Tiny Buddha

Tag: relationships

  • 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.

  • The Gift of Being Single (More Joy, Less Fear)

    The Gift of Being Single (More Joy, Less Fear)

    “The greatest thing in the world is to know how to belong to oneself.” ~Michel de Montaigne

    Some people fear spiders. Some fear public speaking.

    My biggest fear? That my plus-one will always be my own reflection.

    More and more people are finding themselves in the single life—not because they joyfully signed up for it, but because they’ve quietly resigned themselves to it. Being alone forever is one of the worst things most people can imagine. And yet, nobody’s talking about it.

    I have no interest in bashing men—I love them. And I’m not here to shame relationships—I’d still love to experience conscious partnership or marriage one day. But what I am here for is giving a voice to the other side: the reality of singlehood. A reality that has been shamed, underrepresented, and spoken over for lifetimes.

    Yes, humans of all kinds fear being single. I happen to live it in the skin of a woman, but the fear itself is cultural, primal, and deeply conditioned.

    Not a Witch, Not a Spinster, Not a Divorcee

    The stigma of singlehood is sticky and insidious. It convinces people to stay in relationships they’ve outgrown because it’s “better than the alternative.” It whispers that you’re not enough without a partner. And the biggest problem? We have so few role models of people living single, fulfilled lives.

    I’m not a witch. I’m not a spinster. And I’m not divorced.

    Funny story—when I was once applying for a work visa abroad, the form asked me to declare my relationship status. The options? Married. Divorced. Spinster. That was it. Guess which box I had to begrudgingly tick? I still laugh about it, but it says everything: if you’re not partnered, you must be a problem to categorize.

    It’s in Our Bones

    The roots of this run deep. For most of history, women’s survival was directly tied to men—financially, socially, legally. That dependency shaped generations of cultural messaging we all still carry in our bones, regardless of gender. We’ve been taught that wholeness comes from someone else.

    For anyone who has spent long stretches of life single, there’s a peculiar kind of grief that shadows us, not for something lost, but for something never felt. We grieve the idea of intimacy we were promised, the mythical “other half” we were told to need. It’s less about absence and more about a haunting—mourning the story we’ve been handed rather than our own lived truth.

    Maybe Disney messed us up. Maybe it was Jerry Maguire’s iconic “you complete me.” But the truth is, our obsession with relationships is far older than pop culture. It’s centuries old. And it’s led so many of us on a quest for “another” long before we’ve gone on the quest for ourselves.

    And now? The dating industry has taken that centuries-old conditioning and turned it into a multi-million-dollar business model.

    It shows up in quiet moments, like the friend fresh out of a twenty-year relationship who whispers, “What if I never find someone else?” as if that’s the worst fate imaginable.

    Legacy, Good Girl, and the Seventh-Grade Soothsayer

    We may have moved beyond needing a partner for a bank account or a roof over our heads, but inside many of us lives a whole cast of characters who haven’t gotten the memo.

    In my case, they look like this:

    • The legacy-burdened one—the part that still believes worth is sealed only once I’m chosen.
    • The good girl, who doesn’t want to disappoint the family, who smiles politely when someone says, “You’ll find someone soon.”
    • The people pleaser who wonders if they should tone themselves down to be “more dateable.”
    • And the inner child who still remembers the sting of being told in seventh grade, “You’ll never have a boyfriend” and worries, even now, that maybe it was a prophecy.

    Different faces. Same message: You’re not enough on your own.

    Swiping Right on Your Insecurities

    The modern dating industry has taken this centuries-old programming and turned it into a goldmine. Apps, relationship coaches, matchmaking services, and self-help books all thrive on making your relationship status yet another problem to be solved.

    Not long ago, I was on a twenty-four-hour road trip listening to yet another relationship self-help book. This one at least was about “becoming the one,” but even then, the end goal was still to get the partner. Where are the books about deepening your relationship with yourself, not as a prelude to love, but simply to live your damn best life?

    And can we please stop acting like every contrived meeting arranged on an app is a “date”? We used to meet organically in coffee shops or elevators; now we swipe because we’re too afraid to make eye contact in real life.

    The funniest part? Friends in relationships often get more excited about my first meets than I do—as if I’m finally about to be rescued from the great tragedy of my singlehood.

    Love, Yes; Panic, No

    Biology matters. We are wired for connection. We crave intimacy and belonging. This is not about pretending otherwise.

    What I’m talking about here is the fear of being single—the panic that drives bad decisions, keeps us in misaligned relationships, and has an entire industry profiting off our insecurities.

    Rather than pouring all that longing into loving and being loved by one person, we could simply be… loving. Period. Creating a more compassionate relationship with ourselves. Spreading kindness. Offering to everyone the kind of love that heals the world. Because when we’re busy running from the fear that something is inherently wrong with us, we miss our greatest capacity—to love, in every direction.

    The Gift of Being Unpartnered

    Here’s the thing nobody tells you: I can literally do anything I want.

    If there are socks on the floor, they’re mine.

    If the yogurt is gone, I ate it.

    I can book a trip on a whim, sleep diagonally, and never negotiate over the thermostat. Netflix isn’t infiltrated with someone else’s questionable taste, and no one wakes me up in my sleep—except my dog.

    If I’m honest, my unfiltered fear about being single forever isn’t loneliness. It’s choking on a piece of toast and no one finding me. Or never experiencing the kind of deep intimacy and vulnerability I still hope for.

    But here’s the freedom side: I’ve gotten to know myself in a way I never could have if I’d always been in a relationship. I’ve formed an identity that’s mine—unshaped by a partner’s wants or habits. And I want anyone living single to know this is not a consolation prize. This is one valid, powerful way to live. You haven’t failed. Your worth is not measured in anniversaries.

    For me, soulmates show up in friendship as much as romance. My best friend and I joke we’ll probably live side by side when we’re old. Deep connection isn’t confined to coupledom, and that truth is liberating.

    Single By Trust, Not Default

    Seeing singlehood as a radical act of self-trust in a culture obsessed with coupling is… well, radical. And honestly, it’s 2025. We’ve accepted gender fluidity. Sexuality can be expressed on any spectrum you choose. So why are we still categorizing people by relationship status? Why is this still the metric we use to size up someone’s life?

    And this isn’t about some performative empowerment—people determined to prove they’re so strong, so independent, so “I don’t need anyone.” That’s still a posture that defines itself in relation to others. What I’m talking about is living fully for yourself, without apology, without your relationship status being a headline of your life.

    So maybe the real question isn’t “Will I end up alone?” but “Who can I be if I’m not waiting to be chosen?”

    And if you need me, I’ll be training for my next big adventure: walking the Camino trail in Portugal next summer—a pilgrimage powered entirely by my own two feet, my own heart, and absolutely no plus-one required.

  • If Someone Avoids Hard Conversations

    If Someone Avoids Hard Conversations

  • 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The Lie We’re Told About Love

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

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

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

    The Roadblocks to Leaving

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

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

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

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

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

    It was in saving myself.

    The Cost of Leaving

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

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

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

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

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

    What I Know Now

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

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

    Here’s the radical truth I finally embraced:

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

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

    Leaving Comes in Bursts and Choices

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

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

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

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

    The New Love I Choose

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    To her, I say:

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

    If You’re There Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    They don’t talk about this part.

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

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

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

    I left. And I felt powerful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And that kind often takes time.

