Want to Eat Healthier and Feel Better on Your Skin?

Would you say you’re a healthy eater? If not, is this a goal for you?

For years, people thought of me as healthy because I rarely ate meat or desserts. But it was more that I was desperate to stay thin, and I consumed tons of processed food and sugary candy because I could eat them without gaining weight.

Now that I’m older, and especially since I have children, I’m much more conscious of what I eat. I want to actually nourish my body so I can keep up with them for years to come, and I hope to make 100 trips around the sun before I leave this earth.

But healthy eating can be exhausting. Figuring out who to believe and what to eat… finding time to cook more than the old standbys… resisting the urge to DoorDash something tasty and prepared by someone else…

I struggle with all of this sometimes. And I fantasize about one day having the time in my schedule to learn to cook simple, healthy meals that actually taste good.

But maybe I don’t need to wait years for some perfect moment—maybe I just need a little Jules Clancy in my life. And maybe you do too.

Jules was also one of Tiny Buddha’s earliest contributors, so I’m always happy to share her work and what she’s creating now as a food scientist turned cooking coach.

Full disclosure: Jules is sponsoring this email, but I’m sharing it because I genuinely appreciate her approach and the helpful programs she creates.

Her latest offering is especially compelling to me, and I think it might call to you too:

It’s called ​Joyful Cooking for Natural Vitality​—and you can try it for just $1 for 21 days. ($1!)

This is a six-month coaching program designed to help you replace harmful food habits with better ones and learn how to cook simple, healthy meals without relying on recipes, using whatever you have in your fridge.

The goal isn’t just to “eat healthier.” It’s to make it easier to eat in a way that helps you feel better in your body—more energy, fewer cravings, clearer thinking, and that calmer, steadier feeling that makes life feel more manageable.

I especially appreciate her focus on gut health. This term wasn’t really on my radar until recently, but I now understand that gut health is crucial for immunity, disease prevention, and mental health. It’s one of those things that affects everything—energy, mood, cravings, inflammation—and a lot of us are walking around feeling off without realizing food habits are a big part of it.

After Joyful Cooking for Natural Vitality You’ll:

✓ Have tiny habits that support lifelong vitality (so you take good care of yourself even when life gets busy).

✓ Pull together delicious nourishing meals WITHOUT recipes

✓ Actually WANT to cook healthy meals(even after terrible days)

✓ Feel better about how you look and how you feel in your clothes

QUICK DETAILS

Program Start Date: Feb 5^th, 2026

Duration: 6 months 

Time Investment: 20-minute weekly zoom calls (replays available)

Investment: $1 trial for 21-days then monthly payments of $49

BONUS: Buy-one-get two memberships FREE Dietary Requirements: suits all dietary needs 

Tiny Buddha Exclusive Discount: Save 10% use code TINYBUDDHA at check out 

If this sounds like something you’d love support with, here’s the page to read more and watch the free class:

​https://lp.thestonesoup.com/jc26/​

I firmly believe that every goal we set in life is more attainable if we’re physically and mentally strong. That starts with what we put in our bodies. It’s much easier to choose the good stuff when it’s simple and repeatable enough to become second nature.

Jules’ program can help you do just that.

If you decide to give it a try, I’d love to know how it works for you.

One last thing! Here’s a quick testimonial from a former member: “This feels like cooking FREEDOM. I’ve hated cooking my whole life. Now I LOVE being able to make something up on the fly without looking at a recipe.”

Don’t forget to use your exclusive discount code TINYBUDDHA for 10% off! You can ​learn more here​. 

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About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She started the site after struggling with depression, bulimia, c-PTSD, and toxic shame so she could recycle her former pain into something useful and inspire others to do the same. You can find her books, including Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and Tiny Buddha’s Worry Journal, here and learn more about her eCourse, Recreate Your Life Story, if you’re ready to transform your life and become the person you want to be.

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AI Helped Me Sound “Better” and Feel Worse

It was close to midnight the first time it really hit me.

I was sitting alone at my kitchen table, still in work clothes, phone in hand. I’d come straight home after a long day of back-to-back meetings, staff conversations, and one decision I’d been avoiding for weeks—a call that would affect someone’s role, their income, and their sense of security. By the time I got home, I was too wired to sleep and too tired to change.

The house was quiet.

On the screen was a chat window.

Not with a friend. Not with a therapist. With an AI.

I’d just typed out a long, messy paragraph about a staff issue, the weight of leadership, and the guilt of feeling utterly drained when my job is literally about caring for others.

“I feel like I’m failing everyone,” I wrote.

Within seconds, the reply appeared: calm, validating, beautifully worded.

“It’s understandable that you feel this way given the emotional load you’re carrying…”

Something in me relaxed. Something in me hollowed out.

Because during the day, I run a large mental health service. I’m the person others come to when they’re overwhelmed, scared, or stuck. I’m supposed to be the one who knows what to do, who can hold complexity without flinching.

But that night, I realized I’d quietly handed my own inner life over to a machine.

Not dramatically. Just one exhausted conversation at a time.

When “Help” Starts to Replace “Self”

From my vantage point, I see a strange double life playing out.

In meetings, casual conversations, and WhatsApp chats, I hear people say things like:

“I wrote my message in AI first so I didn’t sound too emotional.”
“I checked with a chatbot if I was overreacting before I replied.”
“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to it than to anyone else.”

Leaders, colleagues, friends, we’re all quietly doing the same thing.

We turn to AI to:

• Find the “right” tone so we don’t upset anyone
  • Make our feelings sound reasonable, not “too much”
  • Get quick answers when we’re too tired to sit with questions

It’s not evil. It’s not weak. It’s human to want reassurance, comfort, and confirmation that we’re doing the right thing.

But as I watched this pattern in people around me and then caught it in myself at midnight in my kitchen, I had to face something uncomfortable:

In trying to hold everyone else together, I’d stopped knowing what to do with my own feelings.

