself

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

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

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

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

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

    Because, honestly, what if they did?

    You don’t need their approval.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    He told me everything I wanted to hear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    That’s not what happened.

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

    Then my body reacted.

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

    There was no hiding it. No escaping it.

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

    I excused myself and ran to the restroom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It was the worst time of my life.

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

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

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

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

    What I Learned About Trauma

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

    From a trauma perspective, I learned:

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It made me stop looking backward and start looking forward.

    What I Learned About Work

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

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

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

    Here’s what I learned:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    What Helped Me Heal

    The good news is healing is possible.

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

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

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

    Exploring my past experiences with compassion instead of judgment.

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

    Recognizing the subconscious behaviors that put me at risk.

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

    Setting boundaries at work to protect my energy and healing.

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

    Honoring the complexity of the human body and lived experience.

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

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

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

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

    And you can, too.

  • Letting Go of the Life You Were Told to Want

    Letting Go of the Life You Were Told to Want

    “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

    Ever since I was about four years old, I knew I was different from the other kids. I was always on the outside looking in. As I approach middle age, I’ve never shaken that feeling—the knowing—of being different.

    We live in a noisy world where we find whatever we seek. If we’re looking for validation that we don’t belong, that’s exactly what we’ll find.

    While flawed, the standard ‘life blueprint’ hasn’t quite sailed off into the sunset. The path to happiness, according to societal norms and expectations, goes something like:

    • Getting the degree
    • Climbing the corporate ladder
    • Finding ‘the one’
    • Having children and the ‘dream’ family
    • Buying the fancy house, the car or whatever else we desire
    • Buckling up for retirement and living ‘happily ever after’

    Let’s Stop Selling People the Fairytale

    For many, life’s expectations sink so deeply into their bones that they hardly pause to ask: Do I actually want this life? Am I simply following the path I was told to walk?

    The reality is that, as someone living through the experience, choosing a life that doesn’t look like everyone else’s can be confronting. I’m single at thirty-eight and have no kids and live alone.

    I always say everything has its pros and cons, but when I am alone with no outside noise to sway me, I am genuinely content. I feel this at my core. I’m home.

    The Heavy Weight of the Word ‘Should’

    I despise the word “should.” It’s a heavy word because it comes wrapped in fear. More pointedly, fear of letting people down, of being rejected, of daring to dream of something that isn’t on the tried and tested path, and ultimately, the fear of getting lost in uncertainty.

    I was never a fan of ticking boxes. Even more so when I learned through experience that every box left me feeling emptier.

    Recently, I’ve become increasingly interested in the origins of societal ideas. We are the only people walking in our shoes and experiencing this world as we do. Checklists may seem comforting thanks to their supposed certainty, but I speak from experience when I say they are suffocating when they fail to align with who we truly are.

    What would happen if you engaged in a self-audit on the “shoulds” in your life? You’d be surprised at how often the word pops up. I know I was.

    Being Open to Curiosity

    Curiosity is a superpower. If people asked questions more than they assumed, the world would be a softer place.

    When I was younger, I remember a family member saying something along the lines of, “Everyone wants to find their person, settle down, and have kids.”

    Even as a teenager, I knew that assertion didn’t sit right with me. How can everyone on this planet have the same life path and desires?

    Permitting ourselves to ask the uncomfortable questions is a gift in the long term because it helps to prevent us from creating a life where we are playing a character rather than truly living.

    • What if I don’t want children?
    • What if owning a home isn’t important to me?
    • What if [enter whatever your greatest desire is] doesn’t make me feel how I think it will?

    Listening to the Wisdom of Our Body

    It’s odd to me how we compartmentalize mental, physical, and emotional health and well-being. There’s no mental health without physical health and vice versa. The body knows before the mind latches on.

    That sinking heaviness in your chest when you picture a future you don’t truly want. The flutter of lightness when you imagine an alternative that feels more aligned, even if it scares you. This is not your imagination.

    Our bodies are constantly speaking to us on a 24/7 basis, willing us to listen. Learning to listen to our body’s signals can be a compass.

