Tiny Buddha

Tag: self love

  • Why Narcissistic Abuse Doesn’t Define You and How I Found the Love I Deserve

    Why Narcissistic Abuse Doesn’t Define You and How I Found the Love I Deserve

    “When it hurts to move on, just remember the pain you felt hanging on.” ~Unknown

    There was a time when I thought my heart would never heal.

    I’d been lied to, betrayed, and broken by a man I thought I loved. A man who turned out to be nothing more than a beautifully packaged nightmare.

    If you’ve ever been hurt by a narcissist, you know that the pain cuts deeper than most people can imagine. You know the way it seeps into your bones, the way it makes you question your worth and replay every moment, wondering if you could have stopped it.

    I’ll never forget that night in Paris when I learned what love is not.

    The Champs-Élysées was alive with golden lights strung high in the air. Shoppers moved slowly, bags swinging in their hands, laughter spilling out of nearby cafés. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the crisp night. And in the middle of that beauty, my world shattered with one heavy punch to the stomach I did not deserve.

    It happened on the balcony of a famous Paris hotel. I had overheard a phone call. His voice casual, almost bored. “I’ll be home in a few days.”

    Home.

    To. His. Wife.

    My blood ran cold.

    The words clung to my skin like ice. Betrayal swelled in my chest, my breath sharp and ragged. I demanded answers. My voice cracked, trembling between anger and disbelief.

    The first slap was so fast I barely registered it. Then another. Then the kick. A sharp, merciless blow to my stomach that folded me in two and dropped me to the floor.

    My lungs emptied. I gasped, but no air came.

    I needed to scream. I wanted to claw, to fight, to make him hurt. But some part of me knew that to stay alive, I had to stay still. My body shook in silence, hot tears sliding down my cheeks, my ears ringing as his voice faded into a blur of meaningless words.

    The carpet felt rough beneath my palms as I steadied myself. My ribs ached with each shallow breath.

    When his rage finally burned out, I slipped away and stepped onto the balcony. The night air stung my face. Through the blur of tears, I saw the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the distance, each light flashing like a cruel reminder of where I was—the city I had dreamed of visiting. In love.

    I gripped the railing, fighting the urge to collapse again. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to wash every trace of his hands from my skin. I wanted to go home, crawl into my bed, and erase Paris from my memory.

    It took months to unravel what had happened that night. Months to understand why I had let a narcissist treat me like that. I wasn’t naive. I wasn’t unloved. I came from a loving family. I cared for people.

    So why did I believe I deserved this?

    Somewhere deep inside, I had confused love with proving my worth. I believed that if I could just give enough, forgive enough, understand enough, I could earn love that stayed.

    That belief had been quietly living in me for years—from the little girl who learned to keep the peace by being “good” to the woman who equated over-giving with strength. I didn’t think I deserved cruelty, but I didn’t yet believe I was worthy of love that came without pain.

    Looking back, all the signs were there. Endless red flags I chose not to see. The charm that drew me in, the constant need for attention, the way he twisted the truth until I doubted my own sanity. The anger when I questioned him, followed by the empty promises meant to keep me hooked.

    The bruises faded in weeks. But the ache inside stayed.

    For a long time, I hated Paris. I had been there with the wrong person. I had imagined us wandering hand in hand along the Seine, kissing on Pont Alexandre III as the city lit up around us. I had pictured mornings in Montmartre with coffee and croissants, sunlight spilling through tiny café windows.

    Instead, I got a nightmare.

    Deep down, I always knew real love was effortless. Not that it didn’t require work, but that it didn’t demand your dignity and your soul.

    After months of healing, I wrote down exactly what I wanted in a partner, and I refused to settle for less.

    Then, when I least expected it, he showed up. One email led to another, and soon we were talking across time zones, our words building a bridge neither of us had seen coming.

    He wanted to meet right away. I stalled. Part of me still needed the safety of distance.

    When we finally met in New York City, the moment felt like something written long before we were born. I had landed early that morning, wandering the city in the winter chill. When I called from a payphone near Bryant Park to confirm, I turned, and there he was, smiling at me like I was the only person in the crowd.

    In the past, I would have rushed in and molded myself to fit his rhythm. But this time, I moved slowly. I asked questions I used to avoid, and I said what I needed without apology.

    My healing had raised my standards, not for others but for how I treated myself in love. I was no longer searching for someone to fill a void, and because of that I could actually see him—not through the lens of fantasy or idealization but through truth.

    His steadiness and confidence didn’t scare me. They grounded me. He met me where I was. I could simply receive his presence without fear it would disappear. And that was brand new to me—being loved without having to abandon myself to keep it.

    Years later, we’re still together. We’ve faced storms, held the line when things got hard, and fiercely protected the magic we built. And we visited Paris together. This time, it was the city I had always wanted—champagne kisses, walks by the river, and a skyline wrapped in light.

    For the first time, there’s safety. There’s no fear in being honest, no punishment for being human. We listen, we repair, and we hold each other accountable without shame. When one of us feels hurt, we talk instead of withdrawing. When one of us makes a mistake, we forgive and learn instead of blaming.

    Love doesn’t take from us. It expands us. It’s steady, mutual, and kind. I can ask for what I need without guilt. I can express my fears without shrinking. We celebrate each other’s successes and hold each other through failure.

    For me, this love feels like finally being able to breathe, like exhaling after years of holding my breath, and knowing I can rest in someone else’s presence without losing myself.

    If you’ve been hurt by a narcissist, I see you. I know the nights you lie awake replaying everything. I know how heavy your chest feels, how loud the silence is.

    You may need to close the chapter that destroyed you, then open a new one and write the story you’ve been longing to live.

    Forgive yourself. Forgive them. Not for their sake, but because you deserve the peace it will give you.

    One day, you’ll wake up and realize the darkness is gone. The fear, the self-doubt, the endless ache are no longer yours to carry. And in that moment, you’ll know the truth: you will never again return to what broke you.

    It took months for my nervous system to finally feel safe around men again. For a long time, my body reacted before my mind could catch up, flinching at raised voices, shrinking from affection, bracing for betrayal even when love was right in front of me.

    This is how I slowly found my way out of the grip of narcissistic abuse:

    Belief work.

    I had to meet the invisible story I’d been carrying for years—that love had to be earned. Rewriting it didn’t happen overnight, but each small reminder felt like a crack in the opening around my heart. I began telling myself, again and again, I am deeply worthy of love. I am enough, exactly as I am. When my mind drifted back to old patterns, I didn’t fight it. I simply offered a new story, one where I was already enough and worthy of calm, steady love.

    Listening to my body. 

    I began to notice how my chest tightened or my stomach knotted when something felt off. Instead of ignoring those signals, I treated them as truth. My body knew what my mind wanted to deny.

    Somatic healing. 

    Breathwork, sound therapy, gentle movement, and trauma-informed bodywork helped me release stored fear and regulate my nervous system.

    I remember one session lying on my mat, my breath shallow, my chest heavy. As the sound bowls vibrated through the room, a trembling began to move through me. First it was rage, then a deep grief for all the ways I had abandoned myself, and finally a relief, like my body was releasing what it had carried for years.

    Something softened inside me. Something I couldn’t name. But what that moment taught me is that healing isn’t about forgetting. It’s about allowing what was once trapped to move through you, until it no longer owns you.

    Boundaries. 

    I practiced saying no. At first, it felt unnatural, even selfish. But every no became a small act of reclaiming myself.

    I started small. I stopped saying yes to coffee dates I didn’t have the energy for or to men who mistook my kindness for an open door. Then it extended into every corner of my life.

    I stopped overworking to prove my worth, stopped letting colleagues pile their tasks onto mine just because I was capable. I stopped replying to work messages late at night, stopped entertaining conversations that left me feeling small, but most of all, I stopped ignoring the quiet voice inside that whispered when something didn’t feel right. Each no created a little more space for truth, for me.

    Choosing safe people. 

    I surrounded myself with friends and mentors who treated me with kindness, who showed me what respect actually looks like. Their presence slowly re-taught my body that love doesn’t always come with pain.

    Clarity in love. 

    I wrote down exactly what I wanted in a partner, not just the surface traits, but how I wanted to feel with them: safe, cherished, seen. That clarity was my compass.

    When we began talking, I noticed I didn’t feel anxious waiting for his reply. I didn’t need to edit myself to earn his affection. There was no chaos, only ease. That peace told me I was finally aligned with what I had written. He embodied nearly every quality I had put on that list—emotional awareness, consistency, integrity, and most importantly, a tenderness that made my nervous system begin to trust again.

    Healing from narcissistic abuse isn’t linear. It’s a thousand tiny steps back to yourself. Some days you’ll stumble. Some days you’ll doubt. But little by little, the pieces come back together, and you realize you were never broken.

    When the right one arrives, you won’t question it. You won’t shrink yourself to fit. You won’t beg to be seen. You will simply know, in the steady, quiet place inside you that this is real, this is love.

    Rejection was never your ending. It was the redirection toward the life you were always meant to live.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    When Self-Improvement Becomes Self-Criticism

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Self-Growth Burnout Is Real

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

    It’s subtle, but you can feel it.

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

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

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

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

    The Moment I Stepped Off the Hamster Wheel

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

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

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

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

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

    Why We Keep Fixing What Isn’t Broken

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

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

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

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

    How I Started Shifting from Fixing to Living

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

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

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

    2. I let rest be part of the process.

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

    3. I stopped chasing every “should.”

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

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

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

    What I Learned

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

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

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

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

  • What Happened When I Stopped Expecting Perfection from Myself

    What Happened When I Stopped Expecting Perfection from Myself

    “There is no amount of self-improvement that can make up for a lack of self-acceptance.” ~Robert Holden

    Six years ago, I forgot it was picture day at my daughter’s school. She left the house in a sweatshirt with a faint, unidentifiable stain and hair still bent from yesterday’s ponytail.

    The photographer probably spent less than ten seconds on her photo, but I spent hours replaying the morning in my head, imagining her years later looking at that picture and believing her mother had not tried hard enough.

    It’s strange how small moments can lodge themselves in memory. Even now, when life is smooth, that picture sometimes drifts back. The difference is that I no longer treat it as proof that I am careless or unloving. I see it as a reminder that no one gets it all right, no matter how hard they try.

    I tend to hold on to my “failures” long after everyone else has let them go. My daughter has never mentioned that photo, and one day, if she becomes a mother, she might discover that small imperfections are not proof of neglect. They can be a kind of grace.

    For most of my life, I thought being a good person meant being relentlessly self-critical. I stayed up too late worrying over things no one else noticed, like an unanswered text or a dusty shelf before company arrived. Sometimes I replayed conversations until I found the exact moment I could have been warmer or wiser.

    The list was endless, and my self-worth seemed to hinge on how perfectly I performed in every role. Somewhere along the way, I started expecting myself to already know how to do everything right. But this is the first time I have lived this exact day, with this exact set of challenges and choices.

    It is the first time parenting a child this age. The first time navigating friendships in this season. The first time balancing today’s responsibilities with today’s emotions.

    The shift came on a day when nothing seemed to go my way. I missed an appointment I had no excuse for missing, realized too late that I had forgotten to order my friend’s birthday gift, and then managed to burn dinner. None of it was catastrophic, but the weight of these small failures began to gather, as they always did, into a heaviness in my chest.

    I could feel myself leaning toward the familiar spiral of self-reproach when I happened to glance across the room and see my daughter. And in that instant, a thought surfaced: What if I spoke to myself the way I would speak to her if she had made these same mistakes?

    I knew exactly what I would say. I would remind her that being human means sometimes getting it wrong. I would tell her that one day’s mistakes do not erase years of love.

