Tag: wisdom
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The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love
“Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.” ~Jack Kornfield
Her absence lingers in the stillness of early mornings, in the moments between tasks, in the hush of evening when the day exhales. I’ve gotten good at moving. At staying busy. At producing. But sometimes, especially lately, the quiet catches me—and I fall in.
Grief doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s a whisper, one you barely hear until it’s grown into a wind that bends your bones.
It’s been nearly three years since my daughter passed. People told me time would help. That the firsts—first holidays, first birthday without her—would be the hardest. And maybe that was true.
But what no one prepared me for was how her absence would echo into the years that followed. How grief would evolve, shape-shift, and sometimes grow heavier—not lighter—with time. How her loss would uncover older wounds. Ones that predate her birth. Wounds that go back to a little girl who never quite felt safe enough to just be.
I’d like to say I’ve spent the past few years healing. Meditating. Journaling. Growing. And I did—sort of. Inconsistently. Mostly as a checkmark, doing what a healthy, mindful person is supposed to do, but without much feeling. I went through the motions, hoping healing would somehow catch up.
What I found instead was a voice I hadn’t truly listened to in years—my inner child, angry and waiting. While this year’s whirlwind pace pulled me further away, the truth is, I began losing touch with her long before.
She waited, quietly at first. But ignored long enough, she began to stir. Her protest wasn’t loud. It was physical—tight shoulders, shallow breath, scattered thoughts, restless sleep. A kind of anxious disconnection I kept trying to “fix” by doing more.
I filled my days with obligations and outward-focused energy, thinking productivity might shield me from the ache.
But the ache never left.
It just got smarter—showing up in my body, in my distracted mind, in the invisible wall between me and the world.
Until the day I finally stopped. I don’t know if I was too tired to keep running or if my grief finally had its way with me. But I paused long enough to pull a card from my self-healing oracle deck. It read:
“Hear and know me.”
I stared at the words and wept.
This was her. The little girl in me. The one who had waited through years of striving and performing and perfecting. The one who wasn’t sure she was lovable unless she earned it. The one who held not just my pain but my joy, too. My tenderness. My creativity. My curiosity.
She never left. She just waited—watching, hurting, hoping I’d remember.
For so long, I thought healing meant fixing. Erasing. Becoming “better” so I wouldn’t have to feel the ache anymore.
But she reminded me that healing is less about removing pain and more about returning to myself.
I’m still learning how to be with her. I don’t always know what she needs. But I’m listening now.
Sometimes, she just wants to color or lie on the grass. Sometimes she wants to cry. Sometimes she wants pancakes for dinner. And sometimes, she wants nothing more than to be told she’s safe. That I see her. That I won’t leave again.
These small, ordinary acts feel like re-parenting. I’m learning how to mother myself, even as I continue grieving my daughter. It’s a strange thing—to give the care I long to give her, to the parts of me that were once just as small, just as tender, just as in need.
I’ve spoken so much about the loss of my daughter. The space she once filled echoes every day. But what also lingers is her way of being—her authenticity. She was always exactly who she was in each moment. No apologies. No shrinking.
In my own journey of trying to fit in, of not wanting to be different, I let go of parts of myself just to be accepted.
She, on the other hand, stood out—fearlessly. The world called her special needs. I just called her Lily.
Her authenticity reminded me of something I had lost in myself. And now, authenticity is what my inner child has been waiting for—for so, so long.
Sometimes I wonder if the universe gave me Lily not just to teach her but to be taught by her. Maybe our children don’t just inherit from us—we inherit from them, too.
Her gift, her legacy, wasn’t just love. It was truth. The kind of truth that comes from living as you are.
Maybe her lesson for me is the one I’m just now beginning to accept: that being fully myself is the most sacred way I can honor her.
It’s not easy. The adult in me wants a checklist, a result, a clean timeline. But she reminds me: healing isn’t a destination. It’s a relationship.
It’s a relationship with the past—yes—but also with the present moment. With the part of me that still flinches under pressure. With the softness I once thought I had to abandon in order to survive.
I’m learning that my softness was never the problem. It was the silence that followed when no one responded to it.
She is the key. The key to my own heart.
It doesn’t always come in waves.
Sometimes it’s a flicker, a breath, a quiet knowing that I’m still here—and that they are, too.
My daughter, in the memories that move like wind through my life. And my inner child, in the softness I’m learning to reclaim. In the space where grief and love hold hands, we all meet.
Maybe that’s the lesson she’s been shouting all along: that we can’t truly love others if we abandon ourselves. That within our own hearts—tender, bruised, still beating—lies the key to beginning again.
We can’t mother our lost children the way we once did.
But maybe, in their absence, we can begin to mother the small, forgotten parts of ourselves—with the same love, the same patience, the same fierce devotion.
Maybe that’s how we honor them—not by moving on, but by moving inward.
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Why I Learned to Stay Quiet to Be “Good”
“Your silence will not protect you.” ~Audre Lorde
When I was little, I learned that being “good” meant being quiet.
Not just with my voice, but with my needs. My emotions. Even the space I took up.
I don’t remember anyone sitting me down and saying, “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” But I felt it—in the flinches when I was too loud, the tension when I cried, the subtle praise when I stayed calm, agreeable, small. I felt it in the way adults sighed with relief when I didn’t make a fuss. I felt it in the way I stopped asking for what I wanted.
Goodness, to me, became about not rocking the boat.
I remember once being told, “You’re such a good girl—you never complain.” And I carried that like a medal. I remember crying in my room instead of speaking up at dinner. Saying “I’m fine” even when my chest hurt with unsaid words. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I wanted to be easy to love.
So I smiled through discomfort. Nodded when I wanted to say no. Bit my tongue when I had something true to say. I became pleasant, adaptable, well-liked.
And utterly disconnected from myself.
The Body Keeps the Quiet
For a long time, I thought this was just a personality trait. I told myself I was just easygoing. Sensitive. A peacemaker.
But the truth is, I had internalized a nervous system survival strategy: fawning. A subtle, often invisible adaptation where safety is sought not through flight or fight but through appeasement. Becoming who others want you to be. Saying what they want to hear.
In my body, this looked like:
- Holding my breath in tense conversations
- Smiling when I felt anxious
- Swallowing words that rose in my throat
- Feeling exhausted after social interactions, not knowing why
It wasn’t just social anxiety or shyness. It was a deeply ingrained survival pattern—one that shaped everything from how I moved in the world to how I related to others.
I didn’t yet have the language for what was happening. But I could feel the cost.