    If a decision leaves you feeling constricted, drained, or resentful, it may not be congruent with your values. If it leaves you feeling expansive, calm, or quietly excited, it may be pointing you toward your version of freedom.

    Of course, this doesn’t mean the path will always be easy (it won’t), but it will be yours. And there is peace in that.

    Facing the Fear of Judgment

    Let’s be honest: choosing a life that is counterculture often means facing judgement. Lots of people think all kinds of things about me. I let them because correcting them isn’t important to me.

    Here’s what I know for sure:

    • Family often question our choices
    • Friends don’t always understand
    • People fear change and the uncommon

    Here’s the truth: People are often most unsettled not by our choices, but by the mirror our choices reflect back to them.

    When you step outside the script, you remind others that they, too, have the option to choose differently. For some, that’s inspiring. For others, it’s threatening.

    Creating Your Own Life, Not Someone Else’s

    The beauty of life lies in diversity. Your version of a meaningful life may shift and evolve as you do, and that’s okay. What matters most is you choose it consciously rather than by default.

    Choosing a life that doesn’t look like everyone else’s isn’t about rebellion for the sake of it. It’s about alignment.

    It’s about living in a way that honors your values, nourishes your well-being, and allows you to show up authentically.

    I’m not here to offer fun tips and tricks. I assure you that if you feel you are destined for something greater or more, you’re not alone.

    So what will you choose?

    If you feel your life doesn’t fit into a standard mold, you aren’t broken. You are simply hearing the call to create something authentic for yourself.

    It takes courage to step off the well-worn path. And every time you choose your own version of enough—your own rhythms, joys, and definitions of success—you make space for others to do the same.

    The world doesn’t need more cookie-cutter lives; it needs people who are brave enough to live in alignment with their hearts.

  • The Unexpected Therapy I Found on My Phone

    The Unexpected Therapy I Found on My Phone

    “Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” ~Dr. Seuss

    The notification pops up on my phone: “Jason, we made a new memory reel for you.” I pause whatever I’m doing, probably something stressful involving deadlines or dishes, and feel that familiar flutter of excitement. What chapter of my life has Google decided to surprise me with today?

    I tap the notification, and suddenly I’m watching years of Father’s Day adventures unfold. It started accidentally—one Father’s Day trip to the Buffalo Zoo that somehow became our tradition. Instead of buying me something I didn’t really need, we chose experiences. Year after year, we’d visit a new aquarium or zoo.

    There’s my son at age three at the Erie Zoo, barely tall enough to see over the penguin exhibit barrier. The same kid at five at the Baltimore Aquarium, tentative but overjoyed as he touched a stingray for the first time. Then six at the Philadelphia Zoo, taking in the fact that there is a tube system where some of the big cats can walk overhead.

    Buffalo, Erie, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Charleston. We’d mapped Father’s Days across the Eastern Seaboard without ever planning it. So much time has passed since we started. My son has grown taller, lost teeth, found his voice. I’ve gotten balder, maybe a little softer around the edges. But there we are, year after year, choosing moments over things.

    We tell ourselves to create experiences instead of accumulating stuff, but just how important that choice is never really hits until you play it back. Here was the proof: a memory bank I didn’t even realize we were building, one Father’s Day adventure at a time.

    The emotions hit in waves. Pure joy at his excitement over feeding the stingrays, happy sadness watching his younger self discover jellyfish for the first time, overwhelming gratitude for every single trip we took. This ninety-second reel has become medicine for whatever current stress I’m carrying.

    And that’s when it hits me. My phone accidentally became my therapist.

    When Technology Gets It Right

    I never intended for Google Photos to become part of my self-care practice. Like most people, my wife and I take hundreds of photos without much thought, letting them pile up in digital storage. The idea of actually organizing or regularly looking through them feels overwhelming. Iƒt feels like thousands of images scattered across years of living.

    But then technology stepped in with an unexpected gift. These automated memory reels started appearing, curating my own life back to me in perfectly sized emotional portions. Not the entire overwhelming archive, just a gentle serving of “Remember this?”

