Left-Side Pain: A Powerful Messenger for My Abandoned Parts

“The body always leads us home… if we’re willing to listen.”

For over a decade, I lived in a body that tried to tell me something I wasn’t ready to hear. But eventually, it got louder—loud enough that I could no longer ignore the message.

It started with migraines—always on the left side.

Then came a string of sinus infections and dental issues—again, always on the left.

Lumps formed in my left breast. Then pain in my left ribs. Then a left-sided numbness that made doctors run MRIs for multiple sclerosis. Every test came back normal. And yet my body felt anything but.

At one point, I even developed pain in my left ovary and numbness in my left arm that made everyday tasks difficult. My body was functioning, technically. But it felt like one side of me was shutting down. Whispering. Protesting. Holding something I wasn’t acknowledging.

I joked for years that the left side of my body was trying to stage a revolt. But beneath the joke, there was a persistent unease. A question I didn’t want to ask out loud: What if my body is grieving something I haven’t let myself feel?

The Side I Abandoned

At the time, I had just left an emotionally abusive relationship. I moved to a new town where I knew no one. I had three young kids and a car that barely worked. My sister had died of breast cancer not long before—at just twenty-eight years old. It was a lot. Too much. But there was no time to fall apart.

So I stayed in motion. I hardened. I became high-functioning, resilient, always “fine.” I made sure the bills were paid and the kids were fed and my ex didn’t find us. But the cost of staying “strong” was that I stopped being real.

I didn’t have time for softness. I didn’t have space for grief. I didn’t have energy to ask for help, or even admit I needed it.

Looking back, I realize I didn’t just leave a relationship. I left myself.

Especially the softer, slower, more intuitive parts. The parts that cried easily. The parts that curled up under warm blankets and asked for hugs. The parts that allowed joy, or creativity, or even rest.

Those parts felt dangerous in a life where survival was the only priority.

And so I shut them down.

The Feminine Side—Ignored and Inflamed

In many spiritual and energetic traditions, the left side of the body is associated with the feminine. With receptivity, emotion, intuition, nurturance, the moon, and the mother. The right side is often associated with the masculine—doing, pushing, controlling, achieving.

I lived almost entirely on my right side. Doing everything. Controlling what I could. Shoving every feeling down so deep I couldn’t even find it anymore.

My left side? The part of me that received, softened, surrendered, and felt? She was abandoned.

And slowly, painfully, she began to break down.

How My Body Spoke When I Couldn’t

Looking back now, I see that the symptoms weren’t random. They were brilliant. My body was communicating in the only way I was willing to listen—through physical discomfort. Through pain. Through pattern.

It mirrored the exact parts of me I’d been taught—by trauma, by culture, by survival—to suppress.

The part of me that needed softness. The part that longed to grieve. The part that wanted to be held, not just hold everything together.

My body wasn’t malfunctioning—it was mourning.

She was grieving the years I spent in silence. She was exhausted from pretending everything was fine. She was desperate for me to come back to her.

Coming Home, Slowly

There was no single “aha” moment. No diagnosis. No major spiritual breakthrough. Just slow remembering. Tiny rebellions against the numbness.

I started walking every morning in silence—no music, no podcast. Just me, the trees, and the sound of my breath.

I sat outside with my tea and watched the steam rise instead of scrolling. I held my gaze in the mirror and whispered, “I miss you. Let’s try again.”

I cried when I needed to. And sometimes when I didn’t.

I laid my hand on my chest—on the left side—and said, “I see you. I hear you. I’m here.” Some days that was all I could do. Some days, that was enough.

There were setbacks. There were moments I judged myself for not doing more. But I kept showing up with softness, even when shame tried to drag me back into survival mode.

I stopped forcing joy. I stopped apologizing for being tired. I stopped pretending that “holding it all together” was some kind of virtue. Instead, I made a quiet commitment to hold myself.

The Invisible Work of Healing

Healing wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t look impressive from the outside. It was the kind of work no one sees: turning down invitations when you need rest. Letting a load of laundry sit in the dryer while you sit with your feelings instead. Choosing softness when your old patterns scream for control.

I read about nervous system regulation and the vagus nerve. I learned how trauma isn’t just psychological—it’s physical. It lives in the tissues, the fascia, the breath. It hides in clenched jaws and tight hips and shallow breathing.

I began doing slow, gentle movements that made me feel safe in my body again—not “fit,” not “productive”—just safe. I allowed myself to stretch like I was worthy of space. I let go of the voice in my head that told me I needed to earn rest, joy, or ease.