The silence I carried started to ache—not just emotionally, but physically.
My jaw clenched. My shoulders rounded forward. My chest felt like a locked room. I felt foggy in conversations, distant in relationships, unsure of where I began and ended.
It turns out, when you chronically silence yourself to stay safe, your body starts whispering what your voice can’t say.
The First Time I Said “No”
It wasn’t a dramatic moment. There was no shouting or storming out.
It was a quiet dinner with someone I didn’t feel fully safe around. They asked for something that crossed a line. And for the first time in my adult life, instead of automatically saying yes, I paused.
I heard the old script start to run: Be nice. Don’t upset them. Just say yes, it’s easier.
But something in me—a wiser, quieter part—held steady.
I took a breath. I said, “No, I’m not okay with that.”
And even though my body trembled, I didn’t crumble. Nothing catastrophic happened. I went home and cried—not from fear, but from relief.
It was one of the first moments I realized I could choose myself. Even when it felt unnatural. Even when I wasn’t sure what would happen next.
That one moment changed something in me. Not overnight. But it planted a seed.
Reclaiming My Voice, One Breath at a Time
Reclaiming my voice hasn’t been a big, bold revolution. It’s been a slow unfolding.
It looks like:
- Taking a few seconds before I respond, even if silence feels uncomfortable
- Letting myself speak with emotion, not filtering everything to sound “reasonable”
- Naming what I need, even if my voice shakes
- Resting after interactions that leave me drained—honoring the impact
- Journaling the things I wanted to say, even if I never say them out loud
Some days I still go quiet. I still feel the old fear that speaking truth will cause rupture, rejection, or harm. Sometimes I still rehearse what I want to say five times before I say it once.
But I’ve learned that every time I listen to myself, even if just with a hand on my heart, I’m creating safety from the inside out.
And slowly, my body began to shift. I stood a little taller. My breath came a little easier. I started to feel more here—more like myself, not just a reflection of who I thought I needed to be.
What Helped Me Begin
Sometimes, what rises first isn’t courage but grief. Grief for all the moments we didn’t speak, for the versions of ourselves that held it all inside. I had to learn to meet that grief gently, not as failure, but as evidence of how hard I was trying to stay safe.
This journey didn’t begin with confidence—it began with compassion.
Noticing the times I silenced myself with curiosity instead of shame.
Asking: What did I fear might happen if I spoke? What used to happen?
Placing a hand on my chest and saying gently, “You’re not bad for being quiet. You were trying to stay safe.”
And then, when I felt ready, experimenting with small expansions:
- Leaving a voice note for a friend instead of texting
- Telling someone “I need a moment to think” instead of rushing an answer
- Saying “I actually disagree” in a conversation where I normally would’ve nodded along
None of these were big leaps. But each one taught my nervous system a new truth: it’s safe to have a voice.
If You’ve Been Quiet Too
If you’re reading this and recognizing your own silence, I want you to know:
You’re not bad for going quiet. You were wise. Your nervous system was doing its best to keep you safe.
And if you’re beginning to feel the tug to speak—to take up a little more space, to say “no” or “I don’t know” or “I need a moment”—you can trust that too.
You don’t need to become loud or forceful. Reclaiming voice doesn’t mean overpowering anyone else. It just means including yourself. Honoring your truth. Letting your body exhale.
You are allowed to be heard. You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to unfold, one breath at a time.
Your voice is not a threat. It’s a bridge—back to yourself. Your silence once kept you safe. But now, your truth might set you free.
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How I Learned to Treat Myself Like Someone I Love
“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life.” ~J.K. Rowling
Most people who know me will say I am incredibly kind, loving, and empathetic. They know me as a safe person that they can share anything with and that I won’t judge. What they may not know is I am incredibly judgmental and unkind to myself.
When it comes to others, I see light and love. I see confusion and fear behind their misguided actions. I see mistakes as learning opportunities. For myself, I used to see…if I dare say it, a stupid girl who should know better and do better and be better.
That felt mean even to write. It is an odd combination to love and accept others so deeply but to not love myself in the same way. Sometimes I wonder if my ability to truly see others’ greatness, potential, and beauty is linked to the fact that I didn’t see my own—like perhaps I put all my energy into valuing others instead of directing some of it toward myself.
I’ve always wished I could treat myself with the same love I’ve extended to others, but instead, I set myself a different set of standards—ones that cannot be reached because they’re unrealistic. The path of no mistakes, no pain, and no suffering. The path where everything works out according to plan. My plan was always simple: try to do the right thing and follow the rules so I can stay in control.
So that’s what I did—played it safe and small in many life areas to avoid mistakes, conflict, and my own harsh judgment.
With friends, I kept quiet when I had different opinions. In romance, I tried to be easy and straightforward. At work, I took the most cautious route, determined to prove my worth before reaching for more. I did it “the right way”—thoughtful, careful, and safe.
So everything worked out according to plan, right? Wrong—that is not what happened. Because life never goes “to plan” for any of us.
Case in point: When a discussion with one of my closest friends ended in a disagreement, I felt a stab in my heart that led to a free fall of tears. It wasn’t the disagreement that hurt but the realization that I wasn’t being my true self with her and that, perhaps, she didn’t accept my true self.
This brought up feelings of abandonment. Was it safe to have a different opinion? Would I be pushed aside, or could I share what I believed to be true and still be loved?
I now know the pain I felt after her abandonment wasn’t just about our friendship ending; it was about all the times I’d abandoned myself. The times when I’d chosen someone else’s approval over my own and blamed myself when things didn’t work out instead of accepting that pain is inevitable in life—and it doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.
When my dream job went to someone else, I felt the sting of rejection and replayed everything I might have said or done wrong. I thought of all the reasons I wasn’t qualified and didn’t belong. Being such a harsh judge, I could see all the reasons they hadn’t chosen me, but not the reasons I was still worth choosing. Before I knew it, I agreed with their choice.
I chose to put other people’s feelings first—empathetically considering their perspective without considering my own.
This realization hit me hard during a therapy session. I was speaking about a time growing up when my family had to suddenly move and how hard this was for everyone, but I struggled to express how hard it was for me, quickly transitioning to the bigger picture.
I realized then that I needed to slow down and reflect on my own experiences and feelings in order to show myself the same compassion I so easily extended to others. It was no longer one or the other but both, and this wasn’t easy because it meant I had to sit with the pain of being my true self instead of covering it up.
I’d always blamed myself for everything that had gone wrong in my life because it gave me a sense of control. If I was the problem, I didn’t have to sit with the pain of life’s unpredictability.