    I would make sure she knew she was still good, still worthy, and still enough. So I tried saying it to myself, out loud. “We all make mistakes.”

    The words felt clumsy, almost unnatural, like I was finally trying to speak the language I had only just begun to learn. But something inside softened just enough for me to take a breath and let the day end without carrying all its weight into tomorrow.

    Self-compassion has not made me careless. It has made me steadier. When I stop spending my energy on shame, I have more of it for the people and priorities that matter.

    Research confirms this truth. Self-compassion is not about lowering standards. It is about building the emotional safety that allows us to keep showing up without fear.

    And here is what I have learned about actually practicing it. Self-compassion is not a single thought or mantra. It’s a habit, one you build the same way you would strength or endurance.

    It begins with noticing the voice in your head when you make a mistake. Most of us have an internal commentator that sounds less like a mentor and more like a drill sergeant. The work is in catching that voice in the act and then, without forcing a smile or pretending you are not disappointed, speaking to yourself like someone you love.

    Sometimes that means literally saying the words out loud so you can hear the tone. Sometimes it means pausing long enough to remember you are still learning. Sometimes it means choosing kindness even when shame feels easier.

    It also helps to remember what self-compassion is not. It is not excusing harmful behavior or ignoring areas where we want to grow. It is acknowledging that growth happens more easily in a climate of patience than in one of punishment.

    The science supports this. When we practice self-kindness, our stress response begins to quiet, and our nervous system has a chance to settle. This does not just feel better in the moment; it makes it easier to think clearly and choose our next step.

    I’ve noticed other changes as well. Self-compassion makes me braver. When I’m not terrified of berating myself if I fall short, I am more willing to try something new.

    I take risks in conversations. I admit when I do not know something. I start things without obsessing over how they’ll end, and when mistakes inevitably happen, I don’t have to waste days recovering from my own criticism.

    Sometimes self-compassion is quiet, like putting your phone down when you begin to spiral through mental replays. Sometimes it is active, like deciding to stop apologizing for being human. Sometimes it is physical, like unclenching your jaw or placing a hand on your chest as you breathe.

    Over time, these small gestures add up. They rewire the way you respond to yourself, replacing the reflex of blame with the reflex of care.

    We are all walking into each day for the first time. Of course we will miss a detail or lose our patience. Of course we will get things wrong.

    But when we meet ourselves with kindness instead of condemnation, we remind ourselves that love, whether for others or for ourselves, has never depended on perfection.

    And that lesson will last far longer than any perfect picture.

  • Healing Without Reconciling with My Mother and Learning to Love Myself

    Healing Without Reconciling with My Mother and Learning to Love Myself

    “Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we’ll ever do.” ~Brené Brown

    Several years ago, I wrote a heartfelt letter to my estranged mother, articulating my deep feelings about her perceived lack of empathy and care. My intention in writing the letter wasn’t to ignite conflict; it was to sincerely share my perspective.

    Rather than lashing out with blame, I expressed my profound sadness about feeling parentless and the struggle of raising myself without parental love and guidance, something I desperately needed at times.

    I bared my soul, detailing the emotional turmoil our relationship has had on me as an adult, and expressed the longing for connection that always seemed just out of reach.

    After completing the letter, I did something I thought at the time was a bit reckless: I mailed it. Now looking back, I realize it was a courageous step toward advocating for my emotional health, confronting my truths head-on.

    I had no expectations and was prepared for any outcome, including silence, which often felt like our norm. However, mailing it felt like a cathartic release and was undeniably liberating.

    Months passed without a response. I had kept my expectations low but remained hopeful that perhaps she would reflect on what I had shared and gain some insight into our dynamic. Then, almost nine months later, I found myself at a family gathering out of state, and she was there. I had a vague notion that she might show up, but I hadn’t put too much thought into it.

    A rush of panic enveloped me, especially knowing my children didn’t even recognize her. My husband supported me, rubbing my back to help me through the initial shock of seeing her after so many years.

    As conversations swirled around me, I felt an odd sense of being at an event together yet acting like strangers. Though it wasn’t much different from before, I had openly shared a vulnerable part of myself in that letter, which she never acknowledged receiving.

    During the gathering, we barely spoke; our unresolved past loomed between us like an unbridgeable chasm. As the event was wrapping up, my family and I collected our jackets to leave, and then she walked over to me.

    With a sincere expression, she said, “You were right, and I’m sorry.” That was all that passed between us, and then I left. As I walked out the door, a wave of sadness crashed over me, not just from the validation but from the acknowledgment of our painful reality.

    In that moment, I recognized that while the deep understanding I’d once yearned for might never materialize, that exchange marked a significant turning point in my healing journey.

    Through this process, I learned invaluable lessons about boundaries—how to say no without guilt, to stop explaining myself, and to recognize when emotional distance is an act of self-respect rather than rejection. I discovered that safeguarding my emotional space was not just essential but necessary for my well-being.

    Although my connection with my mother remains the same, my inner transformation has been profound.

    I still grapple with sadness that my children will not know their grandmother, leaving me with a wound that is still healing. However, I have learned the art of giving and receiving love in healthier ways. I prioritize open communication with my children and partner, ensuring that their feelings are validated, something I wished for during my upbringing.

    Not everyone is fortunate enough to have their experiences acknowledged. Many of us carry the weight of unvalidated pain, silently wishing for recognition that our feelings matter. The journey of writing a letter reinforced the power of self-love as a transformative force, even in the absence of answers or sincere apologies.

    Self-love for me is about nurturing inner compassion for myself and understanding and recognizing the validity of my feelings, independent of external validation.

    The seeds of self-love began to flourish in my twenties with small acts of kindness toward myself, moments of self-forgiveness, and the courage to question the beliefs I’d carried since childhood.

    It was a crucial period when I started to challenge the idea that my worth depended on pleasing others, and I allowed myself to feel fully—to name and honor my emotions without shame or self-censorship.

    During this time, I began seeing a therapist, which offered me a safe space to examine how my sense of worth had been shaped by my mother’s unpredictable affection and the silence that shaped me when it was withheld.

    Books like Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents by Lindsay C. Gibson and The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown helped me understand and reframe these patterns, guiding me toward self-compassion and a more stable sense of self-worth.

    With the support of a nurturing chosen family and the continued guidance of therapy, I’ve been able to unravel beliefs that no longer serve me—such as the idea that my worth depends on others’ approval, that my emotions should be contained to keep the peace, and that love must be earned through perfection or compliance. Letting go of these patterns has allowed me to reclaim my sense of self and to honor my feelings as both valid and necessary.

    As I contemplate this recent encounter with my mother, I see the evolution of my perspective since I began advocating for my emotional well-being. I’ve come to understand the delicate balance between expectations and reality—the longing for a different kind of relationship coexisting with the acceptance of what is. It’s a balance that asks me to hold compassion for her limitations while still protecting my own heart.

    Each lesson I’ve embraced about self-love has become foundational—learning to set boundaries without guilt, to speak my truth, and to treat myself with the same tenderness I once reserved for others.

    These shifts have reshaped not only my relationship with myself but also how I engage with the world around me. Now, I give and receive love in healthier, more meaningful ways, ensuring that my relationships are grounded in mutual respect and appreciation.

    This healing journey has profoundly shaped my approach to parenting. I aim to teach my children the significance of setting boundaries and advocating for their emotional well-being, rather than simply seeking to please others or maintain peace at all costs. They see a mother who is honest about her feelings and who takes care of herself instead of abandoning herself, which serves as a powerful lesson that goes beyond words.

    While my relationship with my mother may never be what I hoped for, it has guided me toward a fuller sense of self and a more authentic, balanced way of loving. And I’m committed to continuing on this healing journey. I’ve unearthed the strength within me to heal and evolve—strength that exists independent of external acknowledgment.

  • 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.

  • How Self-Portraits Brought My Messy, Honest, Beautiful Self into Focus

    How Self-Portraits Brought My Messy, Honest, Beautiful Self into Focus

    “And then I realized that to be seen by others, I first had to be willing to see myself.” ~Anonymous

    In a world that teaches us to be visible only when we’re polished, productive, or pleasing, I found something unexpected on the other side of my camera: myself.

    But not the filtered version. Not the composed one or the “smiling because I’m fine” version.

    I found the person I’d forgotten—the one who had spent years loving, giving, showing up for everyone else but rarely turning any of that tenderness inward.

    I didn’t pick up the camera to take pretty pictures. I picked it up because I was afraid I’d disappeared.

    I Didn’t Want to Be Seen; I Needed to See Myself

    The idea of photographing myself didn’t come from a place of vanity. It came from absence.

    One evening, while trying to upload photos for a dating profile after years of single parenting and heartbreak, I realized I had no photos that felt like me. Not the version of me who had weathered so much. Not the version I was becoming.

    So I quietly set up a tripod. Brushed my hair off my face. Took a deep breath.

    Click.

    The first photo felt awkward. The second felt posed. But by the third, something shifted. I saw a glimmer—not just of who I had been, but of who I might become.

    This wasn’t about being photogenic. It was about presence.

    Each Click Became a Quiet Homecoming

    Soon, I started photographing myself regularly. Alone. Unrushed.

    Some days, I wore mascara. Other days, I didn’t even brush my hair. And some days, I cried.

    But every day, I tried to show up as honestly as I could.

    Slowly, I began to notice things I’d overlooked for years:

    • Strength in my eyes
    • Grace in my aging hands
    • Resilience in my stillness

    They weren’t just pictures. They were whispers. Visual love letters. A way of saying, “I’m still here.”

    And I wasn’t invisible. I’d just been looking through the wrong lens.

    I Thought I Was Taking Pictures, but I Was Actually Healing

    We live in a culture that celebrates busyness and output. But it rarely teaches us how to witness ourselves—especially in stillness.

    In those quiet moments behind the lens, my camera became a gentle teacher. It held space for the version of me that didn’t always feel put together. It didn’t ask me to smile. It didn’t judge. It just saw.

    And in being seen—truly seen, by my own eyes—I began to heal.

    My camera became more than a tool. It became a mirror. Not the kind that criticizes or compares, but the kind that says, “You’re allowed to take up space. Just as you are.”

    Here’s What I Learned (and Keep Learning)

    Through this experience, I learned:

    • I wasn’t invisible. I just hadn’t looked at myself with curiosity in a long time.
    • I had looked with judgment. With fatigue. With shame. But not with compassion.
    • These weren’t selfies. They were self-portraits—acts of reclamation.
    • I didn’t need to be beautiful. I just needed to be honest.

    Each session became a quiet act of rebellion—against perfectionism, against invisibility, against the pressure to perform.

    And slowly, a truth emerged: I didn’t need to wait for a milestone to be worthy of attention.
    I didn’t need a transformation. I needed permission. Permission to see myself. Permission to say: This is me, now.

    From Healing to Helping Others

    Eventually, something unexpected happened.

    I began to share pieces of my story. And people started reaching out.

    • “I feel like I’ve lost myself, too.”
    • “I haven’t seen a photo of myself I actually like in years.”
    • “I don’t remember the last time I felt comfortable in front of a camera.”

    So I started photographing others—not for branding or special events, but for healing.

    In natural light, in safe spaces, we’d create images that captured something more than appearance.
    We captured presence. Belonging. Truth.

    One woman whispered after her session, “I feel like I’ve come home to myself.”

    I knew exactly what she meant.

    You Don’t Need a Special Occasion to Be Seen

    If you’ve ever felt like you’ve gone a little quiet inside…

    If you’ve ever looked in the mirror and wondered when you stopped recognizing the person staring back…

    If you’ve ever felt like the world sees only a fraction of who you really are…

    I want you to know this: you don’t need to wait.

