From Loss to Hope: How I Found Joy Again

“Even when we fall, we rise again—a little wiser, a little braver, and with a way better story to tell.” ~Jessica W. Bowman

The phone call arrived like a silent explosion, shattering the ordinary hum of a Tuesday morning. My uncle was gone, suddenly, unexpectedly. Just a few months later, before the raw edges of that loss could even begin to soften, my mom followed. Her passing felt like a cruel echo, ripping open wounds that had barely begun to form scabs.

I remember those months as a blur of black clothes, hushed voices, and an aching emptiness that permeated every corner of my life. Grief settled over me like a suffocating blanket, heavy and constant. It wasn’t just the pain of losing them; it was the abrupt shift in the landscape of my entire world.

My cousin, my uncle’s only child, was just twenty-three. He came to live with me, utterly adrift. He knew nothing about managing a household, budgeting, or even basic self-care. In the fog of my own sorrow, I found myself guiding him through the mundane tasks of adulting, a daily lesson in how to simply exist when your world has crumbled.

Those early days were a testament to moving forward on autopilot. Each step felt like wading through thick mud. There were moments when the weight of it all seemed insurmountable, when the idea of ever feeling lighthearted again felt like a distant, impossible dream. My heart was a constant ache, and laughter felt like a betrayal.

Then, the losses kept coming. A couple of other beloved family members departed within months, each passing a fresh cut on an already bruised soul. It felt like the universe was testing my capacity for heartbreak, pushing me to the absolute edge of what I believed I could endure. I was convinced that happiness, true, unburdened joy, was simply no longer available to me.

For a long time, I resided in that broken space. My days were functional, but my spirit felt dormant, like a hibernating animal.

I went through the motions, caring for my cousin, managing responsibilities, but internally, I was convinced my capacity for joy had been irrevocably damaged. The idea of embracing happiness felt disloyal to the people I had lost.

One crisp morning, standing by the kitchen window, I noticed the way the light hit the dew on a spiderweb. It was a fleeting, unremarkable moment, yet for a split second, a tiny flicker of something akin to peace, even beauty, stirred within me. It startled me, like catching my own reflection in a darkened room. That flicker was a subtle reminder that even in the deepest shadows, light still existed.

This wasn’t a sudden epiphany or a miraculous cure. It was a slow, deliberate crawl out of the emotional abyss. I began to understand that healing wasn’t about erasing the pain, but about learning to carry it differently. It was about allowing grief its space while simultaneously creating new space for life to bloom again.

The first step was simply acknowledging the darkness without letting it consume me.

I stopped fighting the waves of sadness when they came, allowing them to wash over me, knowing they would eventually recede. This acceptance was pivotal; it transformed my internal struggle from a battle into a painful, but necessary, process.

I also learned the profound power of small, intentional acts. This wasn’t about grand gestures of self-care. It was about consciously noticing the warmth of a morning cup of coffee, the texture of a soft blanket, the simple comfort of a familiar song. These tiny moments, woven into the fabric of daily life, began to accumulate, like individual threads forming a stronger tapestry.

Another crucial insight was the importance of letting go of the “shoulds.” There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, and no timeline for healing. I stopped judging my feelings, stopped comparing my progress to an imaginary standard. This liberation from self-imposed pressure created room for genuine recovery, allowing me to be exactly where I was in my journey.

I started to actively seek out moments of connection. This meant leaning on the friends and remaining family who offered support, even when I felt too exhausted to reciprocate. It was about sharing stories, sometimes tearful, sometimes unexpectedly funny, that honored those we had lost and reminded me that love, even in absence, still binds us.

Embracing vulnerability became a strength. Allowing myself to be seen in my brokenness, to admit when I was struggling, paradoxically made me feel more grounded. It revealed the immense capacity for compassion that exists in others, and in myself. This openness fostered deeper connections, which became vital anchors in my recovery.

The concept of “joy” also transformed. It wasn’t about constant euphoria but about finding contentment, peace, and even occasional bursts of laughter amidst the lingering sorrow.