In truth, I hated parts of myself and didn’t know why until recently. The quality I most despised was my insecurity. It led me to over-analyze my choices and compare myself to others instead of celebrating my own accomplishments. For example, when I was invited to teach a class in college, I turned it down, pretending to be sick, because I didn’t believe I was good enough.
Many of my struggles stemmed from my sensitive and creative nature. I was a sponge, soaking up every detail, seeing things from all perspectives. This gave me the gift to empathize and support others on a deep level, but it also led to overthinking and self-recrimination.
For example, in my twenties, I stayed in a relationship that didn’t feel right because I was scared and unsure of myself. When it ended badly, I blamed myself for not knowing better instead of recognizing that I couldn’t have known until I learned through experience.
The inability to love my true, whole self—including my faults and past experiences—was at its core an unwillingness to accept pain. It stunted my growth and led to suffering. It kept me small and stuck in repeating negative cycles of overthinking, comparison, and insecurity.
In therapy, in coaching groups, and in my writing, I began sharing the stories I’d once hidden in shame, and my inner hatred slowly disappeared.
I shared the many times I was confused about my own emotions and struggled to be kind to myself. With time, I began to see my own mistakes from a different lens—as the witness of my younger self rather than the judge. I felt different—like a closed door in my heart opened.
I was finally able to have compassion for myself when I started seeing myself as deserving of love and allowed to make mistakes—when I allowed myself to be human just like everyone else. I also began to understand that not everything that goes wrong is my fault, and I don’t have to beat myself up just because things don’t go “to plan.”
My friend shared a metaphor about turning a big rock upside down and how, underneath that rock, you’d find darkness, mud, and bugs scurrying around as they are exposed from their hiding place. That’s exactly what it feels like to me. Every time I share honestly and expose my heart, my fears, and the things I am ashamed of, I am left with the warm sun shining down, and those little pesky bugs disappearing.
I now know that I deserve love too, even though I am imperfect. I am still worthy—but I have to believe it. It took a lot of tears to get there. A lot of embarrassment and confusion. A lot of willingness and courage.
Reflecting on this reminded me of my strength and capacity to overcome hardships. Then another powerful realization occurred to me—I am powerful enough to get through any storm, and I wouldn’t trade this particular storm for anything in the world.
I wouldn’t trade the pain, the hardship, or the dark nights of learning to embrace myself for the perfect plan I originally wanted—because this is what connects our hearts to each other, and that means more to me than anything.
Recently, I received an email from a reader saying, “Thank you, and keep writing.” I sat in silence and cried.
I have always dreamed of someone saying that to me, but this time it was different. It was like I truly felt it in my heart. In that moment, I believed my words had value. I believed that I have value. My own heart finally had room for me too.
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How I Got Free from the Trap of Resentment
“Jerry, there is some bad in the best of people and some good in the worst of people. Look for the good!” ~George Chaky, my grandfather
I was seven when he said that to me. It would later become a guiding principle in my life.
My grandfather was twenty-one when he came to the US with his older brother, Andrew. Shortly afterward, he married Maria, my grandmother, and they had five children. William, the second youngest, died at the age of seven from an illness.
One year later they lost all of their savings during the Great Depression of 1929 when many banks closed. Two years afterward, my grandmother died from a stroke at the age of thirty-six.
As I grew older and learned about the many hardships my grandfather and family of origin had endured, his encouragement to look for the good in people would have a profound impact on me. It fueled a keen interest in trying to understand why people acted the way they did. In retrospect, it also had a lot to do with my becoming a therapist and author.
Easier Said Than Done
As a professional, I am able to objectively listen to my therapy clients’ stories with compassion and without judgment. However, in my personal life, I’ve often struggled to see the good in certain people, especially some elementary school teachers who physically and emotionally abused me and male peers who made fun of my small size.
In my youth I often felt humiliated, but not ashamed. I knew that for them to treat me that way, there must have been something wrong with them. But it still hurt.
I struggled with anger and resentment for many years. In my youth, I was taught that anger was a negative emotion. When I expressed it, certain teachers and my parents punished me. So, I stuffed the anger.
I Didn’t Know What I Didn’t Know
When I was twelve, I made a conscious decision to build walls to protect myself from being emotionally hurt. At the time, it was the best that I could do. Walls can give one a sense of safety, but walls also trap the pain inside and make it harder to trust and truly connect with others.
About that same time, I made a vow to myself that I frequently revisited: “When I get the hell out of this house and I am fortunate to have my own family, I will never talk to them the way my parents talked to each other and my sister and me.” I knew how I didn’t want to express my emotions, but I didn’t know how to do so in a positive and healthy manner.
Stuffing emotions is like squeezing a long, slender balloon and having the air, or anger, bulge in another place. In my late twenties, individual and couples counseling slowly helped me begin to recognize how much anger and resentment I had been carrying inside. They would occasionally leak out in the tone of my voice, often with those I wasn’t angry with, and a few times the anger came out in a frightening eruption.
“Resentment is the poison we pour for others that we drink ourselves.” ~Anonymous
I heard that phrase at a self-help group for families of alcoholics. After the meeting, I approached the person who shared it and said to her, “I never heard that before.” She smiled and replied, “I’ve shared that a number of times at meetings where you were present.” I responded, “I don’t doubt that, but I never heard it until tonight!”
The word “resentment” comes from the Latin re, meaning “again,” and sentire, meaning “to feel.” When we hold onto resentment, we continue to “feel again” or “re-feel” painful emotions. It’s like picking at a scab until it bleeds, reopening a wound.
Nowhere have I ever read that we should like being treated or spoken to unfairly. However, when we hold on to resentment, self-righteous indignation, or other uncomfortable emotions, it ties us to the past.
Holding onto resentment and grudges can also increase feelings of helplessness. Waiting for or expecting others to change gives them power over my thoughts and feelings. Many of those who I have held long-standing resentment for have died and yet can still have a hold on me.
When we let go of resentment, it frees us from much of the pain and discomfort. As author John E. Southard said, “The only people with whom you should try to get even with are those who have helped you.”
I’ve continued to learn how to set healthier and clearer boundaries without building walls. I’ve learned that I don’t have to accept unacceptable behavior from anyone, and I don’t have to go to every argument I am invited to, even if the argument is only inside my head.
Still, for a long time, despite making significant progress, periodically the anger and resentment would come flooding back. And the thought of forgiving certain people stuck in my craw.