    You don’t need to lose ten pounds or gain a promotion or start a new relationship to become worthy of your own gaze.

    You already are.

    So if you’re feeling invisible, here’s a gentle invitation:

    Set up your camera. Let the light fall on your face. Be still. Click.

    The first photo might feel strange. The second may feel forced.

    But keep going.

    Eventually, someone will show up in that frame. And when they do, you’ll remember: you’ve been here all along.

  • How Understanding Complex Trauma Deepened My Ability to Love Myself

    How Understanding Complex Trauma Deepened My Ability to Love Myself

    “Being present for your own life is the most radical act of self-compassion you can offer yourself.” ~Sylvia Boorstein

    In 2004, I experienced a powerful breakthrough in understanding what it meant to love myself. I could finally understand that self-love is about the relationship that you have with yourself, and that relationship is expressed in how you speak to yourself, treat yourself, and see yourself. I also understood that self-love is about knowing yourself and paying attention to what you need.

    These discoveries, and others, changed my life and led me into a new direction. But as the years went by, I began to feel exhausted by life. Despite all that I had learned, I could feel myself burning out. It became clear to me then that there was a depth of self-love and healing I still wasn’t able to reach.

    What I didn’t realize yet was that I had been living with complex trauma my entire life. It stemmed from a painful childhood, and it had created blind spots in how I saw myself and others. Because of complex trauma, I moved through life in a fog—feeling lost, disconnected from myself, and seeking self-worth through external validations.

    So, I continued on with life—struggling, yet still hoping to find my answers. Then one day the fog began to lift, and the healing process began. I couldn’t see it all at once, but little by little, it became clear what I needed to learn in order to reach a deeper level of self-love and healing. Here’s a glimpse into my journey.

    From 2011, I spent the next five years helping my dad take care of my mom because she had advanced Alzheimer’s disease. I was helping three to four days a week, even though I was dealing with chronic health issues and severe anxiety. This was an extremely difficult time that pushed me past my limits—yet it was a sacred time as well.

    Six months after my mom died in 2016, my health collapsed due to a serious fungal infection in my esophagus. I had never felt so broken—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I was desperately searching for ways to recover my health, I was grieving the death of my mom, and I was struggling with a lost sense of identity. Because of this, and more, the goals and dreams I once had for my life vanished—as if the grief had caused some kind of amnesia.

    A few years later, I had my first breakthrough. I was texting with a friend, and he was complaining to me about his ex-girlfriend, who has narcissistic personality traits.

    He told me about the gaslighting, manipulation, ghosting, lack of empathy, occasional love-bombing, devaluing, discarding, and her attempts to pull him back in without taking accountability for the ways that she had mistreated him.

    His description sounded oddly familiar. It reminded me of the dynamic I had with many of my family members in different variations. I had always sensed that something was off in the way my family treated me, but I was so conditioned to normalize their behavior that I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong.

    Once I became aware of narcissistic personality traits, I started doing my own research by listening to narcissistic behavior experts such as Dr.Ramani Durvasula, and it was very liberating.

    I learned that parents who have narcissistic personality traits, often treat their children in ways that serve their own emotional needs instead of meeting the emotional needs of their children. And this can cause negative programming in the way those children think about themselves and others.

    For example, since my dad treated me like my emotional needs didn’t matter, this may have modeled to the rest of my family to treat me in the same way. And it most definitely taught me how to treat myself, especially when I was around my family.

    I also learned that narcissistic relationships can cause you to lose yourself, because they can systematically break down your identity, confidence, and state of reality.

    At the same time, I also learned that narcissistic behavior often stems from a deep sense of insecurity, usually rooted in a painful and abusive childhood. Recognizing this helped me to see my family members through a more compassionate lens—not to excuse their behavior, but to understand where it might be coming from.

    Learning about narcissistic personality traits has deepened my ability to love myself because of the clarity it has given me. I finally understand my family dynamic and how I used to abandon myself when I was around them.

    I would always give them my full and undivided attention, hoping it would be reciprocated, but it never was. Instead, in their presence, I became invisible—as if what I thought, felt, or needed didn’t matter. Around them, I learned to silence myself in order to stay connected, even if it meant disconnecting from myself.

    Understanding narcissistic patterns and the impact that they can have helped me to face reality. My family members were unlikely to ever change, and I would always need to protect my emotional well-being when I was around them.

    As I learned about narcissistic personality traits, I started to come across information about other related topics, such as complex trauma and how it can dysregulate the nervous system. Peter Levine and Gabor Maté are two of my favorite teachers on this subject.

    I discovered that many of my health issues—including inflammation of the stomach, panic attacks, chronic anxiety, chronic fatigue, depression, lowered immune function, pain, and chemical sensitivities—could be linked to a dysregulated nervous system.

    This can happen when the nervous system is chronically stuck in survival mode. In survival mode, the body deprioritizes functions like digestion in order to stay alert and survive. Over time, this can cause fatigue and other problems by draining energy and disrupting key systems needed for rest, repair, and vitality.

    Learning about complex trauma has deepened my ability to love myself because it has opened my understanding to why I might be chronically ill and always in a state of anxiety. Knowing this gives me clues in how I can help myself.

    I also learned that complex trauma is caused less by the traumatic events themselves and more by how those events are processed in the nervous system and in the mind.

    According to the experts, if you are not given context, connection, and choice during traumatic events—especially when those events occur repeatedly or over an extended period of time—it’s more likely to result in complex trauma.

    For example, if during my own childhood, it had been explained to me why my dad was always so angry and sometimes violent… and if I would have had someone to talk to about how his words and actions affected me and made me feel unsafe… and if I would have been given a choice in the matter and wasn’t stuck in harm’s way, then I would have been much less likely to have walked away with complex trauma.

    But since those needs were not met, I internalized the message that I wasn’t safe in the world, which caused my nervous system to become stuck in a state of dysregulation. As a result, constant fear became an undercurrent in my daily life—often stronger than I knew how to manage.

    When I wasn’t in school, I would often retreat into my wild imagination—daydreaming of a perfect fairy tale life one minute and scaring myself with worst-case scenario fears the next. Fortunately, my wild imagination also fueled my creativity and artistic expression, which was my greatest solace. To protect myself, I developed the ability to fawn and to people-please. All of these survival responses have been with me ever since.

    Before I learned about complex trauma, I was told that the only course of action you can take in regard to healing from past emotional abuse was to forgive those who have abused you. But that’s not correct. Forgiveness is fine if you feel like forgiving, but it doesn’t magically rewire years of complex trauma and nervous system dysregulation. The real course of action is to identify and to gently work on healing the damage that was caused by the abuse.

    As I explored the internet in search of ways to begin healing my dysregulated nervous system, I came across two insightful teachers, Deb Dana and Sarah Baldwin. They teach nervous system regulation using polyvagal theory, and I found their classes and Deb Dana’s books to be extremely informative.

    Polyvagal theory, developed by neuroscientist Dr. Stephen Porges, helps people to understand and befriend their nervous systems so they can create a sense of safety within themselves.

    Learning about polyvagal theory has deepened my ability to love myself by teaching me how my nervous system works and by helping me understand why I feel the way I feel. It also teaches exercises that help me to send signals of safety to my body, gently communicating to my nervous system that it doesn’t need to stay in survival mode all of the time.

    Nervous system rewiring is a slow process, and while I still have a long way to go before I get to where I want to be, I’m already feeling subtle shifts in the way I respond to stressful situations. This breakthrough has given me new hope for healing and has provided a new path forward.

    I also learned from complex trauma experts that fawning and people-pleasing can actually be trauma responses. These responses were the reason why I was so willing to sacrifice my health to help my dad take care of my mom. It was because I had been conditioned to always please my parents and to put their needs ahead of my own.

    Learning about how fawning and people-pleasing can be trauma responses has deepened my ability to love myself by giving me new insight into my own behavior. In the past, it had always bothered me if I thought anyone didn’t like me, and now I can understand why I felt that way. It was because those thoughts triggered old feelings of fear from childhood, when not pleasing my dad felt dangerous. This taught me to never say ‘no’ to people in order to always feel safe.

    By becoming aware of these trauma responses and wanting to reclaim my power, I have gained the ability to say ‘no’ with much more ease, and I’m much better at setting healthy boundaries. I’m also learning to accept that not everyone is going to like me or think well of me—and that’s okay.

    During the later years of my dad’s life, we developed a much better relationship. Both my mom and dad were grateful for the help I gave to them when my mom was sick.

    After my dad died in 2023, I no longer had the buffer of his presence to ease the stress of family visits. But I also no longer felt obligated to be around family members for the sake of pleasing my dad. So, a few months after his passing, when I received disturbing correspondence from a certain family member, I was able to make the difficult decision to go no contact. Spending time with family members had become too destabilizing for my nervous system—and to be completely honest with you, I had absolutely nothing left inside of me to give.

    At first, I felt a lot of guilt and shame for going no contact, being the people-pleaser and fawner that I have been. But then I learned from complex trauma experts that guilt and shame can also be trauma responses.

    When we are guilted and shamed in our childhoods for speaking up for ourselves, it can teach us that it’s not safe to go against the ideology of the family, that we should only do what is expected of us, and that our true voices and opinions don’t matter. This kind of programming is meant to keep us small—so that we are less likely to stand up for ourselves and more likely to remain convenient and free resources for the benefit of others.

    I experienced a lot of rumination and intrusive thoughts the first year of going no contact, but with time and support I was able to get through the hardest parts. Watching Facebook and Instagram reels from insightful teachers, such as Lorna Dougan, were incredibly helpful and kept me strong.

    A truth I had to keep reminding myself of was that my well-being was just as important as theirs, and that it was okay for me to prioritize my mental health—even if they could never understand.

    Giving myself permission to go no contact with family members has deepened my ability to love myself because it has allowed me to help myself in a way that I had never been able to do before.

    I now have a real chance to protect my mental health, to heal my nervous system, and to live the life that is most meaningful for me and for my husband. I no longer have to drain my last ounce of energy on family visits and then ruminate about how they treated me for the next 72 hours. It has also opened up my capacity to deal with other challenges in my life, like facing the new political landscape that is now emerging.

    In conclusion, it was only when I began to tend to my complex trauma and examine my family relationships that I was finally able to recognize and understand the blind spots that had obscured my ability to know and to love myself more deeply.

    Looking back on my journey, I’m grateful for how far I have come:

    I now know and understand myself better. I have a greater understanding of what I need in order to heal.

    I am able to think for myself and make decisions that align with my core values.

    I like myself again, and I know that I’m a good person. I no longer believe that I’m too much or too sensitive—I just need to be around people who are compatible.

    I am able to set healthy boundaries and to choose my own chosen family—people who treat me with genuine kindness and respect.

    And I feel more confident facing life’s challenges now that I know how to turn inward and support my nervous system with compassion and care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    But the ache never left.

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

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

    “Hear and know me.”

    I stared at the words and wept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    It doesn’t always come in waves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • How I Learned to Treat Myself Like Someone I Love

    How I Learned to Treat Myself Like Someone I Love

    “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life.” ~J.K. Rowling

    Most people who know me will say I am incredibly kind, loving, and empathetic. They know me as a safe person that they can share anything with and that I won’t judge. What they may not know is I am incredibly judgmental and unkind to myself.

    When it comes to others, I see light and love. I see confusion and fear behind their misguided actions. I see mistakes as learning opportunities. For myself, I used to see…if I dare say it, a stupid girl who should know better and do better and be better.

    That felt mean even to write. It is an odd combination to love and accept others so deeply but to not love myself in the same way. Sometimes I wonder if my ability to truly see others’ greatness, potential, and beauty is linked to the fact that I didn’t see my own—like perhaps I put all my energy into valuing others instead of directing some of it toward myself.