It became less about an absence of pain and more about a presence of life, in all its complex beauty. I learned that joy is not a betrayal of grief but a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit.

Ultimately, my journey taught me that resilience isn’t about being tough or never falling. It’s about being tender enough to feel, courageous enough to keep seeking light, and brave enough to get back up, even when every fiber of your being wants to stay down. It’s about collecting the pieces of your broken heart and finding a way to make it beat again, perhaps even stronger and more appreciative of every precious moment.

I now stand in a place where I truly believe I am stronger and happier than ever before. Not despite the pain, but because of the profound lessons it taught me.

Every challenging step, every tear shed, every quiet moment of discovery contributed to the person I am today—a little wiser, a little braver, and with a way better story to tell.

My hope is that anyone facing similar darkness knows that the path back to joy is always possible, and that your story, too, holds immense power and purpose.

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About Jessica Bowman

Jessica W. Bowman is a Southern author driven by a passion for authentic storytelling. Her first memoir, In Case I Die: A Southern Perspective of Death & Living Every Day Like it's Your Last, explores finding joy and resilience after profound loss. Her writing aims to offer hope and practical wisdom, inspiring readers to embrace their own journey and cherish every moment. Learn more at jessicawbowman.com.

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Coming Out at 50: Love, Loss, and Living My Truth

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” ~Carl Jung

We all had a wild ride during the pandemic, am I right? Mine included falling in love with a woman. At fifty years old.

That’s not something I expected. But isn’t that how life goes?

One day you’re baking sourdough and trying not to touch your face, and the next you’re coming out to the world and losing half your family in the process.

I’d been single for over two decades—twenty-five years of bad dates, some good therapy, and quiet Friday nights. I’d survived abuse, betrayal, and abandonment.

I’d been struggling to make peace with my solitude. My biggest fear was dying alone in my apartment and not being discovered for days. It felt very possible.

Trying to accept that this was as good as it gets didn’t leave me in state of letting go but in a state of absolute dread.

Deep down, I was aching to be seen. To be chosen. To feel at home. To belong to someone. Then I met her. And my life cracked wide open.

This wasn’t just a late-in-life love story. This was a story about becoming who I really am—about peeling back decades of shame, “am-I-gay?” denial, and internalized homophobia.

It was about stepping fully into my own skin. And the price of authenticity? For us, it was being shunned.

Neither of us had explored this path before, so when my now-wife came out to her devoutly Catholic family, they told her she was going to hell.

They called her an abomination.

Her mother hung up on her and never called back. That was years ago, and the silence still rings in our home.

That phone call still makes my stomach knot. It wasn’t even my mother, but I felt it in my bones. I’d been orphaned as a teen, and I knew that kind of cutting loss.

But this was different. This was intentional. This was betrayal in the name of righteousness.

There are siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephews who claim to “support us,” but their actions say otherwise. We’re invited to some events and left out of others. They hide the truth from the kids like we’re shameful secrets.

We show up, smile, make small talk, and leave. No one asks how we’re doing. No one mentions our wedding. We invited them.

And you know what? I’m angry.

I’m angry because they get to pretend they’re not part of the harm.

I’m angry because they preach love and acceptance, but it only extends to the people who fit their mold.

I’m angry because my wife, the kindest human I know, cries in the dark sometimes and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told them.”

But I’m also angry because we did the brave thing. And bravery shouldn’t cost this much, but it often does.

We tried to find ways to “pass.” To live a half-truth.

We discussed keeping things quiet “for the sake of the kids.” But ultimately, we knew any ruse would fall apart. Four kids have big mouths. And love deserves the light.

We wanted to be models of integrity—for ourselves and for them. So we came out. Fully. And paid the price.

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be ghosted by an entire family. It’s grief, yes, but also rage. Deep, blistering rage. It’s the disorienting sense that you are both too much and not enough at the same time. And it brings up everything.

All the old stories from my childhood: that I had to earn love. That I wasn’t lovable unless I was perfect. That my voice didn’t matter. That taking up space was dangerous.