    At first, I was skeptical. Another way for a tech company to keep me glued to my screen when I routinely looked for ways to escape. But as these memory notifications became part of my routine, I realized something profound was happening. Google’s algorithm had accidentally created something I never knew I needed: regular reminders of how blessed my life has been.

    The beauty is in the surprise element. I’m not seeking out specific photos when I’m feeling down. That can sometimes backfire, making me feel more nostalgic or sad. Instead, these curated moments arrive when I least expect them, like getting a text from an old friend who you haven’t heard from it a while.

    The Science of Digital Reminiscence

    Research shows that positive reminiscence (deliberately recalling happy memories) can significantly improve mood and reduce stress. When we engage with positive memories, our brains release dopamine and activate the same neural pathways associated with the original experience. We literally get to relive moments of joy.

    Visual memories are particularly powerful. Studies in cognitive psychology reveal that images trigger stronger emotional responses and more vivid recall than other types of memory cues. When we see a photo from a happy time, we don’t just remember the moment. We can almost feel ourselves back there.

    Nostalgia, once thought to be a purely melancholy emotion, is now understood to be a powerful mood regulator. Research from the University of Southampton shows that nostalgic reflection increases feelings of social connectedness, boosts self-esteem, and provides a sense of meaning and continuity in our lives.

    But what makes these digital memory reels especially effective is that they’re unexpected and brief. Unlike deliberately scrolling through old photos (which can sometimes lead to rumination or sadness), these automated highlights arrive as pleasant surprises and end before we get overwhelmed.

    The timing is often perfect too. These notifications tend to pop up during mundane moments, like waiting in line, taking a work break, sitting in traffic. Exactly when we need a little perspective on what really matters.

    The Emotional Range of Remembering

    Not every memory reel hits the same way. Some make me laugh out loud, like the diversity of my son’s increasingly elaborate Halloween costumes or the series of failed attempts to get a decent group photo at our destination wedding. Others bring that “happy sadness” I’ve come to appreciate… seeing my grandmother in photos from a few years back, her smile bright even when her health was declining.

    Then there are the reels that just make me feel deeply grateful. The random afternoon when we decided to try goat yoga. The collection of action shots over the years: chasing my son around the house in a homemade superhero costume, his skateboarding phase, catching up with friends we haven’t seen in some time. These aren’t momentous occasions, just evidence of a life filled with small adventures and genuine connection.

    What strikes me most is how these photos capture joy I might have forgotten. In the daily grind of parenting, working, and managing life, it’s easy to remember the stress and overlook the sweetness. But here’s photographic proof: we’ve actually had a lot of fun together.

    The reels remind me that while life hasn’t been all butterflies and rainbows, the good has consistently outweighed the tough times. The visual evidence is overwhelming. We’ve been blessed, again and again, in ways both big and small.

    Embracing Digital Self-Care

    I’ve learned to treat these memory notifications as legitimate self-care appointments. When that notification pops up, I pause whatever I’m doing and give it my full attention. No multitasking, no rushing through. I let myself feel whatever comes up. The giggles, the happy sadness, the overwhelming gratitude.

    Sometimes the timing feels almost magical. The day my social anxiety took over because I had to present during three different meetings, a reel appeared featuring peaceful moments from the trip my wife and I took to Newport, Rhode Island (mostly so I could try a lobster roll). When I was worried about whether I was doing enough as a parent, I was served a compilation of my son’s biggest smiles over the years.

    It’s become a form of mindfulness I never planned. These brief interruptions that pull me out of current anxiety and remind me of the bigger picture. They’re proof that I’ve been present for beautiful moments, that I’ve prioritized what matters, that love has been the consistent thread running through our ordinary days.

    The Memory Bank We Don’t Realize We’re Building

    Those Father’s Day zoo trips felt routine at the time. Just something we did because that’s what families do on special days. I wasn’t thinking about creating lasting memories or building traditions. I was just trying to make sure my son had a good day.

    But now I see what we were doing, and that was making deposits in a memory bank that would pay dividends years later. Every photo was evidence of intention, of showing up, of choosing joy even when life felt overwhelming.