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

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

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

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

    This isn’t backsliding. This is integration.

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

    Eventually, something begins to shift.

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

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

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

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

    Because not everyone gets here. And not everyone stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And true takes time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Life shimmers differently these days.

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

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

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

  • When Someone You Love Shuts the Door

    When Someone You Love Shuts the Door

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    That set off a chain reaction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

    I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And in romantic relationships? The pattern deepened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Why do I keep picking unavailable men?

    Why do I keep repeating the same toxic patterns?

    What does a healthy relationship even look like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • In a Healthy Relationship

    In a Healthy Relationship

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

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

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

    I never set out to ghost anyone.

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

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

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

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

    Because behind every silence is a story.

    A Pattern Primed by the Past

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

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

    Over time, the pattern looked like this:

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

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

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

    Eventually, I started thinking:

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

    Ghosting as a Defense Mechanism

    So, where does my ghosting come in?

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

    I’d tell myself:

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Cynicism in the Profile Scroll

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Ghosting as Avoidance, Not Malice

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

    Ghosting feels easier than:

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

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

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

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

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

    The Cycle of Ghosting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    4. Cynicism protects, but it also prevents.

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

    What I Try to Do Now

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

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

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

    Simple. Kind. Closure. Done.

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

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

    Final Thoughts: Honesty and Authenticity Over Evasion, Always

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

    But we can do better. We can date better.

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

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

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

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

    Even when it’s awkward.

    Even when it’s scary.

    Especially then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    My less poetic version might be:

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

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

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

    Then it came to me. Savoring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Why Holding Space Is Better Than Gripping for Control

    Why Holding Space Is Better Than Gripping for Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • 5 Hidden Ways Codependency Is Sabotaging Your Relationships

    5 Hidden Ways Codependency Is Sabotaging Your Relationships

    “We rescue people from their responsibilities. We take care of people’s responsibilities for them. Later we get mad at them for what we’ve done. Then we feel used and sorry for ourselves. That is the pattern, the triangle.” ~ Melody Beattie

    I first uncovered codependency and how it was ruining my relationships back in 2019 after ending my relationship of four years.

    At the time, I didn’t know the first thing about myself—except that I didn’t know myself at all. I had no idea what I needed or desired. All I knew was that I hated being alone and longed for someone to come in and save me from myself. Little did I know, I was deep in the grip of my codependency patterns.

    Without anyone to validate or console me, I was forced to confront the uncomfortable truth about my role in the relationship’s dysfunction.

    For so long, I had blamed my partner for everything that was “wrong”—the lack of connection, the emotional exhaustion, and the resentment that weighed me down. I felt drained, unappreciated, and frustrated, but in my mind, they were the problem. I believed that if they just changed, everything would be better.

    It wasn’t until I started looking inward that the truth began to unfold. I saw how my codependent behaviors were fueling the very issues I was complaining about. I had been pouring so much of myself into trying to fix them and the relationship that I had neglected my own needs, boundaries, and well-being.

    Once I became aware of these patterns, everything started to shift. I began showing up differently—not just for them, but for myself. That awareness was the key to turning the relationship around.

    When we got back together, everything was like night and day. The dynamics had completely shifted. Instead of feeling drained and frustrated, we were both able to show up more fully and authentically in the relationship. I created a unique framework that bridges shadow work and inner child healing, and I now use it in my relationship whenever I’m triggered or blaming my partner.

    After recently celebrating ten-plus years together, our relationship is now based on mutual respect, healthy boundaries, and emotional safety—creating something stronger and more fulfilling than we ever had before.

    But here’s the thing—before I could create that shift, I first had to become aware of the hidden ways codependency was sabotaging my relationship. These behaviors are sneaky and often disguised as care or concern, but they can have a destructive impact on how we show up in our relationships.

    If you’re wondering how codependency might be negatively impacting your relationship, here are some of the ways it can show up.

    1. You need to be needed.

    I learned that my sense of worthiness was dependent on how much other people needed me.

    When we’re codependent, our purpose, self-worth, and good feelings about ourselves become dependent on how much another person needs us. This makes sense, since many of us watched mothers who were self-sacrificing, as though the sacrifice equated to love.

    This pattern satisfies the person with codependency because it can soothe their fear of abandonment and rejection. If the other person in the relationship becomes dependent on me to take care of their needs, they think, then they won’t leave me. (Spoiler alert: This often leads to resentment in the long run.)

    2. You struggle with identifying your own needs and feelings.

    I realized that I had a difficult time recognizing and identifying my own needs and feelings because I was constantly perceiving the needs and feelings of others and making choices based on my desire to be liked.

    This behavior can show up as people-pleasing and doing what you think other people want you to do. It stems from a lack of safety, likely originating in childhood, that tells you that perceiving the needs and feelings of others will protect you from pain. Unfortunately, this can leave you with a lost sense of self, leading to an inability to name your own needs and feelings, which contributes to them feeling unmet in your adult relationships.

    3. You have constant anxiety.

    For months, I was waking up in the middle of the night with extreme pain in my chest. My anxiety had gotten so bad that I was waking with painful panic attacks that felt like heart attacks, so much so that I ended up in the ER.

    I had constant anxiety because I was always trying to make other people happy, but I didn’t realize that it was at the expense of my own well-being.

    The fear of betrayal or abandonment can be so debilitating, and the anxiety from that can leave you self-sacrificing in hopes of making others happy so that they don’t leave. Consequently, those of us who experience codependency will stay in relationships even if we are aware that our partners are doing harmful things because we have attached our safety and security to this person rather than sourcing that safety for ourselves.

    4. You feel disrespected or not valued. 

    After years of being everything to my partner, I reached a point of deep resentment. I realized that I overextended myself because I had this unconscious agenda, or desire, that they would do the same for me. And every time they didn’t, I felt unappreciated, invisible, and not cared for.

    For people in codependent relationships, resentment often bubbles up later on, when the patterns of constantly over-giving and self-sacrificing build up. This tendency to over-give and become resentful can stem from low self-worth and self-esteem and our fears of abandonment.

    I learned that I was really just afraid to set healthy boundaries and ask for what I needed because I believed that they would think I was too much or selfish and then leave me. So, instead of speaking up, I continually hoped they would guess my needs and continued to be disappointed and let down.

    5. You feel selfish when you take time to be with yourself (or you avoid self-care).

    Many people, especially mothers, feel guilty and selfish when taking time for themselves. But why should other people be more important than you? I know I struggled with this deep fear of being negatively perceived until I realized that I have no control over what people think about me, and quite frankly, what other people think about me is none of my business!

    Those of us who struggle with codependency may feel like we are asking for too much, or that we are too much, so we make ourselves small and avoid taking up space due to fear of how we will be perceived.

    —

    Healing from codependency starts with awareness. Once you recognize the subtle patterns and behaviors that are sabotaging your relationships, you can begin to shift the dynamic.

    It’s not about fixing the other person; it’s about healing yourself—understanding your needs, setting healthy boundaries, and showing up authentically. By taking responsibility for your role in the relationship and committing to your own healing, you create space for deep, meaningful connection and more joy.

    Remember, healing is not about never experiencing these patterns or triggers again; it’s about how you hold yourself when they come up.

