Be Like a Paddle Ball: How to Bounce Back to Yourself

“Come back to yourself. Return to the voice of your body. Trust that much.” ~Geneen Roth

I may be showing my age, but here goes… It has come to my attention that I’m like a paddle ball.

To anyone born in the 21st century: for context, before handheld devices ruled the world, kids entertained themselves with simple analog toys—such as the paddle ball.

Picture a small flat paddle (like a small ping-pong paddle) with a rubber ball attached to the center by an elastic string. The goal was to hit the ball with the paddle, watch it fly out and then back, and keep this going for as long as possible, until the ball returns wildly and goes rogue, missing the paddle altogether.

Recently, while I was flossing my teeth, much to my surprise, my dental crown popped off in my mouth. (I’ll connect these things together; stay with me.) I was fortunate enough that my dentist was able to get me in to fix it the next day, but this unexpected mishap added to an already incredibly hectic month.

Other notable events this month included a vacation with a six-hour time change (I find that the older I get, the more challenging it becomes to travel across time zones), a broken (on the second day of vacation) phone that the day after returning home required an entire day of driving back and forth all over town to resolve, my son’s new used car (that we just purchased a month prior) broke down and required towing, and now my errant crown, just to name a few.

Like I said, it’s been quite a month.

I arrived at the dentist’s office half an hour early (because I had other unavoidable obligations that morning as well) and decided to use this time for my daily meditation. I could feel that the gentle tug to slow down had turned into a more forceful pull.

Side note: I’ll admit that even though I have a daily meditation practice, I go through periods where I successfully carve time out earlier in the day for longer, more intentional practices, and other times when I barely squeeze in a quickie at the last minute of the day. If it’s not obvious, this was a last-minute-meditation kind of month.

Once in the office, while reclining in the long black chair waiting for the dentist, I resisted the urge to distract myself with my phone and instead did some box breathing to give myself space to slow down. And again, while waiting for the anesthetic to take effect, I decided to just be with myself.

There was no rushing this. I had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. It was a welcomed pause.

With my mouth pried open, I reflected on all the life stuff I’ve been trying to keep up with and wondered if I would ever find balance. Why don’t I come back to myself more often? Why don’t I just stay put, centered all the time?

Well, as the saying goes, everything in moderation, right? If all I did was sit and meditate or pause indefinitely, I wouldn’t be dealing with these stressors, but I also wouldn’t be able to fulfill my purpose, help others, connect with family, or enjoy all the incredible experiences life has to offer.

Just “being” feels nice, but “doing” also has its advantages and is required for me to be the person I want to be.

So then it requires balance, yes? Coming back to myself often but also going out in the world to “do life.”

And that’s when my likeness to a paddle ball dawned on (or hit?) me. I am the paddle, and the rubber ball is all the stuff I’m doing—chasing lofty ambitions, checking off long to-do lists, slogging through mundane obligations, cherishing time with family, and so on… and taking time to center myself.

Just as the ball springs back to the paddle when the elastic stretches too far, I keep getting pulled back to myself, which then gives me the energy I need to catapult myself out into the world again, and off I go to do all the meaningful (and not so meaningful) things again.

In reflecting on this (my mouth is still pried open, but they’re close to finishing up), I realize that at least now in my forties, my ball keeps coming back to lightly tap the paddle, and that’s a win. In contrast, my earlier years were mostly spent with the ball flying around erratically, rarely making contact with the paddle at all.

These days, there’s a gentler rhythm to it—although I do still find myself going off course more often than I would like. But even this is softer, as I’m at peace with this truth, and I have confidence that I’ll continue to learn and adjust in ways that serve my highest self.

Driving home, I reflect on how grateful I am to have my crown re-cemented and that I took this opportunity to slow down and center. And I vow to keep making time to return to myself in a steady rhythm amid the chaos of a meaningful life.

You see, the key with paddleball is to maintain an even force and steady pace to keep the game going. If you slow down too much, it loses momentum, and if you try to go too fast or hit the ball too hard, you’re sure to lose control of it.

Similarly in life, a steady, balanced flow is achieved by keeping a gentleness and returning to yourself consistently, methodically even. When we push ourselves too fast or too hard or just against the natural grain of our being, we lose control, and it becomes harder to return to ourselves.

The crown is back in place, and so am I (for the moment). Tomorrow will bring its own pull outward, in the form of opportunity, lessons, and/or chaos. But I’ll approach it with confidence in my elastic tether, knowing that I’ll keep coming back to center myself when needed. After all, it’s not about staying centered all the time but rather always returning home.