I took salt baths and made art for no reason. I danced barefoot in the kitchen with no audience. I let myself want things again—connection, affection, softness, stillness, beauty.

And little by little, my body responded.

The pain in my ribs faded. The left-side migraines stopped. The numbness disappeared. Not all at once—but piece by piece. As if my body was slowly exhaling after holding her breath for years.

The Lesson I Needed to Learn

I used to think healing meant “fixing” myself. That the goal was to return to the woman I was before everything fell apart.

Now I know: the woman I was before never felt safe. She was praised for being strong because no one knew how scared she was. She needed to break down.

What I was really doing wasn’t fixing—I was reclaiming. Reclaiming my softness. Reclaiming my truth. Reclaiming the right to be a human being—not a machine of performance and perfection.

And now? I’m still learning. Still learning that healing isn’t linear. Still learning to trust the wisdom of my body. Still learning that when something aches, it’s not always a sign of brokenness—it may be a signal for attention. For love.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve been in pain—emotionally, physically, energetically—I want you to know this:

You are not broken. You are not failing. And you are not alone.

Sometimes our pain is simply asking us to slow down and feel what we’ve been too afraid to feel. Sometimes our symptoms are sacred messages: Come home to yourself. Not as you were. But as you are now. Whole. Worthy. And ready.

See more posts

About Jessi Brooks

Jessi Brooks is a trauma-informed coach and wellness writer who helps women reconnect with their bodies and reclaim their radiance after survival mode. You can find her work at ko-fi.com/jessibrooks, Jessi Brooks or @Rebellion, Radiance, and Freedom – Medium.

More Posts

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

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/6tH0JDF

Raised on Their Best Intentions—Healed on My Own Terms

“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.” ~Kahlil Gibran

There are two versions of me.

There’s the one I am now—the grounded, present woman who holds space for others, who guides people toward healing, who walks barefoot through the grass and whispers affirmations while sipping her coffee.

And then there’s the other version. The one who barely made it. The one who used to stare into her fridge not out of hunger but as a distraction from the ache in her chest. The one who didn’t feel at home in her body. The one who was certain no one could ever understand the weight she carried, let alone help lift it.

If you’ve ever felt pain that rewired your entire being, you know:

Trauma doesn’t just live in the mind.

It takes root in the bones, in the pauses between conversations, in the way you flinch when someone raises their voice—even slightly.

For years, I was operating on autopilot. From the outside, I seemed fine. But internally, I was haunted by invisible wounds and unspoken memories.

Then came the moment I will never forget—when I confronted the very people who gave me life.

I was in my twenties. I’d been carrying years of resentment, confusion, and heartache. Every harsh word, every time I felt small—it all built up inside me.

And I finally let it spill out during an emotionally charged conversation. I brought up a pattern that had deeply impacted me, hoping to be heard.

I expected remorse, maybe even repair.

But instead, I heard: “We did the best we could.” It was calm, maybe even resigned. It wasn’t unkind, but it felt like a door closing instead of opening. In that moment, I felt both understanding and a quiet ache, realizing we weren’t going to meet in the middle.

Those six words didn’t offer relief. They didn’t soften the years of damage. Because understanding your parents’ limitations doesn’t erase your pain. But it does offer you a choice:

To carry it forward. Or to finally put it down.

That was the turning point.

I realized I didn’t want to live stuck anymore—stuck in old stories, like believing I had to suppress my emotions to keep the peace, or that loyalty meant silence; stuck in shame and in patterns I didn’t choose. I wanted to heal. Not just for myself, but for every version of me that had felt unseen.

So I started to write.

Not for anyone else, but for me.

When I couldn’t speak the truth out loud, I wrote it down. My journals became confessionals. My pen, a lifeline. My pain, my teacher.

Eventually, I found tools that helped me dig even deeper—meditation, somatic work, subconscious reprogramming, hypnotherapy.

I learned that the subconscious mind is like a computer. It stores everything you’ve ever believed about yourself—especially the painful parts. If you don’t update the programming, you’ll keep replaying the same loop:

I’m not enough. It’s my fault. Love has to be earned. I must stay small to be safe.

And when you realize that you can change that inner script? That’s when everything shifts.

In 2020, I became a certified hypnotherapist. But truthfully, that was just the official title. My real training began the day I stopped running from myself.

Through that work, I began to rewire old beliefs, release trauma stored in my body, and speak to my younger self with compassion instead of criticism.

I finally started to feel free. Not perfect. Not enlightened. But freer.

Free to cry and not apologize for it. Free to take up space. Free to stop fixing everyone else so I could finally tend to myself.

Today, I help others do the same.