  • You Don’t Need to Be Fully Healed

    You Don’t Need to Be Fully Healed

  • The Silent Struggle: When Saying “No” Is Not That Simple

    The Silent Struggle: When Saying “No” Is Not That Simple

    “The first step toward change is awareness. The second step is acceptance.” ~Nathaniel Branden

    I vividly recall a morning when my son was just five years old. My husband wanted to leave the country we were living in again, this time to escape what he believed was the imminent collapse of society due to COVID.

    After years of constant relocations, I had finally started to build a community of friends, my son was settled in school, and I was beginning to feel some sense of normalcy. But he couldn’t stand it. My growing independence seemed to threaten him, and I could sense his unease.

    His anxiety about the constantly shifting COVID situation only seemed to intensify his need for control. Approaching me in the kitchen with an intense expression, he declared, “We need to leave the country now, before they close the borders for good,” his voice sharp and urgent. I knew that his desire to relocate us to a non-English-speaking country would not only deepen my isolation but also render me wholly dependent on him once more.

    “No, I don’t want to move again,” I responded cautiously. My heart raced as I braced for his reaction. I had experienced this countless times before, moments where a simple “no” would set off a storm.

    Sure enough, the guilt-tripping began immediately. “You care more about your friends than your own family,” he snarled, his words filled with contempt. “You’re just selfish, and you’re too scared to see the truth.” He knew exactly how to manipulate my emotions and to make me feel small.

    For weeks, he harassed me about the move, following me around the house and bombarding me with articles on “government control.” Eventually, he involved our son in the manipulation. “Wouldn’t you love to move to a warmer country with lots of beaches?” he asked our child. “Tell Mummy how much you want to go.”

    The High Cost of “No”

    The cost of saying “no” was always too high. It wasn’t just the exhaustion of defending my decisions, but the way he would target my self-worth. He accused me of being weak and too scared to live a full life, and of harming our son by denying him the experiences he deemed essential for his development.

    “If you don’t agree, I’ll take our son and go without you,” he threatened, leaving me feeling cornered. There was no room for compromise—only submission.

    In these moments, my identity became tied to his criticisms, and I began to internalize the belief that my needs and desires were unworthy of consideration. My self-worth eroded with every encounter, and I started to question whether I deserved the stability and independence I longed for.

    The Silent Battle of Coercive Control

    At the time, I didn’t realize I was living in a situation defined by coercive control. This form of abuse is often subtle, insidious, and far-reaching, characterized by patterns of manipulation designed to strip away a victim’s autonomy and self-worth.

    Coercive control doesn’t always manifest through physical violence, making it difficult for victims to recognize it as abuse. Instead, it erodes your personal freedom, your ability to make decisions, and ultimately, your sense of self.

    Saying “no” in a coercive relationship feels like striking a match near gasoline. The abuser thrives on control, and when that control is threatened, they will go to any lengths to regain it. For me, that meant enduring relentless verbal abuse, where my husband attacked my intelligence, character, and mothering.

    When insults didn’t work, he turned to emotional manipulation, saying things like, “I just want what’s best for our family. Why are you so against that?” When emotional appeals failed, he reminded me of his financial power, ensuring I was aware of my complete dependence on him.

    I used to think if I could just explain my reasoning clearly enough, he would understand. But abusers don’t operate on logic or empathy—they operate on power and control. My refusal wasn’t just an inconvenience to him; it was a direct challenge to his authority.

    When “No” Feels Impossible

    What many don’t understand is that saying “no” to an abuser isn’t just difficult—it’s dangerous. While my husband never physically harmed me, the psychological torment was equally devastating. Saying “no” was never worth the emotional fallout—the days of walking on eggshells, the cold stares, and the endless nights of lectures designed to break me down.

    As domestic abuse expert Evan Stark explains, “Coercive control is the perpetrator establishing in the mind of the victim the price of her resistance.” In my case, every “no” brought with it a whirlwind of accusations, guilt, and threats. His constant barrage of manipulation made defiance feel like an insurmountable risk, leading me to internalize the belief that my resistance would only result in greater harm.

    Reclaiming My Power

    It took me years to understand that saying “no” in a coercive relationship is never just about a single decision—it’s about power. Every time I caved, I surrendered a little more of my autonomy. But everything shifted when I faced the prospect of moving countries again. Something clicked. I began reaching out to friends and family—something I had been too afraid to do before. I started to recognize the patterns of abuse that had controlled my life.

    The turning point came when I started seeing a therapist. She helped me untangle the manipulation I had been living under and see my situation for what it was. For the first time, I understood the depth of the emotional toll it was taking on me. It became increasingly clear that I couldn’t continue in an environment where my needs were consistently disregarded and my well-being compromised.

    Ultimately, I made the decision to leave my abusive marriage. It wasn’t easy, but I realized that leaving was the only way to prioritize my safety and reclaim my life. The thought of remaining in a situation that perpetuated my isolation and dependence became unbearable, and I knew that reclaiming my freedom would start with that crucial decision.

    Lessons for Those Still in the Fight

    I remember the countless times I thought, “If I just avoid confrontation, things will be okay.” I often complied quietly, not because I agreed but because it felt safer to maintain the peace. But over time, I realized that this approach wasn’t just eroding my autonomy—it was eroding my self-worth. If you find yourself in a similar situation, know that taking small steps toward regaining your autonomy is possible.

    Cultivating internal resilience is one of the first ways to begin. Even if saying “no” out loud feels too dangerous, you can start by protecting yourself emotionally. When my husband belittled me, I would mentally counter his words by affirming my worth, telling myself, “I know my value, and this isn’t true.” Over time, I began separating his harmful words from my inner truth and reclaiming my sense of self from within.

    You might also consider setting small, manageable boundaries. Look for moments where you can say “no” to minor requests that are unlikely to provoke a major reaction. It doesn’t have to be about asserting yourself in every situation. Start with boundaries that feel comfortable and build from there. It’s not about winning every battle—it’s about taking back the power that’s been taken from you, one step at a time.

    When It Becomes a Matter of Survival

    The truth is, when saying “no” feels unsafe, it may be time to question whether staying in the relationship is truly an option. If asserting even the smallest boundaries leads to verbal attacks or threats, your emotional and psychological safety may be at risk. I know how easy it is to convince yourself that the abuse is manageable—that by avoiding certain triggers, you can keep the peace. But here’s what I learned: When you can’t safely say “no,” it’s not about conflict anymore—it’s about survival.

    If you find yourself feeling increasingly anxious or afraid, it might be time to consider leaving. I know the decision to leave can feel overwhelming, but reclaiming your autonomy is vital to protecting your mental health. Sometimes, leaving isn’t an immediate, all-or-nothing decision—it’s a gradual process. Gathering resources, building a support network, and planning your exit carefully can be small but essential acts of self-care.

    Ultimately, the journey to reclaim your freedom starts with recognizing your worth. The first step is acknowledging that you deserve more than a life lived in fear or doubt. For me, it wasn’t about trying to fix the relationship or hoping my husband would change. It was about prioritizing myself and my child.

    You deserve to feel safe, valued, and loved—by yourself and by others. This realization may not come overnight, but accepting the reality of your situation, even when it’s painful, is the beginning of true freedom and self-worth.

