Tag: wisdom
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Why Holding Space Is Better Than Gripping for Control
“Anything you can’t control is teaching you how to to let go.” ~Unknown
There’s a story I read to my children, an old piece of African folklore. In the tale, a clever jackal outwits a mighty lion by convincing him that the rock ledge above them is about to collapse. The lion, believing the jackal’s warning, uses all his strength to push up against the rock, holding it in place.
The jackal promises to return with a branch to support the ledge, but instead, he makes his escape. Hours later, exhausted, the lion finally collapses, throwing his paws over his head in fear—only to realize the rock was never going to fall. It had been holding itself up all along.
By believing the jackal’s story, the lion not only lost his chance at a meal but also drained himself completely. His muscles trembled, his breath came ragged, his energy was spent. The rock had never needed his strength at all.
I thought about this story the other day—not while reading to my children, but in a moment of quiet realization. A wave of exhaustion and relief hit me. I could feel the weight dropping from my shoulders, as if I were lowering my own arms from the rock ledge, only just realizing it had never needed my help.
For years, I have tried to hold up things that were never mine to carry—relationships, outcomes, even the way the world moves. Intellectually, I’ve known for a while that control and perfectionism are two traits I need to release in order to heal and move forward. And yet, the need for control is so deeply ingrained that it slips in sideways, undetected, just when I think I’ve cracked the code.
Take my writing, for example. It has always been driven by twin needs: first, to express myself, to shape my creativity and voice; but second, to make a difference—to shift the broader story unfolding on the global stage. Underpinning this is the belief that if I work hard enough, craft my words carefully enough, maybe I can influence something bigger than myself.
But as I pictured the lion straining against the rock, I saw myself in him—struggling to change the world, to make an impact. And just like the rock ledge, the world moves as it always has, with or without my effort. No amount of willpower will shift it.
At first, this realization felt disheartening. But then I saw it for what it was: an opportunity. A chance to redirect my energy toward what I can control—my own choices, my own growth—rather than exhausting myself trying to push against something that will never move.
The same is true in my relationships. When I see family or friends struggle, my first impulse is to jump in and fix it for them. If I can’t fix it, I tell them how they should fix it. And when they don’t, I wait impatiently for them to act on my plan.
Acceptance has always felt like forfeit, like giving in. But real love isn’t about control. It isn’t about making someone else change. If anything, my pushing only gave others something to resist—an excuse to avoid looking inward and making the change themselves.
Just the other day, my son James banged his head. What followed was typical for him—rather than running to me for comfort like his sisters, he ran away crying, shouting, “Go away!” when I approached. It broke my heart.
I didn’t listen. I inched closer, swatting away his flailing limbs, trying to soothe, trying to help, trying to fix. But the more I reached for him, the more he recoiled. My love felt like pursuit—like pushing, pulling, prodding. I was trying to make things better when what he needed was for me to simply be there, steady and patient, until he was ready to come back on his own.
It’s hard to let go. Hard to accept that I can’t protect, guide, and mold everything as a parent, a partner, a daughter, a friend. But even a four-year-old sometimes needs the space to find his own way through. Sometimes, the best—the only—thing I can do is stop pushing and hold the space for him to find himself.
Surrender is not passivity. Letting go of control doesn’t mean doing nothing—it means shifting my focus inward, toward what I can change: myself, my choices, my own growth. It means holding space for those I love, trusting that they will find their own way.
The message was driven home again in the quiet of my dreams. I saw a large and beautiful rainbow-colored ring—bold, unconventional, unlike the traditional platinum engagement band. It shimmered with something deeper: a different kind of love, one unconstrained by rigid expectations.
The next morning, as if to affirm the message, James’ tiny hand slipped into mine in the kitchen. With a delighted giggle, he rolled a bright, multi-colored playdough ring onto my finger.
I looked at him, at his joy, at his offering. And I understood.
Love isn’t about clinging, controlling, or shaping something into what we think it should be. Love is flexible. Love is colorful. Love is personal. And sometimes, love simply holds space, waiting patiently for the moment we are ready to return to it.
This realization carries a tinge of sadness. How many years have I spent striving to move boulders that were never mine to shift?
But beyond the sadness, there is also joy—deep, unshakable joy—in realizing I am free. Relief in knowing I don’t have to hold up the world, my friends, or my family.
And peace—at last, within reach—in trusting that life is unfolding exactly as it’s meant to, as I slowly, gently, let go.