Not because I have all the answers, but because I remember what it felt like to not even know which questions to ask.

And if you’re reading this right now, I want to say something I wish someone had said to me: You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not unworthy. You are a soul who has walked through fire—and you’re still here.

Healing is not linear.

You will have days where you feel like you’ve regressed, where the sadness feels fresh, where you question everything. That’s okay.

Progress isn’t perfection. It’s presence. And your presence—your willingness to look at your pain instead of running from it—is what will change your life.

You don’t need to hustle your way to healing. You just need to return to yourself.

So here’s what I’ve learned, in case it helps you:

1. Triggers are teachers in disguise. They point to wounds that need tending. For me, being interrupted or talked over would trigger an intense emotional response—one rooted in earlier experiences where my voice didn’t feel valued. I also noticed that certain tones of voice, especially condescending ones, could instantly make me feel small.

2. You are allowed to feel anger at those who hurt you and compassion for the fact they didn’t know better.

3. The body holds trauma, but it also holds the key to release. Pay attention to your breath. Your posture. Your gut feelings.

4. You can forgive and still hold boundaries, like saying no without over-explaining or stepping away from emotionally unsafe conversations. I’ve also created space by recognizing when it’s not my role to carry someone else’s emotional process—especially if it comes at the cost of my well-being.

5. You can grieve and still grow.

And most of all: You can rewrite your story at any time. Because you are not your past.  You are the author of your next chapter.

So let it be one of reclamation.

Let it be the moment you stop shrinking and start rising. Let it be the chapter where you stop surviving and start living.

You are the light you’ve been looking for.

See more posts

About Joanna Kacprzycka

Joanna is a certified hypnotherapist, spiritual medium, and subconscious rewiring guide who supports women in transforming emotional pain into profound inner power. Blending deep subconscious healing with intuitive insight, she creates a space where people feel truly seen, deeply safe, and gently held. Her work helps others reconnect with their inner truth, rewire limiting beliefs, and reclaim their worth—so they can live with clarity, confidence, and self-love. Visit her at mindhealingguide.com and on YouTube.

Web | More Posts

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

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/GPFvfA5

The Truth About Why I’ve Ghosted People (and What I’ve Learned)

“Ghosting is cruel because it denies a person the chance to process, to ask questions, or to get closure. It’s emotional abandonment, masquerading as protection.” ~Dr. Jennice Vilhauer

I never set out to ghost anyone.

In fact, I used to hate ghosting with the burning fury of a thousand unread dating app notifications. I told myself I’d never be that person—the one who disappears mid-conversation, fails to reply after a good date (or sends a very bland thank you message), or silently vanishes like a breadcrumb trail to nowhere.

And yet… here I am. Writing a post about how I’ve ghosted people.

Not because I’m proud of it. Not because I think it’s defensible. But because I’ve come to understand why I’ve done it—and what that says about dating culture, emotional patterns, and my own very human flaws.

So, if you’ve ever been ghosted and wondered what was going through the other person’s head—or if you’ve ghosted and don’t quite understand your own behavior—this is for you.

Because behind every silence is a story.

A Pattern Primed by the Past

Let’s start with this: I didn’t begin my dating journey with cynicism. I started like many people— hopeful, curious, wide-eyed.

But after a few rounds of being ghosted myself, misled, or strung along by people who said all the right things but meant none of them, my hope began to erode. Slowly, subtly, like a stone smoothed down by constant friction.

Over time, the pattern looked like this:

• Match with someone promising.
• Exchange funny, thoughtful messages.
• Maybe go on a date or two.
• Then, suddenly… nothing. Silence. A flatline.

It wasn’t always dramatic. Sometimes the conversations just faded. Other times, it was abrupt. I’d be mid-conversation and—boom—gone. No explanation, no closure. Just another digital ghost in the machine.

And while I knew intellectually that this was “part of online dating,” it still landed. It primed me to expect disappointment. To approach each new match not with optimism, but with quiet dread.

Eventually, I started thinking:

What’s the point? They’ll probably flake anyway.

Ghosting as a Defense Mechanism

So, where does my ghosting come in?

At first, it was subtle. Maybe I’d take a little longer to reply. Or I’d go silent on someone who seemed nice but who I didn’t feel an immediate spark with.

I’d tell myself:

• “I don’t owe them anything.”
• “They probably don’t care.”
• “It’s better to fade than force it.”

But the truth is, my ghosting wasn’t about them. It was about me.

It was a reflection of my fear of disappointing someone, my lack of emotional bandwidth to explain myself, and my protective instinct kicking in when I sensed something familiar—and not in a good way.