    The beauty of these digital memory reels is that they reveal patterns we might not see in real time. They show us that we’ve been more intentional than we realized, more present than we felt, more blessed than our current mood might suggest.

    The Gift of Automated Gratitude

    In a world where technology often leaves us feeling more anxious and disconnected, these memory reels offer something different: automated gratitude practice. They’re gentle reminders to pause and appreciate not just where we are, but where we’ve been.

    They don’t require apps to download or habits to build. They just arrive, like grace, when we need them most.

    So, the next time you get one of those memory notifications, pause. Let yourself be surprised by your own joy. Look at the evidence of love in your life. The big moments and especially the small ones. Notice how much good has happened, even during life’s inevitable challenges.

    Your phone is holding more than photos. It’s holding proof of how blessed your life has been.

    And sometimes, that’s exactly the reminder we need to keep building that memory bank, one ordinary, beautiful day at a time.

  • When You’re Tired of Fixing Yourself: How to Stop Treating Healing Like a Full-Time Job

    When You’re Tired of Fixing Yourself: How to Stop Treating Healing Like a Full-Time Job

    “True self-love is not about becoming someone better; it’s about softening into the truth of who you already are.” ~Yung Pueblo

    One morning, I sat at my kitchen table with my journal open, a cup of green tea steaming beside me, and a stack of self-help books spread out like an emergency toolkit.

    The sunlight was spilling across the counter, but I didn’t notice. My eyes kept darting between the dog-eared pages of a book called Becoming Your Best Self and the neatly written to-do list in my journal.

    Meditation.
    Gratitude journaling.
    Affirmations.
    Ten thousand steps.
    Hydration tracker.
    “Inner child work” … still unchecked.

    It was only 9:00 a.m., and I’d already meditated, journaled, listened to a personal development podcast, and planned my “healing workout” for later.

    By all accounts, I was doing everything right. But instead of feeling inspired or light, I felt… tired. Bone-deep tired.

    When Self-Improvement Becomes Self-Criticism

    I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had turned personal growth into a job I could never leave.

    Every podcast was a strategy meeting. Every book was an employee manual for a better me. Every quiet moment became a chance to find another flaw to address.

    And if I missed something, a day without journaling, a skipped meditation, a workout cut short, I felt like I had failed. Not failed at the task itself but failed as a person. I told myself this was dedication. That it was healthy to be committed to becoming the best version of myself.

    But underneath, there was a quieter truth I didn’t want to admit:

    I wasn’t growing from a place of self-love. I was hustling for my own worth.

    Somewhere along the way, “self-improvement” had stopped being about building a life I loved and had become about fixing a person I didn’t.

    Self-Growth Burnout Is Real

    We talk about burnout from work, parenting, and caregiving, but we don’t often talk about self-growth burnout. The kind that comes when you’ve been “working on yourself” for so long it becomes another obligation.

    It’s subtle, but you can feel it.

    It’s the heaviness you carry into your meditation practice, the quiet resentment when someone tells you about a “life-changing” book you have to read, the way even rest feels like you’re falling behind in your own healing.

    The worst part? It’s wrapped in such positive language that it’s hard to admit you’re tired of it.

    When you say you’re exhausted, people tell you to “take a self-care day,” which often just becomes another checkbox. When you say you’re feeling stuck, they hand you another podcast, another journal prompt, another morning routine to try.

    It’s exhausting to realize that even your downtime is part of a performance review you’re constantly giving yourself.

    The Moment I Stepped Off the Hamster Wheel

    My turning point wasn’t dramatic. No breakdown, no grand epiphany. Just a Tuesday night in early spring.

    I had planned to do my usual “nighttime routine” … ten minutes of breathwork, ten minutes of journaling, reading a chapter of a personal growth book before bed. But that night, I walked past my desk, grabbed a blanket, and went outside instead.

    The air was cool, and the sky was streaked with soft pink and gold. I sat down on the porch steps and just… watched it change. No phone. No agenda. No trying to make the moment “productive” by mentally drafting a gratitude list.