AI hadn’t created that problem. It had just made it easier not to notice it.

The Pattern I Couldn’t Unsee

Once I saw it, I started noticing the same theme again and again.

A manager used AI to soften a piece of honest feedback so it sounded “less disappointed.”

A friend used it to rehearse telling their co-founder they were burning out and couldn’t keep working at the same pace.

Someone else, a senior clinician I work with, used it to draft a message to me because they were terrified of saying the wrong thing about their workload and feared it might come across as ungrateful or unprofessional.

Underneath all of these moments was the same quiet fear:

“If I say it how I really feel, I might lose something—respect, connection, my job, my relationship.”

So we hand our words to a system that never flinches, never blushes, never gets triggered. It gives us back something smoother, kinder, more balanced.

And slowly, almost invisibly, we start to trust that more than we trust ourselves.

The more I saw this in others, the more I had to admit:

I had been doing the same thing with my own life, not for days or weeks, but for years. Each time I chose polish over honesty, regulation over truth, I moved a little further away from myself. Over time, it left me clearer in my head but increasingly disconnected from my body, my instincts, and my sense of what I actually wanted.

The Night My Friend Asked What I Was Avoiding

One evening, after a particularly heavy week, I was on a call with a close friend.

We often talk about the chaos of building things that matter, team issues, cash flow, complicated decisions, and the emotional hangover of responsibility.

I did my usual summary:

“It’s been a big week, but it comes with the territory. We’re growing, and it’s a privilege, and I’m grateful…”

He was quiet for a moment and then said:

“That all sounds very polished. How are you actually?”

I paused.

My first instinct was to give a tidy, measured answer, the kind that sounds good on a podcast or in an email newsletter.

Instead, I noticed my mind reaching for familiar phrases I’d seen on screens:

“It’s understandable that I feel…”
“On the one hand… on the other hand…”
“A more balanced view would be…”

They sounded wise. They did not feel true.

For a few seconds, I couldn’t actually find my own words.

I had become so used to expressing myself in careful, well-regulated language—for staff, for partners, for stakeholders—that I’d almost forgotten how to speak as a person, not as a role.

I couldn’t blame AI for that. But it had certainly helped me avoid noticing it.

That conversation left me with a simple, unsettling question:

When did I stop trusting my own voice?

What I Was Really Afraid Of

When I finally stopped long enough to listen underneath the polished language, I found a very simple fear:

“If I let myself be fully honest, everything might fall apart.”

If I admit that I sometimes feel overwhelmed, will my team trust me less? If I tell a friend I’m too tired to support them tonight, will they think I don’t care?

AI had become a perfect hiding place for that fear.

I could pour out my unfiltered thoughts without risking anyone’s disappointment. I could receive advice and validation without feeling like a burden. I could feel momentarily “held” without having to navigate anyone else’s reactions.

But after each conversation, I noticed something:

My head felt clearer. My body did not.

Because my nervous system didn’t actually need more perfectly formatted sentences.

It needed to know that my real, messy self was allowed to exist in front of people, not just in private chat logs.

Learning to Come Back to Myself (Without Pretending We Live without Tech)

I didn’t suddenly delete every AI app and move to a cabin in the woods.

I still live in a world where technology is everywhere, and I still use it in my work.

But I made a quieter promise to myself:

“I will use technology to support my humanity, not replace it.”

That meant changing a few habits.

First, I started checking in with myself before checking in with a system.

Before I ask any tool, “What should I say?” I ask, “What am I actually feeling right now?”

Sometimes I write it down plainly: “I’m scared this won’t work.” “I’m angry, and I don’t want to be.”

Only after I’ve named it do I decide if I want help shaping it. If I do, it’s there to refine my expression, not decide what’s acceptable for me to feel.

Second, I let humans back into the loop.

If something really hurts, I reach out to a person before I reach out to a machine. Sometimes it’s as simple as: “Today feels heavy. Do you have ten minutes later?”

It doesn’t always fix the problem, but every time I choose a human over a chat window, I send a message to my nervous system: I am not alone in this.

Lastly, I started protecting a few spaces where the unedited version of me is allowed to exist.

For me, that looks like:

• No AI help for important emotional conversations with people I’m close to
• No technology in the first thirty minutes after waking and the last thirty minutes before sleep
• No using AI to rehearse difficult personal conversations

These aren’t rigid rules. Some days I break them.

But having any spaces where my words are allowed to come out wrong has reminded me that I can survive imperfection and that the people who care about me can too.

If You’re Quietly Doing the Same Thing

Maybe your circumstances are different from mine.

Maybe you’re running a small business, a household, a team, a life that other people depend on.

Maybe you’ve noticed you’re more comfortable typing your rawest feelings into a box than saying them out loud.

If so, here’s what I wish someone had told me sooner:

You’re not strange for finding AI comforting. It makes sense to turn to something that feels safe and predictable when people haven’t always been that for you.

You’re not “less mindful” for using technology. The issue isn’t the tool, it’s whether you’re still in the conversation with yourself.

The parts of you that feel too heavy, too dramatic, or too complicated are often the exact parts that most need to be met by a real, breathing, imperfect human being, including you.

You don’t have to stop using every supportive tool. You don’t have to suddenly pour your heart out to everyone in your life.

You could start much smaller:

• One honest breath before you pick up your phone
• One sentence of truth in a conversation where you’d usually say, “I’m fine”
• One person you let see you before you’ve tidied yourself up

Closing

AI can help you organize your thoughts.

Only you can decide that your messy, unfiltered inner world is worth listening to.

And if you forget, because I still do, often, remember this:

Underneath the emails, the roles, the prompts, and the noise, there is still a quiet part of you that knows when something feels off, and when something feels true.

That part deserves more than a cursor blinking back at it.

It deserves you.