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The Power of Finding Love Without a “How To” Formula
“Know all the theories, master all the techniques, but as you touch a human soul ,be just another human soul.” ~Carl Jung
For years, I poured myself into learning about love, relationships, and personal growth. I read every book I could get my hands on, signed up for countless classes, and surrounded myself with affirmations, tools, and techniques that promised me the keys to love. I was on a mission, convinced that with enough knowledge, I could finally unlock the door to a successful, fulfilling relationship.
But no matter how much I learned, how much I transformed my mindset, or how many positive affirmations I repeated, the pieces never quite fit together the way I expected them to. The advice seemed sound, and the changes I made felt empowering—yet when it came to matters of the heart, the answers were often elusive.
Despite my best efforts to engineer a perfect love life, I had been trying to control something that ultimately falls beyond any framework, theory, or technique.
In that moment of realization, I finally understood the true meaning behind Carl Jung’s words. Although he originally used this quote in his work as a psychologist, highlighting the importance of connecting with others on a profound, human level, I now see how deeply relevant it is in romantic relationships. I needed to meet myself on a human level before I could meet others.
Love, much like life, cannot be mastered through intellect alone. It’s not about perfecting a set of rules or following a specific formula—it’s about surrendering to the mystery of being human together, with all our imperfections and strivings.
The Pursuit of Perfection
When I first set out on my journey to “become the one” or to “attract the one,” I was searching for the magic formula that would guarantee my ideal relationship. I believed that if I mastered the right mindset, practiced positive thinking, and applied the latest dating strategies, love would be inevitable.
But somewhere along the way, I began to lose sight of the fact that love is not a destination—it’s an experience. And that experience doesn’t unfold because I’m the most polished version of myself; it emerges when I allow myself to be authentically human.
Inadvertently, I became misdirected, shifting from living in the moment to striving to solve a puzzle. The irony was that in my pursuit of perfection, I grew more disconnected from my true self. I wasn’t seeking a genuine connection with another soul; I unconsciously focused on proving to myself that I could solve this.
The Limitations of the “How-To” Guides
The more I studied, the more I realized that everything I learned about love came from the perspective of doing. These guides, books, and seminars taught me how to behave, think, or feel in order to attract or maintain love. But none of it resonated with the most important aspect of love: being.
Love cannot be controlled by a set of principles or techniques. We cannot engineer chemistry, force someone to be the right partner, or create lasting connection through willpower alone. And that’s where I went wrong.
No matter how much I pushed, tweaked, or optimized myself, something was always missing. And that missing piece wasn’t about improving or refining myself—it was about surrendering to the mystery of love.
What I needed was a genuine connection to my own heart—raw, messy, vulnerable, and human. It’s about stepping away from our minds and allowing ourselves to engage with each other, body and soul, as the beautiful, complex beings we naturally are.
Learning the Book Intelligence, But Bringing My Body Along
I spent years absorbing the wisdom of books, thinking that knowledge would be the key to unlocking love. But while my mind was soaking in all this information, my body was still trailing behind, stuck in old patterns. I realized that no amount of intellectual understanding could transform those deeply ingrained emotional and physical responses.
And so, I began to lean into them.
I began to acknowledge my compulsions—those deep, visceral urges I had to seek out drama, romance, and even toxicity. I recognized how I had often fallen into a pattern of addiction to love, driven by an unconscious need to feel validated or to save someone else in order to feel worthy.
What I came to realize is that we are all, in some way, on the spectrum of addiction shaped by our culture.
This time, instead of fighting or ignoring those patterns, I chose to work with them. I stopped trying to intellectualize everything and started to listen deeply to my body. I allowed myself to sit with the discomfort—to feel the tension, the longing, the ache—and explore the deeper emotions behind these patterns.
It felt like I was standing on the edge of the deepest, darkest caverns of my soul, this little girl peering into them, unsure of what I might find. But I knew that to move forward, I had to face what lay within, no matter how frightening it seemed. I allowed myself to feel beyond the fear, pushing past the reflexive bracing that usually stopped me before. Slowly, I began to make peace with them, acknowledging that these were parts of me that needed compassion and companionship.
By accepting and tending to my body’s responses, I started to shift the emotional energy that had previously held me captive. The more I worked with my body’s sensations, the more I realized that true healing in love doesn’t just come from the mind; it comes from integrating the mind, body, and heart.