Those lies were hardwired into my nervous system. But this new rejection? It cracked them wide open. And inside that crack, I found a painful truth:

Living authentically can cost you people you thought would never leave. But living inauthentically costs you yourself.

So, here’s what I’ve learned, for anyone navigating the heartbreak of being rejected for who you love or who you are:

1. Grieve it.

Don’t skip over the pain. Feel it. Let it rage. You’re allowed to be hurt. You’re allowed to be furious. You’re allowed to be human.

Journaling helps. Venting to supportive friends helps. Finding people who get it helps.

Fear can strip people of their humanity. Fight fear.

2. Build your chosen family.

Find your people. The ones who cheer for you, hold you, and text you dumb memes when you’re sad. They are real. They count.

Thankfully, my siblings were accepting ‘enough.’ They don’t hate. They may not be fully comfortable, but they have never excluded us.

And my Irish wife has plenty of cousins, aunts, and uncles who have heard our story and have shown up to support us and champion us.

Our existing circle of friends never batted an eye or skipped a beat in giving us love and support.

3. Stop performing.

Even if it feels safer. Even if it wins you approval. It’s exhausting and soul-crushing. You’re not here to be palatable; you’re here to be whole.

My four stepchildren have adjusted well because we have owned our truth while staying gracious.

The kids can spend time with their grandma and relatives no matter what they think about us.

It’s their relationship to develop and foster on their own, and eventually the kids will come to their own conclusions.

We will continue to model that love is love.

4. Give your inner child the love she missed.

Your inner child deserved unconditional acceptance. They still do. Speak to them gently. Show them they’re safe now.

This took effort for me. And for my wife. It’s been a process of grieving and letting go—of rebuilding our lives and identities.

Rejection has been a theme in my life, and it hit hard. Especially when I have always longed for family.

But I realize my family is within the walls of my own home, and there is plenty for anyone else I allow to enter it.

5. Hold the boundary.

You don’t have to chase people who can’t see your worth. You don’t have to explain your humanity. You are not too much. They are simply not ready.

We continue to reach out to my wife’s siblings because they and their children will be around a lot longer than their mother will (their dad died three years ago). They live a mile away.

And even though they say they are “Switzerland,” and I say they are complicit, I do know they try in their own ways to walk a middle line.

Sometimes, I’m struck by sadness as this feels like we have lost something, and, other times, I’m open to the ways they show up without needing to judge or quantify it.

The truth is, I still have days where the sadness grabs me unexpectedly—at weddings, holidays, or when I see how tender my wife is with our kids and wonder how anyone could deny her love.

But mostly, I feel proud.

I did something really f***ing brave.

I stopped asking for permission to exist.

I didn’t do it at twenty. I didn’t even do it at forty. I did it at fifty. And that’s okay. That counts.

If you’re out there thinking you’ve missed your chance, or that it’s too late to start over—I promise you, it’s not. You don’t need a pandemic either.

You’re not too late.

You’re right on time.

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About Jenn Hoffman

Jenn Hoffman, LCSW is a trauma therapist, writer, and late-blooming lesbian living in New England. She believes in chosen family, nervous system healing, and that it’s never too late to live your truth. You can find her free trauma and grounding guides at www.instarhealing.com.

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What Would Make the Better Story? (Why I Chose the Rain)

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do.” ~Mark Twain

Let me set the scene.

It’s a blistering summer day in Miami—the kind where the humidity hugs you tighter than your ex at a high school reunion, and the air feels like you’re swimming through warm soup. Not exactly the kind of weather that makes you want to move, let alone sweat through a surprise death-match workout on Muscle Beach.

But there I was.

The trainer—clearly a drill sergeant in a past life—barks out: “One more rep and we’re done!”

Ah, yes. The famous last words of every group fitness class ever.

Spoiler: We were not done.

That “one more rep” turned into ten more exercises, each more punishing than the last. By the end, I was convinced my legs had filed for emancipation. My tank top could’ve been used to mop the floor. And yet… beneath the exhaustion was a wild, inexplicable sense of aliveness.

