Tiny Buddha

Tag: wisdom

  • Healing Through Grief: How I Found Myself in the Metaphors of Loss and Love

    Healing Through Grief: How I Found Myself in the Metaphors of Loss and Love

    “When the soul wishes to experience something, she throws an image of the experience out before her and enters into her own image.” ~Meister Eckhart

    For most of my life, something in me felt off—misaligned, too much, not enough. I moved through the world trying to fix a thing I couldn’t name.

    Then, a beautiful chapter emerged where I no longer questioned myself. I met my husband—and through his love, I experienced the life-changing magic of being seen. His presence felt like sunlight. I softened. I bloomed. For the first time, I felt safe.

    Losing him to young-onset colorectal cancer was like watching that sunlight disappear. With his last breath, the safety I had finally found evaporated. And in the long, aching months that followed, I began to reflect on all the environments I’d moved through—childhood, adolescence, adulthood, relationships—as gardens. And myself as a plant, either nurtured or wilting depending on the conditions and my individual constitution.

    His absence clarified the kind of care I had—and hadn’t—known.

    I was never defective. I am a being with specific needs for thriving—just the right light, language, and nourishment required for blooming.

    When I look back, I can see that while my basic needs—shelter and food—were met, I didn’t understand what it meant to feel emotionally safe or deeply seen. I cycled through endless loops of What’s wrong with me?—never realizing I wasn’t broken. I was just trying. Surviving.

    Presence. Attunement. Emotional safety.

    These aren’t things you can name as missing when you’ve never known them. Not because anyone was overtly cruel but because no one had ever been taught to ask, What kind of care does this particular being require?

    Humans don’t come with cue cards. No tags that say, “partial sun, low stimulation, daily emotional attunement.” We enter this world as mysteries.

    My mom carries a sixth sense with her plants. As if she can smell it, she knows when they need water or tending without even looking at them. She is attuned to her garden in ways I only experienced years later with my husband.

    After he died, I longed for the kind of care we cultivated together—the way he could sense what I was feeling without looking at my face. The way my heart used to sing when he looked at me. The way he listened.

    My relationship with my mother has been tenuous at best in adulthood. But after my husband passed, I saw her try—in the ways she knew how. Fixing. Filling space. Masking the pain with doing. On our occasional phone calls, she’d talk about her plants: who was dry, who needed new soil, who was ready for a bigger pot. No performance. No expectation. Just attention.

    I recognized in those moments that she couldn’t offer me the kind of gaze she gave her plants—and for the first time, I understood why. Her care was real. She’d just never encountered a plant like me before.

    Before I met my husband, I’d already been living in survival mode for years—self-medicating in the wake of emotional upheaval and familial crisis, eroding what little trust I had in myself. His love opened something in me I hadn’t known was possible: safety. And after he died, I had to learn what safety meant in my body at this stage of my journey.

    Most of us are raised in environments shaped by inherited urgency, unexamined patterns, and a generational lack of curiosity. There is no fault here, but there is consequence.

    The body, in its wisdom, keeps score. It holds unmet needs and unspoken truths like a second skin.

    And it’s often when we encounter a metaphor—one that mirrors our inner experience—that something in us exhales.

    That metaphor becomes a form of attunement. Not a solution, but a shift. A felt sense that maybe nothing is wrong—only unrecognized. It doesn’t fix the past, but through meaning-making, the body is able to rest. To breathe.

    We speak of regulation like it’s a technique. Breathe like this. Move like that. But often, the truest form of regulation is recognition.

    Something outside of us that echoes what lives within. A melody in our favorite song. A story. A metaphor that reminds us: You are not alone in this shape.

    And in that moment, the body softens. The charge lifts. We are seen.

    This is why metaphor matters. Not just as art, but as medicine. As orientation. As survival.

    When we are mirrored—by a song, a painting, a stretch of sky that looks exactly how grief feels—we are granted a kind of coherence. Our experience, once scattered or silenced, is gathered into form. And form is something we can hold.

    Often, it’s not the literal circumstances that make us feel safe. It’s the resonance. The reassurance that someone, somewhere, has known a similar ache.

    Even if the path is different, the terrain feels familiar. And that familiarity becomes a nervous system offering—a tether back to self when the ground feels too far away.

    The metaphors that make us human are often subtle. Soldiers of our intuition: they arrive as gut feelings, patterns, images, or melodies we keep returning to. The ocean. The desert. A cracked shell. A single tree that blooms late every season.

    They take root in us slowly. And then one day, without even realizing it, we see ourselves reflected back in the world—and a sense of belonging begins to ripple through our internal landscape.

    Viktor Frankl once wrote that “those who have a why to live can bear almost any how.” He understood what trauma researchers like Bessel van der Kolk and Gabor Maté have continued to illuminate: that suffering, when given meaning, becomes bearable.

    Not erased or justified but metabolized. Held. Breathed into.

    Meaning doesn’t change what happened. It changes how what happened lives in us.

    This is where metaphor becomes more than language. It becomes a vessel—for pain to move through. A frame sturdy enough to hold the unnamable.

    Frankl found this truth in a concentration camp. Van der Kolk found it in bodies that refused to forget. Maté found it in the tender ache beneath addiction and illness.

    I found it in my mom’s garden.

    And I keep finding it—in metaphors that arrive like lifelines when I don’t know how to explain what I’m feeling.

    These metaphors don’t heal the wound, but they give it form. And form allows grief to become something we can live beside, something we can integrate instead of suppressing.

    Metaphor isn’t something we create in isolation. It’s something we receive—through dreams, through symbols, through the quiet choreography of the natural world.

    A bird showing up at your window. Song lyrics that name exactly what you needed to hear. The shape of a tree that mirrors your own posture in grief.

    These aren’t just coincidences. They are collaborations. The world, whispering back: I see you. I’m in this with you. In that echo, we find compassion—for the pain, for the path, for ourselves.

    We like to think of ourselves as the authors of our stories, but more often, we’re co-writing them with something larger. With the landscape. With our ancestors. With the energy of what’s unresolved and aching to be tended.

    Metaphors arrive from this conversation—between the inner and outer, the seen and unseen. They root us in the relational fabric of existence.

    This is what it means to be human. Not just to feel, but to recognize. To witness ourselves mirrored in a leaf, a line of poetry, a stranger’s eyes. To belong—not because we fit a mold, but because something in the world has shaped itself to meet us exactly where we are.

    —

    Perhaps the more honest question isn’t “What’s wrong with me?”

    It’s “What shaped me?”
    “What conditions was I sprouted within?”
    “And what have I learned about the kind of soil, sunlight, and care that allow me to bloom?”

    What symbols found me along the way?

    We are beings of pattern and story.

    Metaphor is how the soul speaks back.

    And meaning is the thread that carries us home.

  • 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.

  • The Wrong in Their Actions

    The Wrong in Their Actions

  • When You Stop Forcing, Life Flows

    When You Stop Forcing, Life Flows

    “You don’t have to force the flow—sometimes your only job is to soften and let go.” ~Unknown

    For most of my life, I was obsessed with getting everything right. Planning. Controlling. Anticipating every outcome so I wouldn’t be caught off guard. I saw life as a kind of puzzle: if I just made the right moves in the right order, I’d get what I wanted. Peace, success, love.

    But life doesn’t work that way.

