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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Presence. Attunement. Emotional safety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I found it in my mom’s garden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

What symbols found me along the way?

We are beings of pattern and story.

Metaphor is how the soul speaks back.

And meaning is the thread that carries us home.

See more posts

About Ayla Casey

Ayla Casey is a writer, grief guide, and integrative health advocate exploring what it means to self-resource through loss and hardship. Her work centers the body as a portal to wholeness, memory, and belonging. She is the creator of Alchemy for Human Hearts, a storytelling platform for grievers, caregivers, and creatives, and author of The Little Book to Remember, a free companion for grief tending and voice work. Her offerings live at www.alchemyforhumanhearts.com.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/yRzbL9e

Can You Live a Meaningful Life Without Being Exceptional?

“The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.” ~Alan Watts

As I enter the later stage of life, I find myself asking questions that are less about accomplishment and more about meaning. What matters now, when the need to prove myself has softened, but the old voices of expectation still echo in my mind?

In a world that prizes novelty, speed, and success, I wonder what happens when we’re no longer chasing those things. What happens when our energy shifts from striving to listening? Can a life still be meaningful without the spotlight? Can we stop trying to be exceptional—and still feel like we belong?

These questions have taken root in me—not just as passing thoughts, but as deep inquiries that color my mornings, my quiet moments, even my dreams. I don’t think they’re just my questions. I believe they reflect something many of us face as we grow older and begin to see life through a different lens—not the lens of ambition, but of attention.

Some mornings, I wake up unsure of what I am going to do. There’s no urgent project at this time, no one needing my leadership, no schedule pulling me into motion. So I sit. I breathe. I try to listen—not to the noise of the world, but to something quieter: my own breath, my heartbeat, the faint hum of presence beneath it all.

I’ve had a life full of meaningful work. I’ve been a filmmaker, a teacher, a musician, a writer, a nonprofit director. I’ve worked across cultures and disciplines, often off the beaten path. It was never glamorous, but it was sincere. Still, despite all of that, a voice used to whisper: not enough.

I wasn’t the last one picked, but I was rarely the first. I wasn’t overlooked, but I wasn’t the standout. I didn’t collect awards or titles. I walked a different road—and somewhere along the way, I absorbed the belief that being “enough” meant being exceptional: chosen, praised, visible.

Even when I claimed not to care about recognition, part of me still wanted it. And when it didn’t come, I quietly began to doubt the value of the path I’d chosen.

Looking back, I see how early that need took hold. As a child, I often felt peripheral—not excluded, but not essential either. I had ideas, dreams, questions, but I can’t recall anyone asking what they were. The absence of real listening—from teachers, adults, systems—left a subtle wound. It taught me to measure worth by response. If no one asked, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe I didn’t matter.

That kind of message burrows deep. It doesn’t shout—it whispers. It tells you to prove yourself. To strive. To reach for validation instead of grounding in your own presence. And so, like many, I spent decades chasing a sense of meaning, hoping it would be confirmed by the world around me.

When that confirmation didn’t come, I mistook my quiet path for failure. But now I see it more clearly: I was never failing—I was living. I just didn’t have the cultural mirror to see myself clearly.

Because this isn’t just personal—it’s cultural.

In American life, we talk about honoring our elders, but we rarely do. We celebrate youth, disruption, and innovation but forget continuity, reflection, and memory. Aging is framed as decline, rather than depth. Invisibility becomes a quiet fate.

The workplace retires you. The culture tunes you out. Even family structures shift, often unintentionally, to prioritize the new.

It’s not just individuals who feel this. It’s the society itself losing its anchor.

In other cultures, aging is seen differently. The Stoics called wisdom the highest virtue. Indigenous communities treat elders as keepers of knowledge, not as relics. The Vikings entrusted decision-making to their gray-haired assemblies. The Clan Mothers of the Haudenosaunee and Queen Mothers of West Africa held respected leadership roles rooted in time-earned insight, not in youth.

These cultures understand something we’ve forgotten: that perspective takes time. That wisdom isn’t the product of speed but of stillness. That life becomes more valuable—not less—when it’s been deeply lived.

So the question shifts for me. It’s not just What’s the point of my life now? It becomes What kind of culture no longer sees the point of lives like mine? If we measure human value only by productivity, we end up discarding not just people—but the wisdom they carry.

Still, I don’t want to just critique the culture. I want to live differently. If the world has lost its memory of how to honor elders, perhaps the first step is to remember myself—and live into that role, even if no one names it for me.

In recent years, I’ve found grounding in Buddhist teachings—not as belief, but as a way to walk. The Four Noble Truths speak directly to my experience.