As we collapsed onto the grass post-torture, I tilted my head to the sky—not for inspiration, but perhaps divine rescue. Instead, I got clouds. Big, moody ones, rolling in fast.

Now, as a Miami local, I knew what was coming. Rain. In five minutes, give or take.

Our group—equal parts sweaty and semi-traumatized—decided to grab food at a nearby Greek spot six blocks away. It would’ve been an easy call… if the weather weren’t about to turn into a tropical tantrum.

And that’s when the debate began: “To Uber or not to Uber?”

That was the moment.

That was the question that cracked open something bigger than I expected.

Because I found myself thinking—not practically, but existentially: What would make the better story?

Ubering dry and comfortable? Or walking into the storm, drenched and laughing?

You can guess which one I chose.

We set off on foot.

The first raindrops were tentative, almost polite. Then came the downpour. The real deal. Within moments, we were soaked to the skin—but free.

We splashed through puddles. We screamed. We laughed like kids who were allowed to stay up past bedtime.

When we finally burst into the restaurant—sopping wet, windswept, and grinning—we looked like a group of joyful chaos incarnate. No one cared about how they looked. No one regretted the walk.

Because we didn’t just choose a meal. We chose a memory.

So now I’ll ask you the same thing I asked myself: What would make the better story?

Not the easier one. Not the polished one. Not the one that keeps you neat and unbothered.

The better story. The one with heart and risk and color. The one where you come alive—even if you get a little messy in the process.

We tend to make choices based on comfort or control. We pick what’s convenient. Predictable. Safe. But the stories we remember—and the ones we’re proud to tell—usually start with a moment of uncertainty.

A leap. A yes. A “Why not?”

Maybe it’s the relationship that felt like a risk but turned into something real.

Maybe it’s the day you finally stood up for yourself, even though your voice trembled.

Maybe it’s the job you didn’t feel ready for but said yes to anyway.

Or maybe, like me, it’s just a walk in the rain that reminded you how alive you really are.

Your life is made up of stories.

And every day, you’re writing the next line.

So what will it be today? Will you play it safe? Or will you choose the version of this day—the version of yourself—that you’ll be proud to look back on?

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About Danielle Dam

Danielle Dam is a life and leadership coach, speaker, and founder of Coach Dam LLC. Through her signature program, From Unseen to Unforgettable (U2U), she helps ambitious yet overwhelmed women stop living on autopilot and start leading lives that actually feel as good as they look. After years of chasing external validation, Danielle now empowers others to reconnect with their truth, rewrite old patterns, and build a life rooted in purpose, presence, and personal power. Learn more or connect with her at coachdam.com or on Instagram @Danielle_coachdam.

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Vulnerability Is Powerful But Not Always Safe

“Vulnerability is not oversharing. It’s sharing with people who have earned the right to hear our story.” ~Brené Brown

Earlier this year, I found myself in a place I never imagined: locked in a psychiatric emergency room, wearing a paper wristband, surrounded by strangers in visible distress. I wasn’t suicidal. I hadn’t harmed anyone. I’d simply told the truth—and it led me there.

What happened began, in a way, with writing.

I’m in my seventies, and I’ve lived a full life as a filmmaker, teacher, father, and now a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mother. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also felt something slipping. A quiet sense that I’m no longer seen. Not with cruelty—just absence. Like the world turned the page and forgot to bring me along.

One day in therapy, I said aloud what I’d been afraid to name: “I feel like the world’s done with me.”

My therapist listened kindly. “Why don’t you write about it?” she said.

So I did.

I began an essay about age, invisibility, and meaning—what it feels like to move through a culture that doesn’t always value its elders. I called it The Decline of the Elders, and it became one of the hardest things I’ve ever written.

Each sentence pulled something raw out of me. I wasn’t just writing; I was reliving. My mind circled through memories I hadn’t fully processed, doubts I hadn’t admitted, losses I hadn’t grieved. I’d get up, pace, sit down again, write, delete, rewrite. It was as if I were opening an old wound that had never really healed. The pain was real—and so was the urgency to understand it.