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About Alexander Amatus

Alexander Amatus, MBA is Business Development Lead at TherapyNearMe.com.au, Australia's fastest growing national mental health service. He works at the intersection of clinical operations, AI-enabled care pathways, and sustainable digital infrastructure. He is an AI expert who leads a team developing a proprietary AI powered psychology assistant, psAIch.

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What Happened When I Gave Myself Permission to Choose

“Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.” ~Viktor E. Frankl

I stood in my kitchen, staring at the leftover red velvet cake from my birthday party the night before. It was beautiful: layers of deep red with cream cheese frosting that I knew tasted incredible. And for the first time in years, I heard something different than the voice that had ruled my life.

For so long, there had been this other voice. Dominating. Controlling. It told me exactly what I could and couldn’t eat, when to eat, and how much to eat.

And the convincing part? It made me believe it was helping me. Protecting me. Keeping me safe.

But I wasn’t safe. I was trapped.

My eating disorder didn’t feel like a disorder at the time; it felt like the only way to maintain control in a life that felt chaotic. The voice was so persuasive, so constant, that my true self became a prisoner. There was no choice, no freedom, just rules, and the exhausting work of following them perfectly.

What I didn’t understand then was what this was doing to my nervous system.

When We Have No Choice, Our Body Believes We’re in Danger

Here’s what happens biologically when we feel like we have no choice: our nervous system registers it as a threat. Think about it: when an animal is trapped with no escape route, it goes into survival mode. Fight, flight, or freeze.

Our bodies are wired the same way.

When we operate from a place of rigid rules and “have to’s” and “must not’s,” our nervous system stays activated. We’re constantly braced for danger. There’s no room to relax, to trust ourselves, or to simply be.

We’re running on a treadmill of control that never stops.

And if you’re someone whose brain works differently, if rigid structures have always felt suffocating, this feeling of being trapped is even more intense. Some of us need flexibility. We need options. We need space to move and adjust and find what actually works for us, not what’s supposed to work according to someone else’s plan.

The Plans That Were Supposed to Save Me

I tried everything to recover. Meal plans with exact portions and timing. Structured eating schedules that left no room for intuition.

Therapist suggestions that made perfect sense on paper but felt impossible to follow in real life.

And every single time, something in me would rebel.

I’d start strong, determined that this time would be different. But within days (sometimes hours) I’d feel that familiar resistance rising. I’d break the rules, spiral into shame, then try even harder to control everything.

The cycle was exhausting.

What I didn’t know was that this rebellion wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t sabotage. It was my body’s way of protecting me from feeling even more trapped.

Each rigid rule was another wall closing in, and my nervous system was screaming for freedom.

The Moment Everything Changed

That day in my kitchen, something shifted.

I looked at that cake, that gorgeous, tempting red velvet cake, and instead of hearing “you can’t have that,” I heard myself say something new. “You’re allowed to eat the whole thing if you want. You’re allowed.”

“And if you feel sick afterward, if you feel terrible, that’s your choice. But you’re allowed.”

And then I stopped.

Because suddenly, I realized: I’m allowed to do this. But do I actually want to?

That question—that simple, revolutionary question—changed everything.

I stood there, feeling something I hadn’t felt in years. Space. Room to breathe.

The difference between permission and true choice.

No, I thought. I don’t want to eat the whole cake. I’d feel sick, tired, and uncomfortable.

That’s not what I actually want.

So I cut myself a slice. I sat down with it. I tasted it—really tasted it—with this sense of inner freedom I’d forgotten existed.

And halfway through the slice, I stopped. Not because I “should” stop. Not because the voice told me to.

But because I was done. I’d had enough.

The warmth that flooded through me in that moment. The relief, the quiet joy, was unlike anything I’d experienced in my recovery journey. This was what safety actually felt like. Not control, not rigid adherence to rules.

But the freedom to choose, and to trust myself with that choice.

Real Freedom Lives in the Space Between Permission and Choice

I realized I’d been denying myself this freedom for a long time, and not just with food.

We often think freedom means doing whatever we want, whenever we want. Or we think healing means finally having enough willpower to follow the “right” rules. But real freedom isn’t about permission or control.

Real freedom is about choice.

It’s about creating enough inner safety that you can ask yourself, “What do I actually want? What feels good for me? What choice honors both my present self and my future self?”

When we operate from choice rather than control, our nervous system can finally relax. We’re no longer trapped animals. We’re a person with agency, with wisdom, with the capacity to make decisions that feel aligned.

This principle extends far beyond eating disorders. Maybe you’re trapped by what you think your career “should” look like. Maybe you’re following relationship advice that doesn’t fit your reality.

Maybe you’re trying to force yourself into systems that leave you feeling like a failure.

The question is always the same: Are you operating from control or from choice?

Finding Your Way Back to Choice

If you’re ready to reclaim your freedom, the path begins with awareness.

Start by noticing where you feel trapped. What areas of your life are ruled by “have to,” “must,” and “should”? Where do you feel that familiar resistance or rebellion rising?

These aren’t signs of weakness; they’re clues pointing you toward where you need more freedom.

Next, give yourself permission first. Before you can make a true choice, you need to know you’re actually allowed. “I’m allowed to quit this job.” “I’m allowed to say no.” “I’m allowed to do this differently.”

Let that sink in. Feel what happens in your body when you say it.

Then comes the powerful question: What do I actually want?

Not what you’re supposed to want. Not what would make you “good” or “disciplined” or “successful.” What do you, in your deepest knowing, actually want?

This is where the real work happens. This is where you distinguish between the voice that’s been controlling you and your own inner wisdom. They sound different when you know what to listen for.

The controlling voice says, “You have to. You must. You’ll fail if you don’t.” It creates urgency and fear.

Your inner wisdom says: “I want this because…” It creates clarity and peace, even when the choice is hard.

Finally, trust the answer. Even if it surprises you. Even if it’s different from what you thought you wanted.

Your body knows. Your nervous system knows. And when you honor that knowing, you create real, lasting safety, the kind that doesn’t come from perfect control but from deeply trusting yourself.