Suffering exists. And one of its roots is tanhā—the craving for things to be other than they are.

That craving once took the form of ambition, of perfectionism, of seeking approval. But now I see it more clearly. I suffered not because I lacked meaning—but because I believed meaning had to look a certain way.

The Third Noble Truth offers something radical: the possibility of release. Not through accomplishment, but through letting go. And the Eightfold Path—Right View, Right Intention, Right Action, Right Livelihood, and so on—doesn’t prescribe a goal—it offers a rhythm. A way to return to the present.

Letting go doesn’t mean retreat. It means softening the grip. Not grasping for certainty, but sitting with what is real. Not proving anything, but living with care.

Carl Jung advised his patients to break a sweat and keep a journal. I try to do both.

Writing is how I make sense of what I feel. It slows me down. It draws me into presence. I don’t write to be known. I write to know myself. Even if the words remain unseen, the process itself feels holy—because it is honest.

I’ve stopped waiting for someone to give me a platform or role. I’ve begun to live as if what I offer matters, even if no one applauds.

And on the best days, that feels like freedom.

There are still mornings when doubt returns: Did I do enough? Did I miss my moment? But I come back to this:

It matters because it’s true. Not because it’s remarkable. Not because it changed the world. But because I lived it sincerely. I stayed close to what mattered to me. I didn’t look away.

That’s what trust feels like to me now—not certainty or success, but a quiet willingness to keep walking, to keep showing up, to keep listening. To live this final chapter not as a decline, but as a deepening.

Maybe the point isn’t to be exceptional. Maybe it’s to be present, to be real, to be kind. Maybe it’s to pass on something quieter than legacy but more lasting than ego: attention, care, perspective.

Maybe that’s what elders were always meant to do.

See more posts

About Tony Collins

Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and writer whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and personal growth. He is the author of: Windows to the Sea—a moving collection of essays on love, loss, and presence. Creative Scholarship—a guide for educators and artists rethinking how creative work is valued. Tony writes to reflect on what matters—and to help others feel less alone.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/23yK8Gc

Mindful Parenting: How to Calm Our Kids and Heal Ourselves

“When we show up for our kids in moments when no one showed up for us, we’re not just healing them. We’re healing ourselves.” ~Dr. Becky Kenedy

I wasn’t taught to pause and breathe when I was overwhelmed.

I was taught to push through. To be a “good girl.” To smile when something inside me was begging to be seen.

I was told to toughen up. Not to cry. Not to feel too much.

But how can we grow into resilient humans when we’re taught to hide the very feelings that make us human?

I thought I was learning strength. But what I was really learning was how to disconnect.

And I carried that disconnection into adulthood… into motherhood… into my work… until it begged to be healed.

Becoming a Mother and Seeing Myself Again

When I became a mother, the past resurfaced in ways I couldn’t ignore.

As a school psychologist, I had spent years working with children, guiding them through emotional regulation, supporting teachers and families, and creating safe spaces in classrooms and therapy rooms. But nothing prepared me for what would rise when my own child began to feel deeply.

At the same time, my soul sister, Sondra, was walking through a similar reckoning.

She had spent years creating spaces for children to express themselves through story and imagination, yet still carried parts of her own childhood she hadn’t been taught how to hold.

We were doing meaningful work in the world, but our children cracked something open. Their meltdowns, their restlessness, their big emotions… all of it held up a mirror.

And instead of just reacting, I saw something deeper: myself.

Because even with all my tools and knowledge, I was still learning how to sit with my own feelings too.

When I Teach My Child, I Re-Teach Myself

That’s when I truly understood: When I teach my child mindfulness, I’m not just raising them. I’m re-raising myself.

I’m learning to do something I was never taught: To feel. To breathe. To stay present in the discomfort. To hold space without fixing or fleeing.

And through that process, I’m healing parts of myself that had been quietly waiting for years.

I remember this moment clearly:

My child was on the floor, overwhelmed by emotion. The kind of meltdown that pulls something primal out of you. Every instinct in me wanted to yell. To leave the room. To shut it down.

But instead, I paused. I sat down. I took a breath. And then another. I whispered, “I’m here.”

That moment wasn’t about control. It was about connection. And that’s what changed everything.

What Mindfulness Looks Like in Real Life

I used to think mindfulness had to look calm and quiet, but it’s not perfect.

• It’s not silent yoga flows and lavender oils (though we love those, too).
• It’s pausing before reacting.
• It’s whispering affirmations under your breath when you want to scream.
• It’s sitting beside my child, breathing together, without trying to make the feeling go away.
• It’s placing a hand on your heart and remembering that you are safe now.
• It’s letting your child see you regulate, repair, and return to love.
• It’s letting a tantrum pass, not because I stopped it, but because I stayed.
• It’s about building homes and classrooms where children don’t have to unlearn their feelings later.