    The more I tried to control it, the more I felt out of alignment. I would burn out trying to make things happen. When something went wrong, I blamed myself for not anticipating it. I couldn’t relax because I was always tightening the reins, trying to steer the unknown.

    Then one day, something cracked.

    It was the winter of 2021. I was staying in a quiet village in southern Portugal, trying to piece my life back together after a painful breakup and the collapse of a startup I had poured years into. I’d gone there thinking solitude and fresh air would help me reset.

    But nothing felt right.

    I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t meditate. I couldn’t even enjoy the ocean—something that once brought me pure joy. Instead of peace, I felt stuck and overwhelmed. My mind replayed every decision I’d made over the past few years like a courtroom drama. “If only you’d done this.” “You should have seen that coming.” “You’ve ruined your shot.”

    I sat on the beach one evening as the sun went down, feeling completely defeated. I remember watching the waves crash rhythmically against the rocks. They didn’t care about me or my mistakes. They weren’t rushing or apologizing. They were just… doing their thing.

    That’s when it hit me.

    Nature doesn’t force anything. A wave doesn’t strive to be taller. A tree doesn’t try to grow faster. They exist in a kind of trust—a natural cooperation with life. And somehow, despite all that ease, they thrive.

    What if I’m the one disrupting my own flow by trying to control everything?

    It wasn’t a lightning bolt. It was more like a soft whisper inside. But something shifted.

    I started asking myself a new question each morning: “What would happen today if I didn’t try to control anything?”

    I didn’t have to force myself to do nothing. I still worked, moved, made decisions. But I tried to stay present rather than five steps ahead. I let myself feel uncertain without reaching for solutions right away. I listened more—to myself, to life, to the quiet.

    And over time, I noticed something strange. My anxiety started to fade—not all at once, but like a fog lifting. I stopped catastrophizing every decision. I felt a little more at peace, even if nothing around me had changed.

    That’s when I began learning what I now call divine flow.

    To me, divine flow is the current of life that we can either resist or surrender to. It’s not passive. It’s not about “doing nothing” or abandoning effort. It’s about cooperating with something deeper—something beyond just logic or planning.

    It’s learning to recognize that there are seasons for pushing and seasons for resting. That sometimes what looks like a setback is actually an invitation to realign. That clarity often comes when you stop chasing it.

    There’s a trust that builds when you live this way.

    You realize you don’t need to have everything figured out. You can still move forward with intention—but without gripping so tightly.

    Since then, I’ve built a life more aligned with who I am. I started creating wellness events focused on community and connection rather than perfection. I met people who inspired me simply by being themselves. I even learned to show up vulnerably, like I’m doing now, without needing everything to be polished or impressive.

    I still have moments where I fall back into old habits—where I try to force outcomes or fix everything too quickly. But I catch myself faster now. I’ve learned that tension is usually a sign that I’m out of the flow.

    If you’re in a space where things feel hard or disconnected, here are a few gentle invitations that helped me reconnect with the flow:

    • Let yourself feel lost. You don’t need to rush to “figure it out.” Sometimes the most fertile growth happens in the spaces where we allow ourselves to feel confused and uncertain.
    • Listen more than you analyze. Instead of trying to force answers, sit with your questions. Journal. Walk. Let thoughts come without needing to trap them.
    • Release the timeline. Things don’t have to happen on your schedule. You’re not late. You’re not behind. You’re just unfolding.
    • Ask for signs—but don’t cling to them. Sometimes life will whisper directions when you’re quiet enough to hear. But the key is to listen without expectation or pressure.
    • Come back to your breath. When your mind spirals, anchor into the present. One breath. One step. One moment.

    We can’t always choose what happens to us, but we can choose how we meet life. With resistance—or with curiosity. With fear—or with trust.

    These days, I still sit by the ocean when I can. I still watch the waves. I remind myself that there’s a rhythm beneath everything—and that my only real job is to stay soft enough to feel it.

    Maybe that’s all we ever needed to do.

  • I’d Rather Be All By Myself…

    I’d Rather Be All By Myself…

  • Magic in the Ordinary: Finding Glimmers and Hope in Everyday Life

    Magic in the Ordinary: Finding Glimmers and Hope in Everyday Life

    “If today gets difficult, remember the smell of coffee, the way sunlight bounces off a window, the sound of your favorite person’s laugh, the feeling when a song you love comes on, the color of the sky at dusk, and that we are here to take care of each other.” ~Nanea Hoffman

    The beach breeze brushed against my skin. I felt the warmth from the sun, and I could hear the crashing waves and wild shrieking laughter of my toddlers.

    I looked down at my perfect ten-month-old with his adorable chubby cheeks, snoring softly in my arms. My chest ached as if my heart physically hurt from the amount of love I felt toward my children in that moment, and my eyes shimmered with tears at the force of that love. “This was a glimmer,” I thought.

    Many people are familiar with the idea of triggers. Triggers are any scenarios or stimuli that stir up negative emotions, which are usually rooted in a past hurt or trauma.

    Less familiar to most people is the concept of glimmers. Glimmers are the opposite of triggers. They’re little moments that spark calm and connection. The idea was originally introduced by Deb Dana, who is a prominent figure in the application of Polyvagal Theory, which is a scientific framework for understanding the nervous system.

    We are less inclined to look for glimmers than triggers, and the reason is evolutionary.

    In the past, our caveperson brains benefited more from remembering the time we ate poison berries or the places that hungry lions lurked than from savoring a beautiful sunset. But most of us are buying our groceries at farmers’ markets and grocery stores now—and don’t have to worry about lions, so we can practice changing our brains.

    There’s an idea in psychology that “what we water will grow” in reference to what thoughts we attend to. The more we practice noticing the positives, the more naturally our brains will make and strengthen those pathways.

    I’m a mental health therapist, and I learned about glimmers through a continuing education course. At the time, I was struggling with my own anxiety. I had feelings of guilt show up as I guided my clients through their mental health challenges while still learning how to manage my own.

    When I have a moment to take perspective, though, I can show myself grace as a mom of a three-year-old, a two-year-old, and a ten-month-old, who happened to be a miraculous little surprise.

    With three small humans, two dogs, and a fish, life is loud, messy, chaotic, and beautiful. Balancing work, house chores, and the needs of others can feel exhausting and overwhelming.

    I don’t have hours to do all the self-care activities that you are “supposed to” do in a day—journal, exercise, meditate. But glimmers? They fit into my life.

    I love Harry Potter, fantasy, and magic. I like to look at glimmers as more than calm and connection and more like sparkly little moments in our ordinary life. Glimmers can be sensory—a beautiful sunset, a warm breeze, the flicker of a candle, the scent of lavender, or the first sip of a really delicious coffee.

    They can be internal—a deep exhale, a comforting memory, a moment of self-compassion, or being proud of an accomplishment.

    They can be a social connection—a long hug from your partner, a rambling story from your three-year-old, or hearing your two-year-old tell his sister, “I love you, Evy.”

    The idea of glimmers reminds me a bit of the Danish concept of hygge. Hygge’s closest English translation is a concept of coziness and contentment. I love the idea of connecting these two ideas because it would seem to me that engaging in hygge practices would set you up to have even more glimmers.

    Creating more hygge in your life would include whatever feels cozy for you. For me, it’s big comfy blankets, candlelight, a warm drink, and clothing with the softest fabrics. The values behind hygge are a sense of presence, slowness, and connection. Hygge is about setting an environment to invite glimmers in.