I had been ghosted so many times that I began to preemptively disengage before anyone could do it to me.

If you leave first, at least you’re not the one being left.

It’s a faulty logic, but when you’ve been conditioned by repeated negative experiences, you start to default to protection over connection. And ghosting—silent and sudden—is the ultimate form of emotional self-preservation.

Cynicism in the Profile Scroll

Online dating is like a mental rollercoaster of judgments, hope, disappointment, and the occasional serotonin spike when someone has a dog and knows how to use punctuation.

But over time, I noticed something about how I was engaging with profiles:

I wasn’t curious—I was critical. I wasn’t open—I was braced for disappointment. I’d read bios looking for reasons to notengage, rather than to connect.

Somewhere along the line, dating apps stopped being exciting and started feeling like a parade of micro-rejections—even when I was the one doing the rejecting.

I became a dating cynic in a world that rewards detachment. I looked at profiles and thought:

“This guy probably lives with his ex and/or is married.”

“He looks like a player and lacks authenticity—even though I was going on very little evidence.”

“He’ll definitely tell me he’s ‘not looking for anything serious’ but still want attention and the accompanying ego boost.”

And even if someone seemed genuinely kind, I’d think: What’s the catch?

That mindset doesn’t just hurt others. It corrodes your ability to be present, vulnerable, or sincere.

Ghosting as Avoidance, Not Malice

Here’s what I’ve realized through self-reflection and a few too many red wines while watching reruns of “Love at First Sight”: ghosting is not about cruelty. It’s about avoidance.

Ghosting feels easier than:

• Crafting a rejection message
• Sitting in the discomfort of someone else’s disappointment
• Risking an awkward reply, or worse, an argument

It’s quick. It’s clean. It’s also emotionally lazy.

But when your emotional reserves are running low—especially from repeated rejection, indifference, or burnout—ghosting can feel like the only viable exit strategy.

That doesn’t make it right. But it makes it understandable.

And often, people ghost not because they don’t care but because they’re overwhelmed by the possibility of caring and not knowing what to do with it.

The Cycle of Ghosting

When ghosting becomes the norm, we all lose. It creates a culture where:

• We dehumanize the people we talk to.
• We second-guess our self-worth.
• We become afraid of emotional exposure.
• We settle into half-hearted connections because we don’t expect real ones to last.

It breeds mutual distrust, and that, ironically, makes ghosting more likely.

I started to see it like a self-perpetuating loop:

Get ghosted → become jaded → ghost others → deepen the culture of avoidance.

And yet, I also realized something else: If I wanted to break the loop, someone had to go first.

What I’ve Learned (That Might Help You Too)

Here’s what’s shifted for me over time:

1. Avoidance doesn’t spare feelings. It just delays discomfort.

Telling someone you’re not feeling a connection is awkward. But not telling them leaves them confused, maybe even hurt. And it leaves you carrying emotional clutter.

2. Emotional boundaries are not the same as emotional withdrawal.

It’s okay to not continue a conversation. It’s okay to end things after a date. But doing so with clarity and kindness (even a single line) is far more respectful than silence.

3. Ghosting devalues human connection, even in small ways.

When you ghost someone, you’re subtly reinforcing the idea that people are disposable. And in doing so, you chip away at your own sense of connection.

4. Cynicism protects, but it also prevents.

Expecting the worst can be a shield, but it also blocks the good. Staying open, curious, and kind—even after heartbreak—is the bravest thing you can do.

What I Try to Do Now

These days, I approach online dating differently. Not perfectly. But more intentionally.

If I’m not interested, I’ll say something like:

“Thanks for the chat. I don’t think this is a match, but I wish you well!”

Simple. Kind. Closure. Done.

And if I’m feeling overwhelmed and don’t have the bandwidth to connect, I pause. I take a break. I don’t keep conversations going just for the dopamine or out of obligation.

Because being honest and respectful, even online, feels a lot better than the lingering guilt of another message left unanswered.

Final Thoughts: Honesty and Authenticity Over Evasion, Always

Ghosting may be common, but it’s not benign. And while I’ve done it (more than once), I’ve also learned that it’s often a reflection of internal burnout, fear, or cynicism—not cruelty.

But we can do better. We can date better.

Not by being perfect, but by being aware. By choosing clarity over comfort. By remembering that every profile we swipe on is a real person with hopes, fears, and a heart that deserves kindness. Ultimately, we are looking for love, appreciation and a sense of connection.

So, to everyone I’ve ghosted, I’m sorry. Not just for the silence, but for assuming you wouldn’t care. For using detachment as protection. For forgetting the humanity behind the screen.