Addiction and the Conditioning of Love
One huge piece I began to understand as I worked through these emotional patterns was that we are often primed by the world around us to seek out high-intensity emotional experiences, particularly when it comes to love. Our modern world, especially the fast-paced nature of dating today, has trained us to want immediate gratification—both emotionally and physically. We live in such a sensory-driven world that we might not even realize the degree to which we are conditioned to seek intensity in every moment.
It was like I needed to treat my emotional healing and body healing as a twelve-step process, detoxing from the patterns of seeking quick fixes and instant validation, and instead, focusing on building something deeper and more sustainable.
It was only when I fully embraced those emotions, instead of avoiding or rushing past them, that a shift occurred. Yes, intellectually I knew the difference, but I had to work with the pulls of my nervous system differently. My body was responding to the signals of “connection” in these instances, but I needed a new discernment about what I was really feeling.
I began to understand that the addictive pull of romance, drama, and excitement was not the same as true connection. True connection takes time and effort to build—it requires patience, vulnerability, and trust, rather than the constant chase for external validation and peak experiences.
The Mystery of Divine Timing
As I began to untangle myself from the addictive cycles of modern romance, I came to realize something even deeper: the magic of divine timing. The pull of romantic desire, with its highs and lows, was no longer the driving force in my life. Instead, I began to see that the beauty of love is not in the chase, but in the quiet, mysterious unfolding of life.
Divine timing has a way of making us appreciate the journey, the waiting, and the uncertainty of love in a way that we cannot predict. We cannot force love, rush it, or manipulate it into being.
But when we allow ourselves to be—when we integrate the mind, body, and heart—we create space for the kind of connection that truly resonates with our soul.
There is sadness in this mystery, yes. The uncertainty, the longing, the waiting—these are all part of the human condition.
But there is also aliveness in it.
It is this space of not knowing that teaches us to love harder, to trust deeper, and to embrace the present moment as it is.
Divine timing is not about waiting passively, but about trusting that when the time is right, love will find us. And when it does, we will be ready—not because we’ve perfected ourselves or our circumstances, but because we’ve learned to lean into the process, to feel every moment deeply, and to trust that love will come when it’s meant to.
Letting Go of the “How-To” and Embracing the “Being”
There’s a profound difference between pursuing love through strategies and opening yourself to love by simply being yourself. The former can leave you drained and disconnected from your authentic self, while the latter allows space for genuine connection to flourish naturally.
When I let go of the idea that I had to do something to make love work, I started to experience relationships in a completely new way. I learned to trust the ebb and flow of connection, allowing the journey to unfold as it was meant to.
I also began to see love in a more mindful way—no longer limited to romantic love, but as something multidimensional and all around me. Those tender moments of pure kindness, warmth, or generosity from anyone, anywhere, reminded me that I am a human being, not a human striving.
As I reflect on the lessons I’ve learned, I see that being a “human soul” means embracing the unknowns of life—especially in love. No amount of preparation or knowledge will guarantee a perfect relationship.
What matters most is that we show up as our true, vulnerable selves. And when we do, love will find us—not as a result of our efforts to attract it, but because it’s part of the natural flow of life.
Simply Be Human
Carl Jung’s words ring truer now than ever: we can know all the theories, master all the techniques, but at the end of the day, we must allow ourselves to simply be human. Being a “human soul” also means allowing others to be human souls too—seeing their messiness with grace, accepting their flaws, and not trying to mold them into something they are not.
It’s about embracing the beautiful chaos of being human, both in ourselves and in others. The journey toward love isn’t about achieving perfection or solving a puzzle. It’s about being present, trusting the process, and embracing vulnerability. It’s about letting go of the need for control and trusting in divine timing.
The irony is all the “how-to” guides and strategies for love can only take us so far. At some point, we need to move beyond following instructions and allow ourselves to experience love fully—raw, unfiltered, and human, from the inside out.
I’ve found a deeper connection happens when we integrate our heart, mind, and body—when we stop compartmentalizing and let all parts of ourselves be present.
It’s about feeling deeply, thinking honestly, and being grounded in our physical experience. When we show up with this kind of alignment, love is no longer something to chase or achieve but something that flows naturally from within.
I think it’s beautiful—almost transcendent—to think about love this way, as something that exists in the rawness of our true selves, not in some idealized version of who we think we should be or a checklist to be marked, but the power of connection and the incredible expansion it brings when it happens.