    These days, I collect glimmers like fireflies in a jar. They’re nothing fancy, but they’re tiny moments that reassure me that I’m okay. They bring me home inside my own body. There is magic in the ordinary, after all. You just have to look for it.

  • When You Outgrow Where You Live but Can’t Yet Leave

    When You Outgrow Where You Live but Can’t Yet Leave

    “Living in the moment is learning how to live between the big moments. It is learning how to make the most of the in-betweens and having the audacity to make those moments just as exciting.” ~Morgan Harper Nichols

    There’s a peculiar grief that doesn’t often get named. It lives in the moments when you’re neither here nor there. When you’re packing in your mind but still waking up to the same kitchen.

    When your soul says go, but your bank account or relationship or circumstance says not yet.

    It’s the grief of the in-between, an ache I’ve been swimming in for weeks now, maybe longer.

    My partner might be offered a job soon, or he might not. We might move to Geneva and finally have a place of our own again: furniture, friends, rhythm.

    You see, we’ve been nomadic for five years now. In 2020, we packed up all our stuff and put it into storage just when the pandemic hit and when we moved to Porto in Portugal. Italy, France, Sweden, and the UK followed. My partner now needs more stability again, and I’m not sure what I need yet.

    I might take a leap, board a plane to Chile or China, and follow the whisper that says something there might change everything. I can’t plan anything yet. Not really. And it’s eating me alive.

    I’m not new to longing. I’m half German, and there’s a word we hold close in our language: Fernweh.

    It doesn’t have a perfect English translation, but it lives somewhere between wanderlust and homesickness—not for home, but for somewhere else. For a life not yet lived. For a distant landscape that feels like it’s calling your name, even if you’ve never been.

    Historically, Fernweh has roots in the Romantic period, when writers and artists felt the pull of faraway lands, not to conquer them, but to feel alive inside them. It’s the ache of the horizon. The hunger for distance.

    A soulful discomfort with too much sameness.

    German Romanticism gave rise to this ache. Writers like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Heinrich Heine, and later Hermann Hesse lived and wrote from this place of longing.

    As the writer Goethe reflected during his Italian Journey, “Architecture is frozen music,” and he confessed that “the spirit of distant lands was what I needed to restore myself.”

    I feel it now in every cell of my being.

    And even when I’ve answered its call—wandering through Egypt alone last year, losing myself in Istanbul for a month, and living in Bali for two months—I’ve met Fernweh’s twin: homesickness. The longing for my dog, my partner, my kitchen table and shared meals, the known.

    So I always find myself in that strange space between Fernweh and a desire to live a more rooted life. Between craving freedom and craving familiarity. Between the desire to disappear into a new culture, a new version of myself, and the desire to stay close to what grounds me.

    But this time, something’s different.

    I’m not craving the high of escape. I’m craving the quiet of returning to myself. Not in a performance way. Not in a spiritual branding way.

    Just me. A woman with a suitcase. A woman with a camera. A woman with grief in one pocket and curiosity in the other.

    And I’m learning to name this ache not as a failure but as a truth.

    This is the grief of the in-between. The ache of belonging to no one place, because your soul is too wide for borders.

    I used to think I had to choose. Be the grounded woman in a relationship, in a city, building something. Or be the nomad—alone, rootless, following the next passport stamp.

    Then I met my partner, with whom I could be both for the last five years. Now that he wants to settle somewhere long-term again, I wonder what I should choose.

    Or rather, I wonder if the real work is in the not choosing. But allowing both to live inside me. To let myself miss what I’ve left whenever I roam this world alone without him. And to let myself love what I’ve built whenever I live a settled life with him.

    Because the truth is, sometimes, I want to light incense in a place that’s mine. Sometimes, I want to wander through Shanghai with a notebook and no one waiting for me at home. Sometimes, I want both on the same day.

    And I know I’m not alone.

    There are so many of us soul-wanderers, soft-seekers, sitting in limbo. Waiting for clarity. For visas. For a sign. Wondering if we’re selfish. Wondering if we’re just lost. Wondering what the f*ck we’re doing with our lives while others seem so clear.

    If that’s you, I just want to say: you’re not failing.

    Your ache is evidence of your depth. Your longing means you’re alive. Your uncertainty is sacred. And your desire to hold both freedom and rootedness is not a contradiction. It’s a gift.

    So here I am, still waiting to know what’s next. Maybe Geneva. Maybe China or Chile. Maybe somewhere I haven’t dreamed up yet.

    I don’t have answers. But I have language now. And language has always been my bridge back to self.

    I used to think the ache meant something was wrong. That I had to pick a lane: freedom or stability. But now I know: the ache is a compass, not a curse.

    The real lesson? Maybe we don’t need to fix the ache. Maybe we just need to learn how to live with it. To stop asking ourselves “Where should I be?” and start asking “Who am I becoming?”

    Maybe that’s all we need in the in-between. Not a plan. Not a flight. But a sentence that lets us breathe. And for me, today, it is this:

    My task is not to end the ache but to build a life that lets me hold both: the longing to go and the ache to stay.

  • Beyond the Yips: How to Reclaim Your Creative Confidence

    Beyond the Yips: How to Reclaim Your Creative Confidence

    “You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt

    There’s a quiet moment before the spotlight hits when everything in your body wants to run.

    Your hands tremble. Your voice tightens. Your breath shortens, even though the room is still. You love what you do—you’ve trained, practiced, prepared—but suddenly, it’s like someone else is in your body. Your skills vanish. Your confidence implodes.

    That’s the yips.

    And if you’re an artist, musician, writer, teacher—anyone whose work lives in public view—you’ve probably met them too.

    The First Collapse

    For me, the first time the yips showed up, I was about ten years old, standing on a Little League pitcher’s mound. I had a strong arm and a real love for the game, so they made me the pitcher.

    It felt like an honor—until it became a nightmare.

    I couldn’t throw a strike. Not one. I walked batter after batter. The harder I tried, the worse it got. My coaches shouted. My teammates rolled their eyes. And worst of all, I didn’t know why it was happening. I knew how to pitch. I wanted to pitch. But my body wouldn’t cooperate.

    My confidence didn’t just erode—it imploded.

    That experience carved something into me, and years later, it returned in a different form—on stage, with a viola in my hands.

    But I eventually learned the yips aren’t just nerves. They’re the clash between who we believe we are and what’s happening in the moment.

    The Yips in Music

    I had taken up guitar earlier and played in public a few times. A little nerves, sure, but nothing overwhelming. But the viola was different.

    The viola wasn’t just an instrument—it was a commitment. I loved the sound, the subtlety, the range. But the moment I sat down to play chamber music or solo pieces—especially in front of discerning classical audiences—I froze.

    My bow hand would shake uncontrollably. My tone would collapse. My breath shortened. My fingers, steady in rehearsal, betrayed me under pressure. It wasn’t just a little stage fright. It was full-body paralysis. And I wasn’t just nervous—I was ashamed.

    I could feel the others around me adjusting their playing, trying to stay in sync, politely pretending not to notice the scraping sound of my trembling bow. I wasn’t just failing myself—I felt like I was slowly unraveling something beautiful we had built together.

    That shame lasted longer than any applause ever could.

    Eventually, I stopped performing. It hurt too much.