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About Laura Hope Hobson

Laura Hope is a mental health clinician as well as a BFRB & habit coach who combines clinical expertise with lived trichotillomania experience to empower the BFRB community through habit coaching, support groups, and a BFRB Salon & Spa Directory. Learn more at hopeandhealingcoach.com or grab the free coping toolbox, Try This Instead: Regulation Strategies to Overcome Unwanted Habits here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Self-Improvement Becomes Self-Criticism

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

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

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

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

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

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

Self-Growth Burnout Is Real

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

It’s subtle, but you can feel it.

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

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

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

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

The Moment I Stepped Off the Hamster Wheel

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

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

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

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

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

Why We Keep Fixing What Isn’t Broken

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

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

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

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

How I Started Shifting from Fixing to Living

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

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

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

2. I let rest be part of the process.

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

3. I stopped chasing every “should.”

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

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

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

What I Learned

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

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

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

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

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About Cristie Robbins

Cristie Robbins is a published author, speaker, and certified mental wellness coach. Through The Wellness Blueprint, she helps women reduce stress and reclaim vitality with a root-cause approach. Her books, including Scars Like Constellations, explore resilience, healing, and personal growth, and can be found on Amazon at her Author Page. Connect at The Wellness Blueprint. You can find her on Facebook here and Instagram here.

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What I See Clearly Now That I Can’t See Clearly

“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen… they must be felt with the heart.” ~Helen Keller

I didn’t want to admit it—not to myself, not to anyone. But I am slowly going blind.

That truth is difficult to write, harder still to live. I’m seventy years old. I’ve survived war zones, illness, caregiving, and creative risks. I’ve worked as a documentary filmmaker, teacher, and mentor. But this—this quiet, gradual vanishing of sight—feels like the loneliest struggle of all.

I have moderate to advanced macular degeneration in both eyes. My right eye is nearly gone, and my left is fading. Every two weeks, I receive injections to try to preserve what vision remains. It’s a routine I now live with—and one I dread.

Living in a Vision-Centric World

We live in a world that privileges sight above all other senses.

From billboards to smartphones, from flashy design to social cues, vision is the dominant sense in American culture. If you can’t see clearly, you fall behind. You’re overlooked. The world stops making space for you.

Is one sense truly more valuable than another? Philosophically, no. But socially, yes. In this culture, blindness is feared, pitied, or ignored—not understood. And so are most disabilities.

Accessibility is often an afterthought. Accommodation, a burden. To live in a disabled body in this world is to be reminded—again and again—that your needs are inconvenient.

I think of people in other countries—millions without access to care or even diagnosis. I thank the deities, ancestors, and forces of compassion that I don’t have something worse. And I remind myself: as painful as this is, I am lucky.

But it is still bleak and painful to coexist with the physical world when it no longer sees you clearly—and when you can no longer see it.

How a Filmmaker Faces Blindness

As my sight fades, one question haunts me: How can I be a filmmaker, writer, and teacher without the eyes I once depended on?

I often think of Beethoven. He lost his hearing gradually, as I’m losing my sight. A composer who could no longer hear—but still created. Still transmitted music. Still found beauty in silence.

I understand his despair—and his devotion. No, I’m not Beethoven. But I am someone whose life has been shaped by visual storytelling. And now I must learn to shape it by feel, by memory, by trust.

I rely on accessibility tools. I listen to every word I write. I use audio cues, screen readers, and my own internal voice. I still write in flow when I can—but more slowly, word by word. I revise by sound. I rebuild by sense. I write proprioceptively—feeling the shape of a sentence in my fingers and breath before it lands on the screen.

It’s not efficient. But it’s alive. And in some ways, it’s more honest than before.

Try ordering groceries with low vision. Tiny gray text on a white background. Menus with no labels. Buttons you can’t find. After ten minutes, I give up—not just on the website, but on dinner, on the day.

This is what disability looks like in the digital age: Not darkness, but exclusion. Not silence, but indifference.

Even with tools, even with technology, it’s exhausting. The internet—a space with so much potential to empower—too often becomes a maze for those who can’t see clearly. It is bleak to live in a world that offers solutions in theory, but not in practice.

I still teach. I still mentor. But the way I teach has changed.

I no longer rely on visual feedback. I ask students to describe their work aloud. I listen closely—for meaning, for emotion, for clarity of purpose. I guide not by looking, but by sensing.