When people would try to excuse others’ behavior with statements like “They were doing the best they knew how,” I’d say or think, “But they should never have become teachers” or “My sister and I had to grow up emotionally on our own!”
Forgiving Frees the Forgiver
For a long time now, I have started my day with the Serenity Prayer: (God) Grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. It has helped me try to focus on today and what I can control—how I think, feel, and act. Sometimes I get stuck, and all I can say is, “Help me let go of this anger.”
“When we forgive, we heal. When we let go, we grow.” ~Dalai Lama
I frequently hear the voices of many people who have helped, supported, and nourished me. I hear my wife’s late sister, MaryEllen, a Venerini nun, saying, “Jerry, the nuns treated you that way because that was the way they were probably treated by their superiors.” She validated my pain and planted another seed that slowly grew.
I’ve also heard that “hurt people hurt people.” At times, I would still lash out at innocent people when I was hurting. I desperately wanted to break this generational cycle. I’ve learned that I don’t have to wait for other people to change in order to feel better.
I am learning that everyone has a story, and I can practice forgiveness without excusing what they did or said.
Forgiving is not forgetting. Forgiving liberates me from the burden of resentment, helping me focus on connecting with supportive people and continuing to heal. Letting go of resentment cuts the ties that bind me to the past hurts. It helps me be present today where I can direct my time and energy toward living in the present instead of replaying old pain.
For the past year I have made a conscious effort to start each day by asking my Higher Power, whom I choose to call God, “Help me be grateful, kind, and compassionate to myself and others today and remember that everyone has their own struggles.” This has become one of the biggest turning points in my travels through life.
You Can’t Pour from an Empty Cup
I have learned that taking care of myself is one of the most effective ways to stop resentment from building up. When I neglect one or more of my needs over time, I’m quicker to snap, less patient, and more likely to take things personally. Who benefits from my self-neglect? Not me, and certainly not my spouse, children, coworkers, or others. When I am H.A.L.T. (hungry, angry, lonely or tired) or S.O.S. (stressed out severely), I usually don’t like being around me either.
Self-compassion also weakens resentment’s hold, making it easier to be compassionate with others. Remembering that we’re all works in progress helps me treat myself and others more gently.
I often think about my grandfather’s words, “Look for the good.” Self-care and self-compassion help me to see the good in myself as well as in others. I can dislike someone’s actions or tone of voice and also recognize they’re not really about me.
I actually have a Q-tip (representing “quit taking it personally”) taped on my desk to remind me that someone else’s actions or words are likely the result of their own struggles. It helps me to “catch myself,” and instead of taking things personally, I try to remember that everyone has a story.
Gratitude Puts Everything in Perspective
There are days when I am faced with great or even overwhelming challenges, when it would be easy to default to anger—with other people or with life itself. On those days, I might notice a beautiful sunrise or feel touched by the love and kindness of others. Practicing gratefulness helps me to see life as both difficult and good. It is like an emotional and spiritual savings account, building reserves that help me to be more resilient during the rough patches in life, even when I feel wronged.
Specifically focusing on what I am grateful for each day also helps me heal and gives me periods of serenity. It empowers me to try to approach my interactions with others in a warm and caring manner while respecting my and their personal boundaries, which keeps small misunderstandings from growing into resentment.
Gratefulness and compassion toward myself and others take practice. It’s not a one-and-done thing. It’s like learning any new skill—the more I practice, the more it becomes a positive habit and feels more like second nature.
Without repeated practice, old, undesirable thoughts and patterns can come back. When I neglect self-care, I am most vulnerable to quickly regress.
I also need to be vigilant when things seem to be going well within and around me. I can become overly confident, trying to coast along and slack off from practicing gratitude and compassion.
I have been unlearning many things that no longer work for me. I have unlearned “Practice makes perfect,” replacing it with “Practice makes progress, and I will do my best to continue to learn, grow, and be grateful, one day at a time.”
I don’t always get it right, but every time I choose compassion, understanding, or gratitude over resentment, I am more at peace and more connected to everyone around me.
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I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself
“The only people who get upset when you set boundaries are the ones who benefited from you having none.” ~Unknown
For most of my life, I lived with a quiet ache, a longing I couldn’t quite name but always felt. I wanted to be chosen. Not just liked or tolerated, but fully seen, wanted, and loved.
That longing shaped so many of my choices. I over-gave in relationships, staying in situations far longer than I should have, and shrank myself to be accepted.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was trying to fill an emptiness that had started years before, an emptiness born in silence and absence, in words left unsaid and emotions left unacknowledged.
You see, I grew up in a household that looked stable from the outside when, in reality, the opposite was the case.
My father was a brilliant and accomplished professor but emotionally unreachable. He was a provider, but not someone I could run to, laugh with, or open to. Our conversations rarely went beyond school and grades—never “How are you feeling?” or “What’s on your heart?”
Affection wasn’t part of the language we spoke at home. I learned early that performance was prized, but vulnerability was not. That I had to know things without asking, succeed without stumbling, and carry weight without complaint.
As a child, you don’t have the language for the emotional neglect that comes as a result of this, but you feel it in your body. You sense the void.
Even before I could articulate words, I felt more comfortable with paper than with people. I didn’t speak until I was four and carried a piece of paper everywhere I went, using it to express what I couldn’t say out loud.
Writing became my voice before I had one. But even that was dismissed. My father didn’t see value in it. And so, the message was reinforced again: What I loved didn’t matter. Who I was wasn’t enough.
And over time, I internalized that belief. I carried it into my teenage years and well into adulthood, thinking love had to be earned through sacrifice or silence.
I struggled with setting boundaries because I didn’t want to be “too much” and drive people away. I mistook people-pleasing for kindness, over-accommodation for loyalty, and emotional exhaustion for love.
My longing for connection often led me into relationships where I gave more than I received. I wanted so badly to be seen, to feel chosen, to matter to someone in the ways I never felt I did growing up.
But the more I sought love externally, the more disconnected I became from myself. My self-worth was tangled in how others treated me, how well I performed, how little I complained, and how much I could endure.
One of the most defining relationships of my life culminated in an engagement. At the time, it felt like a dream come true. Here was this successful, handsome man who made six figures and stood over six feet tall. And he chose me. He was also spiritual and into meditation, something I had been exploring with the Buddhists, so I felt this deep alignment with him. It felt like a sign that maybe I was finally enough to be loved fully.