    But Then, a Different Tune

    What’s strange is that I can still play old-time fiddle music in public. Ozark waltzes, hoedowns, reels—I can play those in front of a crowd with energy and joy.

    Why?

    Because people are moving. They’re dancing. They’re smiling. There’s an exchange happening—call and response, energy to energy. No one’s looking to critique every phrase. They just want to feel alive.

    That shift—from judgment to participation—made all the difference.

    It was my first clue that the problem wasn’t just about nerves. It was about dissonance.

    When Belief and Experience Clash

    What I didn’t understand as a kid—but see now in myself, my students, and even my own children—is that the yips aren’t just performance anxiety. They’re the outward symptoms of cognitive dissonance: the mental and emotional strain that happens when who we believe we are doesn’t match what we’re experiencing.

    This dissonance doesn’t just trip us up. It can make us doubt the very core of our identity. And in creative work, that doubt can be devastating.

    Common Creative Cognitive Dissonances

    Over the years—as a filmmaker, teacher, and musician—I’ve seen these patterns again and again:

    1. “I’m passionate and skilled” vs. “I just froze in front of everyone.”

    You know you’re good. But in that crucial moment, something inside shuts down. The disconnect feels like failure, even if it’s just fear.

    2. “I believe in creative freedom” vs. “I censor myself when others are watching.”

    We crave authenticity. But the moment we feel observed, we retreat into safe ideas and bland choices.

    3. “I want to create something meaningful” vs. “No one will care about this.”

    You believe in the work, but a voice in your head tells you it’s not important. That voice keeps you from finishing—or from starting at all.

    4. “I value growth” vs. “I should already be good at this.”

    Even lifelong learners fall into this trap. Especially those of us with experience. We forget how to be beginners again.

    5. “I’m a creative person” vs. “I can’t seem to finish anything.”

    The inner identity and the outer reality don’t match. That gap becomes shame—and shame leads to silence.

    How to Work with the Yips, Not Against Them

    Here’s what I’ve learned after a lifetime of living with this pattern: You don’t conquer the yips by trying harder. You heal them by listening deeper.

    That means meeting the fear—not with force, but with care.

    Here’s how I begin again, every time:

    1. Lead with compassion.

    That part of you that’s scared? It’s also the part that loves what you’re doing. Be gentle. Speak kindly to yourself.

    2. Accept the body’s message.

    Trembling hands, dry mouth, racing thoughts—these are just signs that you care. Breathe through them. Don’t resist them. Let them pass like weather.

    3. Reframe the story.

    Not: “I choked.”
    But: “I hit a growth edge.” Or: “I’m learning to stay present when it matters.” That shift matters.

    4. Find reciprocal environments.

    Play for dancers. Share writing with friends. Teach in spaces where people reflect, nod, laugh, respond. It’s hard to heal in front of a wall of silence.

    5. Focus on presence, not perfection.

    When I play fiddle now, I don’t aim to impress. I aim to connect. That intention rewires everything.

    6. Return to joy.

    What first drew you to your work? The sound? The rhythm? The curiosity? The spark? Go back there. That’s where your real voice lives.

    A Life Beyond the Yips

    These days, I still feel the yips. Sometimes when I teach. Sometimes when I perform. Sometimes when I write something that matters to me.

    But now, I recognize them for what they are: a signal that I’m doing something vulnerable and real.

    If you’re an artist, musician, teacher, maker—and you’ve gotten stuck—you’re not alone. And you’re not broken.

    You’re simply standing at the edge of the gap between who you were and who you’re becoming.

    The work is to stay in the room. Gently. Bravely. Again and again.

    And little by little, you’ll find your way back—not to where you started, but to something deeper.

    To a self that trusts its voice again. To a body that remembers how to move. To a joy that doesn’t depend on perfection.

    To the quiet truth that you were never really lost at all.

    The yips may still show up—but so will your music, your words, and your true self.

  • Maybe You Don’t Need More Healing Work

    Maybe You Don’t Need More Healing Work

  • A Transracial Adoption Story of Love and Resilience

    A Transracial Adoption Story of Love and Resilience

    “Make it a great day that ends with a smile in your heart.”

    Growing up, I always heard my father speak variations of these words. They’ve always sort of been ingrained in my head, but now more than ever are forever planted. He lived by them. He breathed them. And in doing so, he instilled them in me so naturally.

    They weren’t just encouragement—they were a way of life, his life, and how he chose to show up each day. He was naturally positive, uplifting, and, without exaggeration, the best human I’ve ever known.

    From a very early age, I understood that how you show up is a choice. But, along with that too, every day is a second chance, which were both powerful lessons that have shaped my resilient nature.

    Whether it’s in moments of challenge or joy, I believe the responsibility for your mindset and actions is completely in your hands. You choose how to respond to situations, people, and yourself. 

    Life, though, doesn’t have to be a series of irreversible moments; instead, each new day offers a clean slate. Whether you learn from the past or are trapped by it is a choice. And even when you face setbacks or make mistakes, you have the opportunity to reset and approach things differently the next day—you just have to do it. This belief in daily renewal is a cornerstone of resilience and gives me hope and motivation to keep moving forward, even when things seem tough.

    My story began in a small Ohio town many years ago, with a phone call that changed two families’ lives forever.

    I’m a biracial female (white and Black) who was placed for adoption and came home to a white family that loved me deeply. It was considered a transracial, open adoption thirty-nine years ago. From the moment my new family laid eyes on me, I was theirs and so deeply loved. I completed their family of five, being the only girl, the only adopted child, and the youngest.

    But life doesn’t always unfold predictably.

    When I was just eight months old, my adoptive mother passed away from liver cancer, leaving my father to raise three young children on his own for many years to come. His profound loss was immense, but he didn’t let grief define him. Instead, he poured every ounce of love into me and my brothers, ensuring we never felt a void he couldn’t fill. He not only surrounded us with his love but also made sure we were supported by the love of our community.

    All three of us share a different relationship with our dad, but the depth of our bond that he and I shared was immense. He was my rock, my greatest cheerleader, the person who saw my potential long before I recognized it in myself. He taught me resilience in the face of adversity and instilled a belief in myself that has carried me through even the most uncertain times. I am who I am because of him.

    For as long as I can remember, I’ve identified as Black because of the color of my skin, though I’ve always known that I am also half white. Understanding my identity, however, has always been a challenge—and I believe it’s a struggle that many transracial adoptees can relate to.

    Raised in a small, predominantly white town until fifth grade, I was often the only person of color in my circle. This made it difficult to understand where I fit in. The complexities of identity are immense when you find yourself in situations like this, and being biracial adds an extra layer of nuance. It becomes especially important to understand and embrace all sides of who you are. But how do you do that?

    I remember seeing Ebony Magazine around the house, something that might seem small to some, but for me, it was powerful. I would just flip through it as a little girl and look at the pictures, but it showed me people who looked like me.

    I also had a big sister through Big Brothers Big Sisters for several years, and there was never a moment when we shied away from discussing race or my adoption story. My dad, too, was always committed to understanding and supporting me—he continually read and educated himself on raising biracial children, even into my adult years.

    Being white, he was intentional about ensuring I never felt alone in my experiences. How he did this, as a white man himself, is truly special. He understood his privileges and my disadvantages, yet he made it his mission to learn everything he could about raising a biracial child in a world where kids—and adults, in my case—could be cruel.