    For the first time in years, I let something be just what it was.

    And in that stillness, I realized how much of my life I’d been missing in the chase to become “better.” I was so focused on the next version of me that I’d been neglecting the one living my actual life right now.

    Why We Keep Fixing What Isn’t Broken

    Looking back, I can see why I got stuck there.

    We live in a culture that profits from our constant self-doubt. There’s always a “next step,” a new program, a thirty-day challenge promising to “transform” us.

    And there’s nothing inherently wrong with learning, growing, or challenging ourselves. The problem comes when growth is rooted in the belief that who we are today is inadequate.

    When every action is motivated by I’m not enough yet, we end up in an endless loop of striving without ever feeling at peace.

    How I Started Shifting from Fixing to Living

    It wasn’t an overnight change. I had to relearn how to interact with personal growth in a way that felt nourishing instead of punishing. Here’s what helped me:

    1. I checked the weight of what I was doing.

    I started asking myself: Does this feel like support, or does it feel like pressure? If it felt heavy, exhausting, or like another form of self-criticism, I paused or dropped it completely.

    2. I let rest be part of the process.

    Not “rest so I could be more productive later,” but real rest—reading a novel just because I liked it, taking a walk without tracking my steps, watching the clouds without trying to meditate.

    3. I stopped chasing every “should.”

    I let go of the belief that I had to try every method, read every book, or follow every guru to heal. I gave myself permission to choose what resonated and ignore the rest.

    4. I practiced being okay with “good enough.”

    Instead of asking, “How can I make this better?” I practiced noticing what was already working in my life, even if it wasn’t perfect.

    What I Learned

    Healing isn’t a ladder you climb to a perfect view.

    It’s more like a rhythm—one that includes rest days, quiet seasons, and moments where nothing changes except your ability to notice you’re okay right now.

    I learned that sometimes the most transformative thing you can do is stop. Stop chasing, stop fixing, stop critiquing every part of yourself like you’re a never-ending renovation project.

    Because maybe the real work isn’t fixing yourself into a future you’ll finally love. Maybe the real work is learning to live fully in the self you already are.

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

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

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

    They don’t talk about this part.

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

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

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

    I left. And I felt powerful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And that kind often takes time.

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

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

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

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

    This isn’t backsliding. This is integration.

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

    Eventually, something begins to shift.

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

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

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

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

    Because not everyone gets here. And not everyone stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And true takes time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Life shimmers differently these days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    She burst into laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    One: Grounded power.

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

    Two: Embodied truth.

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

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

    Three: Fierce compassion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • How 10 Days of Silence Brought Me Perspective and Peace

    How 10 Days of Silence Brought Me Perspective and Peace

    “Removing old conditionings from the mind and training the mind to be more equanimous with every experience is the first step toward enabling one to experience true happiness.” ~S.N. Goenka

    I just spent ten days sitting in absolute silence with about 100 strangers, time I previously thought I should’ve spent networking and applying for jobs as an unemployed twenty-something with little savings and no assets, living in a completely new country with no network or job prospects.

    There were no conversations, no eye contact, no listening to music, no exercise, no reading or writing—just silence, with twelve hours of meditation each day.

    I applied to the program on a whim, was accepted off the waitlist the day before it began, and bought my plane ticket impulsively the night before. With little time to prepare and even less certainty about what lay ahead, I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps this was exactly where I was meant to be, even if it wasn’t what I originally had planned.

    This retreat is a course on Vipassana meditation, a practice I discovered through Dhamma.org, taught by the spiritual guru S.N. Goenka. This ancient technique, deeply rooted in the teachings of Buddha, requires intense focus on the physical sensations of the body, observing them without attachment or aversion.

    The aim is to cultivate a deep sense of equanimity and insight, leading to a more balanced and peaceful state of mind. It’s a journey inward, stripping away the layers of noise and distraction to reveal the true nature of our existence.

    Of course, the website paints a serene and enlightening picture. While it truly is all those things, there were moments when I questioned my decision. At times, the retreat felt less like a sanctuary of peace and more like a self-imposed prison.