  • Why Relationships and Service to Others Matter More Than Money

    Why Relationships and Service to Others Matter More Than Money

    “Whatever possession we gain by our sword cannot be sure or lasting, but the love gained by kindness and moderation is certain and durable.” ~Alexander the Great

    I remember when I was younger, my relatives on my mother’s side would visit our house almost weekly—not to check on us but to borrow money. We lived in a long house, with relatives and neighbors occupying different rooms, and since we were at the innermost part, they had to walk in to reach us. My parents were so accustomed to these visits that the moment they saw certain relatives, they knew what they wanted.

    The conversations varied. Sometimes, my mother quietly gave them what they needed, but other times, there were heated arguments. I would hear shouts like, “You’ve changed ever since you married your husband!”—as if my mother was responsible for supporting them even though they had their own families.

    My closest childhood friend was my niece, who was two years younger than me (my mother was born later than her first cousins, which explains the small age gap) and grew up in a wealthy family. We never fought, yet I remember sulking a few times because of hurtful remarks about money her relatives made to me.

    I’ll never forget when her uncle said she shouldn’t be gullible around me, as I might ‘take advantage’ and try to get money from her. I was just twelve or thirteen at that time, when all I was concerned about was playing or studying. I did not understand the feeling back then, but the comment stung deeply.

    It’s understandable that people who grew up in a rich family were protective of their wealth (as they should since they worked hard for it). But seeing relatives pointing guns at each other over money was shocking to me as a child.

    I was young and neutral; however, I remember being asked by one side not to visit the other anymore, which I regret to this day. The latter side had always been supportive and loving, cheering me whenever I won awards, especially when I graduated as valedictorian in grade school. I never got to say goodbye to my uncle when he passed away; I deeply wished I was less ignorant of what was happening and stayed in touch.

    These early experiences taught me how money can strain or even destroy relationships. Thankfully, my parents made sure I never felt we lacked for anything, and so our lives did not center around money. When I earned money from competitions or special awards, my mother let me decide what to do with it; I usually end up keeping it in my savings.

    I grew up valuing simplicity, seeing money as a necessity for survival rather than the focus of my life. Even after working for seven years, I still get asked why I choose to commute or live simply when I have the means for more. I attribute it to knowing there are far more important things than money.

    My Reflections about Money in Different Areas of Life

    During the pandemic, when life slowed down and people were forced to reflect, I came across a course called The Science of Well-Being from Yale University. The course emphasized that, contrary to what we often believe, it’s not money, high-paying jobs, or material possessions that bring lasting happiness. Instead, science confirms it’s the simple things—social connections, kindness, gratitude, exercise, and sleep—that truly bring joy.

    The course affirmed to me what is important and helped me further reflect on my life. Here are some of my thoughts and the questions I ask myself to stay grounded.

    1. Relationships

    Genuine relationships are not built on money but on shared experiences, both good and bad. While money might enable certain experiences like travel, the most meaningful bonds are often formed just by being present with one another.

    For me, I prefer to keep a small circle of people I trust, knowing they will be there for me whether I have money or not.

    2. Lifestyle

    Lifestyle isn’t about the luxury brands you wear but about how you present yourself. Do you really need a Louis Vuitton bag when you could invest in things that bring more value to your life and fit them in a simpler, less expensive bag? Sometimes, flaunting wealth creates barriers, making others hesitate to connect with you.

    As a commuter, I also value practicality—I wouldn’t want to risk losing something expensive just to show off.

    3. Work

    Work is necessary for survival, and we spend a large part of our lives doing it. But is it just about earning money, or should it also be about finding purpose and joy in what you do?

    I have met many people who keep chasing higher salaries, but I wonder—when does the chase end? Once you reach your financial goal, will you still be happy if you’ve sacrificed your health, well-being, or peace of mind? No job is perfect. If there was a perfect job, everyone would be doing it.

    4. Health

    As cliché as it sounds, “Health is wealth.” Money can buy expensive food, but does that guarantee good health? It can buy medicine, but could your illness be linked to unhealthy habits that money enables, like indulgence in luxurious but unhealthy foods? Sometimes, the cheapest and simplest foods—like vegetables—are the healthiest. So, is it just about money?

    5. Life/Purpose

    Life is short. Do you think your purpose is to simply accumulate money for your own benefit?

    I’m grateful to my parents for instilling in me the value of education—of constantly learning and striving for excellence, among anything else. I’m also thankful for an environment that showed me what not to focus on, and now I aim to use my blessings—whether through writing or my work in data—to help others.

    When Alexander the Great, one of history’s greatest military generals, was on his deathbed, two of his dying wishes were to have his wealth displayed on the path to his grave to show that he couldn’t take any of it with him and to have his hands hang out of his coffin, signifying that he would leave this world empty-handed.

    In the end, we only leave behind the marks we make on others. I hope you choose to touch at least one life with kindness and love rather than pursuing wealth alone.

  • 5 Unexpected Ways to Find the Right Mate

    5 Unexpected Ways to Find the Right Mate

    “Your new life is going to cost you your old one. It’s going to cost you your comfort zone and your sense of direction. It’s going to cost you relationships and friends. It’s going to cost you being liked and understood. It doesn’t matter. The people who are meant for you are going to meet you on the other side. You’re going to build a new comfort zone around the things that actually move you forward. Instead of being liked, you’re going to be loved. Instead of being understood, you’re going to be seen. All you’re going to lose is what was built for a person you no longer are.” ~Brianna Wiest

    Over a transformative two-year period, marked by deep inner work and self-discovery, I stumbled upon a series of steps that helped me find a fulfilling partnership—steps that go far beyond attachment theory.

    My life essentially followed the cycle of the phoenix: First, it went up in spectacular flames before emerging more aligned than ever. I had to step into total darkness before seismic shifts brought me back to lightness.

    I hope that my story helps you navigate your own journey on the quest for love and a long-term partner. This journey is highly personal for everyone, so while this blueprint might not be the exact match for you, I hope it points you in the right direction.

    Before we dive in, I’d like to explain what attachment theory is and why I never found it helpful for me personally.

    What Is Attachment Theory?

    Attachment theory, developed by psychologists John Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth, explores how our early relationships with caregivers shape our behavior in adult relationships.

    According to attachment theory, there are three primary attachment styles:

    • Secure Attachment: Comfortable with intimacy and independence, secure types can express their needs openly without fear of rejection.
    • Anxious Attachment: Anxious types crave closeness and fear abandonment, often seeking constant reassurance and becoming hyper-vigilant to signs of disconnection.
    • Avoidant Attachment: Avoidant types prioritize independence and may distance themselves emotionally, feeling suffocated by intimacy.

    Attachment theory is often used to explain why certain people seem drawn to the same relationship patterns, particularly the classic anxious-avoidant dynamic. Anxious types seek reassurance, which pushes avoidant types to withdraw, reinforcing each other’s deepest fears.

    But here’s the catch: While understanding your attachment style can help you make sense of your relationship patterns, it may not offer the practical solutions you need, especially in the long term.

    While it was helpful learning that I was an anxious attachment type, even five years in therapy was not enough to encourage me to choose someone secure. Ultimately, while attachment theory offered clarity on why I repeated certain patterns, it wasn’t the key to finding the fulfilling relationship I craved.

    Things finally began to shift when I let go of the life that no longer fit. Each unexpected event was like a domino, toppling the old version of myself to make room for something new. Interestingly, it all started with a journal.

    How Writing Reveals What You Really Want

    Most of us know we should get clear about what we want in a partner, but how many of us have actually written it down? I certainly hadn’t.