The Freedom You’ve Been Looking For

The voice that once controlled me still shows up sometimes. But now I know the difference between its demands and my own inner wisdom. Now I know that freedom isn’t about perfect control; it’s about the radical act of choosing yourself, over and over again.

That slice of red velvet cake taught me something profound: I’d been so focused on whether I was “allowed” that I’d forgotten to ask what I actually wanted. I’d mistaken permission for freedom, rules for safety, and control for power.

But real power lives in choice.

It lives in the moment you realize you can say yes or no, not because someone gave you permission, but because you trust yourself enough to decide. It lives in honoring what your body tells you, what your heart knows, and what feels aligned with who you’re becoming.

This is the freedom that changes everything. Not the freedom to do whatever you want without consequences. But the freedom to choose consciously, to trust yourself deeply, and to know that you have the wisdom to navigate whatever comes.

You’ve always had this power. Sometimes we just need to remember it’s there.

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About Ximena Niembro

Ximena Niembro is a trauma-informed coach and founder of The PowerFULL Path, specializing in helping ADHD and highly sensitive women heal their nervous systems and reclaim their power. With certifications in IFS, Somatic Healing, NLP, and CBT, she guides clients from survival mode to thriving through nervous system regulation and embodiment work. Drawing from her own healing journey, Ximena's work bridges psychology, spirituality, and lived experience. Connect at thepowerfullpath.com.

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A Simple Practice That’s Keeping Me Out of Catastrophic Thinking

“Hope is not a prediction. It is the choice to believe something good is possible before we have proof.”

For most of my life, I lived with an internal alarm system that never turned off. I expected disaster around every corner—financial collapse, professional failure, health crises, humiliation, and loss. Catastrophic thinking wasn’t just a habit; it felt like responsibility. It felt like vigilance. It felt like survival.

As a documentary filmmaker, anticipating the unexpected is part of the job. We learn to obsess over what could go wrong—equipment failures, weather shifts, emotional volatility, permissions falling apart, safety concerns, or a once-in-a-lifetime moment slipping away. We become experts at scanning for danger, preparing for the failure before it arrives. It isn’t neurosis—it’s craft. It’s training. It’s how we keep the work alive.

But somewhere along the way, the survival mindset that served my professional life began dominating my personal life. My nervous system became a permanent emergency broadcast network. Even when I wasn’t filming, I braced for impact—every hour, every day, every night. Instead of protecting me, fear began consuming me.

And I didn’t know how to stop.

The Turning Point

Not long ago, after a series of intense months—fighting for disability accommodations due to declining vision from macular degeneration, struggling financially, supporting my adult children, and caregiving daily for my ninety-six-year-old mother—I reached a breaking point. I felt hollowed out, depleted, and terrified of the future.

One morning, while sitting with my mother, something unexpected happened. We were both exhausted, and the room was heavy with silence. Then she laughed—one of those rare, pure, bright laughs that sound like they belong to a much younger person. It filled the room like sunlight.

And something inside me shifted.

For the first time in years, I heard a different voice within me—quiet, gentle, unfamiliar. It said:

“Something good is going to happen.”

I didn’t trust it. I tried to push it away. My old reflexes argued immediately:

Don’t get your hopes up. Prepare for disaster. Protect yourself.

But the voice returned, steady and calm:

“No. Really. Something good is coming.”

It felt like the first deep breath after years underwater.

When Fear Stops Being Useful

Catastrophic thinking once served me. On a documentary set, when crisis hits, rapid reaction can save the day. You don’t have time to collapse. You act. You adapt. You move.

But there is a difference between reaction and response.

Reaction is panic.
Response is presence.

Reaction is fear.
Response is awareness.

Reaction is the body gripping.
Response is the mind opening.

I spent years reacting—to life, to pressure, to loss, to uncertainty. I was constantly bracing. I mistook tension for strength.

But filmmaking taught me something I had forgotten: The work only succeeds when we are fully present—not clenched, not afraid.

A filmmaker must learn to hold chaos without becoming it.

And a human being must, too.

The Practice of Hope

Since that moment with my mother, I have been experimenting with a simple practice. When fear tries to take over, I pause and ask:

“What if something good happens instead?”

Not as fantasy. Not as denial. As possibility.

When catastrophic thoughts begin their familiar cycle, I say:

“Thank you for trying to protect me. But I’m choosing hope now.”

And slowly, something extraordinary is happening: I am learning to expect good instead of disaster.

What Has Changed

Nothing external has changed—yet. My finances are still fragile. My vision is still declining. Caregiving is still demanding. The future is still uncertain.

But internally, everything is different.

I have stopped bracing. I have stopped rehearsing collapse. I have stopped assuming the worst.

And in place of fear, something new has begun growing: A grounded, humble, earned hope.

I find myself making decisions from possibility instead of panic: supporting my son’s study trip to Spain even though money is tight; continuing to submit my writing and books despite rejection; advocating for disability rights with clarity instead of desperation; choosing trust instead of dread; and writing from openness rather than defense.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a new chapter. And maybe the feeling itself is the beginning of the good thing.

For Anyone Who Needs This

If your mind constantly prepares for disaster, I understand. I lived that way for decades.

But here’s what I am discovering:

Survival is not the same as living. Fear is not the same as wisdom. Preparation is not the same as panic.

Hope isn’t naïve. Hope isn’t weak. Hope isn’t foolish.

Hope is a choice. Hope is a discipline. Hope is resistance.

So here is the practice I am using now:

Morning

What is one good thing that might happen today?

Evening

Where did hope appear today—even in a small way?

In the hard moments

“Something good is coming. I am choosing to believe that.”

Because the mind can be rewired. The heart can reopen. The narrative can change.

And I believe this with everything in me now: Something good is coming.

I am ready for it. And you can be, too.