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What Happened When I Went Off the Social Media Grid
“Remember, being happy doesn’t mean you have it all. It simply means you’re thankful for all you have.” ~Unknown
It was 3 a.m. when I realized I was the only person not in St. Barts. At least that’s what it felt like on Instagram, even though I know it wasn’t true. I wasn’t the only person not dancing on tables to a saxophone in the Caribbean. My fiancé was asleep right next to me.
For the next three hours, I continued down the rabbit hole.
Three hostages were released. Trump did more things to avoid bringing up at dinner parties, even in Texas, where I found myself living by accepting a marriage proposal from a Houstonian after a lifetime spent proudly between New York and L.A.
I was served (and purchased!) an acrylic purse organizer for my closet that makes them stand just so, as if the algorithm had been privy to my frustration when they all fell limp sideways just yesterday. Some friends were pregnant. Even more got skinny—Ozempic. Shockingly, aside from procreators, on Instagram, no one ever gets fat. Which was how I was feeling then, now that I think about it. The fetal position is unbecoming for a midsection.
By 6 a.m., my eyes were bloodshot from the screen’s glow, and I official felt like the heaviest, least pregnant, most geopolitically confused loser, not in St Barts, with a messy closet—who lived in Texas.
It went on like this for weeks. Really only since I got to the Lone Star State and became a lone star with no friends, in a place I had considered visiting only if there were engine trouble. Devoid of an actual social life in a new city, I had begun to live vicariously through my old friends by staying in touch with them on Instagram. I’d never been more ‘connected’ or felt more isolated and alone. Still, I scrolled. And if I didn’t stop, I would never again get to sleep.
I was going cold turkey. Wasser: 1. Zuckerberg: 0.
When the time came, even my phone was skeptical. “Delete Instagram?” came the pop-up. I knew what I had to do. And so, with a swift ‘click-hold-delete,’ the Instagram app icon shimmied out of existence on my home screen. The joke was on me, though; getting back to bed was not in the cards. I couldn’t wait for my friends to wake up—on both coasts—so I could gloat.
“Just FYI—if I don’t get back to you on Insta, … I’ve deleted it from my phone,” I’d say with a cool, casual air of someone who’s escaped the matrix of social media, like I was better, completely leaving out the part where I’d become an addicted insomniac crackhead.
My L.A. friends called me “brave.” My New York friends were nonplussed if not annoyed: “So what? I’m supposed to call you now?”
While not exactly a Nobel laureate reception, here’s what happened when I had nowhere to hide and forced myself to live IRL. My sleep got better. Packages from China stopped coming as I stopped spending frivolously on clothing that couldn’t make it through a wash. But these were obvious upsides.
My screen time went down 42%, which, according to the Mayo Clinic, can improve your physical health, derail obesity, and boost your mood. Then, I did the math. By removing Instagram from my phone, I had taken back nearly two weeks of my life—every year.
I was markedly happier… With my dog and the way she takes over my pillow now that I wasn’t exhausted in the morning. With my fiancé, who is much more fun to be around now that we’re both paying more attention to phone-zombie behavior (mostly when I remind him). Even Texas isn’t that bad.
When I started looking up versus down at my screen, life in the present got prettier (even with Houston’s lack of zoning laws that puts fine dining establishments next to an AutoZone.)
And then it hit me. The hardest part of growing up is coming to terms with who you are and, moreover, all of the versions of yourself you’ll never be. As an older millennial, I have had social media tracking my life since I was eighteen. I am now thirty-seven. I have been so many people.
I’ve had multiple attempts at careers until I found one. I have had dreams I’ve let go of. Dreams that haven’t died. Loves I’ve lost. Men who still looked at my story even though I never wanted to speak to them again. They still bring me right back to being nineteen/twenty-two/twenty-seven every time I see their name.
Social media connects all my ‘eras.’ Every success, failure, false start, and hair color that comes with adulthood and the people, places, and things that accompanied them. All my past timelines living amongst my present, right in my pocket. No wonder I found it so hard to let any of them go. And even less shocking, I couldn’t make new friends. My dance card—albeit virtual—was full.
Within weeks without Instagram, I found myself with time on my hands. I was exercising more. The dog and I found walks we like in the neighborhood. I went out and actively looked for community outside my phone screen. It existed. Turns out the adage is true—you are where you put your attention.
By making eye contact and staying present when out at restaurants, or getting coffee, or at the gym, I’d even made friends. New friends I hosted for dinner. A dinner so large I had to rent a table because there were more coming than my six-person dining table could seat. A table I did have to source online, but not on Instagram—an app I only regretted not having when I wanted to give my friends at home major FOMO and show them what I was up to.