It’s not about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about co-regulation, what children truly need to feel safe.

Because kids don’t calm down by being told to. They calm down when their nervous system is met with ours. With softness. With breath. With safety.

That’s mindfulness.

That’s the real work.

Healing Myself, Healing My Lineage

The more I practiced this way of parenting, the more I realized I wasn’t just helping my child feel. I was healing emotional patterns that had lived in my family for generations.

I lived in a loving family, but trauma was hard on them. They didn’t know how to regulate their emotions. They didn’t know how to sit with discomfort, how to process instead of project.

So they yelled. They shut down. They pushed through, just like they were taught. And that became the blueprint I inherited, too.

I am part of the first generation trying to raise emotionally attuned children while still learning how to feel safe in my own body.

And it’s not easy. It’s sacred work. It’s spiritual work. It’s lineage work.

Because every time I whisper “I’m here” to my child, I whisper it to the younger version of me who needed it too.

There are moments, gentle, almost sacred, when I hear my child hum softly while striking a chime, eyes closed, saying,“This sound makes my heart feel better.”

No one explained resonance. No one showed them how.

And in that moment, I remember: our children come into this world with a knowing we spend years trying to reclaim.

We believe we’re the teachers. But in their stillness, their play, their pure presence, they become the ones guiding us home.

Planting Seeds of Calm

One day, my son looked up at me with tearful eyes and said, “Mommy, I just need you to sit with me.”

And in that moment, I realized: so did I.

That moment changed everything. It was the beginning of a softer way. A new rhythm rooted in breath, presence, and remembering that we’re not just here to teach our children how to regulate; we’re here to learn how to stay with ourselves, too.

I began to notice the magic in slowing down. To listen. To honor what was happening inside of me so I could meet what was happening inside of them. Not with control but with connection.

Every time a parent sits on the floor and breathes with their child, something ancient is rewritten.

Every time we name emotions instead of shutting them down, we break a pattern.

We don’t just raise mindful children. We raise ourselves.

Because the truth is: Every breath we teach our children to take is one we were never taught to take ourselves.

And now, we get to learn together.

See more posts

About Mariana Gordon and Sondra Bakinde

Mariana Gordon and Sondra Bakinde are the co-creators of The Meditating Mantis book and The Mindful Mantis, a heart-led brand offering mindful stories and courses for children and the grown-ups who love them. Mariana is a former school psychologist and energy healer. Sondra is an artist, interior designer, and creative visionary. Together, they bring softness, story, and healing into everyday life. Learn more at themindfulmantis.com and follow on Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/2fRhAlK

When Growth Comes with Grief Because People Still See the Old You

“In the process of letting go, you will lose many things from the past, but you will find yourself.” ~Deepak Chopra

There’s a strange ache that comes with becoming healthy. Not the physical kind. The relational kind. The kind that surfaces when we’re no longer quite so wired to betray ourselves for belonging. When we stop curating ourselves to fit into spaces where we used to shrink, bend, or smile politely through the dissonance.

Years of hard work and effort, slowly unwrapping all those unhealthy ways of being in the world, cleaning off my lenses to see more clearly through the eyes of an authentic, healthy me, rather than the over-functioning codependent, perfectionistic people pleaser I had become.

In the process of becoming, it’s felt—at times—like I’ve lost everything. Not just roles or routines but people too. Many of the main characters who once shared the centre stage of my life have quietly exited because the script no longer fits. And the scene now looks quite different. The cast has changed, the lighting is softer, the dialogue less frantic.

I’m no longer that tightly bound version of me, holding the tension of everyone’s expectations like thread in my hands. I’m a freer version. The one who doesn’t perform for applause or connection. The one who lives more from the inside out.

And while that freedom is hard-earned and beautiful, it doesn’t come without cost. Growth rewrites the story. Sometimes that means letting go of the plotlines that once gave us meaning.

I’m not going to pretend I’m completely there yet on this journey of healthy growth toward a more authentic, more empowered version of myself, but I’m far enough along to become more of an observer in my life than completely identified with everything that is happening to and around me.

Sometimes, though, I find myself standing in front of people who still see the old version of me—the compliant one, the helpful one, the emotionally available-on-demand version who made it easy for them to stay comfortable. But I’ve changed. I’ve chosen sovereignty over survival. Truth over performance. And they don’t quite know what to do with me now.