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About Tony Collins

Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, writer, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss from macular degeneration. His work explores presence, caregiving, resilience, and the quiet power of small moments. He is currently completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking and shares personal essays about meaning, hope, and disability on Substack. Connect: tonycollins.substack.com | iefilm.com

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How to Create Micro-Moments of Joy to Help You Keep Going

“The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

I want to shine a light on something that often gets overlooked in both the medical world and the mental health space. Something I didn’t have a name for until I lived through it myself.

I call it joy deficiency.

If you’re reading this, chances are you’ve felt it too.

Maybe you’re living with Crohn’s, like I am.

Maybe you’ve faced chronic migraines, cancer, autoimmune symptoms, depression, fatigue, or simply the exhaustion of carrying emotional pain for far too long.

We hear so much about symptoms. We hear about flare-ups, inflammation, test results, treatment plans, diets, and what might be coming next. But rarely does anyone ask questions like:

When was the last time you laughed?

What’s something that made you feel alive today?

Do you feel safe, supported, and loved—especially by yourself?

For a long time, I didn’t have answers to any of those questions.

When Life Became About Surviving Instead of Living

My healing journey began long before I even realized I was on one.

I was already familiar with medical tests, chronic pain, medications, and the frustrating cycle of temporary relief followed by setbacks. But nothing prepared me for the moment when my body finally said “enough.”

It was during a difficult Crohn’s flare a few years ago. The pain was relentless, the fatigue was bone-deep, and the emotional toll was overwhelming. I felt like I was disappearing into the role of “sick patient,” losing pieces of myself one doctor visit at a time.

One afternoon, I sat on the bathroom floor, exhausted after another night with almost no sleep.
My body hurt everywhere. I was scared, frustrated, and so tired of fighting.

I remember thinking, “Is this it? Is this just what life becomes now? A long list of things I can’t do, foods I can’t eat, parts of myself I lose?”

I had never felt so far away from joy.

What I didn’t realize was that this moment—this bathroom floor breakdown—would become the beginning of everything shifting.

The Moment That Changed Me

A few days later, I went to yet another appointment. I was expecting more instructions, more cautions, and perhaps more medication. What I didn’t expect was the question that cracked something open in me.

My provider looked at me and said gently, “But what brings you joy right now?”

I just stared at them. No one had asked me that in months. I couldn’t think of a single answer.

Not because I didn’t want joy. Because there was no room for it. I had been so busy surviving that there was no energy left for living.

That night, I sat in bed and asked myself the same question. Not with pressure. Just curiosity.

What brought me joy once? What still could?

I didn’t have a big answer. But I had a tiny one: sunshine.

The next morning, instead of lying on the couch, I stepped outside for two minutes and sat in the warmth.

It wasn’t profound. But it was something. And it felt like a thread—thin, fragile, but real—that could pull me toward myself again.

Discovering the Power of Micro Moments

Those two minutes in the sun didn’t erase my symptoms. They didn’t erase my fear, grief, or discomfort. But something inside me softened.

I found myself looking for more small moments like that. Not the big sweeping gestures of joy—vacations, major life events, creative breakthroughs. Just tiny sparks.

A song that made me dance in the kitchen for thirty seconds. A warm cup of tea. My son’s head resting on my knee. A genuine compliment from a stranger. A funny video that made me laugh out loud even when I still felt terrible.

These little things became lifelines. They helped me feel like a human being again, not just a diagnosis. And the more I paid attention to them, the more I realized something profound:

Joy wasn’t a luxury. It was medicine.

Joy and the Body: What Research Shows

As I began listening to my own experience, I also started learning and researching.

Scientific work from renowned institutions shows that positive emotional states—joy, hope, gratitude, and delight—activate the parasympathetic nervous system, also known as the “rest and digest” response.
This shifts the body out of fight-or-flight, lowering cortisol and supporting healing processes like tissue repair and immune regulation.

In other words:

Joy doesn’t just make us feel better. It literally changes the body’s internal chemistry.

It can help:

• Reduce inflammation
• Improve immune function
• Increase emotional resilience
• Help calm pain responses
• Improve nervous system regulation

I remember reading this and thinking, “Why isn’t anyone talking about this?”

We celebrate grit and toughness. We talk about powering through, not giving up, and being strong. But joy requires courage too—especially when you’re suffering.

At some point I realized something important:

My healing wasn’t just about removing pain. It was also about reintroducing joy.

Reframing Illness: From Combat to Relationship

Before this shift, I saw my illness as an enemy. Something to conquer, fight, outsmart, or beat into submission. I was at war with my own body.

But joy softened that war. It changed the tone of the relationship.

I began treating my body not like a malfunctioning machine, but like a scared messenger. Something that wanted to be understood. Something that was trying, in its own way, to protect me.

That didn’t mean I suddenly loved every symptom or stopped seeking medical care. But I stopped treating my body like the problem. I began treating it as something I was learning to reconnect with.

There was power in that shift. The battle became a conversation. And slowly, the conversation became compassion.

What Joy Looks Like When You’re Struggling

I used to think joy had to be big. I thought it had to look like abundance, accomplishment, celebration, or transformation. But joy in the middle of illness is often small, quiet, private, and deeply personal.

Sometimes joy looks like:

Three deep breaths.

A delicious smell.

Music that reminds you of who you were before all this happened.

A moment when the pain eases.

A tiny laugh that slips out even when you didn’t think you could smile today.

These micro-moments aren’t insignificant. They are proof you are still here. Proof that life is still moving in you, even in the hard places.

And if that’s all you can access right now, it is enough.

Where to Begin: Small Steps Toward Joy

If you’re feeling disconnected from joy, here are gentle entry points that helped me:

1. Ask yourself the same question I was asked:

“What brings me joy right now?” Not for someone else. Not for the past version of you. Right now.

2. Start with what is possible.

Maybe you can’t hike, travel, or exercise. But maybe you can sit in sunlight, listen to a favorite song, drink your tea slowly, or watch something that makes you laugh.