    That changed when, on a complete whim, I picked up a workbook called Single Is Your Superpower. It struck me as cheesy, but there’s something about using pen and paper that taps into deeper, subconscious thoughts—far more effectively than just thinking things over in your head.

    Flipping to a random page, I came across a prompt asking me to write down the top five qualities I wanted in a mate. At first, I rolled my eyes. It seemed too simple to be “deep” and transformative, but I did it anyway.

    I thought I already knew what I was looking for: humor, spirituality, shared values, ambition. But what surprised me was the number one quality that surfaced: emotional availability.

    That insight was a game changer. I realized my previous focus on finding someone ambitious had been attracting people with demanding careers—partners who often leaned toward avoidant.

    That’s not to say you need to avoid ambition in a partner. Far from it! What matters is getting clear on the qualities that truly matter to you so you can see beyond surface traits. I began to ask myself different questions:

    Are they ambitious but still present?

    Do they carve out time for things they enjoy?

    Or do they use ambition as an excuse to stay emotionally distant?

    These questions became the new lenses through which I viewed potential partners.

    That’s when things shifted. With this clarity, I started attracting emotionally available people, and for the first time ever, I wasn’t fighting with my partners. I wasn’t caught in the anxious-avoidant tug-of-war.

    And it all started with pen and paper. So even if you think you know what you want in a partner, I challenge you to get out a piece of paper and write it down. Find some powerful journal prompts and let your desires unfold in ways that just might surprise you.

    Don’t Let Other People Judge or Belittle Your Desire for Love

    As my dating life began to shift for the better—less conflict, more meaningful connections—I still hadn’t found someone that I wanted to commit to long-term.

    By the time I hit thirty, the pressure around my biological “window” to start a family became more tangible. Sharing this with two close friends, however, often left me feeling unsupported. Comments like “You have plenty of time” or “Why are you so afraid of being alone?” dismissed the real emotions I was grappling with.

    The truth was, I wasn’t afraid of being alone. Sure, loneliness can be uncomfortable, but I had already done the inner work to address those feelings. My desire for a partner came from a much deeper place—a calling to build a family, to share my life with someone who shared that vision.

    What I realized is this: When you’re being vulnerable and communicating your true desires, and you still feel the need to defend yourself, you’re not in the right environment.

    It’s vital to surround yourself with people who not only respect your journey but understand that your longing for love is a strength, not a weakness. Trust yourself, trust your desires, and never let others make you question your path, especially when it aligns with your core values.

    This shift in perspective laid the groundwork for me to make some difficult but necessary decisions later on. It taught me that we need to be selective about the voices we allow to influence our most vulnerable desires.

    Pursue Any Type of Self-Discovery Work That Calls to Your Soul

    A year prior to these struggles, I participated in a robust coaching program centered around identifying my core values, mission, and life purpose. I never expected to articulate what became one of my more important, guiding core values: being supportive of others and feeling supported by others.

    The truth was, I no longer felt supported in those friendships I mentioned before.

    While this was happening, I was also considering a career pivot. I consulted with an astrologist to see if my birth chart had any implications for my career. On this adventure, another unexpected steppingstone emerged.

    My astrologist told me that I was well-suited for a career in leadership. She also could not help but divulge, “You also have a very strong calling toward motherhood, and you will find a unique way to balance work and family.” Woah.

    I found this enormously validating because it affirmed what I already knew to be true: I didn’t want a mate just to fill the void or because I feared being alone. Rather, I was feeling pulled by a deep calling: to start a family.

    On one level, this was merely an affirmation of what I already knew to be true, but when we’re on a journey of self-discovery that’s peppered with occasional self-doubt, supportive modalities can be enormously helpful.

    For me, it was values-centered coaching and astrology. For you, it might be therapy, tarot, journaling, or some other form of self-discovery. Follow your intuition and lead with curiosity.

    Start with Subtraction, Not Addition, to Manifest the Right Partner

    As my two close friends increasingly filled my life with judgment and subtle criticism, I began doubting myself around them. Our paths and values were diverging (or was I simply gaining clarity on what was already happening?) making our interactions more draining than enriching.

    Despite my distaste for loneliness and the fact that I don’t have many close friends to begin with, I knew it was time to make a hard choice. With intentions of honoring my values and boundaries, I decided to distance myself, intentionally creating a significant void in my life.

    This void was both authentic and, at times, filled with panic. During low moments, I’d catch myself thinking, “What have I done?!”

    However, in moments of true alignment, I knew letting go was the right decision. This newfound space in my life led me to ponder, “Who do I know that emanates positive energy? Who do I want to surround myself with?”

    The first person that popped into my head was a colleague that I had worked with remotely for a little over seven years. He lived in Canada while I lived in California, so I sent him an email asking if he wanted to hang out virtually. He enthusiastically obliged, and we became fast friends.

    Then, one day, he hopped on a plane to California, and we became best friends. Little did we know, that was the beginning of forever—because now we’re married.

    While I didn’t know it at the time, manifestation often starts with subtraction. It’s easy to assume that attracting the right mate is about addition, but manifestation is as much about creating space as it is about filling it.

    Trust That Each Bold Step Is Preparing You for What’s Next

    Looking back on the choices I made, I’m profoundly grateful for the voids I dared to create in my life—despite the panic they caused sometimes. Aligned decisions aren’t always easy, but by staying true to my core values, I knew I was making the right choices.

    In hindsight, the path seems almost simple: Get clear on your desires (with pen and paper!), cut away what no longer fits, and trust that your life will unfold with each intentional step. But while you’re living it, it can feel like an endless, clumsy fumble.

    The truth is, at every step of this journey, I was filled with doubt, yet I kept moving forward. And each step prepared me for the person I was becoming.

    In the end, the empty spaces we create by letting go of what no longer serves us aren’t just voids—they’re opportunities for transformation. These spaces inspire us to take aligned action and build something brand new.

    Remember, your new life may ask you to leave behind more than just old habits—it may cost you comfort, approval, and the familiar sense of who you used to be. But on the other side of that transformation is something far greater: relationships that truly see you, a life that deeply fulfills you, and a future that you were always meant to step into.

    Follow your intuition, embrace the unknown, and allow yourself to build a new life from the ashes of the old one.

  • Love Isn’t About Being Chosen

    Love Isn’t About Being Chosen

    “Feeling safe in someone’s energy is a different kind of intimacy. That feeling of peace and protection is really underrated.” ~Vanessa Klas

    The first time I said, “I love you” to a romantic partner, I was met with silence.

    Nine months into what I believed was a deep, mutual relationship, I felt certain we were on the same page. But when the words left my mouth, he froze. No words back. No reassurance. Just silence. The next thing I knew, he disappeared for weeks, leaving me sitting in the wreckage of my own vulnerability. I was left questioning everything—why had I shared so much? Why had I opened my heart, only to have it shut down?

    In that silence, I created a story about myself that followed me for years. I convinced myself I wasn’t worthy of being loved in return, that there was something inherently wrong with me. This belief seeped into every relationship afterward. I started waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced love was something I had to earn instead of something I deserved.

    In college, the pattern continued. I dated someone who treated me like a backup plan. The days he chose me were filled with excitement, butterflies, and joy—but those days were few and far between.