But in hindsight, that relationship mirrored all the unresolved wounds I hadn’t yet faced. Without realizing it, I had found someone who was essentially my father, an engineer, emotionally unavailable, with a temper and narcissistic tendencies. I was literally about to marry my father. When it ended in 2014, it left me feeling like I had failed, not just in love, but in my identity.
I didn’t realize it then, but the engagement wasn’t just a romantic loss; it was the collapse of the illusion I had built to protect myself.
Prior to the engagement, I had already spent years performing at work, in friendships, and in love. The little girl who once ached to be seen had grown into a woman who poured herself into everything and everyone, just to feel worthy of being chosen.
At work, I became a relentless overachiever. I tied my value to performance, convinced that if I exceeded expectations, my bosses, my colleagues, anyone would have no choice but to love me. I wasn’t just doing my job; I was doing the most, all the time. Not from ambition, but from a quiet desperation.
But overgiving didn’t bring admiration; it brought disrespect. I ended up with bosses who were bullies. I remember one vividly. I had worked hard on a project with a team, believing it would finally earn his approval. He looked at it once, then threw it in the trash right in front of me.
Still, I stayed. Still, I tried harder. Still, I chased the validation that never came. Because deep down, I thought I had to earn love. That if I just proved myself enough, someone would finally say, “You’re worth it.”
It wasn’t just at work. In friendships, I bent myself backwards to belong. I mirrored the habits of others just to stay close. If they drank, I drank. If they were into something I didn’t enjoy, I pretended to love it.
I mistook blending in for bonding. I didn’t know that a healthy connection doesn’t require self-erasure.
And in romantic relationships? The pattern deepened.
The first guy I dated was vulnerable, open, willing to truly see me. But I couldn’t handle it. His tenderness felt foreign, uncomfortable even.
Because I’d never known that kind of love. I didn’t think I deserved it. I told myself I wanted someone “edgier,” but the truth was, I was more familiar with emotional unavailability than emotional safety.
And so, I gravitated toward men who couldn’t love me well. Men who ignored me, mistreated me, made me feel small. I shrank to fit their needs.
I became who I thought they wanted—changing my interests, compromising my values, giving all of myself just to be chosen. And I settled. I accepted crumbs and called it a connection.
There was Matt, someone I’d known in college as a friend. When we started dating later, I thought maybe this was it. But he’d spend time talking about the women he found attractive right in front of me.
And Dustin, I paid for his flight to come see me when I lived in Texas. Even paid for a coach to help him find a better job. Not because I had to, but because somewhere inside, I believed that love could be bought.
After all, that’s what I had learned. My father gave gifts, not affection. Money, not presence. So I repeated the pattern, hoping financial sacrifice would lead to emotional intimacy.
I slept with men who didn’t care for me. I stayed with partners who didn’t choose me. I even cheated, sometimes with men who were already in other relationships because if they were willing to risk what they had for me, then maybe I mattered. Maybe I was special.
But the truth is, I was still that little girl with the paper in her hand, trying to speak a language no one around her understood. Still aching to be seen. Still hoping someone would say, “You are enough.”
These pains would then become the very ground where the seeds of transformation would be planted.
But healing didn’t come all at once. It came quietly, slowly.
At first, I didn’t know where to start. All I knew was that something had to change. I was tired of feeling stuck in the same cycle, repeating the same patterns, and finding myself in relationships that only brought more hurt.
I knew I needed space to figure out why I kept choosing unhealthy relationships and why I was drawn to people who couldn’t truly love me.
In early April of 2015, I made one of the hardest phone calls of my life. I called my mom to tell her I needed a break. None of us were familiar with boundaries back then, but I knew I had to find myself outside of my family’s influence. We both cried on that call. I couldn’t give her a timeframe as I had no idea how long this would take.
My dad didn’t take it well. Shortly after, he left me a voicemail, convinced I’d joined some kind of cult. He felt like I was turning my back on him. For almost two years, I kept my distance. I’d send cards on holidays, but I didn’t call or text. I needed that space to heal.
The first move I made was joining a twelve-step program aimed at breaking free from addiction. That’s where I met Gina. She became more than just a mentor, a guide.
She helped me dig deeper into the underlying issues I hadn’t acknowledged before. I also cut ties with people I thought were my friends because I realized they didn’t genuinely care about me. Instead, I slowly started building healthier relationships.
A big part of my journey was introspection. I started asking myself the hard questions:
Why do I keep picking unavailable men?
Why do I keep repeating the same toxic patterns?
What does a healthy relationship even look like?
It was uncomfortable, but I knew I had to figure out why I was drawn to those situations and how I could change. I wanted to understand my own behaviors and patterns so I could break free from the cycle.
I went to therapy, tried acupuncture to help me sleep, and even explored Buddhism to find some inner peace. I attended a Methodist church, hoping to reconnect with a sense of faith and community.
Showing up to these places on my own without the crutch of a friend or a partner was a huge step for me. I began to realize the strength in simply being present and curious on my own.
I also started exploring concepts that would change my perspective on relationships entirely. Someone introduced me to attachment theory and trauma bonding, and it was like a light bulb went off. Suddenly, I had names for the patterns I was trapped in.
I learned that I was “avoidant”—someone so terrified of being truly known because deep down, I didn’t believe I had anything worthwhile to offer. Yet I kept gravitating toward people who were emotionally withdrawn, just like my father. I had to chase them for any scrap of affection or attention. Later, I discovered this was called trauma bonding, where you develop feelings and loyalty toward someone who’s treating you poorly. It was a revelation that both devastated and freed me.
I read books by Brené Brown, went on retreats, and soaked up as much knowledge as I could. I was desperate to understand myself, so I kept asking questions, taking notes, and allowing myself to be vulnerable in safe spaces.
One of the biggest breakthroughs came when I realized how much anger I was holding onto. I remember a conversation with my mom. I was so angry that she kept trying to fix me or give me advice when all I needed was to just be. She’d send me books on anger management, text me inspirational quotes, or tell me what she thought was best for me. Every gesture felt like another reminder that who I was wasn’t enough.
That’s when it hit me: I didn’t just hate the advice. I was angry at myself, at my own patterns, at feeling stuck. I knew I couldn’t keep living like that, so I chose to take a two-year break from my family to sort through those emotions.
I wanted to connect with people not out of guilt or obligation, but because I genuinely wanted to be around them.
The shift was gradual, but I started to see progress when I could attend community events alone, like the Buddhism gatherings or church services. Those first few times, I felt terrified and hesitant, questioning whether I belonged there. But once I actually showed up, something shifted. I felt empowered in a way I’d never experienced before.