3. Notice the tiny sparks.

One moment of joy a day is still momentum. One minute of joy a day is still connection.

4. Let joy coexist with pain.

You don’t have to wait to feel good before you deserve joy.

Joy and struggle can exist in the same breath.

5. Let go of the idea that you need to “earn” joy.

You are worthy of joy simply because you are alive.

You Are Not Broken

If you are in a season where joy feels far away, please hear this:

There is nothing wrong with you. You are not failing. Your body is not betraying you. You are not meant to walk through this without support or softness.

You may just be experiencing joy deficiency. And like nutrient deficiencies, it is treatable—not by force, but by reconnection.

Healing is not only about removing what hurts. It is also about increasing what helps you remember your aliveness. Your spark. Your light.

Even small joy counts. Especially small joy.

And you don’t have to get there alone.

For Today…

Take one gentle moment today. Even thirty seconds. Look for something that reminds you that your story isn’t over and your body hasn’t given up on you.

Joy is not a finish line. It’s not what comes after the healing journey is complete. Joy is part of the journey itself.

And you deserve to feel it again.

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About Allegra Cohen

Allegra Cohen is a TEDx speaker, author and mindset coach who helps leaders and teams cultivate resilience, focus, and emotional agility. Her book, Your Playbook for Living a Brave Life, encourages readers to tap into micro-JOYS® daily. As Chief Joy Officer, she blends neuroscience, mindfulness, and playful strategies to create environments where people feel safe, creative, and capable of thriving. Living with Crohn’s disease, Allegra leads with experience, showing that joy is an accessible choice even under pressure.  (Amazon link, Author website)

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The Cost of Chronic Stress and 6 Practical Steps to Presence

“You are not your thoughts. You are the observer of your thoughts.” ~Amit Ray

I was in the middle of responding to my third “urgent” email of the morning when I realized I hadn’t tasted my coffee.

The cup sat there, half-empty and cold. I had no memory of drinking it.

That small moment became the crack that let the light in. Because if I couldn’t remember drinking my coffee, something I claimed to love, something I looked forward to every morning, what else was I missing?

The answer, I would soon discover, was almost everything.

The Illusion of Productive Chaos

For years, I wore my stress like a badge of honor. I was the person who responded to emails at midnight, who took calls during lunch, who never said no.

I told myself I was being productive. Dedicated. A team player.

But the truth was darker. I was running on autopilot, moving from task to task, deadline to deadline, crisis to crisis, without ever stopping to check in with myself.

My body started sending signals, tension headaches, a tight jaw that I’d clench without realizing, shoulders that lived somewhere near my ears. I ignored them all.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

The Breaking Point

It happened on an ordinary Tuesday. I was driving to work, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white, mentally rehearsing a presentation I had to give later.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

My chest felt tight, my heart was racing, and for a terrifying moment, I thought something was seriously wrong. I pulled over, hands shaking, convinced I was having a heart attack.

Twenty minutes later, after the wave passed, I sat there in my parked car and felt something I hadn’t felt in years: the profound absence of myself in my own life.

I had been so busy managing stress that I forgot I was the one experiencing it.

The Invisible Prison

What I learned in the months that followed changed everything. Constant stress doesn’t just exhaust us; it disconnects us from the present moment.

When we’re chronically stressed, our nervous system stays in fight-or-flight mode. Our mind becomes obsessed with the past (what went wrong, what we should have done) or the future (what might go wrong, what we need to prevent).

The present moment, the only place where life actually happens, becomes invisible.

I realized I had spent years living everywhere except where I actually was. At dinner with friends, I was thinking about tomorrow’s meeting. During meetings, I was replaying earlier conversations. Walking my dog, I was mentally drafting emails.

I was present for everything except my actual life.

The Small Practice That Changed Everything

I didn’t fix this overnight. There was no magic moment. But there was a beginning.

It started with my breath.

Not special breathing techniques or complicated exercises. Just noticing that I was breathing. Feeling the air move in and out of my body.

I began with thirty seconds. That’s it. Thirty seconds of just being with my breath, several times a day.

In the bathroom. Before opening my laptop. While waiting for my computer to start up. In line at the coffee shop.

Those thirty seconds became my anchor. My reminder that I was alive, right now, in this moment.

Coming Home to Myself

What surprised me most was how much those tiny moments rippled outward. When I practiced being present with my breath, I started noticing other things.

The warmth of the sun through my office window. The taste of my lunch. The sound of rain on the roof. My colleague’s smile.

But more than that, I started noticing my own internal landscape. The thought patterns that drove my stress. The beliefs that kept me running. The fear underneath the constant doing.

And with that noticing came space. Space to choose differently.

The Myths We Believe About Stress

I used to believe that stress was just the price of a meaningful career. That being constantly busy meant I was important. That if I slowed down, everything would fall apart.

None of that was true.

What I discovered instead: presence doesn’t make us less productive. It makes us more effective. When we’re actually here, we make better decisions. We communicate more clearly. We solve problems more creatively.

And paradoxically, we get more done, because we’re not wasting energy on mental time travel, constantly pulling ourselves between past regrets and future anxieties.

Practical Steps Back to Presence

Here’s what helped me return to my life, one moment at a time:

Start microscopically small.

Don’t try to meditate for twenty minutes if you’ve never done it before. Start with three conscious breaths. That’s enough. Build from there.

Create presence anchors throughout your day.

Pick ordinary moments, before checking your phone, before entering a meeting, before eating, and use them as reminders to take one conscious breath.

Notice without judgment.

When you catch yourself stressed or distracted (which will be often), don’t criticize yourself. Simply notice: “Ah, I’m stressed right now.” That noticing itself is presence.

Feel your body.

Several times a day, do a quick scan. Where are you holding tension? Can you soften your jaw? Drop your shoulders? Unclench your hands? Your body holds the map back to the present moment.

Name one thing you can sense.

Right now, what’s one thing you can see, hear, or feel? This simple practice interrupts rumination and drops you into the here and now.