This isn’t less than—it’s different. Sometimes richer. Teaching has become more relational, more intentional. Not about being the expert, but about being present.

And still, I miss what I had. Every task takes more time. Every email is a mountain. But I carry on—not out of stubbornness, but because this is who I am. A teacher. A creator. A witness.

Buddhism, Impermanence, and Grief

So where do I put this pain?

Buddhism helps. It teaches that all forms are impermanent. Sight fades. Bodies change. Clinging brings suffering. But letting go—softly, attentively—can bring peace.

That doesn’t mean I bypass grief. I live with it. I breathe with it.

There’s a Zen story of a man who lost an arm. Someone asked him how he was coping. He replied, “It is as if I lost a jewel. But the moon still shines.”

I think of that often.

I have lost a jewel. But I still see the moon. Sometimes not with my eyes, but with memory, with feeling, with breath.

The Wisdom of Slowness

My writing is slow now. Not because I’ve lost my voice, but because I must hear it differently.

I still experience flow—but not in the old way. I write word by word. Then I listen. Then I rewrite. I move like someone walking across a dark room, hands outstretched—not afraid, but attentive.

This is how I create now. Deliberately. Tenderly. With presence.

And in this slow, difficult process, I’ve found something unexpected: a deeper connection to my own language. A deeper longing to make others feel something true.

Even as I fade from the visual world, I am finding a new way to see.

What I Still Offer

If there’s one thing I can offer—through blindness, grief, and slowness—it’s this: We don’t lose ourselves when we lose abilities or roles. We’re not disappearing. We’re still here. Just doing things differently—more slowly, more attentively, and perhaps with a deeper sense of meaning.

One day, I may not be able to see the screen at all. But I will still be a writer. Still be a teacher. Still be someone who sees, in the ways that matter most.

Even if the light goes out in my eyes, it does not have to go out in my voice.

And if you’re reading this, then the effort was worth it.

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About Tony Collins

Tony Collins, EdD, MFA, is a writer, documentary filmmaker, and educator whose work explores presence, creativity, and meaning in everyday life. His essays blend storytelling and reflection in the style of creative nonfiction, drawing on experiences from filmmaking, travel, and caregiving. He is the author of Creative Scholarship: Rethinking Evaluation in Film and New Media Windows to the Sea: Collected Writings. You can read more of his essays and reflections on his Substack at tonycollins.substack.com.

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How to Calm Anxiety That’s Rooted in Childhood Wounds

“Anxiety is a response to a nervous system that learned early on it had to protect itself.” ~Dr. Hilary Jacobs Hendel

Anxiety shaped much of my life—how I showed up, how I held myself back, and how I connected with others. For years, I didn’t even know what it was. I just knew the pounding heart, the tight chest, the trembling hands. I knew the shame that followed every “failure,” big or small, and the fear I would never be enough.

For a long time, I thought I was the problem. But anxiety isn’t a moral failing. It’s a part of me—a part that learned to survive in environments where my emotional needs weren’t met, where fear and shame felt louder than safety.

Where It Started

The roots of my anxiety began in childhood.

I was in first grade when I brought home my school report card and saw that I ranked seventh in my class. At that age, I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I was just excited to tell my dad.

When he came to pick me up, I smiled and shared the news innocently. Instead of a hug or encouragement, his eyes glared at me. His sharp, aggressive tone cut through me as he shouted, “It’s bad!”

Looking back, I can see his reaction came from fear—that my performance might limit my future and that shaming me would push me to improve. But as a child, I couldn’t see that. I felt shocked and humiliated. My small body trembled, and my younger brain concluded:

“I’m only worthy of love if I perform better.”

The next semester, I ranked third. My dad bragged about it to everyone, and I felt brief relief. But the fear returned quickly:

“What if I can’t keep this up?”

That was the beginning of a belief that no matter how much I achieved, I was never “enough.”

This pattern followed me for decades, surfacing in unexpected places. As an adult, I would freeze with anxiety at gas stations, trembling as I pushed my motorbike forward even when no one was rushing me.

Eventually, I connected it to another childhood memory: my dad shouting at me to move faster in line at a gas station, his glare and sharp tone burning into me again. When processing this as an adult, I realized he had a good intention—to move things along for the other people waiting. But before I began my healing process, my nervous system was wired to react to the present as if I were reliving the past.