And to be fair, it must be pretty challenging to be close to a blogging memoirist. To be clear, in the more than ten years I’ve shared my personal growth journey, I have always sought never to “name and shame,” except for my own epiphanies about myself. But I am writing about real life, and I share it so people who are on a similar journey might not feel so alone; they might find pieces of themselves in my words, and it might help.

The grace, then, in being in the many relationships that surround me, is not in pretending to be who they want me to be. It’s in standing as who I am, without making them wrong for not joining me.

That’s the razor’s edge.

To hold my center while others twist away from it. To love people I no longer align with, without making myself small or them bad. To walk with grace among people who are technically close but emotionally far.

Because it hurts. That contrast between the curated self I used to be—relationally attuned, endlessly accommodating—and the fuller self I’m becoming—boundaried, expressive, sovereign. It’s not just growth, it’s grief. Grief for the roles I’ve shed, grief for the versions of connection that relied on my self-abandonment, and grief for the quiet, persistent hope that maybe one day they’d really see me.

But not everyone wants to see clearly; to be fair, I used to be one of them. Some are fighting not to be seen at all.

And after fighting so hard to be seen, that clash doesn’t just sting—it feels like a threat to our core safety. Especially when we were raised, trained, or wired to find security in others’ approval.

It’s deeply frustrating when people who claim to value honesty and trust really mean “as long as it doesn’t make me uncomfortable or challenge my narrative.”

When our authenticity gets met with suspicion, when our reflections are seen as risks rather than offerings, we are speaking a language of truth, and they’re replying in code.

That’s the heartbreak. And the liberation.

Because here’s the quietly powerful thing: We’re no longer playing by their rules. We’re not trying to control how we’re perceived. We’re just being—thoughtful, expressive, intentional.

Well, we’re trying anyway; I’m not quite there yet.

And that, in a world still steeped in performance and image management, is revolutionary.

We’re no longer seeking connection through appeasement. We’re seeking connection through presence. Through truth.

Which means letting relationships be what they are, rather than what we wish they were. It means stepping around old dynamics rather than trying to fix them. It means recognizing patterns—like the nurse archetype, competent and respected, but image-bound and risk-averse—and choosing not to collapse in the face of them.

I’ve been on the other side. I was that person once, not so long ago, really. Carefully curated. Layered in survival. So my clarity now comes with compassion. But it also comes with boundaries.

Because I’ve earned them.

This next chapter? It’s not about being alone—it’s about being true. Not hiding behind titles or roles or team identities, but standing in my own voice, even if no one claps. Even if no one comes. Even if they misunderstand.

I am the Stag now. Poised. Still. Unapologetic.

My solitude isn’t survival—it’s sovereignty.

And my anger? That sacred anger that rises in the face of denial and deflection—it’s not a flaw. It’s a signal. It tells me where the firelight is. It reminds me of what matters. It roots me in the truth that even when others retreat into shadow, I don’t have to follow.

I can stay lit. I can stay me. I can whisper, “This is me, seen or not.”

And that’s the power. Not in being understood. But in being whole.

See more posts

About Shona Keachie

Shona teaches by the power of example how to find our inner truth among the often harried day to day practicalities of life. If you enjoyed this article you may enjoy The Hidden Power of Your Conversations: How they are Shaping the World, Not Yours to Fix - How to Release Control and Find Inner Peace and The People Who Hurt Us Are Vehicles for Our Growth. To follow her blog click here. www.shonakeachie.com

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/3nxhkNL

The Whisper That Saved My Life When I Was Drowning

TRIGGER WARNING: This post references rape and suicide attempts, which might be distressing for some readers.

“Our lives only improve when we are willing to take chances, and the first and most difficult risk we can take is to be honest with ourselves.” ~Walter Anderson

This was my third psychiatric hospitalization after my suicide attempts.

On this visit, something shifted. All I knew at that moment was, for the first time, I wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

There was no window or clock. Just blank, pale walls I’d been staring at for twenty-one days.

I lay there, shattered and broken in a way that felt beyond repair. It shouldn’t hurt this much just to be alive.

Then I heard it—a whisper from deep inside me. It was little Jennifer, saying, “There has to be more to my life than this.” I didn’t recognize this voice yet as my inner child, but that whisper marked the beginning of my healing. It was the moment I stopped running and decided to stay with myself.

I used to be so embarrassed by how my life had unfolded. I never believed I’d share my story with anyone, let alone write about it publicly. Now, I’m ready to tell the world.

We rarely discuss grueling topics openly—mental health, suicide attempts, codependency, and shame. That silence is killing us one secret at a time.

If you’re reading this and you’re where I was, I want you to know you’re not alone. No matter how broken you feel, you are worth fighting for.