Give yourself permission to pause.

You don’t have to respond to everything immediately. Taking two minutes to center yourself before replying often leads to better responses than firing off something while stressed.

The Practice is the Point

I won’t lie and say my life is stress-free now. I still have deadlines, challenges, and difficult days. My mind still wanders. I still get caught up in worries about the future.

But now I know the way back. I have the tools to return to this moment, to this breath, to this one precious life I’m actually living.

And that changes everything.

Because the paradox of presence is this: when we finally stop running from the present moment, we discover it’s the only place where peace exists. Not in some imagined future when everything is perfect, but right here, right now, in the midst of our messy, imperfect, beautiful lives.

An Invitation

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in my story, I want you to know: you’re not broken. You’re not failing. You’re just human, trying to navigate an increasingly demanding world.

And there’s a way back to yourself. It’s not complicated, though it requires practice. It doesn’t demand hours of your time, though it asks for your commitment.

It simply requires that you show up for the life you’re already living.

Start today. Start with one breath. Notice that you’re breathing. Feel the air moving in and out of your body.

That’s it. That’s the beginning.

The rest will follow, one present moment at a time.

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About Nine Mua

Nina Mua is a certified yoga instructor, Theta healer, and founder of Chakra Hours, a Dallas-based corporate wellness company that brings mindfulness, movement, and stress relief directly to workplaces. After experiencing her own journey from chronic stress to presence, she now helps busy professionals reconnect with themselves through accessible wellness practices. Learn more about bringing mindfulness to your workplace at www.chakrahours.com.

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Why I Stopped Trying to Be Thin and Started Trying to Be Strong

“The resistance that you fight physically in the gym and the resistance that you fight in life can only build a strong character.” ~Arnold Schwarzenegger

The gym. Just saying the word makes some people break into a sweat—and not the good kind. Bright lights. Mirrors everywhere. What do I wear? That “everyone is staring at me” feeling (spoiler: they’re not; they’re staring at themselves).

For others, it’s their safe place, their happy zone. So how do you go from “I’d rather chew glass” to actually wanting to walk through those doors? I’ll share from personal experience.

I have always been one of those people who worked out. I enjoyed it. Until I didn’t. I used to run—miles and miles—endless pavement pounding that started as a coping mechanism when I lost my grandmother at seventeen. I didn’t know what else to do with the pain.

Back then, there were no phones to scroll through, and counseling wasn’t something people encouraged. The message was to “get over it.” So, running became my escape and my comfort zone. I became so enamored with it that I ran two marathons, about six half marathons, and endless other races. The running went on for decades.

But it also became something else. I noticed that it made me lose weight. Growing up in the nineties and early 2000s, we were taught that the secret to being “fit” was endless cardio and as little food as possible.

The waif look was in—more heroin chic than healthy. As a former chubby teen, I found that losing weight got me attention, and in my adolescent mind, that was a win-win. I didn’t realize I was creating a mindset built on restriction, not resilience.

Fast-forward thirty years. Add multiple pregnancies, jobs, college, and all the beautiful chaos that comes with family life, and the weight doesn’t just slide off anymore. Each pregnancy left behind a few pounds that refused to budge.

Years of undereating and overtraining left my metabolism shot. The stress of work, raising kids, and managing life on our acreage didn’t help either. My body was constantly tired, hungry, and inflamed, yet I blamed myself for not working hard enough.

Then came the curveballs. A nine-month battle with histoplasmosis that made just being exhausting. Later, an ankle fracture—probably not from the horse that bucked me, but from years of undernourishment and stress on my body.

When I say “undereating,” I don’t mean too few calories. I mean poor-quality food choices—lots of carbs, not enough fat or protein. I thought that bread and diet Coke could sustain me as a young woman.

The ankle kept me sidelined for months, and the timing was right over the holidays. Think of Christmas cookies on the couch. And just when I thought I was coming back, I had a thyroidectomy last year after thyroid cancer. No wonder my body was confused and angry.

Through it all, I tried to stay active, but often, it was just going through the motions. I’d see influencers doing light weights and high reps to “tone,” and I fell into the trap. Lies. All lies.

The running that once saved me became something I dreaded. It’s hard to find joy in running when your ankle won’t bend and your body feels like it’s fighting against you. I had always been able to run off the extra pounds. That was no longer the case.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point. I decided to try something new—to actually learn. My husband had been lifting weights and eating high protein for years, and guess what? He wasn’t struggling. (Granted, he didn’t get to experience four pregnancies—lucky him.)

But it got me thinking. Maybe there was something to this whole strength thing. Maybe what I’d been missing wasn’t motivation—it was muscle. And I mean actual muscle, not pink, five-pound dumbbells.

So, I humbled myself, did the research, and realized I had to unlearn everything I thought I knew about fitness. The truth? The gym bros might actually be onto something. Lifting heavy doesn’t make you bulky. The “bulk” most of us fear is fat covering underdeveloped muscle.

Building strength builds shape, confidence, and power—not size. How did I miss this for so long? And why was I lied to for years? Or maybe just misinformed. And I’m a nurse. So, if I can’t figure it out, how do I expect my patients to understand?

Still, walking into the gym again felt awkward. Even when I knew the exercises, that little voice in my head whispered, “Maybe you don’t.” I had to tell her to hush. After a few sessions, my body remembered what it could do. But the hardest part wasn’t the workouts—it was my mindset. For thirty years, I believed I had to be smaller. Now I am learning to be stronger.

That shift was not easy. Eating to build muscle felt wrong at first. After decades of restriction, it’s hard to accept that food—real food, not diet soda and low-fat everything—is your friend. But it’s true. To gain muscle, you must fuel your body. You must trust the process and let go of the fear of the scale.

Some days I nail it, and others I fall short, but the difference now is grace. Growth takes time, and strength—real strength—is built one rep and one meal at a time. This is so frustrating when we are all promised that we can be shredded in twenty-one days. 