    He could rarely (if ever) relate to the nuances of my reality, but he made it his life’s work to make sure I knew my worth in every possible way. That’s what made him so unbelievably special.

    When I came home in tears because classmates questioned why I “acted white, but I was Black,” he reassured me that I didn’t need to fit anyone’s definition of who I was “supposed to be.”

    After remarrying my wonderful stepmom and moving to a more diverse town, he was excited when I chose to attend a more culturally diverse high school. But when I struggled because of kids poking fun of my hair not being done or ignorant remarks from strangers, he stood by me with unwavering support, ensuring the trauma I faced was addressed head-on and talked through, because it was all part of my story.

    By the time I reached adulthood, I still often grappled with the complexities of my identity. But these words echoed in my mind: “It’s not meant for them to understand” and “Sometimes, there’s no reasoning with people like that.”

    These simple truths have continued to free me in times when I struggle to let go of things that don’t serve me. I didn’t need to explain myself to people who weren’t willing to listen. I only needed to be true to myself. And even today, I sometimes forget that in the moment, but I always come back to it when those moments happen.

    At thirty-eight, I was forced, for the first time, to truly find my own path and face things head-on. In May of 2024, my father passed away suddenly.

    Grief is heavy and unpredictable, and I find myself reaching for the phone to call him, only to remember he’s not physically here anymore. His voice, his lessons, and his love and zest for a better, more fulfilling life live in me now.

    One of the things that my dad and I shared was a love for the Tiny Buddha blogs. This was the only publication we ever read together consistently. It seemed only fitting to me, in the wake of his passing, to submit this post on the anniversary of his death. Through the blogs, we learned about resilience, about finding yourself when you’re lost, and about facing life’s challenges with the absolute best intention.

    My father was always the messenger of these lessons. He would say, “Life is tough, but it doesn’t have to break you.” Facing challenges, and even trauma, is essential to growth. Trauma doesn’t always have to stem from family—it can come from anyone and anything in your formative years and beyond. But what matters is how you choose to process and overcome it.

    Life is unpredictable. It will challenge you, stretch you, and break you down when you least expect it. But within those moments, there is also love, resilience, and the opportunity to define your own path and start anew. My father taught me that. He would always say, “Tomorrow is a new day.” And in his absence, I am choosing to live by the words he gifted me:

    Make it a great day that ends with a smile in your heart.

    Because no matter what life throws our way, we have the power to choose how we respond. We have the power to create joy, to uplift others, to choose to see the glass half full, and to find meaning even in the hardest moments.

    That is the legacy he left me. And that is the lesson I hope to pass on.

  • Some of the Best Moments of Your Life

    Some of the Best Moments of Your Life

  • How I Found Myself on the Other Side of Survival

    How I Found Myself on the Other Side of Survival

    “Until you make peace with who you are, you will never be content with what you have.” ~Doris Mortman

    For most of my life, I believed my worth was tied to how well I could perform.

    If I looked successful, kept people happy, worked harder than anyone else, and stayed quiet about my pain, maybe—just maybe—I would be enough.

    That belief didn’t come from nowhere. I grew up in a home where fear was a constant companion. Speaking up brought consequences. Being invisible felt safer. I learned early to smile through it all, to stay small, to never be a burden.

    I carried that into adulthood—into my marriage, into motherhood, and into the corporate world.

    I became the high achiever who never asked for help. The professional woman who had all the answers. The mother who always held it together.

    I was the one who volunteered for every project, who stayed late to make everything perfect. At home, I kept up appearances with themed birthday parties, spotless counters, and a schedule packed to the brim—all while quietly falling apart inside. I thought if I could hold everything together on the outside, no one would see the cracks within.

    But inside, I was unraveling.

    The Moment Everything Shifted

    One night, my husband exploded in anger. That wasn’t unusual. But this time, something different happened.

    He lunged toward me, yelling, blind with rage. Our young son, who had crawled quietly onto the floor behind me, was nearly stepped on in the chaos. My daughter, just a child herself, began silently picking up the dining room chairs he had thrown.

    No one cried. No one spoke. We had all learned to go silent.

    But in that silence, something inside me woke up.

    I saw myself in my children—quiet, afraid, coping. And I knew: if I didn’t break this cycle, they would grow up carrying the same invisible scars I had.

    That night, I made a promise to myself: This ends with me.

    The Healing Didn’t Happen All at Once 

    Leaving was hard. Healing was harder. But it was also the most powerful thing I’ve ever done.

    I realized I had been performing my way through life. Even in pain, I made everything look polished. I was afraid that if people knew the truth—about my past, about my marriage, about how little I thought of myself—they’d walk away.

    But what actually happened was this: when I finally allowed myself to be seen, I started to heal.

    What I’ve Learned on the Other Side of Survival

    Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a process—sometimes slow, sometimes messy, sometimes unbelievably beautiful.

    Here are a few things I now hold close:

    1. You can’t heal what you refuse to name.

    For me, that moment came during therapy, when I finally said out loud, “I was in an emotionally abusive marriage.” It felt terrifying—and freeing. Until I gave it a name, it had power over me. Naming it took the first step to taking that power.

    For years I told myself it “wasn’t that bad.” But downplaying our pain doesn’t make it go away—it buries it. And buried pain finds a way to surface in our choices, our relationships, and our sense of self-worth.

    2. You’re allowed to want more than survival.

    I thought I should just be grateful to have a job, a home, healthy kids. But deep down, I wanted joy. I wanted peace. I wanted to feel like I mattered—to myself.

    For a long time, I believed wanting those things made me selfish. I had spent years making sure everyone else was okay, thinking that was my role. I was the people- pleaser, the fixer, the one who didn’t cause trouble. My self-worth was so low that even imagining a life where I felt fulfilled seemed like too much to ask. Who was I to want happiness?

    But wanting peace and joy wasn’t selfish. That was healing.

    3. Small, daily decisions matter more than big breakthroughs.

    Choosing to journal instead of numbing out with TV. Taking a walk after work to process my thoughts. Pausing before reacting in frustration. These choices weren’t dramatic, but they created steady change—the kind that lasts.

    Leaving my marriage was one bold decision. But the real transformation came from the everyday choices that followed: writing down what I was grateful for, saying no without guilt, and consistently reminding myself to honor my values of honesty and integrity—which I hadn’t done when protecting my ex-husband, keeping up appearances, and pretending everything was fine. Those were the moments that helped me reclaim my life.

    4. You’re not broken—you’re becoming.

    For a long time, I saw myself as damaged and thought healing meant changing into a different person. But I’ve come to see things differently. Healing isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about removing what never belonged to you in the first place—shame, fear, silence—and uncovering who you were all along.

    I realized this while sorting through old journals, when I found an entry from my teenage years—full of dreams and hope. That’s when it struck me: she’s still in there. Healing helped me reconnect with that part of myself, not erase her.

    If You’re in That Quiet Place Right Now

    Maybe you’re carrying a silence too. Maybe you’re functioning, performing, doing all the things—and still wondering why you feel so far from yourself.

    Please hear this: You are not alone.

    You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need a willingness to listen to that small, wise voice inside—the one that says this isn’t the end of your story.

    Because it’s not.

    And then, you have to honor it. Even if it’s with one small act. One honest conversation. One brave decision. That’s how the healing begins—not by knowing everything, but by choosing to move forward anyway.