I was finally showing up as myself, not performing or trying to be what I thought others wanted. I was vulnerable and honest about when I wasn’t okay, and that honesty was freeing.
I came to terms with my relationship with my dad by forgiving him. I used to carry so much resentment, but I learned to see him for who he was, not who I wished he would be.
The full forgiveness came years later when I started my own relationship coaching business. I realized that without his emotional unavailability, without all that pain he caused, I wouldn’t have been driven to dig so deeply into my own wounds. In a strange way, he helped me find my calling and ironically, he hates that I’m a relationship coach now. There’s something deeply satisfying about finally being my own person. Since I’ve learned to accept myself, I can accept and forgive him fully. Acceptance didn’t mean agreeing or condoning his behavior, but it allowed me to let go of the hurt.
I could be around him without the weight of past pain.
Healing didn’t mean I stopped making mistakes, but I’ve learned to choose myself, to honor my feelings without needing validation from others.
And if you’re reading this, I want you to know: Healing is messy and nonlinear, but it’s worth it. You don’t have to perform for love. You don’t have to prove your worth. You just have to start slowly, with the smallest act of truth.
For me, that act of truth—what Martha Beck calls “the way to integrity” was the simple but profound realization that I didn’t have to earn love from my dad, my teachers, my bosses, or anyone else. I was worthy of love just by being me. What a relief that was.
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The Lie of Packaged Healing and the Truth About Feeling
“Emotions are not problems to be solved. They are signals to be felt.” ~Vironika Tugaleva
We’ve been taught to package our emotions like fast food—served quick, tidy, and with a smile. Americanized feelings. Digestible. Non-threatening. Always paired with productivity.
If you’re sad, journal it. If you’re angry, regulate it. If you’re overwhelmed, fix it with a three-step plan and a green juice. And if that doesn’t work? Try again. You probably missed a step.
This is how we sell emotional healing in the West—marketed like a self-improvement product. Seven-minute abs. Seven habits. Five love languages. Follow the formula. Find the peace.
But what if the formula is the lie?
As a mental health therapist, I’ve lived it on both sides. I’ve sat in the client chair, feeling broken because my sadness didn’t resolve after enough gratitude lists. And I’ve sat across from clients who whisper their grief like a confession, wondering what they did wrong because they still feel something.
They aren’t doing it wrong. They’re just human.
Healing isn’t about “doing” our feelings. It’s about learning how to actually feel them—without the compulsion to justify them or translate them into something useful.
You owe no explanation for your feelings.
And still, even knowing that, I get caught in it too.
I, too, am a product of this culture—a place where feelings are only tolerated when packaged properly. Not too loud. Not too long. Preferably resolved by morning.
Because of that, there are days I feel a deep aloneness. But I’ve come to realize the aloneness isn’t a flaw—it’s a longing. A longing to be witnessed in the fullness of my humanity. Not fixed. Not analyzed. Just seen.
I don’t need validation. I don’t want to defend how I feel. I just want space. Presence. Room to let the feeling pass through me.
The loneliness reminds me how deeply I’ve been shaped by a culture that fears emotions unless they come with an action plan.
So I’ve learned to hide mine from most people—not because I’m ashamed, but because they’re afraid. People are afraid of their own feelings, so of course they’ll fear the vulnerability of mine. Most people in this country don’t know what to do with real feelings. And the doing has become the problem.
That fear of being too much or too messy is rooted deep not only in American culture but also me.
That part inside me judges the part of me that feels sadness at times. She calls it weakness. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. She believes that if she can shame that part, a much younger, more authentic part that lives inside me, she won’t risk being shamed by others.
I’m sure many other Americans have this exact same part inside them as well.
We have to be tough, suck it up—whatever that even means.
The part of me that gets sad. The part that gets afraid. The part that feels lonely. These are parts I exiled long ago. But I am beginning to bring them home to me. The parts that are terrified of taking up space. They don’t know yet how precious they are.
They’re not just tender. They’re wise. They’re the intuitive, empathetic, deeply alive parts of me. The parts our culture has spent countless centuries trying to forget.
But I won’t forget those parts. Not anymore.
I speak to them now, with clarity and compassion. I tell them: You are allowed to feel without defending it. You are allowed to take up space without apologizing for the weight of your truth. Expand. Don’t shrink.
The sad one. The scared one. The one who wants to hide. The one who’s learning to stay. Even the critic. They can all exist inside me—side by side—without contradiction. Without shame. Without needing to explain themselves to anyone.
I will no longer betray them because others betray their own parts and project their self-betrayal onto me.
There’s a whole galaxy inside me, and there’s a whole galaxy inside of you. Of course no one else will fully understand it.
What matters is that I do.
And I’m learning… I’m not here to be understood. I’m here to simply be me—and to allow all that resides in me to be, too.
And maybe you are, too.
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The Hidden Link Between Self-Rejection and Social Anxiety
“True belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world. Our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.” ~Brené Brown
Last year over lunch, my friend, Jess, confessed something to me that hit me right in my gut because I’d been there too—that exact same lie, that exact same fear.
Out of nowhere, she blurted out, “I need to cancel.”
“Cancel what?” I asked.
She burst into tears. “I RSVPed yes to Jen’s wedding months ago, but it’s this weekend, and I just… I can’t do it.”
As she sobbed, she confessed she’d already crafted a text message claiming food poisoning. The wedding was for her best friend since college, and she was bailing—not because of an emergency, but because she was terrified of being judged by the other guests.
My stomach dropped. Not because I was shocked, but because I saw myself in her confession.
Back in 2012, I’d done exactly the same thing. My cousin, who I’d grown up with—shared a bedroom with during family vacations, passed notes with during boring family dinners—was getting married. And I…just couldn’t make myself go.
I still get a sick feeling remembering it. Me, twenty-nine years old, sitting fully dressed on my bed at 3:42 p.m., staring at the invitation that had been on my fridge for months. The wedding started at 4:30. It was a twenty-five-minute drive. And I was frozen, literally nauseous with anxiety.
What if the small talk was unbearable? What if my ex was there with his new girlfriend? What if people noticed I’d put on weight since Christmas? What if, what if, what if…
I texted my cousin claiming a 102-degree fever. Then I ordered pizza, watched Netflix, and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest.
Yeah. Easier to stay home where it felt “safe.”
The Painful Paradox
Working through my own social anxiety mess, plus helping others with the same struggle over the years, has taught me something that blew my mind when I first realized it:
We reject ourselves BEFORE anyone else gets the chance.
Let me explain.