Then came the eye injection—a regular treatment for macular degeneration. This time, it didn’t go well. My eye throbbed, burned, and wouldn’t stop watering. Eventually, both eyes blurred. Still, I sat there trying to write, blinking through physical and emotional pain, trying to finish what I had started.

Everything hurt—my vision, my body, my sense of purpose. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live with what I was feeling.

So I called 911.

“This isn’t an emergency,” I told the dispatcher. “I just need to talk to someone. A hotline or counselor—anything.”

She connected me to the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline—a lifeline for people in imminent danger of harming themselves. If you are suicidal, please call. It can save your life. My mistake was using it for something it’s not designed for.

 I spoke with a kind young man and told him the truth: I was in therapy. I was writing something painful. I was overwhelmed but safe. I just needed a voice on the other end. Someone to hear me.

Then came the knock at the door.

Three police officers. Calm. Polite. But firm.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m not a danger. I just needed someone to talk to.”

That didn’t matter. Protocol had been triggered.

They escorted me to the squad car and drove me to the psychiatric ER. I felt powerless and embarrassed, unsure how a simple call had escalated so quickly.

They took me to the psychiatric ER at LA County General.

No beds. Just recliner chairs lined up in a dim, humming room. I was searched. My belongings were taken. I was assigned a chair and handed a bean burrito. They offered medication if I needed it. One thin blanket. A buzzing TV that never turned off.

I didn’t want sedation. I didn’t want a distraction. I just sat with it—all of it.

And around me, others sat too: a man curled into himself, shaking; a young woman staring blankly into space; someone muttering unintelligibly to no one at all. Real pain. Raw pain. People who seemed completely lost in it.

That’s when the shame hit me.

I didn’t belong here, I thought. I wasn’t like them. I had a home. A therapist. A sense of self, however fractured. I hadn’t tried to hurt anyone. I’d just asked to be heard. And yet there I was—taking up space, resources, attention—while others clearly needed it more.

But that too was a kind of false separation. Who was I to say I didn’t belong? I’d called in desperation. I’d lost perspective. My crisis may have looked different, but it was real.

Eventually, a nurse came to interview me. I told her everything—the writing, the injection, the spiral I’d been caught in. She listened. And sometime after midnight, they let me go.

My wife picked me up. Quiet. Unsure. I didn’t blame her. I barely knew what had just happened myself.

Later that night, I sat again in the chair where it had all started. My eyes ached less. But I was stunned. And strangely clear.

The experience hadn’t destroyed me. It had initiated me.

I also realized how naïve I’d been. I hadn’t researched alternatives. I hadn’t explored my real options. I’d reached for the most visible solution out of emotional exhaustion. That desperation wasn’t weakness—it was a symptom of a deeper need I hadn’t fully acknowledged.

And I learned something I’ll never forget:

Vulnerability is powerful, but it’s not always safe.

I used to think that honesty was always the best path. That if I opened up, someone would meet me there with compassion. And often that’s true. But not always. Systems aren’t built for subtlety. Institutions can’t always distinguish between emotional honesty and risk.

And not every person is a safe place for our truth. Some people repeatedly minimize our pain or dismiss our feelings. We might long for their validation, but protecting ourselves means recognizing when someone isn’t willing or able to give it.

Since then, I’ve kept writing. I’ve kept feeling. But I’ve also learned to be more discerning.

Now I ask myself:

• Is this the right moment for this truth?
• Is this person or space able to hold it?
• Am I seeking connection—or rescue?

There’s no shame in needing help. But there is wisdom in learning how to ask for it, and who to ask.

I still believe in truth. I still believe in tenderness. But I also believe in learning how to protect what’s sacred inside us.

So if you’re someone who feels deeply—who writes, reflects, or breaks open in unexpected ways—this is what I want you to know:

You are not weak. You are not broken. But you are tender. And tenderness needs care, not containment—care from people you can trust to honor it.