And to anyone struggling with the messy world of online dating: you’re not alone. And you’re not broken. You’re just trying to find something real in a world that often rewards pretending and external validation.

Keep showing up. Keep being honest. Keep being you.

Even when it’s awkward.

Even when it’s scary.

Especially then.

See more posts

About Mandy Kloppers

Mandy is a cognitive-behavioral therapist who offers counselling to clients worldwide via Zoom. She believes in spreading kindness: “Being a therapist doesn’t mean that life is perfect—we are all in ‘this soup’ together” as the Psychologist Carl Jung famously once said. She also writes a daily mental health blog featuring advice and information on anxiety, depression, mental health, personal development, and relationships. If you would like counseling, contact her via her website: www.thoughtsonlifeandlove.com

Web | More Posts

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

from Tiny Buddha https://ift.tt/zUZjA5t

How Two Simple Lists Completely Transformed My Life

“Happiness turned to me and said, ‘It is time. It is time to forgive yourself for all of the things you did not become… Above all else, it is time to believe, with reckless abandon, that you are worthy of me, for I have been waiting for years.” ~Bianca Sparacino

I didn’t know who I was.

That realization hit me like a punch to the chest after I ended a decade-long relationship and canceled my wedding six weeks before it was supposed to happen.

I remember standing in my kitchen one morning, staring at the floor, and thinking, I have no idea what kind of music I actually like.

That might sound small, but it was the beginning of everything unraveling.

Because when you don’t know what kind of music you like… you probably don’t know what your values are. Or your opinions. Or your boundaries. Or your identity.

And in my case, I didn’t.

My identity had been shaped entirely by other people. I had become an expert in sensing what people wanted me to be—and then being it.

I did it with romantic partners, with friends, with coworkers. It was like I had this superpower: I could walk into a room, assess the energy, and morph myself into whoever I thought would be the most likable version of me in that context.

Great for my acting career. Not so great for real life.

When the relationship ended and I finally found myself alone, I didn’t just feel lost. I felt hollow. I didn’t have a self to come home to. And the loneliness? It was unbearable.

I entered what I now call my “summer of sadness.”

At the time, I called it freedom. I drank more than usual. Partied more than usual. I told myself I was finally living. But behind all of it was a deep, silent ache. A confusion. An emotional fog that wouldn’t lift.

Eventually, the fog turned into something darker: I spiraled into a rock-bottom moment I never saw coming. It was like my soul said, Enough.

And somewhere in that mess, I grabbed a pen.

I didn’t know what else to do. I had so much swirling inside me, and nothing made sense. So I sat down with my journal and wrote two lists.

List One: Who I Am

This list was hard to write. It wasn’t self-love-y or positive. It was honest.

I wrote things like:

• I’m anxious and overthinking constantly.
• I say yes when I want to say no.
• I try to be what I think others want me to be.
• I interrupt people when they are speaking because I want to feel relatable.
• I feel guilty all the time, and I don’t know why.
• I don’t trust myself.

There was no sugarcoating. No judgment either. Just observation.

I looked at the page and thought, Okay. This is where I’m at.

Then I flipped the page.

List Two: Who I Want to Be

This list felt different. Not dreamy or abstract, but clear.

I wrote things like:

• I want to be grounded and calm.
• I want to be kind, patient, and generous.
• I want to listen more than I speak.
• I want to say no without guilt.
• I want to show up more in love and less in fear.
• I want to move through the world not feeling like I always need to prove myself.

Reading them back, I could feel how wildly different those two versions of me were—not just in how I showed up for the world, but in how I treated myself.

One list was full of fear, defensiveness, and guilt. The other was rooted in confidence, calm, and choice.

It wasn’t about becoming a brand-new person. It was about becoming more me—the version of me that had been buried under layers of people-pleasing, perfectionism, and performance for years.

You can’t become who you want to be if you’re not honest about who you are right now. That’s exactly what those two lists gave me—an unfiltered look at both sides of the mirror.

As I looked at both lists side by side, I didn’t feel shame. I felt clarity.

The gap between them wasn’t a flaw. It was a direction.

And I had a choice to make. Keep going as I was—or finally do the work to change.

Not just for a month. Not just until I felt better. But for real this time.

The kind of change that’s uncomfortable. The kind that reworks your patterns, rewires your reflexes,
and asks you to let go of everything that no longer fits.

That moment became the foundation of my healing journey.

Awareness First, Then Change

Let me be clear: I didn’t wake up the next day and magically become that second list.

What I did was start noticing. I’d walk away from conversations and think, Ah… I interrupted people a lot again. I tried to be funny instead of real. I said yes when I meant no.