Even years later, the anxiety lived on in my body, and I didn’t know how to process it.

The Breaking Point

I carried this unprocessed anxiety into adulthood. When I was five weeks pregnant, my partner was in a tragic accident that left him in a coma for two weeks before he passed away. Suddenly, I was alone, grieving, and without money to survive.

I didn’t have the privilege of avoidance anymore. Grief, financial instability, and the responsibility of carrying a child forced me to face emotions I had buried for years.

This was when I learned the practices that helped me stop spiraling and regain my composure.

10 Tips That Help Me Prevent and Manage Anxiety

Important note: These tips are not a substitute for therapy, medication, or professional diagnosis. They are complementary practices to help restore balance and create a sense of safety in the body.

1. The gratitude shift—turn anxiety into information.

Instead of berating the intense sensations anxiety brings, I now try meeting it with gratitude. Anxiety is my body’s built-in alarm system.

When I feel it rising, I say, “Hi, anxiety. I see you doing your job. Thank you for showing up.”

Then I ask:

What is this sensation trying to tell me?

Where is this coming from in my history?

What action can I take now to feel safer and more supported?

This small act of acknowledgment makes space to feel more in control and invites curiosity instead of fear.

2. Slow down and simplify your life.

Too many distractions can block memories and emotions from surfacing. Simplifying my life gave me mental space for self-awareness.

I released unnecessary obligations, overpacked schedules, and numbing habits like endless scrolling. When I slowed down, I could finally hear myself and recognize what was driving my anxiety.

3. Trace the roots through quiet observation (and fasting).

Closing my eyes and observing the first persistent memories that surface often reveals the root of anxiety.

When I couldn’t afford therapy, I used intentional fasting to access clarity. (If you decide to give this a try, I recommend consulting with your doctor first. This is my personal spiritual practice, not a universal recommendation.) I started slowly with:

• A twelve-hour fruit and vegetable fast, then
• A twelve-hour water fast, then
• A full-day fast (6 a.m. to 6 p.m.)

Each time hunger arose, I named my intention out loud through prayer or journaling: “Please show me the root cause of this anxiety and how to release it.”

Fasting, for me, was a deliberate way to quiet external noise so buried memories and insights could surface.

4. Catch the first emotion—shock.

My body often stores layers of pain, and shock is usually the first overwhelming emotion. If I can name it quickly, I can interrupt the spiral.

For example, when I was feeling overwhelmed as a mother, I’d sometimes snap at my daughter. I’d get frustrated and angry with myself, but after fasting, the memory of my parents snapping at me came up quite vividly.

Remembering this, I allowed myself to see, acknowledge, experience, and accept how painful and shocking it was for me to be treated that way.

5. Write in detail what shocked you (and other emotions).

After naming shock, I write the exact details of what triggered it: the sudden glare, the change in tone, the clenched jaw, the slammed door.

Then I name the other emotions as honestly as possible: fear, humiliation, sadness, anger, or betrayal—whatever is true in that moment.

Being radically honest in this process helps me release the experiences that I previously stored as trauma.

6. Grieve the losses.

Once I release the shock, I let myself grieve. I cry for the safety, compassion, and respect I needed but didn’t receive.

Sometimes I use music to amplify the sadness so it can move through me. This isn’t weakness—it’s how the body processes pain instead of storing it.

7. Name the unmet needs.

Grief opens the door to understanding my needs.

“When I was shouted at by my dad after making mistakes, I felt unsafe and ashamed. My need for emotional security was violated.”

“When I was only praised for achievements, I felt unseen. My need for consistent acceptance was neglected.”

Naming needs clarifies what’s important so I can ask for it clearly and assertively as an adult. It’s empowering to name the hurt and see how it helps me understand my emotional needs better.

8. See the context—compassion for your parents’ limitations.

Fasting and becoming a mother helped me understand the hardship my parents faced. Parenting a neurodivergent child with limited resources, little support, and financial stress is overwhelming.

This doesn’t excuse the harm, but it helps me hold two truths:

1. Their actions hurt me.
2. They were also struggling humans who lacked the tools to parent better.

This perspective softens resentment and breaks cycles.

9. Write down the worst-case scenarios.

While processing the past experiences that have contributed to my anxiety can help decrease anxious feelings in the present, it also helps to challenge how I think about the future.

When I spiral, my brain floods me with worst-case scenarios. Positive thinking never helped—it only deepened my fear.