Before that hospital stay, I had spent years surviving. Much of that survival was wrapped around someone I loved deeply. I’ll call him Ethan.

He supported me through surgeries, breakdowns, and diagnoses. Even after we broke up, we stayed entangled in each other’s lives, emotionally dependent and clinging to a connection I didn’t know how to navigate without.

My world shattered around me when I was raped. Then my rape kit and other records went missing.  That’s when my second suicide attempt happened, landing me in the ICU. I felt violated twice, leaving an internal scar on me.

I was consumed with rage at the world and myself. I didn’t trust anyone. I pushed everyone away, even the ones trying to love me. Friends and family didn’t feel safe. Nothing did.

I couldn’t face the reality of my life, so I buried my head in the sand of online shopping, sleeping, and eating. It reached the point where I couldn’t function on a day-to-day basis.

My nightmares were so intense that I’d wake myself up screaming. Then I’d look down and realize I had ripped my sheets in half while I was sleeping. I was terrified to fall asleep.

When I was awake, it felt like I was fading. I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. The fear and depression were so heavy, I couldn’t be touched—not even by things that were supposed to feel normal.

The shower water hitting my skin would make me flinch. The blow dryer made me panic. I had crying spells that came out of nowhere. During flashbacks, I would grind my teeth unconsciously and crack a tooth.

After the rape, I was unable to remain in the apartment where the assault had occurred. Thankfully, being the kind friend he was, Ethan let me move back into his apartment, which I had previously lived in when we were dating.

I fell apart in every way. I hadn’t showered in weeks and was still wearing the same Victoria’s Secret flannel pajamas, which had become loose from constant wear over the weeks.

My hair was a wild lion’s mane, the kind you’d expect from a creature lost in the jungle, only ever softened when Ethan sat me down and brushed it with gentle care. The cold hardwood floors shocked my bare feet during those brief journeys from bed to bathroom or kitchen, my only ventures in a world that had shrunk to the size of his apartment.

Ethan would leave for work before sunrise and return to a dark apartment. He’d turn on the kitchen light and see chocolate wrappers and tissues scattered across the floor, evidence that I’d been up, if only briefly.

He gently encouraged me to shower but never made me feel ashamed of myself. He still hugged me every day.

After two years of caring for me, he reconnected with someone from his past. That night marked the beginning of something new for him and the unraveling of what little stability I had left.

I remember thinking, “How can he fall in love when I’m dying inside?”

I stayed curled up under my pink furry blanket as I watched life pass by. Heavy tears slid down my face and soaked into the only thing that still brought me comfort.

Every time he left the apartment to go out with his new girlfriend, my chest ached with a mix of emotions that flooded me. Jealousy, anger, and confusion bubbled up so fast I couldn’t make sense of it. I felt abandoned, forgotten, and replaced.

As the hours went by after he left, my mind started to race. I imagined what she looked like, what they were doing, and whether he was happier with her than he ever was with me. The thoughts consumed me and fed my depression, and I started binging on food to numb the pain.

He was just a human being attempting to continue with his life, but in my broken state, I saw it as evidence that I was unrepairable, that everyone else could heal and move forward except me.

The problem was that I didn’t have a life to return to. I had no identity outside of him. I didn’t know who I was, what I liked, or how to care for myself emotionally.

When I no longer felt needed, I lost my sense of worth.

That whisper lingered with me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was my inner child—little Jennifer—asking me not to give up on her again. Healing her became one of the missing pieces I didn’t even know I was searching for.

For years, I had relied on Ethan to soothe me when I didn’t have the tools to relieve myself. He gave me love when I hated myself, and care when I couldn’t function or forgive who I had become. In many ways, he was mothering the parts of me that I had never learned to nurture.

It took me over a year to stop my old habits when I got out. I finally deleted all my dating apps and promised myself I wouldn’t use men, shopping, or food to escape anymore. I was choosing myself for the first time.

I started buying myself flowers and offering the compliments I used to beg someone else to say: “You’re brilliant. You’re beautiful. I’m proud of you.” Now, I was becoming the one who gave myself the love and attention I was always seeking.

I began going on self-love dates. At first, it was just five minutes of listening to music. Then it became six, and eventually seven. Sitting alone with my thoughts was excruciating for someone like me, who had always escaped with weed, alcohol, or other people’s company.

I didn’t know how to manage my restlessness, but I kept showing up. I added one more minute each week.

Eventually, I wore the prettiest dress and took myself to cafes, meditation classes, and movies. I didn’t know what I liked, so I made a list. I wanted to become someone I could count on. Slowly, I began to love my own company. The woman who once couldn’t stand being alone became someone I looked forward to getting to know.