Give your truth a place where it can be held, not punished. And if that place doesn’t yet exist, build it—starting with one safe person, one honest conversation, one page in your journal. Word by word. Breath by breath.

Because your pain is real. Your voice matters.

And when shared with care, your truth can still light the way.

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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.

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Why I Learned to Stay Quiet to Be “Good”

 “Your silence will not protect you.” ~Audre Lorde

When I was little, I learned that being “good” meant being quiet.

Not just with my voice, but with my needs. My emotions. Even the space I took up.

I don’t remember anyone sitting me down and saying, “Don’t speak unless spoken to.” But I felt it—in the flinches when I was too loud, the tension when I cried, the subtle praise when I stayed calm, agreeable, small. I felt it in the way adults sighed with relief when I didn’t make a fuss. I felt it in the way I stopped asking for what I wanted.

Goodness, to me, became about not rocking the boat.

I remember once being told, “You’re such a good girl—you never complain.” And I carried that like a medal. I remember crying in my room instead of speaking up at dinner. Saying “I’m fine” even when my chest hurt with unsaid words. I didn’t want to cause trouble. I wanted to be easy to love.

So I smiled through discomfort. Nodded when I wanted to say no. Bit my tongue when I had something true to say. I became pleasant, adaptable, well-liked.

And utterly disconnected from myself.

The Body Keeps the Quiet

For a long time, I thought this was just a personality trait. I told myself I was just easygoing. Sensitive. A peacemaker.

But the truth is, I had internalized a nervous system survival strategy: fawning. A subtle, often invisible adaptation where safety is sought not through flight or fight but through appeasement. Becoming who others want you to be. Saying what they want to hear.

In my body, this looked like:

• Holding my breath in tense conversations
• Smiling when I felt anxious
• Swallowing words that rose in my throat
• Feeling exhausted after social interactions, not knowing why

It wasn’t just social anxiety or shyness. It was a deeply ingrained survival pattern—one that shaped everything from how I moved in the world to how I related to others.

I didn’t yet have the language for what was happening. But I could feel the cost.

The silence I carried started to ache—not just emotionally, but physically.

My jaw clenched. My shoulders rounded forward.  My chest felt like a locked room. I felt foggy in conversations, distant in relationships, unsure of where I began and ended.

It turns out, when you chronically silence yourself to stay safe, your body starts whispering what your voice can’t say.

The First Time I Said “No”

It wasn’t a dramatic moment. There was no shouting or storming out.

It was a quiet dinner with someone I didn’t feel fully safe around. They asked for something that crossed a line. And for the first time in my adult life, instead of automatically saying yes, I paused.

I heard the old script start to run: Be nice. Don’t upset them. Just say yes, it’s easier.

But something in me—a wiser, quieter part—held steady.

I took a breath. I said, “No, I’m not okay with that.”

And even though my body trembled, I didn’t crumble. Nothing catastrophic happened. I went home and cried—not from fear, but from relief.

It was one of the first moments I realized I could choose myself. Even when it felt unnatural. Even when I wasn’t sure what would happen next.

That one moment changed something in me. Not overnight. But it planted a seed.

Reclaiming My Voice, One Breath at a Time

Reclaiming my voice hasn’t been a big, bold revolution. It’s been a slow unfolding.

It looks like:

• Taking a few seconds before I respond, even if silence feels uncomfortable
• Letting myself speak with emotion, not filtering everything to sound “reasonable”
• Naming what I need, even if my voice shakes
• Resting after interactions that leave me drained—honoring the impact
• Journaling the things I wanted to say, even if I never say them out loud

Some days I still go quiet. I still feel the old fear that speaking truth will cause rupture, rejection, or harm. Sometimes I still rehearse what I want to say five times before I say it once.

But I’ve learned that every time I listen to myself, even if just with a hand on my heart, I’m creating safety from the inside out.

And slowly, my body began to shift. I stood a little taller. My breath came a little easier. I started to feel more here—more like myself, not just a reflection of who I thought I needed to be.