    Most of the time, I was left waiting by the phone, hoping to be picked. When he didn’t, I was once again questioning my worth, wondering what I had done wrong. The cycle became so familiar, I didn’t even recognize it anymore.

    What I didn’t realize then was that by showing up in relationships this way—allowing myself to be the back-burner girlfriend, staying timid in my love, my confidence, and my desires—I was teaching others how to treat me. I was telling them, through my actions, that I didn’t expect more, that this was enough. But it wasn’t enough. Deep down, I knew I deserved more, but I didn’t yet believe it.

    I carried these same patterns into my first marriage, thinking if I just worked harder and gave more of myself, maybe, just maybe, he’d love me the way I longed for. But love isn’t about fixing someone, and it certainly isn’t about fixing yourself. Yet for so long, I believed it was. I convinced myself I’d finally be enough if I could just perfect myself, become the ideal partner.

    But after eleven years, I knew I couldn’t keep sacrificing my joy for a relationship that wasn’t right, so I left—not because I had all the answers, but because I knew I couldn’t stay.

    It wasn’t until I found myself in my therapist’s office after my divorce that things began to shift. I thought I needed to fix what had been broken in me by my ex-husband, that my brokenness was why love had failed.

    One day, I walked into therapy, slapped my hands on my thighs, and cheerfully exclaimed, “I just want to be happy!” Who was I kidding? I treated happiness like a box to be checked off, a goal to master. But my therapist, in her quiet wisdom, simply said, “It doesn’t work that way.”

    I was furious—triggered even. How dare she tell me it wasn’t that simple? But deep down, I knew she was right.

    You can’t force your way into happiness, and you can’t fake your way into feeling whole. I had spent so much of my life trying to fix others and mold myself into someone worthy of love that I hadn’t stopped to consider that maybe I was already enough. But I had to understand why I kept showing up in relationships with people who couldn’t love me in return.

    Why was I choosing emotionally unavailable men? Why was I so convinced that I was the problem?

    I see these patterns in myself and in many others. One of my clients once sat across from me and said, “Molly, I’m a hard woman to love.” Those words stuck with me. I could see the weight of that belief in her eyes—the years she’d spent carrying it.

    I asked her, “When did you decide that? When did you start believing you were hard to love?”

    She paused, and we began to dig into her story. There were moments when she hadn’t been chosen, when she felt she had to earn love through perfection and pleasing others. She brought that belief into her marriage, shaping how she showed up. She was defensive, always expecting rejection, and that created a wall between her and her partner.

    It was a self-fulfilling prophecy—believing she was hard to love made it so. Through her healing, she realized she wasn’t hard to love; she was lovable just as she was.

    Her story mirrored my own. I had spent so many years believing I had to earn love and prove my worth. In doing so, I allowed relationships that were far from what I truly wanted. I didn’t know it at the time, but by being the back-burner girlfriend and staying small in my desires, I was setting the standard for how I would be treated. I was telling myself and others I didn’t deserve more.

    But here’s the truth: we are all worthy of love. Not because of what we do, not because of how perfect we are, but simply because we are.

    That realization didn’t come easily for me. It took years of peeling back the layers of limiting beliefs and asking why I kept settling for less. But when I finally understood that I was worthy of deep, committed love, everything changed.

    After my divorce, I made a promise to myself. I wasn’t going to settle again. I sat down and wrote a list of twenty-two things I wanted in a partner. Not because I was trying to create an impossible checklist, but because I needed to get clear on what I truly valued. I needed to hold myself accountable so that I wouldn’t fall back into old patterns.

    That list became a reminder of my worth, a reflection of what I deserved. I had to hold myself to this to be sure that I didn’t somehow convince myself that four out of twenty-two would do.

    Then, I finally met my current husband.

    We met in our local grocery store. I kept passing him in the aisles and finally got up enough courage to stop him in the cleaning aisle, of all places. We small-talked for a few minutes, and I walked away both equally excited and embarrassed about my boldness.

    We had both been through divorce, so we cautiously entered this new relationship, but before long, we were building something real. Something grounded in truth, in mutual respect, in love that didn’t feel like work. And as we grew closer, we began to heal—both individually and together. He wasn’t perfect, and neither was I. But what we had was real, and that was deeply beautiful.

    I remember one moment in particular, early in our relationship. He suggested that I start weight training, and immediately, I felt defensive. The old story came rushing back: “He thinks I’m not enough. He doesn’t like the way I look.

    But instead of letting that story spiral, I did something different. I took a lesson from the beautiful author Brené Brown and told him, “The story I’m telling myself is that you don’t like my body.”

    His response? Pure love. He reassured me that it wasn’t about my appearance at all; he had recently listened to a podcast about women’s bone health and the benefits of weight training. He was thinking from a place of love about my long-term health and our future together.

    That conversation could have gone a completely different way if we hadn’t chosen to be vulnerable, to trust each other enough to speak our truths. It could have gone differently if I had let my narrative spiral and never opened up the discussion.

    That’s what real love is. It can be messy, it’s imperfect, and it’s also so easy—when it’s right, it doesn’t feel hard. The beauty is in the vulnerability. The beauty is in realizing that the hurt we’ve carried and the walls we’ve built weren’t ever really about us, and that journey is what brought us together.

    The back burner, the infidelity, the lies, the waiting to be chosen—that was never about me. It was about them. It was about their journey, their walls, and their fears. And once I understood that, I was free. Free to love without holding back. Free to accept the love I had always deserved.

    If you’re reading this and you’ve felt that same sting of rejection, that same pattern of being put second, I want you to know this: It’s not about something you’re lacking. It never was. The hurt you’ve experienced doesn’t define you. You are not unlovable. You are not broken. You are worthy of a love that sees you fully, that cherishes every part of you.

    But first, you must see it in yourself. You have to believe that you deserve more. You have to make that list—whether it’s twenty-two things or just one—and hold yourself to it. Not because you’re waiting for someone to complete you, but because you know you are already complete, and you want to share your amazing life with someone.

    And when that love comes, it will be everything you’ve been waiting for. Not perfect, but real. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

    Because love—real love—isn’t about being chosen. It’s about choosing yourself first. And when you do that, everything else falls into place.

  • Why People Ghost and Advice for Coping (or Stopping)

    Why People Ghost and Advice for Coping (or Stopping)

    “Life is a balance of holding on and letting go.” ~Rumi

    A few months ago, someone I had dated briefly seven years ago reached out to apologize for his past behavior.

    Many of us know how being ghosted can evoke a mix of frustration, bursts of anger, and an underlying sense of utter powerlessness. Degrees of intensity can vary, of course, depending on the depth of the relationship and personal circumstances. This was not one of those heart-wrenching cases, and in a way, an apology seemed excessive. I had long forgiven and forgotten.

    Nonetheless, I almost immediately realized I was wrong: He still felt it was essential to address how he had ended our brief involvement by abruptly cutting off all communication.

    As he talked, I realized that we shouldn’t dismiss someone’s efforts to do “the right thing” or downplay the fact that we’ve been mistreated, even if we don’t care anymore or even if it didn’t seem that bad at the time. Recognizing and valuing these gestures of reconciliation nurtures a culture of accountability and healing.

    During the first stages of our conversation, I could see the effort and difficulty; it was awkward and strange but also kind of fun—some moments were genuinely hilarious! Since then, I spent a lot of time thinking about this experience because of its uniqueness, and ultimately, I consider it one of the highlights of my year.