Those self-love dates didn’t just build my self-esteem—they became the foundation of finding myself.

Each outing helped me rediscover little pieces of myself. I realized I was funny. I could make myself laugh.

I no longer needed distractions. I never would’ve known any of this if I hadn’t kept showing up and learning who I was underneath the pain. Looking back, the most life-changing thing I ever did was stop abandoning myself.

If I had loved and valued myself back then the way I do now, I still would’ve been heartbroken when Ethan moved on, but it wouldn’t have broken me the way it did. I would’ve known I could survive it and still build a life worth living.

We build our relationship with ourselves just as we do with someone we’re dating.

Remember when you first met someone and stayed on the phone for hours, even when you were exhausted, because your curiosity about them kept you awake? That same childlike curiosity is what we need to bring to our relationship with ourselves.

Loving yourself isn’t a luxury. It’s essential. When you build a strong bond with yourself, you don’t fall apart when someone else leaves. You’re no longer waiting to be chosen.

That’s what I was learning on those self-love dates. I asked myself many questions, explored my thoughts, and gradually began to learn about myself.

If you’re feeling lost or unsure of who you are without someone else, start with these gentle questions:

• Is there a book, song, or movie you’ve been wanting to try but haven’t had the chance to yet?
• Think of a food you loved as a child but haven’t had in years.
• What would your younger self be sad about that you stopped doing today?
• What small detail, like an outfit, a scent, or a song, used to make you feel alive?

The answers don’t need to excite you right now. They’re just starting points, tiny threads to follow when you’ve lost the map to yourself.

If asking yourself these questions feels overwhelming, start with something smaller. Whisper to yourself: ‘There’s still hope for me.’ Because there is.

Even in my darkest moments, when I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to live again, hope was waiting quietly beneath all that pain. Sometimes, the tiniest spark of hope is enough to keep you going until you’re ready for the next step.

Those questions lead to curiosity. Curiosity leads to action. And action becomes the first step in finding your way back to yourself.

You don’t need to wait for someone else to choose you. You can start by choosing yourself.

That whisper I heard in the hospital became the roadmap to finding me.

My biggest regret is not choosing little Jennifer sooner. I kept waiting for someone else to save her, but she’d been waiting for me to bring her home all along.

If there’s a quiet voice within asking for you to focus on more than just your survival, please listen to it.

It might feel impossible now, but that whisper holds the truth you’ve searched for everywhere. Your journey back to yourself may not look like mine, but I promise you this: you are worth fighting for.

See more posts

About Jennifer Conacchio

Jennifer is a certified trauma recovery coach at www.jenniferconacchio.com, guiding women from survival to self-discovery through personalized healing approaches when therapy alone is not enough. Jennifer's approach combines DBT-based skills, inner child healing, and fashion therapy to help clients create actionable roadmaps to reconnect with themselves. Grab Your FREE Inner Child Quiz & Healing Guide to find out which inner child is guiding you.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/n8R30ku

A Case for Joy in a Monetized World

“Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.” ~William Bruce Cameron

My gardener and I were talking the other day—his English broken, my Spanish worse—but we found a way to connect.

He told me about his eight-year-old son, a bright, joyful kid who loves baseball. The boy wants to play. His mother wants him in tutoring. And somewhere in that gap, a bigger question emerged: what matters more—discipline or joy?

I didn’t plan to give advice, but it came out anyway. “Let him play ball,” I said. “Let him be part of a team, fall in love with something, feel what it’s like to give yourself to a game you care about.” Maybe there’s room for both—tutoring on weekends or part-time. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that too often, we push kids toward what’s useful before they know what they love.

That conversation stayed with me because it reflects something bigger and more troubling: almost everything in life now feels monetized.

From birth to death, we are priced and processed. Pregnancy is a billing code. Daycare is a business. College is debt. Even death has been streamlined into packages—premium, standard, economy.

Want to talk to a therapist? That’ll cost you. Want clean food? That’s extra. A safe place to live? Depends on your credit score. Even our time with loved ones feels rationed by work schedules and productivity apps. There’s a price tag on presence.

The monetization of everything is more than just an economic system—it’s a cultural atmosphere. It creeps in quietly, turning art into content, friendships into followers, and values into branding strategies. We trade attention for advertising, care for convenience. And as the world becomes more globalized, centralized, and digitized, this way of thinking spreads—efficient, scalable, and soul-numbing.

But there’s something that can’t be priced or faked: flow.

Flow is that immersive state where effort disappears, time softens, and we’re fully absorbed in what we’re doing. It’s the feeling of being completely alive and focused—not because we’re chasing a reward, but because we’re in tune with the task itself.