We think our social anxiety comes from being afraid of other people’s judgment. But that’s not quite it. We’re actually afraid they’ll confirm the crappy things we already think about ourselves.
When I bailed on that wedding, I wasn’t really worried about what my family would think. I was worried they’d see the “truth” I already believed: that I wasn’t interesting enough, put-together enough, or worthy enough to belong there.
So instead of risking that pain, I chose a different pain—isolation. I projected my own harsh self-judgment onto everyone else, assuming they’d see me the same way.
Talk about a messed-up strategy! By “protecting” myself from potential rejection, I guaranteed rejection by rejecting myself first. And worse, I created real-world “evidence” that I didn’t belong, which only fed my insecurities.
My friend was caught in the same trap. She didn’t actually know she’d be judged at the wedding. But she was so convinced of her own unworthiness that she assumed everyone else would see it too.
The Lightbulb Moment That Changed Everything
For most of my life, I brushed off my social anxiety as “just being an introvert.” Convenient label, right? Helped me avoid admitting I was actually terrified.
Then my friend Kayla—who has zero filter—called me out over coffee.
“Sandy,” she said, eyeing me over her mug, “you realize you spend like 90% of your energy imagining what people think about you and maybe 10% actually finding out?”
I almost choked on my latte. Ouch.
That night, I grabbed an old journal and started tracking my thoughts before social events. Holy crap. I was spending HOURS in mental gymnastics:
- Rehearsing conversations that might never happen
- Coming up with witty responses to imagined criticisms
- Planning defenses to judgments nobody had actually made
- Obsessing over outfit choices to avoid potential comments
I’d exhausted myself before even leaving the house! And the worst part? I was playing both roles in these imaginary scenarios—both the harsh judge AND the person being judged.
Talk about a rigged game.
So I decided to try something radical. My neighbor was having a dinner party that weekend. Instead of my usual mental prep work, I made myself a promise: just show up as-is. Not as the “entertaining Sandy” or the “impressive Sandy” or any other version. Just… me.
I won’t lie—I almost bailed three times that day. But I went. And without all the usual self-judgment noise in my head, something weird happened. I actually listened when people talked instead of planning my next clever comment. Conversations felt easier. I laughed more.
Afterward, my neighbor texted, “Thanks for coming! Loved our talk about your trip to Maine—we should grab coffee sometime.”
Wait, what? I hadn’t rehearsed the Maine story. That was just me rambling about something I loved. And she… liked it?
This tiny experience punched a hole in my belief system. Maybe, just maybe, people could like the actual me—not some carefully curated version I thought I needed to be.
Getting to Know the Real You
So here’s what I’ve figured out: the way through social anxiety isn’t becoming better at small talk or forcing yourself into uncomfortable situations. It’s about getting to know yourself—the real you under all that fear and protective armor.
When you actually know and like yourself, other people’s opinions just don’t matter as much. You develop a kind of internal anchor that keeps you steady even when social waters get choppy.
This journey toward knowing yourself isn’t always Instagram-worthy. It’s messy. But here’s what’s worked for me.
1. Catch yourself in self-rejection mode.
Start noticing when you back out of things because you’re afraid of judgment. Ask yourself, “Am I rejecting myself before even giving others a chance to accept me?”
Last month, I almost skipped a reunion with friends from high school because “no one would remember me anyway.” Classic self-rejection! Naming it helped me pause and reconsider.
2. Question your core beliefs.
Where did you get the idea that you’re not enough? Most of us are carrying around beliefs we formed as awkward thirteen-year-olds! Some of mine were:
- “I’m boring unless I’m entertaining people.”
- “People only like me when I help them with something.”
- “If I show my real feelings, people will think I’m too much.”
Once you identify these beliefs, you can start collecting evidence that challenges them. My friend who missed the wedding realized her core belief was “I don’t belong in celebrations.” We traced it back to an eighth-grade birthday party disaster!
3. Talk to yourself like you’re not a jerk.
I used to have a running commentary in my head that I would NEVER say to another human being. “You’re so awkward. Why did you say that? Everyone’s just tolerating you.”
Learning to speak to myself with basic decency was life-changing. When I feel anxious now, I’ll literally put my hand on my heart and say, “This is hard. Lots of people feel this way. How can I support myself right now?”
Cheesy? Maybe. But it works.
4. Baby steps, not cliff jumps.
Recovery doesn’t mean immediately diving into your scariest social situation. That’s like trying to run a marathon when you’ve never jogged around the block.
Start small. Maybe it’s:
- Coffee with one friend instead of a group
- A thirty-minute appearance at a party with permission to leave
- A class where the focus isn’t on socializing but on a shared interest
Each small win builds evidence against your “I don’t belong” belief system.
5. Create a self-connection practice.
You need regular check-ins with yourself to quiet the noise of imagined expectations and reconnect with who you really are.
For me, it’s morning journaling with coffee before anyone else is awake. For my friend, it’s painting terrible watercolors that no one will ever see. Find what helps you hear your own voice clearly.
Even four minutes of intentional self-connection can begin rebuilding your relationship with yourself. (Trust me, I’ve timed it!)
My Cousin’s Do-Over
Life can be weirdly generous sometimes. Three years after I missed my cousin’s first wedding, she got remarried (to the same guy—they’d eloped after family drama with the first ceremony, then decided to have a proper celebration later).
When the invitation arrived, my palms instantly got sweaty. Here was my chance to do things differently, but the old fear came roaring back.
This time though, I had new tools. Instead of spiraling into “what-ifs,” I asked myself, “What if I just showed up as myself? What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the best?”
I felt the fear—it didn’t magically disappear—but I didn’t let it make my decision. I focused on how much I loved my cousin and how I’d regretted missing her first celebration.
Was the wedding perfect? Nope. I spilled red wine on my dress within the first hour. I got stuck in an awkward conversation about politics with my uncle. I still felt twinges of “I don’t belong here” at times.
But I stayed. I danced badly to the Cha-Cha Slide. I ate cake.
And at one point, my cousin grabbed my hands and said, “I’m so glad you made it this time, Sandy.” The genuine joy in her eyes hit me harder than any anxiety ever could.
Sometimes showing up is enough.
The Gift of Just Being You
For most of my life, I thought social anxiety was just “how I was wired”—some unchangeable part of my personality. But turns out, it wasn’t about who I am. It was about how I’d learned to treat myself.
When I began treating myself with a fraction of the kindness I’d show to a friend, things shifted. Not overnight. Not perfectly. But genuinely.