Instead, I confront the fears by writing down every possible worst-case outcome, even the most extreme. I’ve lived through homelessness, earthquakes, and tragic losses. Pretending they couldn’t happen again didn’t work.

By naming them, I strip them of their power.

10. Prepare intuitive actions and identify help.

After writing the worst cases, I ask:

What is the first intuitive action I can take to prevent or reduce the impact?

Who is the first person I can contact for help? Who else could I reach out to?

Writing these down gives me agency. It tells my nervous system, “I’m not helpless. There are things I can do and people I can ask for help.”

—

Anxiety is a part of me. Experiencing the spiral because I didn’t know how to name, process, and communicate it sucks.

I’m still a work in progress when it comes to maintaining composure consistently, but I feel empowered knowing that I’m mastering emotional intelligence—skills I can pass down to my child.

Healing is not linear, and some steps will feel harder than others. But with consistency, these practices can help you restore a sense of safety, reclaim your agency, and soften the belief that you must always be on high alert.

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About Sri Purna Widari

Sri Purna Widari is a writer, mother, and advocate for social justice relevant to single/solo motherhood, special needs children, environmental issue and trauma repatterning. She shares practical tools for navigating anxiety and bereavement. Connect with her on Instagram here.

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The 2026 Tiny Buddha Calendar Is Ready for Holiday Gifting!

Hi friend! As we head into the holiday season, I know many of us are starting to think about gifts for the people we love (and maybe a few things for ourselves as well). With that in mind, I wanted to remind you that the 2026 Tiny Buddha Day-to-Day Calendar is now available.

It’s one of my favorite projects every year because I include the kind of daily reminders that I personally find validating, comforting, and encouraging—some from me, some from site contributors, and some from authors I enjoy. And as the number-one bestselling calendar in Mind-Body-Spirit for the past two years, I know it’s become an annual staple for lots of readers.

Featuring vibrant tear-off pages, the calendar is printed on FSC certified paper with soy-based ink and covers topics like happiness, love, relationships, change, meaning, mindfulness, self-care, letting go, and more.

Here are a few recent reviews from the 2026 edition:

“I got this as a gift last year and fell in love with all the advice from many different sources! So I ordered one for this year, and I just received my new one and it is the same! If you want gentle daily messages that not only inspire but also make you think, this is it!”

“I buy this calendar every year, and I love it!!! I look forward to the daily inspiration. Sometimes you just need a little kick in the pants to get your mind right, and this calendar does that for me. Thank you!”

“I love, love, the daily quotes, and this will be my third year of purchase. I would really miss them if I didn’t have them each day to read a different quote. They brighten my day.”

If you’d like to bring a little Tiny Buddha wisdom into your home and your day—or give someone you love the gift of comfort and insight—you can grab a calendar (or two!) here.

Thank you, as always, for being here and for supporting my work.

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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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What Happened When I Stopped Expecting Perfection from Myself

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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About Lissy Bauer

Lissy Bauer is a writer and certified life coach who explores emotional honesty, resilience, and the courage to stay present in a world built for escape. Drawing on lived experience and positive psychology research, she helps readers navigate uncertainty without rushing to fix or flee it. Her books offer compassionate tools for sitting with what hurts and embracing imperfection. Connect with her at lissybauer.carrd.co.

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How to Return to Emotional Safety, One Sensory Anchor at a Time

“In a sense, we are all time travelers drifting through our memories, returning to the places where we once lived.” ~Vladimir Nabokov

I found it by accident, a grainy image of my childhood bedroom wallpaper.

It was tucked in the blurry background of a photo in an old family album, a detail I’d never noticed until that day.

White background. Tiny pastel hearts and flowers. A border of ragdoll girls in dresses the color of mint candies and pink lemonade.

My body tingled with recognition.

It was like finding a piece of myself I didn’t remember existed. Not the grown-up me, but the girl I used to be before a career, a mortgage, and the heavy quiet of adult responsibility.

The Pull of the Past

When I was small, the world felt bigger in a softer way.

Colors seemed brighter, objects more alive, and the smallest things—the feel of my favorite stuffed animal companion in my hand, the scent of my mother’s bathwater—carried entire worlds of meaning.

These aren’t just memories; they’re sensory anchors.

I could forget a conversation from last week, but I can still picture the exact shade of the mint-green dress my wallpaper girl wore. I can still feel the gentle indentation of her printed outline, as if the wallpaper itself had texture.

These details, it turns out, were never gone. They were simply waiting for me to come back.