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The Power of Silence and How to Really Listen
“The silence between the notes is as important as the notes themselves.” ~Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
When I was younger, I thought knowledge was something you could capture—something you could write down, measure, and prove. I believed that to understand something, I had to explain it. And for a long time, I tried.
But then, life—through film, through music, through long conversations with people whose wisdom couldn’t be found in books—taught me something else: the most powerful truths don’t always come in words. They exist in the space between them.
I learned this lesson in the mountains, where the sky stretches wide, and silence is not empty but full of presence. I had traveled there to document a group of elders who carried the history of their people in their voices, in their stories, in the songs they sang to the younger generations.
One elder, in particular, stood out. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, the others listened. Alongside his fellow elders, he would chant in a rhythmic, sing-song cadence, weaving the origins of the universe into the fabric of their small mountain community. But what struck me most wasn’t his voice—it was his silence.
As the camera rolled, he sat in stillness. The wind whispered through the trees. The river murmured its eternal song. In that quiet, there was something deeper than speech, something that pulsed with meaning.
Later, when I played the footage for a colleague, they asked, “But what is he saying?”
I wanted to answer, Everything.
Listening Beyond Words
If you’ve ever felt like the world moves too fast, like people are speaking over each other instead of really hearing, then you already know how rare true listening is. We live in a time when everyone wants to be heard, but few know how to listen.
Listening—real listening—isn’t just about hearing words. It’s about feeling presence. It’s about noticing what isn’t being said. It’s about sensing the weight behind someone’s silence, the emotion in their breath before they speak.
I didn’t always know how to listen this way. In my early years as a filmmaker, I focused on what was visible—the shot, the framing, the dialogue. But over time, I realized that the most powerful moments weren’t always what was said aloud. It was the glance between two people who had known each other forever. It was the way someone’s hands trembled before telling a difficult story. It was the pause between sentences, where something unspoken begged to be understood.
This kind of listening—deep listening—is a skill, just like any other. And like any skill, it can be practiced. It requires patience. It requires presence. And it requires a willingness to be quiet yourself, to let go of the need to respond, explain, or control the conversation.
The Silence That Speaks
There is an old teaching in Nada Yoga, the yoga of sound, that says silence is not an absence, but a vibration. It is a resonance that allows meaning to unfold.
I have felt this in the editing room, cutting together scenes, realizing that what moves people is not the dialogue but the spaces between it—the quiet before the revelation, the moment of stillness before the truth lands. I have felt it in music, when a musician allows a note to fade just long enough for it to sink into the listener’s bones.
And I have felt it in life, in conversations where someone shares something so raw, so deeply personal, that all you can do is sit with them in silence.
That silence is not empty. It is full of acknowledgment, of understanding, of respect.
The Power of Presence
One of the greatest challenges I faced in my work was convincing people that this kind of knowledge—this ability to sit with silence, to notice, to be present—is just as valuable as facts and figures, as theories and analysis.
Academia, where I spent much of my life, doesn’t always recognize the kind of knowledge that is felt more than written. The kind of scholarship that comes through film, through sound, through experience. There, knowledge is measured in citations, in publications, in things that can be counted. But how do you count a pause? How do you measure the impact of a shared silence?
I have spent years trying to advocate for a broader understanding of what it means to know something. To understand that presence—the ability to be fully here, fully aware—is its own kind of intelligence.
And here’s what I want you to know: You don’t have to be a filmmaker or a scholar to develop this skill. You don’t have to travel to distant mountains or sit in long hours of meditation. You just have to start paying attention.
How to Listen Deeply
If you want to learn to listen—to truly listen—try this:
1. Pause before responding.
Next time someone speaks to you, don’t rush to fill the space. Let their words settle. Notice what else is there—their body language, their expression, what they aren’t saying.
2. Listen without planning your reply.
Too often, we only half-listen because we’re already thinking about what we’ll say next. Instead, try just absorbing what’s being said. Let the response come naturally.
3. Pay attention to the silences.
In music, the rests are just as important as the notes. In conversation, the pauses carry meaning. Notice what happens in those spaces.
4. Be comfortable with not knowing.
Some of the most profound moments in life don’t come with clear answers. Be open to sitting with uncertainty.
5. Practice with sound.
Spend time listening to the world around you—really listening. Close your eyes. Notice how many layers of sound exist at once. The wind. The hum of a distant car. The rhythm of your own breathing.