    I know this because I’ve been there—waking up with a heavy heart, going through the motions, wondering if life would ever feel like mine again.

    But I chose to pause. To feel. To begin again. I hope you will too.

  • People Who Have Panic Attacks Are Warriors

    People Who Have Panic Attacks Are Warriors

  • To My Narcissistic Friend: Thanks for Being My Toxic Mirror

    To My Narcissistic Friend: Thanks for Being My Toxic Mirror

    “It’s okay to let go of those who couldn’t love you. Those who didn’t know how to. Those who failed to even try. It’s okay to outgrow them, because that means you filled the empty space in you with self-love instead. You’re outgrowing them because you’re growing into you. And that’s more than okay; that’s something to celebrate.” ~Angelica Moone

    I’ve had the most unusual, baffling, and frustrating experience with someone recently. And yet, it’s also been a massive catalyst for growth. I’ve seen myself more clearly by observing the behavior of someone who, in some ways, is a lot like me.

    For me, it’s been the purest demonstration of the phrase “Others are your mirror.”

    This person—let’s call him Simon—has been incredibly toxic.

    He’s insulted me deeply, hurled cruel names, and used gaslighting, manipulation, and blame-shifting to twist reality.

    At times, he cloaked control in false compassion, pretending to help while subtly undermining me.

    He projected his insecurities onto me so persistently, I began to doubt my own sanity—wondering if I really was as terrible as he claimed.

    Thankfully, I’m in a strong place mentally right now. I can see how someone more vulnerable could be shattered by Simon. In fact, I know he’s left a trail of broken relationships behind him. People abandon him left, right, and center—the moment they get close, his toxicity flares.

    At his worst, Simon has been absolutely vile. He ticks nearly every box for narcissistic traits. He can’t handle even mild criticism. When I offered gentle, constructive feedback, his ego erupted, and he lashed out with shocking viciousness. He claims to want self-improvement, but when real opportunities arise, his ego slams shut. Growth is blocked at the gates.

    And yet, despite all this, I feel deep compassion for him. I’ve read enough about narcissists to understand where this behavior might come from. He’s going through hell: job loss, depression, drug use. I’ve been in a scarily similar place. So my empathy kicks in hard. Even though he’s been monstrous, I see pieces of myself in him.

    After clashing with him multiple times, I gave it one final try. I knew by then that avoiding narcissists is usually the wisest route—they rarely change—but I extended one last olive branch.

    It lasted less than a day. He snapped it in half and flung it back in my face.

    It feels like I’m some kind of unbearable truth agent to Simon. His soul just isn’t open enough to withstand my presence. I’m far from perfect, but I’ve worked hard on myself. I try to stay humble, self-reflective, and growth-oriented—and that’s like kryptonite to someone with such a fragile, inflamed ego.

    So now, Simon is blocked. I’m proud I tried. It didn’t work. And for my own well-being, I had to let go.

    I’ve grieved the friendship that might have been. Because, believe it or not, Simon has redeeming traits in spades. He’s brilliant, creative, charismatic. He seems to care about others—though I wonder if that’s driven more by ego than empathy.

    So what good came out of all this chaos? Watching Simon’s worst traits has helped me examine my own.

    Don’t get me wrong—I’m pretty sure I’m not a narcissist, and I don’t think I’ve ever been as vile as Simon.

    But. I have lashed out. Especially when my ego’s taken a hit.

    Back when I was addicted to drugs, I had a devastating fallout with one of my oldest friends—let’s call him Anthony. He was deeply concerned about my behavior. He had a young son, and didn’t trust me—with good reason.

    I’d promised I wouldn’t take drugs on a lads’ holiday, then did it anyway. I betrayed his trust. Later, when we tried to arrange a meetup, Anthony did something incredibly difficult: he told me I wasn’t welcome at his home. He couldn’t risk me having drugs on me—in case his son found them.

    Anthony tried to handle it with kindness and care. But it crushed my ego. My best friend thought I was a danger to his child.

    I exploded. I did a Musk. In a blaze of rage, I told my best friend to go F himself.

    That ended a fifteen-year friendship. I was already depressed, but after that, I spiraled into suicidal depths. Deep down, I knew I was to blame—but my ego couldn’t take it. Blaming Anthony was easier than facing myself.

    He wouldn’t speak to me for years. Eventually, we reconciled, but something had died. The warmth was gone. He kept me at arm’s length, understandably. Now, we don’t speak at all. It’s clear he’s given up on me again. That still stings, but I accept it.

    So can you see why I felt a connection to my new friend Simon?

    Watching him lash out recently awakened something primal in me. It reminded me of my worst moments. And I never want to go there again. I want to master myself; build emotional intelligence; stop letting my volatility hurt people.

    Simon showed me how bad it can get when you’re spiraling—and it’s terrifying.

    All my life, I’ve struggled with emotional volatility. I don’t lose my temper often, but when I do, it’s nuclear. Words are my sword, and when I swing carelessly, the damage is brutal.

    Which brings me to a truth I’ve come to believe: Strong men don’t lack the capacity for destruction—they master it.

    They walk with a sheathed sword, drawing it only when absolutely necessary. It’s restraint, not weakness. It’s honor. It’s the way of the gentleman, the noble warrior. My blade is my voice—sharp, but it’s best when kept in check.

    Weak men lash out at the slightest wound. I refuse to be a weak man.

    Meeting someone as damaged as Simon has clarified my mission. I must continue to heal. I must shed the worst parts of myself. I saw my shadow in him—distorted and exaggerated. It horrified me. And it inspired me to rise above it.

    I’ve started psychotherapy. I’ve even been using ChatGPT as a kind of therapist—surprisingly helpful. This past month has been a surge of self-development. And I have Simon, of all people, to thank.

    Is he doomed to remain toxic? Maybe. The scientific literature suggests that the odds aren’t good. But it’s not my burden anymore. He didn’t want my help. I have to put my own well-being first.

    By cutting him off, I protect myself from future pain.

    And in doing so, I’ve gained greater empathy for those who once cut me off. They saw someone chaotic, unsafe, emotionally destructive. I wish they could see how much I’ve changed in the last ten years. But I respect their choice to keep their distance.

    We can’t change the past. Some bridges are too obliterated and irradiated to ever rebuild.

    But if we choose humility and self-reflection, we can always choose to grow.

  • What a Wonderful Thing

    What a Wonderful Thing

  • How to Reconnect with What You’re Hungry For

    How to Reconnect with What You’re Hungry For

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

    What is it about us that makes us wait for permission? To do what we want. To be who we are. We wait until we’ve “earned” it, until we’re thinner, smarter, more talented. Until we’re finally good enough.

    Everyone has dreams, right? Some want to travel. Some want to write a book. Others dream of running a marathon. Or something smaller: a bold haircut. Or something bigger: quitting a job that drains you.

    And still, we wait.

    We wait for someone to say, “You’d look amazing with short hair.” Or for someone to nod at our resignation plans and say, “Yes, you should go for it.” That’s when we feel allowed. That’s when we move.

    I know that waiting. I’ve lived it.

    Finding My Voice

    As a kid, I sang constantly. But no one praised it. My family was mostly annoyed. So I stopped. I only sang when I was alone. Later, in a shared student flat, I stopped altogether, afraid of bothering others again. It never occurred to me that I could choose it for myself.