    I’ve always wished I could treat myself with the same love I’ve extended to others, but instead, I set myself a different set of standards—ones that cannot be reached because they’re unrealistic. The path of no mistakes, no pain, and no suffering. The path where everything works out according to plan. My plan was always simple: try to do the right thing and follow the rules so I can stay in control.

    So that’s what I did—played it safe and small in many life areas to avoid mistakes, conflict, and my own harsh judgment.

    With friends, I kept quiet when I had different opinions. In romance, I tried to be easy and straightforward. At work, I took the most cautious route, determined to prove my worth before reaching for more. I did it “the right way”—thoughtful, careful, and safe.

    So everything worked out according to plan, right? Wrong—that is not what happened. Because life never goes “to plan” for any of us.

    Case in point: When a discussion with one of my closest friends ended in a disagreement, I felt a stab in my heart that led to a free fall of tears. It wasn’t the disagreement that hurt but the realization that I wasn’t being my true self with her and that, perhaps, she didn’t accept my true self.

    This brought up feelings of abandonment. Was it safe to have a different opinion? Would I be pushed aside, or could I share what I believed to be true and still be loved?

    I now know the pain I felt after her abandonment wasn’t just about our friendship ending; it was about all the times I’d abandoned myself. The times when I’d chosen someone else’s approval over my own and blamed myself when things didn’t work out instead of accepting that pain is inevitable in life—and it doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.

    When my dream job went to someone else, I felt the sting of rejection and replayed everything I might have said or done wrong. I thought of all the reasons I wasn’t qualified and didn’t belong. Being such a harsh judge, I could see all the reasons they hadn’t chosen me, but not the reasons I was still worth choosing. Before I knew it, I agreed with their choice.

    I chose to put other people’s feelings first—empathetically considering their perspective without considering my own.

    This realization hit me hard during a therapy session. I was speaking about a time growing up when my family had to suddenly move and how hard this was for everyone, but I struggled to express how hard it was for me, quickly transitioning to the bigger picture.

    I realized then that I needed to slow down and reflect on my own experiences and feelings in order to show myself the same compassion I so easily extended to others. It was no longer one or the other but both, and this wasn’t easy because it meant I had to sit with the pain of being my true self instead of covering it up.

    I’d always blamed myself for everything that had gone wrong in my life because it gave me a sense of control. If I was the problem, I didn’t have to sit with the pain of life’s unpredictability.

    In truth, I hated parts of myself and didn’t know why until recently. The quality I most despised was my insecurity. It led me to over-analyze my choices and compare myself to others instead of celebrating my own accomplishments. For example, when I was invited to teach a class in college, I turned it down, pretending to be sick, because I didn’t believe I was good enough.

    Many of my struggles stemmed from my sensitive and creative nature. I was a sponge, soaking up every detail, seeing things from all perspectives. This gave me the gift to empathize and support others on a deep level, but it also led to overthinking and self-recrimination.

    For example, in my twenties, I stayed in a relationship that didn’t feel right because I was scared and unsure of myself. When it ended badly, I blamed myself for not knowing better instead of recognizing that I couldn’t have known until I learned through experience.

    The inability to love my true, whole self—including my faults and past experiences—was at its core an unwillingness to accept pain. It stunted my growth and led to suffering. It kept me small and stuck in repeating negative cycles of overthinking, comparison, and insecurity.  

    In therapy, in coaching groups, and in my writing, I began sharing the stories I’d once hidden in shame, and my inner hatred slowly disappeared.

    I shared the many times I was confused about my own emotions and struggled to be kind to myself. With time, I began to see my own mistakes from a different lens—as the witness of my younger self rather than the judge. I felt different—like a closed door in my heart opened.

    I was finally able to have compassion for myself when I started seeing myself as deserving of love and allowed to make mistakes—when I allowed myself to be human just like everyone else. I also began to understand that not everything that goes wrong is my fault, and I don’t have to beat myself up just because things don’t go “to plan.”

    My friend shared a metaphor about turning a big rock upside down and how, underneath that rock, you’d find darkness, mud, and bugs scurrying around as they are exposed from their hiding place. That’s exactly what it feels like to me. Every time I share honestly and expose my heart, my fears, and the things I am ashamed of, I am left with the warm sun shining down, and those little pesky bugs disappearing.

    I now know that I deserve love too, even though I am imperfect. I am still worthy—but I have to believe it. It took a lot of tears to get there. A lot of embarrassment and confusion. A lot of willingness and courage.

    Reflecting on this reminded me of my strength and capacity to overcome hardships. Then another powerful realization occurred to me—I am powerful enough to get through any storm, and I wouldn’t trade this particular storm for anything in the world.

    I wouldn’t trade the pain, the hardship, or the dark nights of learning to embrace myself for the perfect plan I originally wanted—because this is what connects our hearts to each other, and that means more to me than anything.

    Recently, I received an email from a reader saying, “Thank you, and keep writing.” I sat in silence and cried.

    I have always dreamed of someone saying that to me, but this time it was different. It was like I truly felt it in my heart. In that moment, I believed my words had value. I believed that I have value. My own heart finally had room for me too.

  • I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

    I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    And in romantic relationships? The pattern deepened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Why do I keep picking unavailable men?

    Why do I keep repeating the same toxic patterns?

    What does a healthy relationship even look like?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Whisper That Saved My Life When I Was Drowning

    The Whisper That Saved My Life When I Was Drowning

    TRIGGER WARNING: This post references rape and suicide attempts, which might be distressing for some readers.

    “Our lives only improve when we are willing to take chances, and the first and most difficult risk we can take is to be honest with ourselves.” ~Walter Anderson

    This was my third psychiatric hospitalization after my suicide attempts.

    On this visit, something shifted. All I knew at that moment was, for the first time, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

    There was no window or clock. Just blank, pale walls I’d been staring at for twenty-one days.

    I lay there, shattered and broken in a way that felt beyond repair. It shouldn’t hurt this much just to be alive.

    Then I heard it—a whisper from deep inside me. It was little Jennifer, saying, “There has to be more to my life than this.” I didn’t recognize this voice yet as my inner child, but that whisper marked the beginning of my healing. It was the moment I stopped running and decided to stay with myself.

    I used to be so embarrassed by how my life had unfolded. I never believed I’d share my story with anyone, let alone write about it publicly. Now, I’m ready to tell the world.

    We rarely discuss grueling topics openly—mental health, suicide attempts, codependency, and shame. That silence is killing us one secret at a time.

    If you’re reading this and you’re where I was, I want you to know you’re not alone. No matter how broken you feel, you are worth fighting for.

    Before that hospital stay, I had spent years surviving. Much of that survival was wrapped around someone I loved deeply. I’ll call him Ethan.

    He supported me through surgeries, breakdowns, and diagnoses. Even after we broke up, we stayed entangled in each other’s lives, emotionally dependent and clinging to a connection I didn’t know how to navigate without.

    My world shattered around me when I was raped. Then my rape kit and other records went missing.  That’s when my second suicide attempt happened, landing me in the ICU. I felt violated twice, leaving an internal scar on me.

    I was consumed with rage at the world and myself. I didn’t trust anyone. I pushed everyone away, even the ones trying to love me. Friends and family didn’t feel safe. Nothing did.

    I couldn’t face the reality of my life, so I buried my head in the sand of online shopping, sleeping, and eating. It reached the point where I couldn’t function on a day-to-day basis.

    My nightmares were so intense that I’d wake myself up screaming. Then I’d look down and realize I had ripped my sheets in half while I was sleeping. I was terrified to fall asleep.

    When I was awake, it felt like I was fading. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. The fear and depression were so heavy, I couldn’t be touched—not even by things that were supposed to feel normal.

    The shower water hitting my skin would make me flinch. The blow dryer made me panic. I had crying spells that came out of nowhere. During flashbacks, I would grind my teeth unconsciously and crack a tooth.

    After the rape, I was unable to remain in the apartment where the assault had occurred. Thankfully, being the kind friend he was, Ethan let me move back into his apartment, which I had previously lived in when we were dating.

    I fell apart in every way. I hadn’t showered in weeks and was still wearing the same Victoria’s Secret flannel pajamas, which had become loose from constant wear over the weeks.

    My hair was a wild lion’s mane, the kind you’d expect from a creature lost in the jungle, only ever softened when Ethan sat me down and brushed it with gentle care. The cold hardwood floors shocked my bare feet during those brief journeys from bed to bathroom or kitchen, my only ventures in a world that had shrunk to the size of his apartment.

    Ethan would leave for work before sunrise and return to a dark apartment. He’d turn on the kitchen light and see chocolate wrappers and tissues scattered across the floor, evidence that I’d been up, if only briefly.

    He gently encouraged me to shower but never made me feel ashamed of myself. He still hugged me every day.

    After two years of caring for me, he reconnected with someone from his past. That night marked the beginning of something new for him and the unraveling of what little stability I had left.

    I remember thinking, “How can he fall in love when I’m dying inside?”

    I stayed curled up under my pink furry blanket as I watched life pass by. Heavy tears slid down my face and soaked into the only thing that still brought me comfort.

    Every time he left the apartment to go out with his new girlfriend, my chest ached with a mix of emotions that flooded me. Jealousy, anger, and confusion bubbled up so fast I couldn’t make sense of it. I felt abandoned, forgotten, and replaced.

    As the hours went by after he left, my mind started to race. I imagined what she looked like, what they were doing, and whether he was happier with her than he ever was with me. The thoughts consumed me and fed my depression, and I started binging on food to numb the pain.

    He was just a human being attempting to continue with his life, but in my broken state, I saw it as evidence that I was unrepairable, that everyone else could heal and move forward except me.

    The problem was that I didn’t have a life to return to. I had no identity outside of him. I didn’t know who I was, what I liked, or how to care for myself emotionally.

    When I no longer felt needed, I lost my sense of worth.

    That whisper lingered with me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was my inner child—little Jennifer—asking me not to give up on her again. Healing her became one of the missing pieces I didn’t even know I was searching for.

    For years, I had relied on Ethan to soothe me when I didn’t have the tools to relieve myself. He gave me love when I hated myself, and care when I couldn’t function or forgive who I had become. In many ways, he was mothering the parts of me that I had never learned to nurture.

    It took me over a year to stop my old habits when I got out. I finally deleted all my dating apps and promised myself I wouldn’t use men, shopping, or food to escape anymore. I was choosing myself for the first time.

    I started buying myself flowers and offering the compliments I used to beg someone else to say: “You’re brilliant. You’re beautiful. I’m proud of you.” Now, I was becoming the one who gave myself the love and attention I was always seeking.

    I began going on self-love dates. At first, it was just five minutes of listening to music. Then it became six, and eventually seven. Sitting alone with my thoughts was excruciating for someone like me, who had always escaped with weed, alcohol, or other people’s company.

    I didn’t know how to manage my restlessness, but I kept showing up. I added one more minute each week.

    Eventually, I wore the prettiest dress and took myself to cafes, meditation classes, and movies. I didn’t know what I liked, so I made a list. I wanted to become someone I could count on. Slowly, I began to love my own company. The woman who once couldn’t stand being alone became someone I looked forward to getting to know.

    Those self-love dates didn’t just build my self-esteem—they became the foundation of finding myself.

    Each outing helped me rediscover little pieces of myself. I realized I was funny. I could make myself laugh.

    I no longer needed distractions. I never would’ve known any of this if I hadn’t kept showing up and learning who I was underneath the pain. Looking back, the most life-changing thing I ever did was stop abandoning myself.