I remember pitching in Little League when I was ten. I wasn’t the best, but for one brief inning, everything clicked. I stopped thinking. The ball moved like it was part of me. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone—I was just there, inside the game. That was flow. And I’ve spent much of my life chasing that feeling through music, writing, teaching.

I’ve spent most of my life as a teacher, filmmaker, and writer. Not because it made me rich—it didn’t—but because it gave me something to live for. Now, at seventy, I help care for my 96-year-old mother, still trying to finish my life’s work with little to show for it in the bank. But the work still matters. So does she.

My mother’s caregivers—mostly women of color—show up every day. They help her eat, dress, and smile. They aren’t paid nearly enough, but they move through their days with compassion, grace, and humor. Their labor doesn’t fit into a tidy spreadsheet of profit. And yet it holds the world together.

I wonder: What happens to a society that forgets how to value the things that can’t be monetized?

We know something’s wrong, but we don’t know what to do. We still need to pay rent, buy groceries, find a way to survive in a system that rewards efficiency over depth, image over presence. There’s no clear answer. Just tension, quiet resistance, and sometimes—if we’re lucky—a moment of clarity.

So I say again: let the boy play. Not to win, or to be the star, but to feel the joy of running with others, of belonging to a team, of laughing, working hard, and learning—together. Let him build friendships that might last a lifetime. Let him feel what it means to be part of something larger than himself, where improvement matters more than trophies.

And maybe, just maybe, let him find flow. On the field, or even in tutoring, if the conditions are right—if the learning is alive and the focus is real. Because flow is the goal, whether in a game or a classroom. That’s where confidence is born. That’s where joy lives.

Of course, I know Little League can be its own kind of heartbreak. When the game becomes about dominance, when adults project their own regrets or insecurities onto the boys, when coaches forget it’s supposed to be fun—it can damage the very spirit it’s meant to nourish.

That’s why it takes the right coach. One who listens. One who knows it’s a boy’s world for a short while, and that this game, at its best, teaches how to care, to lose with grace, to try again, and to trust others.

I told his father all this in our clumsy mix of English and Spanish. I told him I hoped his son gets to play. Not because it will lead to anything measurable. But because it already is something valuable.

Sometimes, the best thing we can do is willingly open the door—and let the players play.

See more posts

About Tony Collins

Tony Collins, EdD, MFA is a documentary filmmaker, teacher, musician, writer, and consultant with forty years of experience. His work explores creative expression, scholarly rigor, and nonfiction storytelling across the USA, Central America, Asia, and the UAE. In 2025, he is self-publishing Creative Scholarship: Rethinking Evaluation in Film and New Media on Amazon, challenging traditional academic assessment in film and new media. Website: anthonycollinsfilm.com

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/WCdeik8

How Getting Dressed Became a Love Letter to Myself

“Style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.” ~Rachel Zoe

I didn’t set out to find myself.

I just looked in the mirror one day and thought, “Wait, when did I stop looking like me?”

It was after a breakup—the kind that leaves you foggy, emotionally threadbare, trying to make sense of where you lost yourself.

There I was, standing in my bedroom, wearing something functional, outdoorsy, and… completely not me.

Not that there’s anything wrong with cargo pants and fleece. If that’s your style, it’s beautiful.

But I’m a woman who grew up in Paris… who loves texture, shape, and color… who used to wear lipstick to the grocery store just because it made her feel fancy.

And I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dressed in a way that made me feel alive.

That moment wasn’t dramatic. But it stuck—like a pebble in my shoe, a quiet awareness I couldn’t unfeel.

I didn’t know what to do with it at first. So I just started noticing. What I wore. What I reached for. What I missed.

What felt like one tiny step closer to me—and what felt like someone (anyone) else.

And slowly, without meaning to, I started finding my way back.

Not through journaling. Not through therapy. Through style.

I didn’t realize it then, but I was starting to come home to myself—one outfit at a time.

I’ve always felt like a cultural mosaic—beautifully complex in theory, but hard to hold in one piece.

Indian by heritage. East African family roots. Raised across four countries. A mix of accents, traditions, languages, and ways of seeing the world.

And for a long time, I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be in the middle of all that.

In some circles, I was too Western. In others, I felt too brown, too “other.” Even within my own community, I often sensed I was too different… not traditional enough.

I became skilled at shape-shifting—blending in where I could, toning down what felt inconvenient. Quietly collecting contradictions I didn’t know how to resolve.

I tried, of course. I read the books. Took the workshops. Hired the coaches. I journaled and meditated and therapized and “mantra-ed” myself half to death. I even became a coach.

Most of it helped, in its own way.