Nostalgia as a Regulation Tool

I didn’t realize until recently that revisiting those sensory anchors could calm my nervous system.

Of course, I know not everyone remembers childhood as safe or sweet. For many, those early years carried pain or fear. Some people find their sensory anchors in different chapters of life—a first apartment, a quiet library corner, or a beloved chair in adulthood. Wherever they come from, anchors can be powerful.

For me, nostalgia isn’t about wanting to live in the past. It’s about finding small pockets of safety I can carry into the present.

Touching the soft yarn hair of a Cabbage Patch Kid isn’t just cute, it’s grounding. Seeing those pastel hearts reminds my body what peace once felt like, and in that moment, I can feel it again.

A few months ago, one of my children was in the hospital for a week. Those days blurred together: the beeping machines, the too-bright lights, the smell of antiseptic in the air.

One afternoon, while she slept beside me in that cold plastic hospital chair, I scrolled on my phone and stumbled upon an online image of a toy I used to have. That single memory opened a door. I looked for another, and another. Each one reminded me of something else I had loved.

Before I knew it, I was mentally compiling a list of toys I’d like to find again, and how I might track them down.

That feeling—the rush of familiarity, the gentle spark of recognition—was more than just pleasant. It was regulating. In those moments of quiet, I felt a warmth that had been nearly forgotten.

When she woke and the noise and decisions returned, I carried that warmth in my belly like a hidden ember.

The Practice of Returning

Since then, I’ve begun weaving these cues into my home.

My shelf holds a cheerful line of 1980s toys in the exact colors I remember. At night, the soft glow of the wooden childhood lamp I sought out warms my space with a light that feels like safety.

These touches aren’t just décor; they’re part of my emotional toolkit.

When I feel overwhelmed, I step into that corner, touch the toys, take a slow breath, and remember who I was before life got so loud.

Some of my collection lives in my walk-in closet, tucked away just for me. I choose when and how to share it. Sometimes I don’t share it at all. That privacy feels important, like holding a small, sacred key that unlocks a door only I am meant to open.

This practice can look different for others. A friend of mine grew up with an entirely different story. His childhood was full of absence and stress, and he never had the GI Joes he longed for. Now, as an adult, he collects them one by one. For him, this is not nostalgia but repair, a way to heal by finally holding what once felt out of reach.

How You Can Try It

If you’d like to create your own version of a ritual of return, here’s how to begin:

1. Identify your sensory anchors.

Think about colors, textures, scents, or sounds from your happiest memories. If childhood feels heavy, look to other times. What do you remember most vividly? A kitchen smell? A favorite song? The feel of a well-loved blanket?

2. Find small ways to bring them back.

This doesn’t have to mean collecting big, expensive items. It could be a thrifted mug, a playlist of songs you loved at age eight, or a single scent that transports you.

3. Use them intentionally.

Place these cues where you’ll see or touch them often. Incorporate them into a morning or evening routine. Let them be part of how you calm yourself, not just pretty objects but companions in your present life.

Why It Matters

We can’t go back, and we don’t need to.

But we can return, in small ways, to the places inside us where we first felt safe, joyful, or whole.

For some, that means reclaiming the sweetness of childhood. For others, like my friend with his GI Joes, it means rewriting the story and creating what was once missing. Still others may anchor themselves in completely different seasons of life.

What matters is the act of returning to something steady, something that belongs to us now.

Each time we do, we carry a little more of that peace forward into the lives we are living now.

I’m still searching for that childhood wallpaper—online, in vintage shops, in the corners of the internet where people post long-forgotten designs. The search brings almost as much joy as the finding.

Because every time I search, I’m not just looking for wallpaper. I’m putting my hand on the door handle of memory. And when that door opens, I meet myself.

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About Alice Farley

Alice Farley is a teacher, writer, and mother of two in Ontario, Canada. She believes the spaces we create—both around us and within us—can be invitations to return to who we truly are. Her writing weaves together threads of childhood nostalgia, emotional regulation, and the quiet magic in everyday life.

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Healing Without Reconciling with My Mother and Learning to Love Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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About Shilo Ratner

Artist, writer, creative coach, teacher, and lover of anything chocolate. Shilo Ratner is a creative who loves helping other creatives reconnect to their creativity. When she is not helping clients or in her art studio, she is spending time with her two wonderful children and her loving husband in New Haven, Connecticut. Connect with her on Instagram @shiloratner or on her website www.shiloratner.com

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