The more you develop your ability to listen, the more you will understand—not just about others, but about yourself.
A Different Kind of Knowing
I write this now, not as a call to arms, but as an invitation.
To the artists, the thinkers, the ones who feel deeply but don’t always have the words—know that there is a place for you. There is value in the way you experience the world.
You don’t have to explain everything. You don’t have to put it all into words.
Sometimes, the most powerful things we know—the things that change us—exist in the space between words.
And if you ever find yourself doubting whether your way of seeing, of listening, of feeling has a place in this world, remember this:
Some of the greatest wisdom isn’t spoken.
Some of the most powerful messages are never written.
And sometimes, the best way to understand is to simply be present.
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The Greatest Transformations Often Emerge from Hardship
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” ~Viktor Frankl
Life has moments that completely reshape us, often without our consent or preparation. Trauma, loss, and grief—they don’t wait until we feel ready to handle them. Instead, they arrive unexpectedly, pinning us against the wall and demanding transformation.
What began as a day like most training days, fueled by focus and determination, unraveled into an unimaginable traumatic event, one that shattered the life I had known.
Prior to that moment, as a fitness trainer by profession, my world was defined by movement, strength, and the confidence that my body could carry me anywhere. Being active was a way of life for me, both professionally and recreationally.
In a split second, all of that was gone, leaving me to grapple with an existence that no longer felt like my own. One moment, I was strong, healthy, and in motion. The next thing I would come to know was waking up in a hospital bed—my body broken, my spirit shaken, my heart heavy with grief and fear.
My femoral artery had been severed. My family was prepared for the worst, told that people who sustain these types of injuries don’t typically survive.
“We’re fighting with the clock. We’ll do what we can,” the surgeon had said.
Those words hung in the air, marking the stark reality of how fragile the situation was. “Life over limb“ became the call, and amputation was the response.
I spent the summer in the hospital, unable to see the light of day or breathe fresh air. Placed in a medically induced coma for several days, I underwent hours upon hours of intricate, life-saving surgeries—four of the eight within the first week alone.
My body had been through the unimaginable—cut open, stitched, stapled, poked, and prodded—a battlefield in my fight for life. I had been revascularized, resuscitated, and endured a four-compartment fasciotomy that left my limb filleted open.
Skin grafts eventually covered the damage as machines beeped and buzzed around me, tubes running from my body—feeding tube, catheter, IVs pumping life back into me. I lay in an isolated critical care room under 24/7 watch, caught in a space between survival and uncertainty.
As I lay in the hospital bed, the reality of my new existence settled in. The loss of my leg was more than a physical alteration. It was a profound shift in my sense of self, forcing me to confront who I was beyond the body I had always known.
Peering down at the end of the bed, a reality I was not ready for hit me all at once, with an undeniable, unforgiving force. One foot protruded from beneath the hospital blanket, just as it always had. The other side—my leg stopped short.
The space it once filled was now an absence I could feel as much as see. In that instant, the weight of it all—what had happened, what had been taken, what could never be undone—settled deep within me. There was no waking up from this living nightmare. This was real.
I faced a new reality. My lower left leg had been amputated below the knee. There was no gradual build-up, no illness, no injury to hint at what was coming. The sudden loss was more than physical. It wasn’t just my leg. It felt like I had lost my independence and any semblance of the life I once knew.
The weight of it all pulled me into a darkness that felt impossible to escape. And yet, within that darkness, something began to shift. What had once felt like an ending became an opening for self-discovery—a bridge to deeper understanding of myself and a realization of the strength, courage, and resilience that had always existed within me.
In the weeks that followed, I grappled with despair and uncertainty, only to realize that this darkness held more than pain. It became a catalyst for transformation. Losing my leg forced me to confront truths I had never acknowledged, opening the door to lessons that reshaped my life in ways I never could have imagined.
Pain and adversity, anger and fear were not the enemies I once believed them to be. Instead, they became powerful forces that propelled me toward growth, leading me down an unforeseen path—not one I intentionally sought, yet one that ultimately offered exactly what I needed.
I came to understand this through small victories, such as lifting myself from the hospital bed, taking that first step, and learning to balance when the world beneath me felt unsteady and my footing was unstable and unfamiliar.
Those moments of discomfort became invitations. When met with willingness rather than resistance, struggles turned into progress. With each step forward, I regained both my footing and my confidence, uncovering a sense of empowerment I hadn’t realized was within me.