But the strangest, most honest kind of healing didn’t happen in a coaching session or on a yoga mat. It happened in my closet.

It started quietly. One night, I found myself picking out an outfit for the next day… Not to impress. Not to curate a look. Just to feel a little more like myself. And for some reason, that felt good. Gentle. Reassuring.

So I did it again the next night. And the next.

Eventually, it became a ritual. Just me, slowing down long enough to check in with myself.

I started to ask questions like:

• What parts of me want to show up tomorrow?
• What feeling do I want to carry into the day?
• Which pieces make me feel alive?

Then I would choose clothes that reflected whatever answers came through.

Sometimes that meant bold color and structured lines—something that said, I’m here, and I’m not hiding.

Sometimes it meant soft, draping fabrics—something that let me exhale.

Sometimes it meant a mix of things that didn’t “go” but somehow felt like the truest version of me.

Like I was letting the paradoxes live on my body instead of just in my head.

And in doing that—in actually wearing my contradictions, wrapping them in silk and denim and thread—I began to make peace with them. And I began to stop seeing them as flaws to explain away or hide and start seeing them as richness. Texture. Evidence of a life deeply lived.

Instead of trying to resolve the tension, I let it be beautiful. I let it belong. And strangely, that softened something in me.

The shame that once whispered, “Pick a side, be clearer, be less confusing” quieted.

I began to trust that I could hold multitudes—and still be whole.

In the morning, when I’d slip into those clothes, it wasn’t just about getting dressed. It was an act of allowing. Allowing myself to be seen. To take up space. To be complex, contradictory, and still worthy of beauty. A quiet yes to the fullness of who I am—who I’ve always been.

What surprised me most was how I started to feel.

How could something external—something as seemingly superficial as clothing—give me the elusive confidence I’d spent years chasing on the inside?

Maybe it wasn’t about the clothes at all. Maybe it was about permission.

To be seen. To feel beautiful on my own terms. To tell the truth of who I am—not with words, but with fabric and color and silhouette.

Maybe it was about giving my body a chance to speak… and learning how to listen.

Every evening, I still take a few quiet minutes to pick out what I’ll wear the next day. Not because I’m trying to project something. But because it helps me connect to something.

It’s one of the only parts of my day that feels completely mine—not rushed, not reactive. A soft pause. A moment to land.

Clothing has become a kind of mirror. And that moment of dressing has become a form of meditation. Not the sitting-still kind. The remembering kind. The reconnecting kind.

I thought I was just playing with fabrics and silhouettes. But I was actually coming home to myself—piece by piece.

Listening to what felt good. Letting go of what didn’t. Making space for multiple parts of me to coexist.

That’s the thing I never expected: something as ordinary as choosing an outfit—something we all have to do anyway—can become a love letter to yourself. If you let it.

See more posts

About Nayla Mitha

Nayla Mitha helps women build careers that feel like home, not like someone else’s idea of success. Her  tools are designed to teach you how to excel while staying true to yourself (inside and out) making your professional journey more balanced, fulfilling, and successful. Download one of her FREE resources for heart-centered women HERE and connect with her on Instagram HERE.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/AsanVq6

When You Stop Forcing, Life Flows

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

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

But life doesn’t work that way.

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

Then one day, something cracked.

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

But nothing felt right.

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

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

That’s when it hit me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that’s all we ever needed to do.

See more posts

About Marc Rice

Marc Rice is the founder of VibeTribe.io, a platform for conscious events and mindful community. He writes about healing, synchronicity, and aligning with divine flow.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/zjrdeqT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See more posts

About Katie Landrum

Katie is a behavior analyst and mental health counselor in the Central Florida area. Her ultimate passion is women’s mental health. She also specializes in treating anxiety, depression, perinatal issues, and ADHD. Katie’s counseling approach emphasizes self-compassion, strengths over pathology, and a values-focused perspective in order to move clients toward a rich, meaningful life. In her personal life, she is the proud mother of three small, wonderful kiddos. Learn more about Katie.

More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/L45BTqw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A soulful discomfort with too much sameness.

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

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

I feel it now in every cell of my being.

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

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

But this time, something’s different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I know I’m not alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See more posts

About Lais

Lais is an intuitive healer, space-clearing expert, and author of a self-help and a poetry book. Through her Quantum Energy Healing Program, she facilitates deep transformation by clearing ancestral wounds, past-life imprints, and energetic blocks. She also hosts The Alchemy of Light and Shadow Podcast and Happy Home Space Clearing Podcast.Learn more about her work here, explore her Quantum Energy Healing Program here, or sign up to the Space Clearing Academy Waitlist here.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/wOqVmbz