    Only last year, at twenty-eight, did I realize that I still loved singing. Deeply. I didn’t need a record deal or an audience. I just needed to sing. So I signed up for lessons.

    And something shifted.

    The envy I used to feel toward other singers disappeared. I no longer needed to watch from the outside, admiring those who gave themselves permission to take up space. I was finally doing the thing I had always wanted to do.

    The Power of Permission

    That small, seemingly impractical thing changed how I saw everything. Because it wasn’t about singing, really. It was about permission. It was about allowing myself to follow what lit me up, even if no one else understood it, even if it didn’t look productive or impressive.

    The more I sang, the more I felt connected to myself. Singing wasn’t just a hobby. It became a practice of self-connection. A form of expression that didn’t require explanation. A way to feel my emotions directly. A space where I didn’t have to be “good,” just real.

    I kept thinking: Why did I wait so long? Why did I assume I needed someone else’s approval to do something that made me feel so alive?

    And that made me wonder: What else are we not doing because we don’t think we’re allowed to? What are we hungry for—not in our stomachs, but in our souls?

    From Productivity to Presence

    The world is full of beauty. There’s so much to explore, to feel, to create. Colors to wear, places to visit, ideas to follow. And yet, so often, we’re taught to value productivity over presence. We’re encouraged to measure our worth by how much we do, not how deeply we live. Even joy is shaped by consumption—buying more, doing more—rather than simply being with ourselves.

    As an empathic child, I learned to listen closely. I became good at being helpful, at making others feel better. I was insecure and eager to be liked, especially by the louder kids, the ones who seemed confident and sure of themselves. I felt like a shadow, orbiting them like a small planet around a bright sun.

    Without realizing it, I gave others a lot of power. Their approval made me feel like I belonged. But I wasn’t truly seen, because I only said what I thought I was supposed to say. I adjusted, adapted, and slowly drifted away from myself.

    Now, as I reconnect with who I really am, I notice how strong and steady my voice feels. It’s warm and grounded. And the more rooted I am in myself, the more I want to reach out to others—not to prove anything, but to share something honest. From a place that feels real.

    Becoming My Own Sun

    Singing, writing, exploring my inner world—these practices make me glow. As strange as it sounds, they help me see who I am. They help me ask: Who am I circling? Who am I waiting for?

    Or maybe, just maybe, I’m no longer circling anyone. Maybe I’ve become my own sun.

    A few years ago, I didn’t know I could feel this steady, this full. That it could all be sparked by something as ancient and simple as using my voice is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

    Why It Matters

    For a while, I wondered, why is it so important that I feel good? Why does it matter that I sing, that I write, that I want to be heard? Isn’t that selfish? Isn’t it enough to live quietly and be kind?

    I struggled with that. But I’ve come to believe this: when we’re connected to ourselves—truly, deeply—we show up differently. More honestly. More gently. More powerfully. Not just for ourselves, but for others. Using your voice, in whatever form it takes, isn’t just about being seen. It’s about being aligned. And from that place, it’s easier to love, to give, to create something real.

    I’ve also noticed how much I admire expressive people. I love watching them, listening to them, the ones who dare to use their voices and share their insights. Through them, I see myself more clearly. I understand life better. Not just through psychology or theory or polished words, but through colors, soft fabrics, melodies, laughter, and tears.

    I never imagined I could be one of those people. Someone who creates something raw and real from lived experience. Someone who turns ache and wonder into something that touches others.

    I didn’t think I was talented enough. I didn’t think anyone would care. I didn’t think I had permission. But now I know: I have to try. Because when I don’t, I feel numb. A little lost. It’s like the light dims—not completely, but just enough that I start to question who I am and what I’m meant to do in this world.

    An Invitation

    I’m deeply grateful if my work resonates with anyone. But more than anything, I hope it encourages others to tune into themselves too—to share what’s on their minds, vulnerably and tenderly, as artists, as friends, as strangers, as humans.

    Because I believe this now: when we find and express our true voice, we open the door to real connection. That’s what I’m hungry for. Not just to shine, but to sit beside you in the light and in the dark.

    So let me ask you:

    What are you hungry for, not in your stomach, but in your spirit? What’s calling to you quietly, again and again?

    When I talk to friends or clients, I often notice that many can’t answer this question right away. When our wishes, desires, and creative longings have been ignored or even shamed for years, they tend to go quiet.

    But that doesn’t mean they’re gone.

    Ways to Reconnect with What You’re Hungry For

    Here are a few gentle ways to rediscover what you might be craving, deep down:

    Look back at your childhood.

    What did you love to do, naturally and freely? What made you lose track of time?

    Notice what you do when you’re procrastinating.

    What are you actually drawn toward? I used to hum and sing unconsciously while avoiding tasks. Now I see that as my creative energy trying to reach me. What’s tugging at your sleeve?

    Pay attention to envy.

    Who do you envy, and why? Envy can be a compass, pointing you toward a part of yourself that’s longing to be seen or expressed.

    Try something unexpected.

    Take a class you never thought you’d sign up for. Explore a new hobby that feels exciting or strange or slightly scary.

    Follow what feels warm, light, alive.

    It doesn’t have to be big. A color that makes you smile. A conversation that lights you up. A song you keep playing on repeat. That spark matters.

    You don’t need permission to begin.

    You just need curiosity. And the courage to listen to the quiet, persistent part of you that’s been whispering all along.

  • Sometimes Healing Means…

    Sometimes Healing Means…

  • The Surprising Reason Many People Are Still Stuck

    The Surprising Reason Many People Are Still Stuck

    “Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.” ~Anaïs Nin

    I never imagined I’d be fired.

    It wasn’t because I didn’t have the qualifications or experience. In fact, I had built a successful academic and consulting career. I had studied leadership, organizational behavior, and human development. I had read the right books, taken the right classes, built the right résumé. I was, by all appearances, doing all the right things.

    But after ten months in a role I had left my tenured university position to pursue, I was let go. At the time, it felt devastating. I remember sitting in the aftermath of that moment thinking: How did I get here?

    I had always been someone who wanted to become better. That desire had followed me since childhood—where I had a deep yearning to feel loved, connected, and seen. When I was young, I thought getting better at basketball and gaining athletic accolades would bring me that. Later, I thought studying leadership and performance would.

    I pursued excellence like a ladder—one rung at a time. If I could just learn more, do more, prove more, I’d be better. Right?

    Getting fired shattered that illusion.

    The Developmental Path That Most of Us Walk

    Looking back now, I can see that I was following a very common path—the one most of us are taught from the time we’re kids. I call it the Doing Better Development Path.

    This path tells us that if we want to grow, we need to learn more, improve our skills, work harder, set goals, and check more boxes. And to be fair, there’s nothing inherently wrong with this approach. It can absolutely help us improve in incremental ways.

    But the truth I’ve discovered—through my own pain, study, and coaching others—is that the Doing Better path has real limits.

    It doesn’t help us heal the parts of us that self-sabotage. It doesn’t address our fear of failure or our lack of self-trust. It doesn’t quiet the voice in our head that tells us we’re not enough.

    And it doesn’t help us become the person who can courageously show up in difficult moments.

    That was my problem—not a lack of knowledge or competence, but a way of being that was self-protective, hesitant, and reactive. I had the tools. But I wasn’t the kind of person who knew how to use them effectively when it mattered.

    What I needed wasn’t a new skill.