    Perhaps unsurprisingly, getting such an apology has also made me value this person a lot more. I started thinking of that behavior as exceptional, which, in turn, started a new line of thought: Shouldn’t this be the norm? Don’t we want to hold ourselves and our friends to higher standards? Is ghosting bad? Is our reaction to it bad? Of course, we all know how “convenient” ghosting is, but isn’t it also really embarrassing for the ghoster?

    (Note that I used the word “ghoster,” not “ghost,” to discuss behaviors without implying they are unchangeable aspects of a person’s identity. This distinction is important because it avoids labeling individuals in a way that suggests permanence, thus allowing for the possibility of growth and change.)

    It’s one of those “the king is naked” things; we all, and I mean ALL, see through it. So, what’s underneath it? And why do people do it so much?

    • Fear of confrontation: Many people find direct confrontation uncomfortable or anxiety-inducing, so ghosting allows them to avoid the discomfort of having a potentially awkward or difficult conversation.
    • Lack of accountability: In some cases, avoiding the conversation and disappearing makes it feel like you’re not accountable for your actions because, to the ghoster, ghosting has no immediate consequences. It’s a seemingly easy escape route.
    • Emotional avoidance: Some individuals go through phases where they lack the emotional tools to handle relationship endings or difficult situations maturely. Ghosting becomes a way to avoid dealing with their own emotions.
    • Reduced empathy: Ghosting allows you to feel even more remote, making it easier to dismiss other people’s feelings and the impact of your actions. Digital communication exacerbates this detachment, as the lack of face-to-face interaction diminishes your sense of empathy and connection to the person being ghosted.
    • Overwhelm response: Sometimes life gets overwhelmingly hectic, and people react in clumsy, often unconscious ways. They might ghost friends, family, or partners, not even realizing why. It’s a misguided attempt to simplify things when everything feels too much to handle.

    Alright, so we’ve thrown around some ideas about why people might ghost. Now, let’s talk about what we can do with this insight. Whether you’re the one doing the ghosting or the one left deciphering silence, here are some tips that could help navigate these tricky situations.

    A Gentle Reminder for Those Critical of Themselves

    Before anything else, let’s get something out of the way. For those who are critical of themselves, for those who feel they don’t even deserve an apology, for those who feel worthless due to the ghosting behavior of a partner or a friend, it’s crucial to remind yourself that you are not the problem.

    Yes, there might be something about your actions that your ghoster is not in alignment with at the moment; you might have some faults, but nothing is proportioned to the lack of recognition and invisibility that being ghosted imposes on a person. That is never warranted.

    Other people’s actions reflect their own inner state; they’re not a measure of your value. Your self-worth remains untouched and undiminished by external actions. Recognize that you are fundamentally worthy, regardless of how others treat you, and live up to your worth.

    Strategies for the Ghoster

    If you find yourself ghosting someone, it’s important to be aware that you’re indulging in a behavior that needs to be temporary. It’s crucial not to stigmatize yourself in the moment but also to realize that ghosting is a reflection of a lack of alignment between you and other people, the world, and your own emotions.

    Instead of feeling self-righteous or beating yourself up, or worst of all, cycling between these extremes in a relentless loop, consider giving yourself a time limit. You might not be able to handle the situation right now, but you need to commit to addressing it within a set timeframe.

    Avoiding difficult situations means missing out on important moments. While friends might not always call you out on this behavior, consider this advice the gentle nudge you need. Acknowledge not only that your ghostee might not deserve this treatment but also that you don’t deserve it.

    Setting a time limit might be an easy way to get a little breather, knowing that you’ll handle it. There is another Alan Watts saying that I particularly enjoy: “The more a thing tends to be permanent, the more it tends to be lifeless.”

    Ultimately, you shouldn’t act differently just to make other people feel better. Instead, you should act differently because you deserve to feel better and because with your actions (and thoughts and emotions), you’re adding to the world. What do you want to add?

    Strategies for the Ghostee

    If you’ve been ghosted, here are a few things to keep in mind to navigate through this experience.

    First, avoid becoming self-righteous or harboring anger or resentment. Being ghosted often leaves you feeling hurt, invisible, and incredibly frustrated. It’s natural to want to lash out, driven by a deep need to be acknowledged. Sometimes, anger can feel like a powerful antidote to the helplessness and depression that ghosting can trigger. So, if you’re feeling helpless, reaching out to anger can be a way to regain a sense of control, and if anger is helping you cope right now, that’s okay. Embrace it as a necessary step in your emotional journey.

    However, there will come a time when moving past anger and resentment is crucial for your growth. As Malachy McCourt said, “Resentment is like taking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

    Second, avoid toxic positivity. Sure, I just said avoid harboring negative emotions, but you don’t have to pretend everything’s sunshine and rainbows either. Pretending that it doesn’t hurt isn’t going to do you any good. We can safely acknowledge that it hurts if it does. But remain honest with yourself and keenly aware of all the nuances of how you feel. Sometimes your ego is more hurt than your heart.

    Third, focus on activities outside of yourself. When you’re feeling down, upset, or angry because someone you care about has ghosted you, shifting your focus outward can be incredibly therapeutic. It might sound cliché, but devoting your time and energy to activities that aren’t centered on your own problems can distract you and even help rebuild your sense of self-worth.

    When we obsess over our own issues, we tend to narrow our focus to a tiny part of the universe. By engaging in hobbies, helping others, or immersing yourself in new projects, you expand your perspective and find a renewed sense of purpose and fulfillment. Think of it as mental stretching—include more of what feels good in your focus.

    When you’re ready, try to see ghosting not as a reflection of your worth nor as an inherent trait of the person ghosting you, but rather as a reactive moment—a spasm—from someone grappling with their own unresolved issues. And know that this experience can lead to emotional growth if you use it to better understand yourself and your own wounds and triggers. This shift in perspective can help you release the hurt and begin to heal.

  • 5 Pillars of Mindful Awareness That Transformed My Life

    5 Pillars of Mindful Awareness That Transformed My Life

    “When things change inside of you, things change around you.” ~Unknown

    When I was twenty-three, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. It was not until two years later, when I stopped taking medication, that I discovered I had a mental health disorder linked to my menstrual cycles.

    Meditating daily has been foundational for my well-being. It helps me manage the physical expressions of anxiety and bad moods. It allows me to be more accepting of myself and grateful for the many positives in my life.

    But it is the awareness journey that mindfulness has paved over these last seven years that has reached so many different corners of my life.

    The awareness I developed from regular practice seeps into my life as a positive multiplier, pushing further progress in emotional regulation and health. It inspired me to start journaling daily. It encouraged me to face myself, my fears, and my choices.

    With awareness comes meaningful change. I completely pivoted my life, walking away from my career in the investment industry to prioritize things that I discovered I valued the most.

    This is just one transformation that has come from developing different types of awareness. Together, these form the pillars of a healthy, fruitful relationship with myself and the world around me.

    Everybody’s awareness journey will be different; you cannot know where yours will lead. But in case it helps with your reflection and journey, I am sharing the questions I faced on mine.

    Awareness of Emotions: Taking Back Control from the Unconscious

    Mindfulness practice revealed how much my emotions had a hold over me. I previously saw no separation between myself and my emotions. I let them convince me of things that weren’t true and lead my decisions.