The pain, the fear, and the struggle all led me to powerful realizations—lessons that continue to shape how I see myself and how I engage in life.
Limitations Are Often Stories We Tell Ourselves
At first, I believed life had betrayed me, that my body had let me down. I told myself I couldn’t do the things I once loved. I hesitated, afraid of looking weak, of failing. As I started pushing my boundaries, learning to move, to stand, to find new ways forward, I realized the greatest obstacle wasn’t my body; it was the belief that I now had fixed limitations imposed upon me. When I challenged that, I uncovered a world of possibilities.
The mind cleverly builds barriers that seem insurmountable. Once confronted, they reveal themselves as illusions—perceived limits, not actual ones. The only true limitation is the one I place upon myself. I may do things differently now, and in doing so, I’ve discovered the power of adaptability and just how limitless possibilities truly are.
My Body Does Not Define Me
For much of my life, I equated worth with physical appearance and ability. I had built a life and career around movement, pushing my body to perform. Losing my leg felt like losing a core part of myself. I struggled with my reflection, with the visible mark of what had changed. I feared being judged, labeled, seen as broken, defined by what was missing. And over time, I began to see things differently.
My prosthetic leg, once a symbol of loss, became my badge of courage, a testament to all that I had endured and overcome. While the external physical alteration was undeniable, the greater shift was internal.
My sense of self felt unfamiliar, as if it had been stripped away along with my leg. Lost in uncertainty and overwhelm, I found myself called to look deeper. It took time and reflection to recognize that my wholeness remained intact. Strength, persistence, and self-worth weren’t dependent on the physical; they resided within. Even when they felt unrecognizable, they remained, waiting to be reclaimed.
Everything I Needed Was Within Me All Along
It’s easy to believe that what sustains us must be chased, that healing and wholeness come from outside ourselves. I searched for proof of my worth, looking outward for reassurance that I hadn’t lost something essential. But in the quietest moments, when I sat alone in my pain, when there was no one left to convince me but myself, I began to see the truth.
What felt like loss wasn’t an empty void. It was an opening, an invitation to uncover what had always been within me. I didn’t need to rebuild from nothing or become someone new. I only needed to recognize what was already there. And in that recognition, the rebuilding and becoming unfolded naturally.
Losing my leg did not break me. It revealed me. It became the doorway to my greatest discoveries, an invitation to meet myself in ways I never had before, to embrace the unknown, and to uncover the depth of courage, resilience, and inner power that emerges through hardship.
A Final Reflection
We all carry stories about what is possible, stories influenced by conditioning, fear, and experience. But what if our limits are not real? What if they’re just unchallenged? What if everything you need to rise, to heal, to rebuild is already within you, waiting to be realized?
The greatest transformations often emerge from the depths of hardship. Life challenges us in ways we never could have imagined, yet within those challenges lie revelations, truths about ourselves we might never have uncovered otherwise.
Hardship and struggle often go hand in hand, yet within them lies the path to ease. Though they bring pain, they also offer wisdom. They shape us, yet they don’t have to define us. When we stop resisting and lean into what challenges us, we gain clarity, uncover strength, and discover a deeper understanding of ourselves.
What once felt impossible begins to feel natural. Through struggle, we find empowerment. Through trauma, we find self-discovery. Every hardship carries an invitation to redefine, to rebuild, to reclaim. The question is not what life takes from us, but what we choose to uncover in its place.
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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.
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When Healing Feels Lonely: What I Now Know About Peace
“Avoiding your triggers isn’t healing. Healing happens when you’re triggered and you’re able to move through the pain, the pattern, and the story, and walk your way to a different ending.” ~Vienna Pharaon
I thought I had figured it out.
For a year, I had been doing the “inner work”—meditating daily, practicing breathwork, journaling, doing yoga. I had read all the books. I had deconditioned so many behaviors that weren’t serving me: my need to prove, my need to compare, my negative thought patterns. My self-awareness was through the roof. I had hit that deep, deep place in meditation I read about in the spiritual texts. I met my soul.
I had stripped my life down to the essentials: no coffee, no alcohol, no meat, no distractions. My morning routine was bulletproof: journal, read a spiritual text, do yoga and breathwork, meditate.
I distanced myself from many—putting up boundaries to some of the closest people to me because they “didn’t understand.” I spent my days mainly in nature, alone, in so much stillness and presence. I had finally found peace. Or at least, I thought I had.
And then I went to a silent retreat in Bali.