    If I had loved and valued myself back then the way I do now, I still would’ve been heartbroken when Ethan moved on, but it wouldn’t have broken me the way it did. I would’ve known I could survive it and still build a life worth living.

    We build our relationship with ourselves just as we do with someone we’re dating.

    Remember when you first met someone and stayed on the phone for hours, even when you were exhausted, because your curiosity about them kept you awake? That same childlike curiosity is what we need to bring to our relationship with ourselves.

    Loving yourself isn’t a luxury. It’s essential. When you build a strong bond with yourself, you don’t fall apart when someone else leaves. You’re no longer waiting to be chosen.

    That’s what I was learning on those self-love dates. I asked myself many questions, explored my thoughts, and gradually began to learn about myself.

    If you’re feeling lost or unsure of who you are without someone else, start with these gentle questions:

    • Is there a book, song, or movie you’ve been wanting to try but haven’t had the chance to yet?
    • Think of a food you loved as a child but haven’t had in years.
    • What would your younger self be sad about that you stopped doing today?
    • What small detail, like an outfit, a scent, or a song, used to make you feel alive?

    The answers don’t need to excite you right now. They’re just starting points, tiny threads to follow when you’ve lost the map to yourself.

    If asking yourself these questions feels overwhelming, start with something smaller. Whisper to yourself: ‘There’s still hope for me.’ Because there is.

    Even in my darkest moments, when I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to live again, hope was waiting quietly beneath all that pain. Sometimes, the tiniest spark of hope is enough to keep you going until you’re ready for the next step.

    Those questions lead to curiosity. Curiosity leads to action. And action becomes the first step in finding your way back to yourself.

    You don’t need to wait for someone else to choose you. You can start by choosing yourself.

    That whisper I heard in the hospital became the roadmap to finding me.

    My biggest regret is not choosing little Jennifer sooner. I kept waiting for someone else to save her, but she’d been waiting for me to bring her home all along.

    If there’s a quiet voice within asking for you to focus on more than just your survival, please listen to it.

    It might feel impossible now, but that whisper holds the truth you’ve searched for everywhere. Your journey back to yourself may not look like mine, but I promise you this: you are worth fighting for.

  • How Getting Dressed Became a Love Letter to Myself

    How Getting Dressed Became a Love Letter to Myself

    “Style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.” ~Rachel Zoe

    I didn’t set out to find myself.

    I just looked in the mirror one day and thought, “Wait, when did I stop looking like me?”

    It was after a breakup—the kind that leaves you foggy, emotionally threadbare, trying to make sense of where you lost yourself.

    There I was, standing in my bedroom, wearing something functional, outdoorsy, and… completely not me.

    Not that there’s anything wrong with cargo pants and fleece. If that’s your style, it’s beautiful.

    But I’m a woman who grew up in Paris… who loves texture, shape, and color… who used to wear lipstick to the grocery store just because it made her feel fancy.

    And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dressed in a way that made me feel alive.

    That moment wasn’t dramatic. But it stuck—like a pebble in my shoe, a quiet awareness I couldn’t unfeel.

    I didn’t know what to do with it at first. So I just started noticing. What I wore. What I reached for. What I missed.

    What felt like one tiny step closer to me—and what felt like someone (anyone) else.

    And slowly, without meaning to, I started finding my way back.

    Not through journaling. Not through therapy. Through style.

    I didn’t realize it then, but I was starting to come home to myself—one outfit at a time.

    I’ve always felt like a cultural mosaic—beautifully complex in theory, but hard to hold in one piece.

    Indian by heritage. East African family roots. Raised across four countries. A mix of accents, traditions, languages, and ways of seeing the world.

    And for a long time, I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be in the middle of all that.

    In some circles, I was too Western. In others, I felt too brown, too “other.” Even within my own community, I often sensed I was too different… not traditional enough.

    I became skilled at shape-shifting—blending in where I could, toning down what felt inconvenient. Quietly collecting contradictions I didn’t know how to resolve.

    I tried, of course. I read the books. Took the workshops. Hired the coaches. I journaled and meditated and therapized and “mantra-ed” myself half to death. I even became a coach.

    Most of it helped, in its own way.

    But the strangest, most honest kind of healing didn’t happen in a coaching session or on a yoga mat. It happened in my closet.

    It started quietly. One night, I found myself picking out an outfit for the next day… Not to impress. Not to curate a look. Just to feel a little more like myself. And for some reason, that felt good. Gentle. Reassuring.

    So I did it again the next night. And the next.

    Eventually, it became a ritual. Just me, slowing down long enough to check in with myself.

    I started to ask questions like:

    • What parts of me want to show up tomorrow?
    • What feeling do I want to carry into the day?
    • Which pieces make me feel alive?

    Then I would choose clothes that reflected whatever answers came through.

    Sometimes that meant bold color and structured lines—something that said, I’m here, and I’m not hiding.

    Sometimes it meant soft, draping fabrics—something that let me exhale.

    Sometimes it meant a mix of things that didn’t “go” but somehow felt like the truest version of me.

    Like I was letting the paradoxes live on my body instead of just in my head.

    And in doing that—in actually wearing my contradictions, wrapping them in silk and denim and thread—I began to make peace with them. And I began to stop seeing them as flaws to explain away or hide and start seeing them as richness. Texture. Evidence of a life deeply lived.

    Instead of trying to resolve the tension, I let it be beautiful. I let it belong. And strangely, that softened something in me.

    The shame that once whispered, “Pick a side, be clearer, be less confusing” quieted.

    I began to trust that I could hold multitudes—and still be whole.

    In the morning, when I’d slip into those clothes, it wasn’t just about getting dressed. It was an act of allowing. Allowing myself to be seen. To take up space. To be complex, contradictory, and still worthy of beauty. A quiet yes to the fullness of who I am—who I’ve always been.

    What surprised me most was how I started to feel.

    How could something external—something as seemingly superficial as clothing—give me the elusive confidence I’d spent years chasing on the inside?

    Maybe it wasn’t about the clothes at all. Maybe it was about permission.

    To be seen. To feel beautiful on my own terms. To tell the truth of who I am—not with words, but with fabric and color and silhouette.

    Maybe it was about giving my body a chance to speak… and learning how to listen.

    Every evening, I still take a few quiet minutes to pick out what I’ll wear the next day. Not because I’m trying to project something. But because it helps me connect to something.

    It’s one of the only parts of my day that feels completely mine—not rushed, not reactive. A soft pause. A moment to land.

    Clothing has become a kind of mirror. And that moment of dressing has become a form of meditation. Not the sitting-still kind. The remembering kind. The reconnecting kind.

    I thought I was just playing with fabrics and silhouettes. But I was actually coming home to myself—piece by piece.

    Listening to what felt good. Letting go of what didn’t. Making space for multiple parts of me to coexist.

    That’s the thing I never expected: something as ordinary as choosing an outfit—something we all have to do anyway—can become a love letter to yourself. If you let it.

  • Discovering I Lived in Fear, Thinking It Was Love

    Discovering I Lived in Fear, Thinking It Was Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

    The Moment I Realized Fear Was Running My Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “The work is inside you.”

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

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

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

    Fear vs. Love

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

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

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

    Shifting from Fear to Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

    When making a decision, I ask:

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

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

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

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

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

    4. Make small choices from love.

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

    Choosing Love, One Breath at a Time

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

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

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

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

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

    And whenever possible, I choose love.

  • How I Learned to Love the (Aging) Girl in the Mirror

    How I Learned to Love the (Aging) Girl in the Mirror

    The most profound personal growth happens when we stop running from our pain and start listening to what it’s trying to teach us.

    For years, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.

    Her body felt foreign—betraying her with weight she couldn’t lose, hot flashes that set her skin on fire, and exhaustion so deep, it felt like her soul was crumbling. Her mind, once sharp and confident, was now clouded with doubt, anxiety, and brain fog so thick she could barely think.

    But the hardest part?

    She didn’t just feel different. She felt invisible.

    I was that woman.

    A pharmacist. A mother. A wife. A woman who had spent decades helping others navigate their health, only to find myself drowning in my own. I was in my forties, staring down the barrel of perimenopause, but I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that my body was breaking down, my emotions were unraveling, and no one—not even my doctors—could tell me why.

    So, like any overwhelmed, desperate woman, I did what I thought I was supposed to do.

    I went to my doctor.

    And, like so many women before me, I left with a handful of prescriptions that did nothing but mask my symptoms and a vague, dismissive diagnosis:

    “You’re just getting older. It’s normal. You’ll be fine.”

    But I wasn’t fine. And I knew, deep down, that this wasn’t just “aging.”

    That was the moment I realized: If I wanted answers, I was going to have to find them myself.

    Breaking Up with the Lies I Believed About Myself

    It took years for me to unlearn what I had been taught about women’s health.

    I was a pharmacist, after all. I had spent my entire career dispensing medications, trusting the guidelines, believing that if something was truly wrong, there would be a pill to fix it.

    But what I never learned in pharmacy school was how to truly heal.

    That healing doesn’t come in a prescription bottle. That it isn’t about “powering through” or “sucking it up.”

    It’s about listening to your body instead of fighting against it.

    And that meant I had to start seeing my body, not as something that was failing me, but as something that was trying to speak to me.

    The weight gain? That was my body saying, “Something isn’t right. Pay attention.”

    The hot flashes? “Your hormones are shifting. Don’t ignore me.”

    The anxiety and depression? “Your body is in survival mode. Let’s figure out why.”

    For the first time in my life, I stopped fighting myself.

    I started learning about functional medicine, hormone balance, and the intricate ways our bodies change as we age. I discovered that perimenopause wasn’t just “the beginning of the end” but a crucial transition that—if supported properly—could actually lead to my healthiest, most vibrant years.

    I realized that hormones rule everything, and when they’re out of balance, nothing works the way it should.

    But more than that, I started to see how deeply my self-worth was tied to my physical body.

    I thought if I gained weight, I was less valuable.

    I thought if I struggled, I was weak.

    I thought if I couldn’t figure it out, I was failing.

    I had to break up with those beliefs.

    The Hardest (and Most Important) Lesson

    The hardest part of my healing journey wasn’t changing my diet, adjusting my lifestyle, or even balancing my hormones.

    It was learning to love the girl in the mirror again.

    Not just when she looked “good.”

    Not just when she felt confident.

    Not just when she fit into her favorite jeans.

    But when she was struggling.

    When she was exhausted.

    When she was bloated, broken out, and sobbing on the bathroom floor because she felt like she was losing herself.

    Because the truth is, healing doesn’t start with a diet plan or a hormone protocol. Healing starts when you decide you are worthy of feeling better. And that means learning to love yourself—even when you don’t feel lovable.

    Even when your body is changing.

    Even when your energy is gone.

    Even when your reflection doesn’t match the way you feel inside.

    Because you are not broken.

    And menopause? Perimenopause? The hormonal rollercoaster that makes you feel like you’re losing your mind?

    It’s not the end of you.

    It’s the beginning of a new version of you. A wiser, bolder, stronger you. A version that doesn’t shrink herself for others. A version that doesn’t put herself last. A version that knows she is still powerful, radiant, and worthy—at any age.

    And when you finally see her—really see her—you’ll never let her go again.

    If You’re Struggling Right Now, Read This

    If you are sitting in your car after a doctor’s appointment where they dismissed your symptoms…

    If you are staring at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in your own skin…

    If you are exhausted, overwhelmed, and wondering if you will ever feel like yourself again…

    Please hear me when I say:

    There is hope. You are not crazy. You are not imagining things. Your body is speaking to you, and it’s time to start listening.

    Do the research.

    Ask the hard questions.

    Get the right testing.

    Eat the foods that fuel you.

    Move your body in ways that bring you joy.

    But most of all, love yourself through it.