At first, that awareness was frustrating. I wanted to be further along. But eventually, I realized the win is in noticing.

What helped me most in this part of the process was journaling.

I began tracking my thoughts, my actions—even entire conversations. I’d ask myself: Was I present today? Or was I in my head? Did I try to prove something? Where did that pattern show up?

Sometimes I’d set one small focus, like “interrupt less,” and observe that for weeks. I started noticing who I felt the need to impress, when I lost presence, and what kind of people triggered those old habits. I wasn’t trying to fix it all at once—I was learning myself in real time. That awareness, day by day, became the bridge.

That’s the starting point for every real shift.

Over time, those small moments of noticing turned into different choices. I started speaking up. Setting boundaries. Sitting with my emotions instead of numbing them. Choosing presence over performance.

And little by little, I began becoming the person on the second list.

Not perfectly. Not quickly. But honestly.

What I Learned from Writing Two Lists

1. Change starts with radical honesty. You can’t grow if you’re not willing to name where you are.

2. Self-awareness is a skill, not a switch. It builds slowly. Be patient.

3. You don’t need to know the whole path. Just the direction is enough.

4. The goal isn’t perfection. It’s alignment. It’s feeling proud of who you are becoming.

If you’re in a season of unraveling, I see you. It’s disorienting. It’s uncomfortable. But it might also be the doorway to everything real.

So grab a pen. Write your lists.

Not to shame yourself, but to meet yourself.

That moment of truth might just be the moment that changes everything.

You don’t have to write your lists perfectly. You don’t even have to know what to do with them right away. Just be honest. Start where you are. Let clarity come before change—and let that be enough for now.

See more posts

About Sara Mitich

Sara Mitich helps people reconnect with themselves and move through life’s challenges with more clarity, peace, and self-trust. As the founder of Gratitude & Growth, she shares insights on mindfulness, mindset, and emotional resilience. Explore more at www.gratitudegrowth.com.

More Posts

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

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

Rebuilding Myself After Divorce: How I Found Healing and Hope

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~ Rumi

I never imagined I’d be here at forty-nine—divorced, disoriented, and drowning in an identity crisis. I had met him just before my sixteenth birthday. He was all I knew. We built an entire life together—nearly three decades of marriage, raising children, shared memories, traditions, routines. And then, one day, it all collapsed with five haunting words: “I need some space, Heather.”

At first, I thought it was a phase. But the space became silence, the silence became separation, and soon after, I was signing divorce papers. The man I had built my entire adult life around was gone—and I was left looking in the mirror, asking, who am I without him?

I wasn’t just grieving a relationship. I was grieving myself. The version of me that had given everything. The version that bent and adapted and compromised for the sake of “us.” And underneath the heartbreak was a heavy cocktail of blame and resentment—toward him, toward myself, and honestly, toward time.

I blamed him for blindsiding me, for giving up, for not fighting for us. I resented him for having the freedom to walk away while I was left holding the pieces of a shattered dream. But deeper down, I blamed myself for not seeing the signs. For ignoring the subtle shifts. For losing myself in the process of trying to keep a marriage alive that had slowly stopped breathing.

The truth is our marriage ended because we grew apart. I had started evolving—becoming more spiritual, more curious, more self-aware. He didn’t come with me. And after years of unspoken tension, emotional distance, and mismatched values, we were no longer on the same path. Still, even with that understanding, it didn’t make the grief easier.

For months, I was in survival mode—smiling through social events, working, taking care of my responsibilities. Outwardly composed. But inside? I was crumbling. The nights were the hardest. That’s when the questions haunted me:

What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I enough? Will anyone ever love me again?

Then, one quiet afternoon—nothing particularly special about it—I sat in my bedroom, surrounded by silence, sunlight pouring through the window, and I just… stopped. I was exhausted from my own thoughts. There was no dramatic trigger—just an overwhelming stillness that finally gave space for a new question to enter:

What if this isn’t the end? What if this is the beginning of coming home to myself?

That was the moment everything shifted. I decided I was no longer going to be the woman waiting to be rescued. I was going to become the woman who rescued herself.

Heartbreak lives in the body. And mine was screaming.  Tight shoulders, restless sleep, a dull ache in my chest that never left. I had spent so long disassociating from my body—ignoring its cries while tending to everyone else’s needs.

But healing demanded presence. So, I began walking the dogs daily—feeling my feet on the earth, breathing deeply again. I returned to gentle movement through Pilates. I swapped comfort food for nourishing meals that made me feel alive. Each small act of care was a message to myself: You matter. You’re worth tending to.