Now, lifting heavy things makes me feel powerful, not punished. It’s not about chasing a number on the scale or fitting into my twenty-year-old jeans. It’s about showing up for myself, proving that I can do hard things, and learning that resistance—in the gym and in life—is what truly builds strength.

I have realized that the gym is a good place. It can be a place of peace, motivation, and escape. Kind of like the running used to be. However, I am now building my body instead of tearing it down. This means that I feel better. Mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It is all related. I am thankful I tried something different.

So be humble and realize we do not know it all. Because Arnold was right. The same resistance that tests you also transforms you. And sometimes, that transformation begins the moment you decide to pick up the weight—both literally and metaphorically—and refuse to put it down.

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About Shannon McDonald

Shannon McDonald is a Nurse Practitioner and holistic nutrition coach who helps midlife women restore energy and build strength through her "Strong + Steady" methodology. With over 20 years of nursing experience, she guides women to work with their bodies through protein optimization and progressive strength training rather than restrictive dieting. Shannon integrates clinical expertise with faith-based wellness principles from her Nebraska homestead, where she trades scrubs for muck boots between working and client sessions. Visit her at navigatingtowellness.com.

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The Moment That Brought Me Hope When Life Felt Joyless

“If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.” ~Buddha

There are seasons when life feels stripped of joy, when hope seems far away, unreachable, or unreal. Seasons when you wake up already exhausted, and it feels like there’s nothing soft left in the world—no beauty, no connection, nothing to rest in. I’ve been living in that season lately.

I’m losing my vision to macular degeneration. I’m a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mother. I’m navigating disability, financial strain, and the feeling that the future is shrinking instead of widening. Most days, I move through the world numb and tired, trying to remember who I used to be.

I keep trying to find something to hold on to, but joy feels like vapor—something I can see briefly but not touch. Something other people have. Something I can’t seem to reside in.

Every Other Friday

Twice a month, I go to my eye doctor for injections that slow the loss of my vision. The waiting room is always filled with quiet tension—fearful eyes, deep breaths, people trying not to crumble. I sit and breathe, waiting for my name to be called.

And every time, without fail, there is a woman—maybe in her late fifties or early sixties—who enters already furious. Before she even sits down, she’s fighting with the receptionist.

“This is ridiculous. I’ve been waiting forever. None of you know what you’re doing!”

If someone steps too close to the counter, she lashes out:

“Don’t you dare cut in front of me!”

She screams into her phone, cursing the driver who brought her there for free. She talks loudly about how the world has abandoned her. Once, she turned to me and said:

“People like you don’t know what it’s like. You’re privileged. You don’t care.”

Everyone in the room freezes. Heads sink. Bodies tighten. The air turns sharp. It feels like all safety disappears.

Each time I witness her rage, a quiet thought echoes inside me: Is this what we’ve become? A world without empathy, without warmth, without joy?

It reminds me of what so many of us are feeling today—an overwhelming sense of isolation, fear, and disconnection. A society where people carry so much pain that anger becomes the only language they have left.

And I feel it inside myself too.

A Moment That Changed Something

But recently, something happened that shifted the way I saw everything.

A few days before one of my appointments, I was sitting with my mother. I don’t remember what we were talking about—something small, ordinary. But suddenly, we both laughed. Not a polite laugh or a small smile. A real laugh—full, surprising, alive.

I heard the joy in her voice. I saw her face light up. I felt my chest soften and my shoulders loosen. I felt a release of tension I didn’t even realize I was holding. For a few seconds, I felt a deep, fleeting happiness.

And while it was happening, I knew the moment was special. It arrived suddenly and disappeared quickly, but it was real. And it reminded me that I am still capable of joy—that my heart isn’t broken beyond repair, just tired.

Seeing Her Differently

So when I returned to the eye clinic and the angry woman erupted into the room again—shouting, cursing, accusing—something shifted.

I looked at her, and instead of feeling threatened, I saw someone drowning in pain. Someone whose suffering has nowhere to go. Someone who might not have laughed in years. Someone abandoned by a world that keeps moving without her.

Her anger wasn’t power. It was heartbreak in disguise. It was grief with no place to land.

And I realized that she is not the problem—she is the symptom.

A symptom of a society where people feel unseen, where suffering is ignored, where fear becomes louder than compassion, and where joy is treated like a luxury instead of nourishment.

Hope Is Not a Grand Emotion

I used to think hope meant a major turning point—a dramatic transformation, a clear moment of redemption. I thought joy needed to be big to matter.

Now I understand something different:

Hope is small.

Hope is brief.

Hope is quiet.

Hope is a spark, not a fire.

Hope is hearing your mother laugh.

Hope is a breath that loosens tension.

Hope is noticing a moment while it’s happening.

Hope is refusing to let pain define the story.

One Small Moment Can Save Us

The world may feel joyless at times. It may feel harsh and divided. It may feel full of anger like the woman in the waiting room. But every time someone laughs—every time someone softens—every time a moment breaks through the darkness, it proves something essential:

Life is still here. Joy is still possible. The heart still remembers.

We don’t have to wait for everything to be okay to allow something small to matter.

A Practice for When Hope Feels Gone

Close your eyes for a moment. Take a slow breath.

Remember one moment—however tiny—when you felt warmth or connection.

A laugh. A smile. A hand held. Sunlight on your face. Anything.

Hold that memory gently for five breaths. Watch what happens inside you.

That feeling is the seed of healing.

A question: When was the last time you felt even a small spark of joy?

What would happen if you let that moment matter?

My answer: I heard my mother laugh. And today, I’m choosing to let that be enough.

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About Tony Collins

Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, writer, educator, and disability advocate living with progressive vision loss from macular degeneration. His work explores presence, caregiving, resilience, and the quiet power of small moments. He is currently completing books on creative scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking and shares personal essays about meaning, hope, and disability on Substack. Connect: tonycollins.substack.com | iefilm.com

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