    Because this is not the end.

    It’s just the beginning.

    And you, dear, are just getting started.

    And that is how I started learning to love the girl in the mirror.

  • My Quiet Breakthrough: 3 Self-Care Lessons That Changed Everything

    My Quiet Breakthrough: 3 Self-Care Lessons That Changed Everything

    “Rest and self-care are so important. When you take time to replenish your spirit, it allows you to serve others from the overflow. You cannot serve from an empty vessel.” ~Eleanor Brownn

    My breaking point came on a Monday morning at 6 a.m.

    It had been the same routine for months: up at 5 a.m., brush my teeth, put on my workout clothes, move my body, weigh myself.

    On this morning, the scale’s numbers glared back, stubborn as ever. My reflection in the mirror seemed foreign—tired eyes, face still sweaty, a body that felt like a lead weight. Outside, cars hummed past, oblivious. I’d woken early to squeeze in a workout, but all I could do was sit there, shaking with anger—at my body, at the relentless grind, at losing myself… again.

    That moment wasn’t just about the weight. It was the culmination of years of silent sacrifices: waking up much too early to move my body—because when else would I find the time? Cooking dinners through exhaustion, handing out store-bought fig bars while envying the “made-from-scratch” moms on social media, and collapsing into bed each night wondering, “Is this how it is now?”

    The Myth of the “Selfless” Woman

    For a long time, I’d absorbed a dangerous lie: that love and family meant erasing myself. My husband worked opposite shifts, leaving me racing against the clock each evening. We’d pass like ships in the night. Him heading to work as I scrubbed dishes. He envied my evenings at home, imagining cozy nights with the kids. I craved the solitude of his quiet days while the kids were in school, wishing for just one day alone in our empty house.

    Society whispered that a “good” mother was a martyr. But my breaking point taught me a harder truth: selflessness isn’t sustainable.

    When I snapped at my kids one night, abandoning story time and leaving them with a meditation instead, I realized my burnout wasn’t just hurting me—it was robbing my family of the calm, patient mom they deserved. The person I used to be was buried under layers of guilt and exhaustion. I wanted her back.

    The First Rebellious Act

    The first time I locked my bedroom door to exercise, my kids whined outside. “Mommy, why can’t we come in?” Guilt tugged at me as I turned on a workout video, letting their iPads babysit for thirty minutes. My husband supported me but would ask, “Why isn’t the scale moving faster?” I didn’t have answers—but for the first time, I’d chosen myself.

    This wasn’t selfishness. It was survival.

    The Three Lessons That Changed Everything

    1. Being quiet is a radical act.

    I began stealing slivers of silence: ten minutes of morning meditation, walks without podcasts, even turning off the car radio. In those moments, I rediscovered my own voice beneath the noise of expectations. Once, during a chaotic breakfast scramble, my six-year-old dropped a heaping spoonful of oats, spraying the counter and cabinets with the gooey mess.

    Instead of snapping in frustration, I breathed deeply—a skill honed in those stolen quiet moments. I’d found my patience again. “Let’s clean it together,” I said, my calm surprising us both.

    Try this: Start with five minutes of intentional quiet daily. No screens, no lists, no voices telling you how it should be done—just you and your breath. This time isn’t for silencing thoughts but sitting with them.

    2. Progress isn’t linear (and that’s okay).

    When my business flopped on social media, I felt exposed. Like I’d been forced to perform, not thrive.

    Letting go of others’ strategies, I rebuilt quietly: phone calls instead of reels, emails instead of hashtags, intimate workshops instead of lives. It was slower, but mine. One night, my son asked why I hadn’t “gone viral yet.” I smiled. “Because I’d rather talk to you, not my camera.” 

    Truth: Every “failure” taught me to trust my rhythm, not the world’s noise. Do what feels supported, not forced.

    3. Boundaries are love, not rejection.

    My husband started cooking on his nights home, shooing me off to go to meditate or move my body—whatever I needed in the moment. The kids built “cozy corners” with pillows, learning to honor their own need for space. Now, when my son says, “I need alone time,” I don’t panic or prod—he’s mirroring what I finally allowed myself.

    Action step: Name one non-negotiable this week. For me, it’s my morning movement. What will yours be?

    The Ripple Effect of Choosing Myself

    Quiet became my sanctuary. No voices, no demands—just soft lo-fi playlists and the hum of my breath. My business grows steadily, my workouts are kinder, and the scale? It’s just a number now. Progress isn’t a race; it’s the quiet hum of a life rebalanced.

    If I could write a letter to my former self, the woman racing to do it all “the right way” while drowning in guilt for every shortcut, this is what I’d say…

    A Letter to My Former Self

    Dear Matalya,

    You’re not failing. You’re drowning in a sea of “shoulds.” Let go. The dishes can wait. The store-bought snacks are enough. And that voice saying, “You’re selfish”? It’s lying.

    When you rest, the whole family breathes easier.

    —The Woman You’re Becoming

    A Metaphor to Remember:

    Self-care is like lovingly tending a garden. You don’t rush the roses—you water them, step back, and let the roots grow strong.

  • How to Finally Believe That You Are Enough

    How to Finally Believe That You Are Enough

    “We often block our own blessings because we don’t feel inherently good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, or worthy enough. But you’re worthy because you are born and because you are here. Your being alive makes worthiness your birthright. You alone are enough.” ~Oprah Winfrey

    When I was a little girl, I loved making cute drawings at school and gifting them to friends and family. I’d pour my heart into them, and at the end of the day, I’d rush home, all excited to give my treasured creations. I was such a happy kid! Always running and jumping up and down the street, noticing quirky details on the road and picking flowers to bring home.

    This one, I made my mom a drawing. When I got home, I stood beside her, my eyes sparkling with anticipation, only to see her looking at it with disdain. She harshly criticized what she thought was badly drawn on paper and then tossed it in the trash. I looked at her, shocked and hurt, as she said: “What do you want me to say, that this drawing is beautiful? It isn’t.”

    I wish I could say it was the first time I had an interaction like that, but the reality is that it happened again and again. So much so that I gave it a name: “not enough notes to the self.”

    These are the moments when something happens that makes you start questioning your worth, and you begin internalizing that somehow, your being and whatever you do is not and will never be enough. If you have a few moments like these in your life, it may not leave so deep of a scar, but when the notes pile up, you start feeling differently about who you are.

    You go from being purely and authentically you to shrinking into a mold of what’s expected of you, even if the mold keeps changing and becoming more demanding each time. You realize you’re damned if you do but also damned if you don’t, and without the right tools to escape the conundrum, you feel like you have no other option but to keep going in the hopes of someone seeing you and telling you that you are enough.

    That’s what happened to me.

    Too many events, people, and circumstances told me I wasn’t enough. And I believed it. So, I spent most of my life trying to prove I was.

    I attempted to be the best at everything, with no room for error, because maybe if I were perfect, I would finally be enough. But no matter how hard I tried, the goalpost just kept moving.

    Then, after years of healing from past traumas, I heard a voice inside me that said, “To the eyes of the Universe, you are enough.” And it clicked! It does not matter what the world says, I am enough, so there is no need to prove it! I always was.

    I wish I could tell you I instantly embraced that thought. But by then, I had spent my whole life trying to prove myself, hiding behind a perfectionist facade, weighed down by anxiety and the need to please others, so it wasn’t easy to suddenly believe I was enough without all the trying and the masking.

    I had to reflect deeply and ‘do the work’ to get my mind, body, and soul to align with this newfound truth. It was such a beautiful journey of self-love and acceptance, and I cannot wait to share it with you today so you too can realize the undeniable truth that you are enough, and always were, and free yourself to bask in the happiness of knowing. And achieve your goals and wildest dreams along the way without having ‘not-enough notes to the self’ blocking you from the life you’re meant to live.

    Ready?

    The first step I took was to dig deep into my mind to find all the ‘not enough notes to the self’ I had on repeat all these years. I looked back into my past and screened for the moments that made me believe I was not enough. I had many, and from time to time, new ones pop up in my head, but I softly smile at them, like when you encounter an old friend you still care about, but the friendship is over. No hate, only love from a distance.

    Reflecting on these moments, I started to grasp why I felt so worthless. While you may know why you’re haunted by feelings of not being enough, seeing these moments reflected on paper or flying through your mind during meditation makes something click inside you. You just get it.

    And I did. But getting it is one thing, and deprogramming years, decades of not-enoughness is another. That’s where step number two enters the chat: changing the belief that you are not enough.

    Convincing myself I am enough was all about lovingly and repeatedly reminding myself of my enoughness as a birthright and showing it through actions as if parenting my inner child and undoing the parenting I received as a little girl. For that, I used daily affirmations and meditations where I would sit in the present moment and just be.

    That allowed me to constantly get back to myself and the truth of who I am: a loving and lovable individual, no perfection needed.

    I started asking powerful questions and practicing self-love. Notice I didn’t say, “I started loving myself.” Back then, I had no idea how to do that, so I just started practicing. I’d ask myself what I’d do if I loved myself. If I knew at my core that I was enough, who would I be? How would I behave?

    This shift was life-changing, and it naturally led me to the next and sort of final step of the journey: to look at my surroundings and reevaluate my relationships. As I began to treat myself with more love and respect, I inevitably started noticing how other people treated me through a different lens.

    As one should expect, when you believe that you are not enough, you tolerate certain situations and behaviors that are detrimental to your health and well-being. Embracing your enoughness leaves little room for that.

    So, I went through a painful period of reevaluating, transforming, and even ending some unhealthy relationships. But in the process, I ended up creating space for true, loving, and respectful relationships that make me feel safe, worthy, and enough.

    My list of ‘not enough notes to the self’ grew smaller. And as it did, my life expanded in ways I could’ve never imagined. But let’s get real: This is a lifelong journey, which is why there’s no definitive last step, just a powerful sort-of-last step.

    The beauty of this process is that you can revisit it time and time again to reconnect with the undeniable truth that you are enough and create the beautiful life you deserve. One thing I can tell you for sure: It gets easier and more natural every time.

    Remember, you are enough because you always were. Time to start walking and talking like it!

  • When Love Isn’t Enough: The Lessons I Learned from my Breakup

    When Love Isn’t Enough: The Lessons I Learned from my Breakup

    “This is not where your story ends. It’s simply where it takes a turn you didn’t expect.” ~Cheryl Strayed

    He had the courage to say what I couldn’t.

    “It’s not working anymore.”

    It didn’t make any sense that we were breaking up. We loved each other so much. We had been talking about getting engaged. Our couples therapy was moving in a positive direction, even when it was really challenging.

    When he said those words, I knew I wasn’t going to argue with him. As much as we loved each other, we had taken the relationship as far as it could go.

    But this isn’t a story about lost love. It’s about all the love you can find when it leaves.

    I knew our relationship had felt off for a while.

    Earlier in the day before the breakup, when he went to the bar to watch the football game, I got down on my knees and prayed for clarity. I felt lost about whether I should stay and fight for the relationship or if it was time for it to end.

    Our relationship felt like a back-and-forth struggle for months. We even took a long weekend trip to New Orleans to reignite our spark. But when we got back home, it seemed like one minute he was my one-man cheering section at my half marathon, and the next we were yelling at each other sitting in our parked car.

    The minute I prayed for help, I knew that the relationship needed to end. But I wasn’t willing to be honest and admit that to myself. I wasn’t really ready to say those words out loud. I didn’t want them to be true, even though I knew deep down that they were true.

    A few hours later, he walked in the door and said the words no one wants to hear, “We need to talk.”

    And then began a two-hour-long conversation about ending our relationship and honoring what we had shared together. We had dated off and on for almost five years, living together for two. And it was over.