The most toxic place I lived in wasn’t my house post-divorce—it was my own mind. The narrative was cruel: You failed. You’re too old. You’re fat.  You’re unlovable. You’ll always be alone.

But I started catching those thoughts and asking, Would I say this to my daughter or my best friend? Of course not. So why was I saying them to myself?

I started journaling affirmations: I am enough. I am healing. I am lovable. I am whole. Slowly, my inner critic softened. I began rewriting my story—not as the woman who was left, but as the woman who rose

The next chapter was the most magical—and the most confronting. When your life revolves around someone else for nearly thirty years, you forget who you are outside of that. I began to remember.

I remembered I love writing.

I remembered how healing it is to dance barefoot to music I adore.

I remembered my curiosity, my dreams, my longing for meaning.

I began meditating each morning, journaling. and going on solo nature walks. I talked to my guides, my angels. I cried. I created sacred space just for me.

And slowly… the woman I was before him, and the woman I was becoming after him, started to meet. And they liked each other.

Healing isn’t a straight line. Some days you feel fierce. Other days, fragile. But both are part of the process.

Even now—with a wonderful new man in my life—grief still visits me from time to time. Milestones like our children’s weddings or the births of our grandchildren have stirred old emotions I thought I’d already processed. Moments where the “what was” collides with the “what is.”

But now, instead of meeting that sadness with shame or self-judgment, I greet it with compassion. It’s okay to hold joy in one hand and grief in the other. That’s what healing really looks like.

If you’re in the middle of your own heartbreak, here’s what I’ve learned that might help:

Care for your body: Movement, nourishment, rest. Your nervous system needs it.

Challenge your inner critic: Speak to yourself with the love you gave so freely to others.

Rediscover your essence: You are more than someone’s partner. You are a soul, a fire, a force.

Let go with love: Blame binds you to the past. Forgiveness sets you free.

You are not broken. You are rebuilding. Every tear, every setback, every breakthrough is sculpting a more radiant, wiser version of you.

See more posts

About Heather Prince

Heather Prince is a spiritual relationship coach who helps women over forty heal from heartbreak and reclaim their self-worth. Her journey through divorce now fuels her mission to guide others back to wholeness. Download her free workbook, From Heartbreak to Wholeness, at fmf90.com/giftfunnels.

Web | More Posts

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

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

How to Speak from the Heart: Let Your First Word Be a Breath

“Mindfulness is a pause—the space between stimulus and response: that’s where choice lies.” ~Tara Brach

We’ve all been there.

A sharp reply. A snide remark. A moment when we said something that didn’t come from our heart but from somewhere else entirely—a need to be right, to sound smart, to prove a point, to stay in control, or simply to defend ourselves.

What follows is the spinning. The knowing that what was said didn’t align with our soul. The overthinking, the replaying of the moment, the rumination, the regret, the tightening in the chest, the wish we could take it back.

We justify, we rationalize—but deep down, we know those words weren’t true to who we really are. They weren’t true to the part of us that longs to connect.

For many years, I lived in that loop.

I prided myself on being kind, thoughtful, intelligent, articulate, in control. I made every effort to be so. But I was operating from a place filled with expectations and invisible scripts—needing to prove, impress, or protect. I was filling roles: the composed professional, the high achiever, the witty and loyal friend, the perfect daughter and sister, the confident partner, and the ideal mother.

And so, although my words were often considered, they lacked something deeper and essential: heart.

I thought being thoughtful meant thinking more. Planning my responses. Winning debates. But what I didn’t realize was that thinking without presence can become a wall, not a bridge.

It wasn’t until I learned to pause—to breathe—to allow space between stimulus and response, and to use that space to connect within, that I began to understand a different kind of thoughtfulness. A deeper kind: heartfulness.

This is wisdom—not intellectual but embodied. It lives not in the mind, but in the body. In the breath. In the heart.

The Journey Back to the Heart

This shift didn’t happen overnight.

It came slowly as I gave myself permission to pause, to reflect, to grow. I started noticing how my words were shaping my relationships and my experience of life overall. I wanted to feel better. Calmer. More connected. Ruminate less. Regret less. Suffer less. Feel happier, more relaxed, more authentic.

Mindfulness opened that door.

Through meditation, self-inquiry, and contemplative reading, I began to understand the power of being impeccable with my words.

Books like The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz—and its core teaching: be impeccable with your word—resonated deeply. So did the Buddhist teaching on Right Speech, which invites us to ask before speaking: Is this kind? Is this honest? Is this timely? Does it add value?

These questions became my framework.