    This retreat was undoubtedly one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but it was also one of the most transformative. It completely rewired my brain and changed my relationship with myself.

    After those ten days, I emerged as the most present and clear-headed I have ever been. Vipassana is often touted as a path to enlightenment, and it proved to be more than just a meditation technique. It is a rigorous self-confrontation, an unfiltered dialogue with the incessant chatter of one’s thoughts. In this space of relentless introspection, I came face to face with the raw, unedited version of myself.

    This experience came at a crucial time in my life, having recently quit my stable and glitzy job in entertainment to pursue a dream of living abroad, devoid of job security, a support network, or friends. The insights and clarity I gained through Vipassana meditation arrived at a moment when they were most needed, clearing a mental fog that seemed to have clouded my vision for years.

    And here I am to share the lessons and revelations from those transformative ten days.

    The Experience 

    The retreat took place in a hostel nestled in a remote village in Austria in late winter. When I arrived for the Vipassana meditation course, the cool and crisp air that was often shrouded in mist buzzed with anticipation.

    It was “day zero,” and we participants chatted lightly as we checked in, handed over our belongings, and met our roommates.

    As our vow of noble silence commenced after the 9 p.m. orientation, the sense of solitude set in. We knew that starting at 4 a.m. the next day, our routine would be drastically different.

    The first three days were dedicated to Anapana meditation, focusing on the sensations of the breath at the nostrils and upper lip. While the concept was straightforward, the challenge for me was substantial, especially due to the physical demands.

    Having just learned to ski the day before, I suffered from severe aches in my shoulders, neck, and back from repeated falls on hard snow, making it difficult to maintain a single sitting position for extended periods. The pain was a constant distraction, and looking around at the quiescent participants in the meditation hall, I felt acutely alone in my discomfort.

    Despite feeling isolated in my struggles, I soon noticed something uplifting. After each meditation session, relieved by the sweet sound of a gong, everyone would rush outside to stretch and shake off their stiffness. Some even sneaked in a few yoga poses or aerobic stretches behind trees (which is usually prohibited). Watching everyone stretch and move, I realized that even in our quiet, solitary struggles, we were all finding our own ways to ease the tension and feel a bit of relief.

    By the fourth day, we transitioned to the core practice of Vipassana meditation, which involved a more intricate mental process of scanning each part of the body with “unwavering equanimity” to feel sensations throughout.

    The early days of this practice felt like a mental battlefield. Repressed emotions and thoughts that I had long distracted myself from now screamed in my mind, creating a cacophony of emotions swirling in my mind.

    I thought I’d only struggle with wanting to leave when I felt negative emotions. However, I found that even positive emotions like inspiration, hope, and motivation were just as unsettling. These uplifting feelings made me want to run home and take action just as much as feelings of shame or sadness did.

    By midway through the fourth day, however, I experienced a significant breakthrough. My mental focus crystallized; the incessant chatter quieted, and for the first time, I managed to sit motionless for a full hour.

    This newfound calmness was soothing, and I was convinced it heralded a smoother path ahead. However, day six proved to have other plans. At 4 a.m., I was jolted awake by a panic attack, my heart racing and a nagging tightness in my chest, plunging my mind into turmoil and shattering the calm I had found. The serenity I had felt was replaced by a torrent of negative thoughts that felt inescapable.

    After this, I considered asking to leave during my next daily consultation with the assistant teacher. However, when the time for my consultation arrived, I reflected on my experiences and noticed a small but meaningful shift in my mental state. This glimmer of progress gave me the strength to persevere and stay committed to the process.

    The teacher, noticing my distress, offered reassurance that my intense emotional experience was a normal part of the process, advising me to face these emotions with equanimity rather than judgment.

    This pivotal conversation reminded me that experiencing a range of emotions is an inherent part of being human.

    The retreat, though intensely challenging, taught me valuable lessons about the transient nature of emotions and the strength found in communal endurance. By the end, I not only gained insights into my own psyche but also developed a deeper compassion for others, recognizing that despite our individual struggles, we share a common journey of growth and discovery.