    What I needed was a new relationship with myself.

    The Shift: From Doing Better to Being Better

    In the months that followed being fired, I went through a season of reflection. Not just on what happened—but on how I was being in the world. I realized I had spent so much time trying to appear capable that I had stopped being curious. I had been defensive instead of open, self-protective instead of growth-oriented.

    That’s when I stumbled onto a different developmental path—one I now call the Being Better Development Path. This path doesn’t start with “What do I need to do?” It starts with:

    • Who am I being right now?
    • How am I relating to myself and the world around me?
    • What mindset or inner story is guiding my reactions?

    It was only when I started asking these questions that real transformation began.

    I’m not the same person I was when I got fired. And I don’t mean that in a vague, inspirational sense. I mean that how I experience life, how I respond to challenge, and how I see myself has fundamentally changed.

    And it all started by turning inward—not to fix myself, but to understand myself.

    Three Steps to Start Walking the Being Better Path

    The beautiful thing about the Being Better path is that it doesn’t require a job change, a spiritual awakening, or a year off in Bali. It just requires intentional self-exploration.

    If you feel stuck, or if you’ve been trying to grow but keep hitting a wall, here are the three steps that helped me begin my transformation—and may help you too.

    1. Understand Your Being Side

    Most people think personal growth begins with action—what do I need to do to get better?

    But real, transformational growth begins with awareness—specifically, awareness of your Being Side. Your Being Side is your internal operating system. It’s the invisible system that governs how you see the world, how you interpret what happens to you, and how you respond in any given situation.

    This system isn’t just about thoughts or beliefs—it’s also about how your body regulates itself. Your Being Side controls your ability to feel safe or threatened, connected or isolated, grounded or overwhelmed. In other words, it determines whether you’re operating from a place of trust, compassion, and courage—or from fear, defensiveness, and self-protection.

    Here’s the catch: most of us never stop to consider that we have an internal operating system, let alone evaluate its quality. We assume that how we react or what we believe is just “the way it is.” But it’s not. It’s just the way your Being Side is currently wired.

    When you start to observe your internal operating system—how you regulate emotionally, how you make meaning, how you instinctively react—you take the first step toward real, lasting transformation. You begin to shift from living on autopilot to living with intentional awareness.

    This awareness lays the foundation for the next step: evaluating the quality and altitude of your Being Side, so you can start the process of elevating it.

    2. Evaluate Your Current Being Altitude

    Once you begin to understand and connect with your internal operating system, the next step is to evaluate its quality.

    One powerful way to do this is to ask: Is my internal operating system primarily wired for self-protection or for value creation?

    When we are wired for self-protection, we tend to be:

    • Reactive
    • Defensive
    • Focused on avoiding discomfort, failure, or rejection
    • Concerned with preserving our ego or image in the short term

    When we are wired for value creation, we tend to be:

    • Intentional
    • Open and non-defensive
    • Willing to engage with challenge or discomfort to grow
    • Focused on long-term contribution, connection, and learning

    Here’s a simple example:

    Imagine someone gives you constructive criticism. If your internal operating system is wired for self-protection, you might feel attacked, justify your actions, or get defensive. But if your system is more oriented toward value creation, you’re more likely to receive the feedback with curiosity, reflect on it honestly, and use it to grow.

    Or consider moments of failure:

    A self-protective mindset might spiral into self-blame, shame, or disengagement. A value-creating mindset sees failure as a teacher, not a threat—and leans in with resilience.

    The goal isn’t perfection. We all have moments of self-protection. But the more we become aware of these patterns, the more we can assess where we are on the Being altitude spectrum—and begin to consciously shift upward.

    That’s what the third step is all about: the process of elevating your Being Side so you can experience real transformation.

    3. Elevate Your Being

    Understanding and evaluating your Being Side is essential—but real transformation happens when you begin to elevateyour internal operating system.

    Your way of being is like the software that runs your life. If you want to experience new results—not just in what you do, but in how you feel, connect, and show up—you have to upgrade the programming of that system.

    Elevating your Being isn’t about forcing change from the outside in. It’s about rewiring how you regulate, perceive, and respond from the inside out. And this often requires intentional, layered efforts.

    Here are three levels of development that can help:

    1. Basic Efforts: Strengthening Regulation

    These include practices like meditation, breathwork, mindful movement, or simply spending time in nature. These activities help calm and regulate your nervous system so you can operate with more presence and less reactivity. They’re foundational for building the internal safety needed for deeper growth.

    2. Deeper Efforts: Upgrading Mindsets

    Your mindsets are the lenses through which you interpret the world. When you begin to shift from fixed to growth, from fear to trust, from judgment to compassion, you start processing life in a more value-creating way. This level of work helps you move from reacting out of habit to responding with intention.

    3. Even Deeper Efforts: Healing at the Source

    For many of us, our Being Side is shaped by past experiences—especially painful or overwhelming ones that left an imprint on our nervous system. Practices like trauma therapy, EMDR, or neurofeedback therapy can help us heal, not just cope. They allow us to safely revisit and release the patterns that keep us stuck in self-protection mode.

    None of these approaches are “quick fixes.” But together, they help us shift from surviving to thriving—from being stuck in old programming to becoming someone new, from the inside out.

    The more we elevate our Being, the more we expand our capacity to create value, deepen relationships, lead with integrity, and live with freedom.

    There’s No Finish Line—But the View Keeps Getting Better

    I wish I could tell you that once you step onto the Being Better path, everything becomes easy. It doesn’t. Growth is still hard. Life is still life.

    But your experience of life changes. You become less reactive, more present. You stop chasing success to feel worthy—and instead create from a place of wholeness.

    This has absolutely been true for me.

    Over the past several years, I’ve incorporated all three levels of effort into my life. I meditate regularly to calm my nervous system. I’ve done deep mindset work to shift how I see myself and others. And I’ve engaged in trauma therapy to heal long-standing patterns I didn’t even know were holding me back.

    These efforts haven’t just changed what I do—they’ve changed who I am. I feel more grounded, more open, more aligned with the person I’ve always wanted to be. I’ve become a better partner, parent, friend, and leader. And for the first time, I feel like I’m living from the inside out—not trying to prove something, but simply trying to be someone I respect and trust.

    Ultimately, the Being Better Developmental Path is not about achievement. It’s about healing—healing the mind that spins with doubt, the body that tenses with fear, and the heart that aches for connection.

    And when we begin to heal, we become free.

    Since stepping onto this path, I’ve written books, launched a business, and built a community I care deeply about. But more importantly, I’ve become someone I’m proud to be—someone more resilient, more compassionate, more alive.

    If you’re tired of doing all the right things and still feeling stuck, consider this:

    Maybe the path forward isn’t about doing more.

    Maybe it’s about becoming more.

    Not someone different—but more you than you’ve ever been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Walking Each Other Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    A Whisper Before Sleep

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual.

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

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

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

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

    And this is where ritual offers its quiet power.

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

    Ritual as Refuge

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

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

    That’s the gift of ritual.

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

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

    Why Ritual Works When Life Falls Apart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Especially when the day is hard.

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

    The Neuroscience Behind Rituals

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

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

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

    How to Begin

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Need help identifying those values? Ask:

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

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

    Then notice what shifts.

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

    Ritual as Resistance—and Renewal

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

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

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

    But it will remind you where your compass is.