I would repeat them silently each morning during meditation. I would return to them during conversations, especially the difficult ones. Eventually, they became part of me.

And here’s what I realized: being impeccable with our words isn’t just about avoiding gossip or negativity.

It’s about creating love.

It’s about adding to the world rather than taking from it.

It’s about using words to build, not break.

That meant pausing before I spoke. Feeling into my body. Listening for what was true beneath the surface.

And slowly, my words began to change.

I began to feel the quiet power of responding instead of reacting. I was no longer using my energy to defend or ruminate.  Instead, I was using it to create connection and kindness.

This was a new kind of power—not the kind that makes us feel “in control,” but the kind that offers space. Space to connect with who I really am. Space to choose love.

A Simple, Yet Powerful Phrase to Remember

Just a few weeks ago, I came across a podcast where Jefferson Fisher, a Texas trial lawyer who speaks often about emotional regulation and grounded communication was being interviewed.

He suggested:

“May your first word be a breath.”

And in that moment, I felt the wisdom of the years of practice, reflection, and self-inquiry come together in one clear, simple, and practical sentence, something I could share with others to help implement and integrate the power of pausing before speaking.

This quote offered the simplest reminder for the wisdom I have spent years cultivating.

If there is one thing that you take away from this article, let it be this: “Let a breath be your first response,” and see what happens.

This phrase has become a kind of shorthand for me.

A phrase I carry into parenting, relationships, conversations, and teaching.

Because when your first word is a breath…

You create space. You reconnect with the part of you that knows who you want to be. You return to the heart—before habitual reactivity takes over.

Why This Matters

Our brains are wired for efficiency. Most of us live and act from a place of patterned reactivity, what neuroscience calls the default mode network. This is the brain’s autopilot, built from years of conditioning and past experiences. It’s like mental autopilot: fast, familiar, and often defensive.

The brain does not distinguish from good or bad, from positive or negative, from happier or unhappy. It doesn’t filter for what’s kind, truthful, or wise—it simply scans for what’s familiar and safe. It’s designed for survival, not fulfilment.

And when we’re triggered—by stress, conflict, or fear—our nervous system kicks into fight-or-flight mode. In this state, we’re primed to protect, defend, or escape. Our field of vision narrows. Our breath shortens. Our first words are often fast, defensive, sharp—not because we’re unkind, but because we’re unsafe.

This is why we say things we regret.

It’s why we speak without consideration, even when we know better.

It’s why our words can feel out of sync with who we truly are.

But mindfulness interrupts that cycle.

It invites us to pause. To observe. To breathe.

And in that pause, we return to ourselves. We reconnect with the part of us that knows. And we get to choose again.

This matters because when we give ourselves permission to pause, to check in, and to bring more heart into our lives, we begin to create something more meaningful.

We stop living in reaction.

We stop creating pain for ourselves and others.

And instead, we begin to cultivate an inner peace that radiates outward, into our relationships, our work, and our presence in the world.

Let This Be Your Invitation

“May my first word be a breath.”

Not because you have to believe in it, but because you can experience its benefits immediately.

Try it the next time you’re in a difficult moment—before replying to that message. Before responding to your child’s cry. Before defending yourself in an argument.

Pause. Feel your feet on the ground. Feel your body.

Breathe in for two seconds. Hold for two seconds. Breathe out for two seconds.

And ask yourself: What would my heart want to say here?

The Life That Becomes Possible

Imagine a life where your words feel true. Where your voice comes from clarity, not chaos. Where you speak, not to prove, impress, or control, but to connect.

A life where your presence calms the room, not because you’ve mastered perfection, but because you’ve learned to pause.

This is the life I live now.

Not perfectly, but intentionally.

It’s the life that opened up when I stopped performing and started pausing. When I chose presence over reactivity. When I let my heart lead instead of habit.

It’s available to all of us.

And it begins not with a plan, a list, or a big transformation. It begins with something much simpler.

A breath.

So if you’re looking for one practice to change your life—one small shift that creates ripples in how you speak, relate, and live—let it be this:

May your first word be a breath.

See more posts

About Carolina Gonzalez

Carolina Gonzalez is a certified mindfulness and meditation teacher based in Sydney, Australia. After navigating self-doubt and emotional depletion, she created Renew & Rise: Your 90-Day Pathway to Rediscover Clarity, Confidence, and Self-Worth. She helps people reconnect with their inner strength, cultivate self-worth, and feel empowered to make aligned life choices. Feeling overwhelmed or stuck? Carolina’s free 5-minute quiz can help you understand your coping style and offer a mindful step forward. Connect with her via Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn.

Web | Facebook | More Posts

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

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

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