    But now my relationship with my emotions has transformed from one of “I am this feeling” to “this feeling is happening to me.”

    Awareness of feelings reveals some key things. Firstly, emotions are temporary. Secondly, many emotions come from an instinctive, animalistic part of us, cropping up to protect us. This means they can often impact our perceptions and rationality.

    Emotions are there to serve us, as is our stress reaction. But we must recognize these bodily reactions for what they are—processes that need completing. Stress and negative emotions are often linked to significant health problems, but the power to minimize their impacts is within our reach.

    With awareness, I recognize my changing views, desires to act, and needs to service all the different parts of myself. The latter includes the person I am at my core, the part that houses my rationality and values. Quick, emotional reactions do not tend to represent this part.

    At first, it was difficult to accept all the parts of myself that awareness uncovers. But it paved the way for enhanced emotional regulation and management. I now know how to take the messages my emotions are trying to send me, feel them, settle them, and act in a way that represents all parts.

    When we do this, we change unconscious reactions, led by emotions, to conscious responses. It’s okay if we still have racing thoughts; it’s how we act that matters. We take back ownership of our lives from our emotions by making constructive choices.

    Reflecting on your emotions:

    • Can I name my emotions and the feelings toward the events or people involved?
    • How did the desire to react manifest?
    • Why might I feel this way, and what are my needs?
    • Does this point to any unhealed pain, fears, or insecurities?
    • How did my feelings and perceptions change, and what contributed to this?
    • Which thoughts are supported by evidence, and where do I need more clarity?

    Awareness of Capacity: Getting the Best Out of Myself

    When we are not feeling like our best selves, we naturally blame our circumstances or problems. We often completely overlook how much our inner space influences our feelings, our functioning, and what we get out of the world.

    By paying attention, I discovered how so much inside of me is always changing. My motivation, my energy, and my physiology change across the month. Patterns started to appear—times when my self-doubt and limiting beliefs were louder, or when my cognitive or physical strength were weaker.

    Some things cycle naturally. Some are heavily influenced by “too much of this” or “too little of that.” I see the links between physical factors, mindset, and progress.

    You can consume all the motivational quotes about success and personal growth out there, but if you do not prioritize your health, you are setting out on the wrong foot.

    Intuitively, we function best when we look after ourselves. We are most confident when we can recognize our self-doubt for what it is.

    With awareness, I can identify and meet my needs. Whether that be self-compassion practice when my self-doubt is loud or fueling my brain when it feels slow. I also match activities to when they best suit my capacity, working with myself instead of beating myself up.

    Reflection questions for awareness of capacity:

    • When do I feel most energized, motivated, creative, focused, and confident?
    • What are my motivation and energy killers and boosters?
    • When do I find it easiest to make decisions?
    • Which activities work best for when my brain feels slow, my body feels weak, or my social capacity is low?

    Here are some things to consider: sleep, nutrition, movement, connection with nature, time with loved ones, stress management, and downtime.

    Awareness in Relationships: Finding Peace and Improving Connections

    Reflecting on some past relationships, it often feels like I wasn’t a part of them at all. Driven by unconscious reactions and people-pleasing, they hardly felt authentic, and this really limited their richness.

    We can learn a lot about ourselves from our approach to relationships. Our deepest traumas manifest in our triggers. Our actions are mostly driven by our fears and insecurities, often underpinned by the need for validation and fear of rejection.

    Once we deal with these at the root and take back our life from our emotions, we enter a new space. Challenges with other people stop becoming reasons to walk away or make an enemy, but instead become opportunities to build something stronger. Or at least they give us a chance to act more authentically.

    Awareness of my own changing feelings, needs, and typical behaviors provides a level of empathy that is nothing less than superhuman.

    Known as a main ingredient for successful relationships, empathy is the understanding and patience we need to lovingly consider things from another’s perspective. Most of the time, everybody is trying their best to navigate the world and their relationships, acting in ways they’ve learned from their experiences rather than out of selfishness.

    Boundaries are still key when there is a misalignment of standards and values. But empathizing is useful for finding acceptance where needed. Where alignment exists, empathy is the tool that helps relationships grow and enriches connections.

    Reflecting on relationships:

    • What are my values, wants, needs, and expectations, and do I know where they come from?
    • Do I approach things authentically, or do I have ulterior motives?
    • What challenges do I often face in relationships, and what is my approach usually?
    • What assumptions do I make about how others should behave?
    • Do these answers reveal areas of required self-work?

    Awareness for Connection: Feeling Present in the World

    Becoming aware and being present are one and the same thing. When we practice mindfulness, we pay attention to the present moment. Mindfulness isn’t just about cultivating self-awareness; we also train our brains to be aware of everything around us.

    Before my awareness journey, I lived in my head. Mulling over events, worrying about things that could be, and constructing scenarios, I took attention away from everything around me.

    With mindfulness practice, you transform your relationship with your thoughts, just like you do with your emotions. You realize thoughts are just thoughts, and you don’t have to get so wrapped up in them. They become much easier to let go, and with time, your mind can become quieter.

    When we practice being present, we train ourselves to notice the little things around us. I hear the birds in the morning. I feel the wind against my skin. I see the pattern on the tie of the person sitting opposite me.

    Awareness of the world is connection to the world. And it is connection that ultimately helps us feel mentally well. This kind of awareness gives us the sense of grounding we need to get out of our heads and feel alive in the world.

    Maximizing external awareness:

    • Practice awareness of sounds, sensations, and smells during meditation.
    • Take mindful moments during the day for a few deep breaths.
    • Get out into nature.
    • Make activities mindful by engaging the senses. What can I see, hear, smell, and feel?

    Awareness of Living: Leading an Intentional Life

    Previously, I worked toward other people’s ideas of success and things I thought I “should” have or do. And I know I’m not alone.

    Again, fear underpins a lot of our motives, as we dread being judged or not accepted. We often prioritize conforming over doing things that are meaningful to us personally. We lack self-compassion, compare ourselves to others, and find it hard to say no.

    Intentional living starts with really understanding why we want the things we want and do or don’t do certain things. Then we can take ownership of our life direction and make choices in line with our values, not what we feel is expected of us.

    With awareness, we can trust that any consequences of living authentically are insignificant compared to the benefits.

    It is totally possible to go through life passively, going with whatever is presented to us. It is easy to pick up short-term pleasures and continually get sucked into the moment. But if we do this, we will always be haunted by a sense of unfulfillment.

    Awareness shines a light on passive living and encourages us to enjoy the present while making decisions for the long term.

    Reflecting on your approach to life:

    • Why do I want the things I want?
    • Am I measuring progress by comparing myself to others?
    • What is meaningful to me, and what are my values?
    • Which parts of my life lack alignment to these?
    • What do I think is expected of me, and how can I deal with these pressures?
    • When did I last make active decisions or changes for alignment in my life?

    Your Awareness Journey

    Ultimately, this is a journey that will never end. We are constantly changing, and life around us is forever moving, so there will always be a need for reflection. You might become great at recognizing your feelings and staying present, but it will still be something you should practice to maintain.

    When we accept that, like our mental well-being, awareness is not a destination, we can enjoy continually managing life rather than redundantly wishing for things to be different.

    With awareness, life becomes an art. Regardless of what it throws at you, you have a powerful tool to navigate and make something out of it.