    While we had fun together and had undeniable chemistry, our compatibility never fit together. He had plenty of trauma from his past, and he questioned me when I encouraged him to have a life of his own outside of the relationship. He feared that if he was fully himself, I would yell and try to control him.

    And I had my own issues where I tried for so long to twist myself into being the perfect girlfriend. Eventually I got tired of pretending to be someone I wasn’t, but he didn’t seem to like who I really was. So, I made myself as small as possible, trying to be pleasing and acceptable but struggling to also be myself.

    It seemed that we loved each other, and we managed to bring out the worst in each other, despite all our best efforts.

    Loving someone isn’t always enough for a successful relationship. In our situation, we really were each other’s biggest cheerleader. And we wanted success and happiness so much for the other person that we masked our true selves. 

    I can’t speak for him, but I was afraid if I stepped into my full, powerful self that I would be rejected and told I was too much. I feared being abandoned once he saw me for who I really was.

    I learned too late into the relationship to let myself be vulnerable and real. By the time I did, our dynamic patterns had already been established, and the change was too much. He reacted in ways that reinforced my worst fears—that I was unlovable, that I was asking too much, that my real self wasn’t worthy of love.

    I deeply regret not being myself from day one in the relationship. But the pain of regret is a powerful teacher.

    I don’t know if our relationship would have gone differently if I had been real from the beginning. Maybe it would have never started. Or maybe it would have gone the distance. There’s no way to know.

    But that’s not a lingering question I’m willing to have in the future. I knew this relationship was teaching me that I DO matter, and I needed to learn how to be myself without the masks.

    It took me a lot of deep inner work to rebuild my confidence after that relationship ended. I needed to believe that I would be okay no matter what happened if I revealed who I am at the beginning of a relationship. 

    I practiced picking myself up after rejection and letting myself feel those really icky feelings that I had been trying to avoid—feelings like despair, disappointment, embarrassment, and shame.

    One of the hardest parts of mourning the breakup was that no one had done anything wrong. I had to learn to live in the paradox that we love each other and breaking up was the right thing. I learned that it’s enough that I don’t want to be in that relationship dynamic anymore.

    Pain is here as our teacher. It shows up to let us know what not to do.

    Most people want to rush through the pain as fast as possible. It’s not comfortable to allow the pain to be there without trying to make it all better.

    But when you learn how to sit with the pain and befriend it, there is so much wisdom to learn.

    My pain showed me all the ways I avoid being with myself and all the ways I had already abandoned myself—before any boyfriend could even have a chance. I was so quick to blame my problems on everyone else and then complain to my friends over glasses of rosé. I numbed my pain with wine, partying, hookups, nights out with friends, and Netflix.

    I see now that when I do that repeatedly, I end up not receiving pain’s wisdom. And instead, my life keeps giving me the same lesson over and over until I’m ready to learn it.

    I signed up with a therapist, a coach, and a women’s embodiment group. Each one brought a different way of guiding me to the lesson I was really avoiding:

    No one can abandon me if I don’t abandon myself first.

    I had to learn to love all of me. Even the parts that I think aren’t worthy. And I’m not writing this because I’m done learning, and I figured it all out. But I’m willing to learn, and I’m trying to be a bit more loving every day. 

    I remember being on a retreat in Mexico with my women’s group in the final moments of our time together. I raised my hand for coaching in front of everyone for the first time. I brought my messiest self and braced myself for shame.

    Instead, I let myself look in the eyes of the women around me as I shared my messiest self, and I saw nothing but love being reflected to me.

    My messiest self was lovable. I can bring her with me. I don’t have to be perfect, and I don’t have to show up how I think other people need me to be. I can just be me.

    I still struggle with this, honestly. I still try to be perfect and have it all figured out. But I remember back to the version of me in that relationship, and she seems so different from the woman I am today. I look at her with so much compassion because she’s trying so hard to be lovable.

    She hasn’t accepted the truth that she’s already lovable as she is. And that kind of love is always going to be enough for me. There is peace and power in loving myself.

    If my ex hadn’t broken up with me, I don’t think I would have let myself be totally broken open and vulnerable. And as painful as it was, I am forever grateful he was brave enough to break my heart.

  • 4 Lessons I Learned from Leaving a Toxic Relationship

    4 Lessons I Learned from Leaving a Toxic Relationship

    “It takes strength and self-love to say goodbye to what no longer serves you.” ~Rumi

    I promised myself at a young age that when I got married, I was not going to get divorced, no matter what! My parents had divorced when I was five, and I knew that I didn’t want to put my kids through what I’d experienced as a child who grew up in a “broken” family. I wanted my kids to know what it was like to live in a house with both their parents present and involved in their lives.

    So, when I found myself seven years into my marriage, sitting in a therapist’s office wondering if my husband and I were going to make it, I had no idea what I would be facing if I had to navigate life, let alone parenthood, without my husband. How does one break free from emotional and verbal abuse without it permanently affecting who they are as a person?!

    All I could think about at the time was my three beautiful girls, who deserved to have happy parents in a happy home living a happy life!

    From the outside, our lives looked that way, but our reality was nothing of the sort. The yelling, the name-calling, the threatening, the withholding, and the verbal and emotional abuse were taking their toll on all of us until one day, after five years of trying to make it work, I had had enough.

    The night I will never forget, almost twelve years into my marriage, we were all sitting at the dinner table, and like every time before, with no warning, a switch flipped, and the yelling began. But this time, I packed up my things and I left. And this would be the last time I would leave; after the three attempts prior, I was lured back with promises that everything would be okay and we would make it work, but this time was different. I didn’t go back.

    Okay, I was out; now what?! Little did I know that leaving would be the easy part. Some of the most trying and challenging times of my life happened after I was able to finally break free. But I didn’t know that learning how to love myself again and believe that I was worthy of good things was going to be the real challenge, especially after what I’d faced.

    The storms that happened once my marriage was over would shake me to my core. One particular time was when my middle daughter, only thirteen at the time, was able to find her way down to Tennessee from central Wisconsin without anyone knowing where she was or if we’d be able to find her.

    My daughter despised me for breaking up her family and wanted to get as far away from me as she possibly could, even if it meant entrusting strangers to drive her in a car for fifteen hours while they made their way to Tennessee. Waking up the next morning after she vanished and reading the “goodbye” note she’d left on her bed, I honestly did not know if I would ever see her again.

    To say I was in panic mode would be an understatement for how I felt during the next twenty-four-plus hours while we—my parents, my friends, my siblings, the police, and even strangers—attempted to find my daughter. I can think of no worse feeling in the world than that of a mother who is on the verge of or has just lost her son or daughter. I wondered, “How can this be happening? Haven’t we already been through enough?”

    Exactly twenty-six hours after my daughter had found her way into that stranger’s vehicle, I received a phone call from a deputy in a county in Tennessee saying they had found her. Thank you, Lord, was all I could think—someone is watching over us!

    I realized then it was time to figure out how to love myself again and heal from my divorce so I could be more present for my daughters.

    Are there things I would have done differently? Absolutely! But you can’t go back and change the past; the only thing you can do is learn from it and do your best not to make the same mistakes going forward.

    The best thing I did for myself was sign up for a subscription that gave me access to hundreds of workout programs I could do from home (since I was the sole provider of my daughters at the time). As I completed the programs, I saw improvements in not only my body but also my frame of mind, which pushed me to want to be better and do better with each one after that—not just for me but for my girls also!

    Being able to push through tough workouts and seeing that I could do hard things that produced positive results helped build my confidence at a time when I needed it most! This newfound confidence boost encouraged me to keep pushing forward, even in the eye of the multitude of storms I was facing, which allowed me to start to heal.

    The workouts were just the beginning for me. Ultimately, they led me on a path that would help me discover how to love myself again.

    When I left my now ex-husband, I had no idea what I would be faced with until I was finally able to break free for good. But now that I have been out and have been able to transform my mind and love my life again, I realize just how incredibly powerful some of these lessons that I’ve learned truly are.

    1. Forgiving is the first step to healing. 

    A lot of people believe that forgiveness means you are condoning someone’s behavior, but that is not at all what you are doing when you forgive. Forgiveness is intentionally letting go of negative feelings, like resentment or anger, toward someone who has done you wrong.

    Choosing to forgive when you’re ready means that you are making a conscious and deliberate choice to release the feeling of resentment and/or vengeance toward the person who has harmed you, regardless of whether or not you believe that person deserves your forgiveness.

    You forgive to allow yourself to move on from the event, which also allows you to fully heal from it.

    2. Mindset matters.

    Your thoughts shape your reality, so if you think you don’t deserve good things, you won’t be able to attract them into your life.

    When in a toxic environment, negativity has a way of clouding your judgment, which makes breaking free more difficult. But once you leave and start focusing on a growth mindset and optimism, everything changes. When you focus on the good, the good gets better. This is the foundation of how I rebuilt my life after breaking free from the toxicity of my marriage.

    3. It’s crucial to listen to your gut.

    Ignoring your intuition leads to situations you regret more times than not. Learning to trust my inner voice, the one that whispers to me when something isn’t right, has been my greatest guide to making better choices.

    4. Positive change starts with self-love.

    Self-love is not just a buzzword. It’s the armor you wear against people who try to break you down. It’s telling yourself that you deserve better, even if you don’t fully believe it yet, and taking action to create better, even if it’s just one tiny step.

    For me, self-love started when I left my abusive ex-husband and then grew when I started taking care of my body. Sometimes even the smallest act of self-care can help us feel more confident in our worth.

    If you’ve been in an abusive relationship too, remember—you can rebuild and thrive in a life you love!

  • From Pain to Power: Letting Go of Approval to Love Myself

    From Pain to Power: Letting Go of Approval to Love Myself

    “If you love yourself, it doesn’t matter if other people like you because you don’t need their approval to feel good about yourself.” ~Lori Deschene

    For most of my life, I worried about what others thought. Every move I made felt like a performance for someone else. I’d built my life on their approval.

    Then came the losses. Three family members were gone in a matter of years. Each time, the grief hit like a fist to the gut.

    My mother was my pillar of strength; my father, who might not have always been there for me but was still my father, went next, and then my younger brother—a cruel fate.

    Their absence left a void that seemed impossible to fill.

    I felt hollow, like someone had punched all the air out of me. I was left winded and empty. Grief, relentless and heavy, kept knocking me down.

    I tried to keep up appearances, but inside, I was stuck. Couldn’t move. I didn’t know how.

    I remember one day after my younger brother died, I sat alone in the garden. The sun was out, but I felt nothing.

    It was close to Easter, and I had a list of commitments. Things I’d agreed to, people I had to see. Each one felt like a chain around my neck.

    I stared at my phone, anxious and tired. ‘’Where are you?” the message read. My hands were shaking. That’s when I put it down.

    It was a moment of liberation. I realized I didn’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t want to worry about what everyone else wanted.

    It was time to let go. And in that release, I found a new sense of freedom and hope.

    I picked up my phone again and texted, “Sorry, I will not make it today.” And I hit send.

    One message turned into two, then three. “I’m sorry, I won’t be coming.” The words felt strange, as if I were speaking them for the first time.

    One small act, one message, was enough to break the chains. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. The tightness in my chest eased.

    It was a turning point in my journey to self-acceptance.

    I didn’t know it then, but that was the beginning of reclaiming my life. Just a few words and the weight started to lift.

    Grief Changes Everything

    Grief stripped away everything I thought mattered. The “should” and “have to” layers fell away like dead skin. I was left with nothing but raw, aching truth.

    I saw my life clearly for the first time. It was built on everyone else’s expectations. There was no space left for me.

    That was the most challenging part to accept. I had spent so long trying to be what everyone else wanted. And now I didn’t know who I was.