The less I needed external validation, the more comfortable I became in my own skin. And weirdly, the more authentic connections I started making.
Look, I still get nervous before big social events. I still sometimes catch myself falling into the old mental prep work. But now I can laugh at it and gently redirect.
If you’re someone who tends to hide rather than show up, please hear this:
- The judgment you’re so afraid of is often coming from YOU first.
- By rejecting yourself, you deny others the chance to know the real you (and trust me, the real you is actually pretty great).
- The more you practice showing up authentically, the easier it gets.
Your presence—your real, unfiltered, sometimes-awkward presence—is worth sharing. Don’t let your harsh inner critic rob the world of your unique perspective and energy.
Maybe the greatest plot twist in this whole story is this: When I stopped trying so hard to be someone I thought others would accept and started accepting myself instead, I finally found the belonging I’d been searching for all along.
Funny how that works.
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The Small, Simple Acts That Shifted Me Out of Survival Mode
“True healing is not a straight line. It is a spiral. You come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.” ~Barry H. Gillespie
I used to believe healing would be obvious. Like a movie montage of breakthroughs… laughter through tears, epiphanies in therapy, and early morning jogs that end with a sunrise and a changed life. But that’s not what healing looked like for me.
It looked like dragging myself out of bed with puffy eyes after staying up too late crying. It looked like brushing my teeth when everything in me whispered, “Why bother?” It looked like answering a text when I didn’t feel lovable or worth responding to.
Healing, I’ve learned, is quieter than I expected. It’s not a climax. It’s a practice.
Three years ago, I hit what I can only describe as emotional gridlock. I wasn’t in crisis, at least not the kind that gets dramatic music. I was in the kind that feels like cement. I was tired all the time. My fuse was short. I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating regularly, and the woman in the mirror didn’t look like someone I recognized anymore.
If you had asked me what was wrong, I wouldn’t have had an answer. It wasn’t a single event. It was a slow erosion of self, life chipping away piece by piece until I felt like a ghost of who I used to be.
One night, after snapping at my kids over something insignificant and crying in the shower, I sat on the edge of my bed and thought: I don’t want to live like this anymore.
Not “I want to disappear.” Not “I want to run away.” But this version of life, the one that felt like survival mode on loop, had to change.
So, I did something radical:
I took one deep breath. I unclenched my jaw. I drank a glass of water.
And that was day one.
There was no fanfare. No overnight shift. Just a decision to start with what I could reach: my breath, my body, the next kind choice.
The next morning, I made breakfast. Not for anyone else, just for me. Eggs and spinach. It sounds small, but it felt like reclaiming something. I was so used to skipping meals or eating standing up like my needs were interruptions.
That day, I walked around the block after lunch instead of scrolling. It wasn’t even a workout. I didn’t track it. But the sun hit my shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, I felt here.
That walk was healing.
So was every moment I chose presence over performance.
I started keeping a mental list of all the tiny things I did in a day that felt like medicine. A bath instead of another task. A journal entry that made no sense but helped me feel less like I might explode. Drinking water before coffee. Asking myself “What do I need?” and then actually listening for the answer.
Sometimes the answer was a nap. Sometimes it was a good cry with no rush to wipe my face. Sometimes it was texting a friend and saying, “I’m not okay right now,” even when I worried I might sound dramatic.
And sometimes, the answer was just silence.
Letting myself be… without the need to improve, perform, or explain.
Over the next year, healing became a practice of showing up differently.
Not dramatically.
Consistently.
I started listening to my body instead of overriding it. I rested when I needed to instead of proving I could push through. I said no even when my people-pleasing screamed at me to just say yes and make it easier for everyone else.
And the thing about consistency? It’s boring. It doesn’t get applause. But it works.
Healing is in the repetition of small kindnesses to yourself. The boring, brave acts of resistance against self-neglect.
It wasn’t linear, either. I fell back into old patterns. I had days where I numbed out with my phone, skipped meals, and snapped at everyone in the house. But I stopped making those days mean that I was back at square one.
You can fall down and still be healing.
You can feel stuck and still be progressing.
One of the most freeing things I ever learned was that healing isn’t a destination you arrive at. It’s a relationship you build with yourself. One rooted in trust.
And trust is earned in the small, quiet moments.
What I didn’t know then, but deeply understand now, is that our nervous systems aren’t waiting for one massive overhaul. They’re waiting for safety, predictability, and care. You rebuild your sense of self the same way you build trust with another person: One consistent action at a time.
It’s brushing your hair instead of pulling it up in frustration. It’s putting your phone down and drinking tea. It’s crying when the tears come instead of swallowing them down.
These things don’t look revolutionary. But they are. Because every small act of care tells your body and mind, “You matter. I’m here. I’ve got you now.”
I remember one day vividly.
It was pouring rain. My toddler had just thrown oatmeal across the room. I was already touched out, overstimulated, and dangerously close to tears. My instinct was to throw the day away, to turn on cartoons and pour coffee over my anxiety and call it survival.
But instead, I sat on the floor. I scooped my screaming child into my lap, pressed my forehead to his, and whispered, “We’re okay. We’re safe.”
I took a breath. Then another. And something in me softened.
That moment didn’t fix my life. But it reminded me of my power. That was healing, too.
If you’re in a season where everything feels off, where you feel numb or exhausted or like the spark you used to have is buried under obligation, I want you to know this:
You don’t need a ten-step plan. You need one small thing you can do today that feels like care.
A breath. A meal. A walk. A text to someone safe. A cry you’ve been holding in.
That is healing. Not a dramatic rebirth, but a quiet reweaving of yourself, thread by sacred thread.
A Few Things That Helped Me
- Lower the bar. Healing isn’t about being your best self every day. Some days it’s just about not abandoning yourself. Start there.
- Romanticize the boring. Light the candle. Make the tea. Put on the cozy socks. Small rituals matter. They remind you that your life is worth living even when it’s messy.
- Give yourself credit. Every time you choose presence over autopilot, you’re rewiring something. That’s no small thing.
- Befriend your body. It’s not broken. It’s responding to years of survival. Treat it like a loyal companion, not a machine that’s malfunctioning.
- Talk to yourself like someone you love. When you mess up. When you overreact. When you don’t meet your own expectations. Especially then.
- Keep showing up. Even if it’s not glamorous. Especially when it’s not.
You won’t always feel the shift. But you’ll wake up one day and realize: you’re softer. Kinder. Less reactive. More you.
That’s what healing does.
Quietly. Faithfully. Cell by cell.