I flew across the world, ready to spend eleven days in complete silence, fully immersed in my inner world. I thought it would deepen my peace, open me up to even more divine inspiration, that it would solidify all the healing I had done.
I had no idea it was about to rip me open.
For the first three days, I was in heaven. I was more present than I had ever been in my life. The sound of the river, the feeling of the breeze on my skin—it was intoxicating. I felt like I could stay there forever. I felt like I was home, internally and externally.
But on day four, everything cracked wide open.
Suddenly, the emotions I thought I had healed—the ones I had spent months working through—came flooding back like a tidal wave. It all started with comparison. Comparing myself to other people at the retreat. Comparing my body, my flexibility in yoga class, my skin, my beauty.
I was so confused—I had the awareness to know this wasn’t “good.” I had the awareness to realize this was me defaulting to all these old thoughts and behaviors.
My mind started battling itself—and then I dove right into the “worst” behavior I thought I had healed: judgment. Judgment of others and judgment of myself.
What was going on?! Hadn’t I already done this work? Why was I back here again?
More and more emotions started coming up. I felt so unworthy again, like I hadn’t done enough work on myself. Like this past year was done all wrong, like it was wasted. Like I misunderstood the assignment.
And that’s when it hit me: I had mistaken solitude for healing.
Those few months before the silent retreat, I had wrapped myself in solitude like a safety blanket. I had avoided anything that triggered me—situations, people, even certain thoughts. I had created boundaries—not just with others, but with life itself.
I was at peace… but I wasn’t living.
I had gone so far into solitude, into stillness, that I had disconnected from the very thing that makes life meaningful—other people. I had tricked myself into thinking I had found peace when, really, I had just found another version of control.
But control isn’t healing—it’s just another way of trying to feel safe.
Turns out, I wasn’t at peace—I was chasing again. And this time, I was chasing enlightenment. It looked different from my old pursuits—more noble, more spiritual—but it was still a chase. And I will say honestly (and not egotistically), I reached enlightenment. I know I did. I reached Samadhi, consciousness, pure bliss. But then I started chasing that state, trying to make sure I was always in it. And the only way I could stay in it was by being alone.
That’s where the control came in. I thought I had relinquished my need for control. I thought I was free. And in some ways, I was. But in other ways, I was meticulously curating every single detail of my life to make sure I could always remain in that blissful state. Control had woven its tentacles into my spiritual practice, and I didn’t even realize it.
I needed to be isolated, as much as possible, to maintain my peace. I had convinced myself that this was my purpose. That this was my highest path.
But that also made life so… lonely. Yes, it was peaceful. But suddenly I realized I missed my friendships. I missed my family. I missed all the people who triggered the heck out of me.
Because in complete silence and solitude, I saw the truth—what makes life “life” is being in relation to something or someone.
The truth is, real peace isn’t found in avoiding life—it’s found in moving through it. It’s found in the moments when we feel everything, when we get hurt, when we love, when we mess up, when we forgive.
That’s what life is. That’s what healing is.
And go figure—it took complete silence to show me that.
On my second-to-last day at the retreat, I sat by the river and watched a single leaf fall into the water. Those beautiful big leaves that look so thick and robust, so durable. The current swept it along, pushing it under rocks, pulling it back up, flipping it over, tearing its edges on twigs lodged in the riverbed.
But here’s the thing—no matter what, the leaf kept moving. It got stuck every now and then, but somehow, it would dislodge—a bit more broken and bruised but still moving.
And so do we.
No matter how much life twists us, no matter how many emotions hit us like waves, we are meant to flow with it, not run from it. Not avoid it.
What Silence Taught Me About Real Peace
1. Solitude is a tool, not a destination.
Alone time is valuable, but true healing happens in relationship—with people, with challenges, with the messiness of life.
2. Emotions are a gift, not a burden.
I thought I had reached enlightenment by avoiding pain, but real peace comes from feeling everything—joy, sorrow, frustration, love—and moving through it.
3. You can’t control your way into peace.
I thought if I just kept my environment “pure,” I could protect my sense of calm. But life isn’t about control; it’s about trust.
Flow with life, even when it hurts. That leaf in the river reminded me—life will push, pull, and test you, but you are meant to navigate it, not resist it.
So yes, silence is important. Solitude is powerful. But the work? The real work is out there. In the messy, beautiful, heart-wrenching, soul-expanding experience of being human.
And that’s the lesson I carried with me—not just when I finally opened my mouth to speak again, but into every moment of life that followed.