    But the losses kept coming, pushing me deeper into emptiness. Each time, it took something from me. And each time, I was forced to look harder at myself.

    I began to see a pattern. I was living for others, not for myself. It was a painful truth, but grief can uncover what’s hidden.

    The Realization

    One day, I stood in front of the mirror. The reflection, looking back, was a stranger. My face, my clothes, how I stood—it was all for someone else.

    That was the moment when I decided I needed to change. I didn’t want to live like this. I needed to stop.

    I didn’t need the approval of others. I didn’t need to be perfect for anyone but myself. It was time to break free.

    It wasn’t easy. The habit of pleasing others ran deep. But I started with small steps.

    Steps Toward Freedom

    First, I listened to my thoughts. When I found myself worrying about someone’s opinion, I stopped. “Is this helping me?” I’d ask.

    The answer was almost always no! So I let the thought go. It was redemptive.

    Slowly, the worrying and sleepless nights of being a people-pleaser lessened.

    Next, I set boundaries. The most challenging boundary was with me. I had to stop pushing past my limits, physically, emotionally, or mentally.

    I began saying no. I stopped feeling guilty for choosing myself. Setting boundaries was empowering and made me feel more in control of my life.

    It was a declaration of my needs and desires, a step toward asserting my worth.

    I distanced myself from people who drained me and people who made me question myself. It was a gradual process.

    I started by reducing the time I spent with them, and eventually, I found the courage to communicate my need for space.

    I started creating space, which allowed me to breathe and focus on my well-being.

    Slowly, I started doing what felt good: walking in the rain instead of counting steps; I just walked for pleasure.

    I stopped trying to please everyone; instead, I pleased myself.

    This focus on my desires and needs was an essential aspect of my journey to self-acceptance and self-love.

    I stopped playing host because others required it. The first Christmas after my younger brother passed away, I took a vacation with just my children, starting a tradition that centered on what worked for me. Now I only host when it feels right on my terms.

    I also stopped being the one to reach out constantly to family or friends. I realized I didn’t have to check in or hold relationships together single-handedly. Trusting that real friendships wouldn’t crumble without my constant effort was freeing.

    Each small action was a step closer to who I was. Each “no” brought me back to myself. It wasn’t a sudden transformation but a slow, steady shift.

    Healing Through Action

    There’s freedom in not needing anyone’s approval. I started to feel it in my bones. I began to laugh again.

    The weight lifted. I noticed the world again—the way the sky changes colors at dusk, the way the wind feels on my face. Life was waiting for me.

    I started to walk more—no destination, no purpose—just walking. I felt the ground under my feet, solid and real.

    The loss of my loved ones will always be there. But it doesn’t define me anymore. It’s part of the story, not the whole of it.

    Moving Forward

    If you’re stuck seeking approval, start small—one step at a time. You don’t have to change everything at once.

    Ask yourself: What do I want today? Just for today, choose that. It’s enough.

    Reflect on the moments when you felt trapped—times when you felt overwhelmed by external pressures and were trying to meet everyone’s expectations; when you sacrificed your own needs and desires to please others; or when you found yourself constantly worrying about the opinions of others. By reflecting on these moments, you can identify what has been holding you back and take the first step toward living authentically.

    Self-reflection is a crucial part of the journey to self-love and self-acceptance. It’s a mirror that allows you to see yourself more clearly, understand your wants and needs, and be free to fulfill them.

    It takes time to break free. The habits run deep. But each small step chips away at the chains.

    Embracing Self-Acceptance

    Self-acceptance wasn’t easy. It felt foreign, like trying on clothes that didn’t fit. But little by little, I got used to it.

    I stopped chasing what others thought was beautiful. I looked at my imperfections and decided they were mine. The quirks became markers of who I was.

    Writing helped. It was messy and unfiltered, but it was real.

    I saw my patterns. The way I bent over backward to fit in. The way I swallowed my voice to keep others happy.

    So, I began taking small actions. For instance, I started embracing my uniqueness by wearing clothes that made me smile (like a short mini skirt!).

    I spent more time with people who supported me. The ones who made me feel seen. Their encouragement helped me believe that I didn’t have to change to be worthy.

    The Healing Process

    Of course, there were setbacks. Days when I slipped back into old habits. But each time, I chose to keep moving forward.

    It’s not a straight path. There are twists and turns. But each small step makes you stronger.

    There’s freedom in not needing anyone else’s approval. I started to feel it grow. I felt lighter, unburdened.

    Conclusion

    Grief changed everything. But through it, I found strength. I found my worth buried beneath all the noise.

    You don’t need anyone’s approval to feel good about who you are. The only person who can define your worth is you.

    So ask yourself today: Who’s writing my story?

    If the answer isn’t you, it’s time to take the pen back.

  • How to Stop Living in Perpetual Guilt and Forgive Yourself

    How to Stop Living in Perpetual Guilt and Forgive Yourself

    “I have learned that the person I have to ask for forgiveness from the most is myself. You must love yourself. You have to forgive yourself every day. Whenever you remember a shortcoming, a flaw, you have to tell yourself, ‘That’s just fine.’ You have to forgive yourself so much until you don’t even see those things anymore. Because that’s what love is like.” ~C. JoyBell C.

    Have you ever wondered why, despite doing your best to heal and grow, you can’t seem to shake off the feeling of inadequacy and only see minimal results for all your efforts?

    Maybe, like myself, you don’t know you live with a very subtle yet perpetual feeling of guilt.

    The first time I became familiar with this chronic guilt was when I learned about self-awareness. At the beginning of my healing journey, I knew that to change anything, I must first be aware that it is there.

    Although this sounds good in theory and might work when we look at it from a logical standpoint, often it doesn’t apply when we are in the arena, going through the imperfections of the healing process.

    In his book Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself, Joe Dispenza explains how our bodies become addicted to certain chemicals we release based on the thoughts we think and the emotions we feel.

    If you are used to feeling guilt, your mind will unconsciously look for it in everything you do, so the body gets the hit.

    Going back to self-awareness, let me ask you this:

    What do you do when you discover a pattern you want to change or a toxic habit you want to heal—for example, that you people-please? Do you reach for understanding and compassion or judge yourself, feeling like you “should” act differently?

    Exactly.

    It’s almost like we think if we are harsh enough with ourselves, we will do better next time, soldier up, and get it “right.” While in the process, we are crushing our souls, unconsciously sabotaging our healing, and feeling smaller each day.

    As I dove deeper into exploring my guilt, sometimes the things I judged myself for blew my mind. I judged myself for how I felt, and once I observed it, I judged myself for judging myself for how I felt. Or I would use guilt to unconsciously validate the belief that I am not enough.

    Even when I made healthy decisions, like distancing myself from people who weren’t good for me, I would judge myself for bailing out and not staying around and trying harder. There was always a reason to feel guilty.

    It took me a long time to discover these patterns, and I still spot them today. It was and still is a part of my self-talk, although not as often as it used to be. However, while developing a more loving approach to my guilt, I realized that only a healthy dose of love, compassion, and understanding could heal me.

    We may find it challenging to spot chronic guilt since its presence is very subtle. If guilting and judging ourselves is our way of life, we may think, “This is how I always feel. It’s normal.”

    But it isn’t. We weren’t meant to swim in the waters of inadequacy or not-enoughness. If you think, “But what if I let the guilt go and relax, and then don’t feel the drive to do more, heal more, grow more?”

    Although guilt may seem like a fuel that pushes us forward, from my experience, it keeps our healing at bay. It takes away the feeling of being alive, motivated, inspired, and courageous. It makes us shrink and brings uncertainty and self-doubt.

    I remember a time when I started to have digestive issues right after I left my marriage and began the process of a divorce. The hardest things for me to overcome were the anger and guilt I felt for the things I’d allowed, although I wasn’t aware of this at that time. All I knew was that I was pissed. This, of course, made my digestive issues even worse.

    During this time, I began learning more about the connection between my gut and my mental and emotional health and how my anxiety, sadness, and stress affect the health of my physical body.

    One day, as I spoke to a friend on the phone, I broke down crying, knowing that I was responsible for how I physically felt.

    After I calmed down, we sat in silence for a few moments after she said, “Maybe it’s time you forgive yourself for it.”

    Her words immediately touched my heart, and I knew that I had to come back to the basics of my healing, which so often lay in forgiving myself. Since then, I’ve approached my digestive flare-ups and healing with an attitude of forgiveness. This has allowed me to ease into the moment and has helped me look at the whole situation with more love and understanding toward myself.

    I’ve realized that living with the attitude of forgiveness isn’t a one-time event but a mindset. And from everything I understand about this sacred and soulful practice, these are four steps I always follow.

    1. Get curious. 

    When you observe a behavior about yourself that you don’t like or experience what I call a healing relapse (the time when you act in old, unhealthy ways), instead of immediately reaching for judgment, get curious.

    Healing relapses are real, and they happen to all of us. You will take one step forward and two steps back. Eventually, it will be two steps forward and only one step back. At some point, you may move back to your old ways. You say yes when you want to say no and don’t reinforce your boundary, then feel a sense of resentment. It’s okay. Give yourself permission to be imperfect.

    A simple affirmation I use to remind myself to live a judgment-free life is, “Although I see myself going back to judgment, people-pleasing, seeking validation, etc., I choose to stop here, stay away from judgment, and get curious instead. It’s okay to make mistakes as I heal.”

    2. Ask yourself challenging but healing questions. 

    When you notice judgment or guilt and get curious instead of resentful or judgmental, turn inward and try to understand. Explore deeper aspects of your self-talk and see where you are still choosing guilt over kindness and compassion.

    Here are three common questions I ask myself:

    “How can I better understand the part of me that I want to judge?”

    “If receiving forgiveness is difficult for me, what wounds or pains do I need to attend to more to open my heart to healing?”

    “How can I see this moment of judgment as an opportunity for growth? What can I learn from it?”

    3. Use meditation as your self-forgiveness tool.  

    Meditation has been my number one tool in healing my wounds. I’ve used it for self-forgiveness, inner child, self-love, and more.

    A few years back, I was part of a weekly coaching group. Each month, we worked through different subjects, and at that time, the topic of the month was forgiveness. The person leading the group invited us to meditate together. I got comfortable in my seat and closed my eyes. We started with a series of breathing exercises to get grounded and relaxed. Then he asked us to repeat after him. The first thing he said was, “I forgive myself.”

    The moment I mentally uttered these words, I broke down crying while feeling an immense release. It’s like a giant burden fell off my chest. This was my first practice of self-forgiveness, and it made me realize how much guilt and judgment I carried around on a constant basis.

    Since then, using self-forgiveness meditation has become one of my favorite tools to work through my guilt.

    4. Heal negative self-talk with self-compassion. 

    As I mentioned earlier, living with the attitude of forgiveness is a way of life, not a one-time event.

    At first, you may find yourself going back and forth between judgment and understanding. This is a part of the process, so don’t feel discouraged. Instead, every time you notice that you are judging yourself, pause. You can also say “pause” to yourself mentally or out loud. This will interrupt the thought pattern of judgment that’s taking place.

    Then, attune to your negative self-talk and don’t resent it. You can use this compassionate statement, “I know you,” referring to your mind, “are here to protect me by offering thoughts that are known and familiar and feel safe. However, I choose to approach myself differently moving forward. I am worthy of compassion and forgiveness and choose to treat myself kindly.”

    —

    Healing from guilt isn’t a quick fix but rather a process of changing the core of the relationship you have with yourself.

    Be patient while navigating this journey, and when you notice yourself going back to your old ways, just take a deep breath and declare with all your heart: I am worthy of a guilt-free life, and this time, I choose forgiveness.