    Insights and Reflections

    Emotions

    From that pivotal sixth day onward, my approach to my emotions and to meditation itself evolved profoundly. Rather than being overwhelmed by my feelings, I learned to observe them from a distance, recognizing their transient nature and gaining insights that I could apply to my life beyond the meditation cushion.

    Previously, I had a profound misunderstanding that I wasn’t just experiencing feelings—I was enshrining them as immutable truths, anchoring my identity and decisions to their fleeting presence. I had been using my emotions as a barometer for reality, attaching unwarranted significance to each emotional wave without recognizing their transient nature.

    For example, if I felt anxiety about a decision, I might interpret that anxiety as a sign that the decision was wrong rather than as a natural response to uncertainty. This led me to avoid potentially beneficial but challenging opportunities simply because of the discomfort they invoked. Similarly, if I experienced joy in a situation, I might overly commit to it without critical assessment, mistaking transient happiness for long-term fulfillment.

    However, through mindful observation, I began to understand the ephemeral nature of emotions—they come and go, often influenced by myriad external and internal factors that do not necessarily have a direct correlation with the objective reality of the situations that provoke them.

    This insight led me to a more nuanced understanding that while emotions are valid experiences, they are not definitive guides to action. They are, rather, one component of a broader decision-making process that should also involve rational analysis and reflection.

    Self-confidence 

    Moreover, I came to understand that seeking external validation for my decisions was unnecessary. The concept of a “best” decision is elusive; what truly matters is making choices that resonate with my personal beliefs and values.

    This profound period of self-reflection allowed me to become more comfortable with myself and to trust my own judgment. This shift was incredibly liberating, particularly at a pivotal moment in my life where I faced the daunting task of choosing between two vastly different paths, each enveloped in its own uncertainty.

    I realized how much of my past behavior was driven by a need for external validation. It wasn’t always about seeking approval, but rather looking for someone else to affirm my choices, to nod in agreement, or to give me the green light to proceed with my plans. Unbeknownst to me, I had been stifling my own instincts and insights, inadvertently relegating the authority over my life to others.

    Each choice I make, grounded in self-awareness and self-compassion, leads me down a path that contributes to my growth and learning, regardless of the outcome.

    This perspective shifts the focus from fear of making a “mistake” to an understanding that every step taken is part of a larger journey towards personal fulfillment and wisdom. By being present and committed to myself, I can navigate life’s uncertainties with confidence, knowing that all experiences are valuable and that my inner guidance is a reliable compass.

    Love

     Formerly, I saw love as a destination, a goal to be achieved, wrapped in expectations and specific outcomes. This perspective treated love as something to be received passively—a feeling handed down rather than actively cultivated. My approach was centered around control, trying to steer love toward a preconceived notion of what it should look like, often ignoring the dynamic and evolving nature of genuine connections.

    Love as an act, rather than just a feeling, transforms it from a passive state to an active engagement with life and the people in it. It’s about pouring into relationships freely and generously, not intending to receive something in return but to foster a genuine connection and mutual growth.

    This shift in perspective has taught me to appreciate love’s subtle presence in life—how it’s not just found in grand gestures or declarations, but in the quiet, everyday actions that bind lives together. Understanding love as a fluid, evolving force rather than a static goal has freed me from the burdens of expectation and control.

    True love is about being solid and sturdy with someone without needing to define every moment or cling too tightly. It’s about letting love for others—romantic, familial, friendly, even for strangers and animals—flow without possession.

    Contribution

    This evolved understanding of love profoundly influences how I approach my career and contributions to the world. Previously, I saw my career mainly as a way to chase personal fulfillment, driven by the often-cited advice to “follow your passions.” While this was empowering, it also kept me in a bubble of self-focus and entitlement, where I was more concerned with finding the perfect job that would maximize my happiness.

    However, as my concept of love matured, so did my view on my professional life. I began to see my work not just as a means for personal achievement but as a chance to contribute to something bigger than myself. This shift in thinking about love—as something you give without expecting a specific outcome—has mirrored in my career approach.

    Now, my career decisions hinge not only on what brings me joy or utilizes my skills but also on how I can use those skills to positively impact others. It’s about leveraging what I know and can do for the greater good, not just for my own success.

    Embracing this broader perspective has made me more conscious of the interconnectedness of our actions and our collective well-being. Just as love builds bridges in personal relationships, a career grounded in contribution and service can foster connections that lead to community growth and improvement. It’s changed how I set professional goals: instead of just aiming for personal milestones, I focus on creating value that uplifts others.

    Connectedness

    On day ten, we finally broke our vow of noble silence after breakfast. After speaking with the other participants, a profound realization emerged—although our individual narratives and life experiences were markedly different, the emotional outcomes and insights we arrived at were astonishingly similar. This fascinating contrast highlighted that, despite our unique paths, at our core, we feel the same fundamental human emotions.

    This commonality in our emotional responses underscores a deeper, universal truth about the human condition in that we are more interconnected than we might believe. The emotional threads that connect us do not vary greatly from one person to another; joy, sorrow, fear, and hope are universal experiences that transcend individual circumstances.

    Vipassana meditation, focused on observing one’s own mind and body, amplifies this realization by stripping away the superficial differences and revealing the underlying uniformity of our emotional nature.

    This realization served as somewhat of an ego death, where the sense of being profoundly unique or a special case diminished. It brought to light the collective human experience, suggesting that while our life stories add richness and variety to the human experience, the emotional landscape we navigate is shared. We are not isolated in our feelings; rather, we are part of a vast continuum of human emotion that binds us together.

    Embracing this understanding fostered a profound sense of empathy and solidarity. It diminishes the ego’s insistence on our separateness and highlights the shared journey of growth and understanding that we all undergo.

    The Return to the World

    The morning after day ten was another humbling moment. I got my phone back, and turning it on was overwhelming. In just ten days, life had moved on without me—friends got promotions, planned trips, made big career jumps, ended relationships, and began new ones.

    It was sad to miss out yet heartening to return to positive developments in their lives. This contrast served as a poignant reminder of the impermanence and relentless pace of the world around us and the importance of finding grounding in our inner selves.

    Upon returning to the real world, I felt a profound alignment between my mind and body that I hadn’t experienced before. I could see things as they were, not just as reflections of my internal dialogue. I wasn’t stuck in my head anymore; I could slow down, be with myself, and actually enjoy my own company—something that used to terrify me.

    It’s almost as though the experience altered my brain chemistry. For the first time, I felt normal in my own skin, a sensation that was entirely new to me. Growing up in the digital age, I rarely, if ever, had the opportunity—or the need—to sit with my thoughts for more than ten minutes. Allowing myself the space to sit, feel, and think deeply was not just valuable; it was a profound and rare experience that I believe many people deny themselves in our fast-paced, modern world.

    Overall Reflections

    Reflecting on my recent Vipassana retreat, it has become evident how such experiences are profoundly relevant in today’s fast-paced, often superficial world.

    During these ten days of deep introspection, I confronted layers of myself that were cluttered with unresolved emotions and unexamined thoughts.

    In a world where action is prized, stillness can be revolutionary. It’s not just about silencing the chatter of the outside world—including the instant feedback loop of social media that we rely on for our self-esteem and decisions—but more importantly, understanding the internal dialogue that shapes our perception of ourselves and our lives.

    Recalling my initial reservations about spending precious time in silence when I could have been networking or job hunting, I now see how misplaced those concerns were.

    My Vipassana experience did not magically solve all my challenges or answer all my questions. However, it profoundly reshaped how I view my journey through life. It wasn’t about finding a perfect job or even perfect peace, but rather about learning to navigate the inevitable ups and downs with a bit more grace and a lot more self-awareness.

    This deeper understanding has not only helped me appreciate the quiet moments of reflection but has also prepared me to engage more meaningfully with the bustling world around me.

  • When You’re Growing as a Person

    When You’re Growing as a Person