What Helped Me Begin

Sometimes, what rises first isn’t courage but grief. Grief for all the moments we didn’t speak, for the versions of ourselves that held it all inside. I had to learn to meet that grief gently, not as failure, but as evidence of how hard I was trying to stay safe.

This journey didn’t begin with confidence—it began with compassion.

Noticing the times I silenced myself with curiosity instead of shame.

Asking: What did I fear might happen if I spoke? What used to happen?

Placing a hand on my chest and saying gently, “You’re not bad for being quiet. You were trying to stay safe.”

And then, when I felt ready, experimenting with small expansions:

• Leaving a voice note for a friend instead of texting
• Telling someone “I need a moment to think” instead of rushing an answer
• Saying “I actually disagree” in a conversation where I normally would’ve nodded along

None of these were big leaps. But each one taught my nervous system a new truth: it’s safe to have a voice.

If You’ve Been Quiet Too

If you’re reading this and recognizing your own silence, I want you to know:

You’re not bad for going quiet. You were wise. Your nervous system was doing its best to keep you safe.

And if you’re beginning to feel the tug to speak—to take up a little more space, to say “no” or “I don’t know” or “I need a moment”—you can trust that too.

You don’t need to become loud or forceful. Reclaiming voice doesn’t mean overpowering anyone else. It just means including yourself. Honoring your truth. Letting your body exhale.

You are allowed to be heard. You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to unfold, one breath at a time.

Your voice is not a threat. It’s a bridge—back to yourself. Your silence once kept you safe. But now, your truth might set you free.

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About Maya Fleischer

Maya Fleischer is a somatic guide and creator of Unfold Consciously, a gentle space for healing emotional patterns and reconnecting with the body’s wisdom. She shares slow, heart-based practices for nervous system healing, softness, and self-trust. You can receive her free 5-day audio journey, A Gentle Practice Series for the Sensitive and Self-Censored, at subscribepage.io/audio-journey.

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The Questions That Helped Me Reclaim My Life

“You can rewrite the story. You just have to pick up the pen.” ~Unknown

I remember the exact moment I started disappearing.

It was my wedding day. Just before I walked down the aisle, my mother gently reached for my hand and said, “Your hands are freezing!”

She was right. I was ice-cold.

At first, I laughed it off—after all, it was February in Connecticut. Cold hands made sense, right? But that day, something didn’t add up.

We were in the middle of an unusual Indian summer. The air was warm, the sun soft and golden. People were sipping champagne outside without jackets.

And yet, I was frozen. Not just my hands—me.

What I didn’t know at the time was that this wasn’t about nerves. It wasn’t about cold weather or wedding day jitters. It was my body sounding the alarm. A deep, internal signal that something wasn’t right.

Beneath the lace and lipstick, behind the practiced smile and the applause of the crowd, there was a whisper.

“Don’t do this.”

But how could I possibly listen to that voice?

The guests were seated. The music had started. My fiancé stood at the end of the aisle with hope in his eyes. My parents had planned the wedding of their dreams for me, and the entire day was unfolding like the last few pages of a fairy tale.

How could I pause it all for… a whisper?

So I smiled. I walked. And with every step, I tucked away another piece of myself.

At the time, I didn’t realize it. But in that moment, I began the slow, quiet process of disappearing. Not all at once. Piece by piece. Smile by smile. Year by year.

On paper, everything looked beautiful. Picture-perfect, even. A supportive husband. A charming home. A life that earned approving nods at dinner parties. But inside? I felt like a ghost wearing the costume of a woman who was supposed to be happy.

And perhaps the most painful part was this: I couldn’t point the finger at anyone.

My husband wasn’t the villain. He was kind and supportive.

My family didn’t force me down the aisle. They loved me deeply.

There was no one to blame—except maybe the version of me that believed being loved meant being pleasing, agreeable, convenient.

I had built a life around what made others proud. I had excelled at being the daughter, the wife, the “put-together” woman.

But I had no idea how to be… me.

Maybe you’ve felt this too.

Maybe you’ve found yourself living a life that looks good from the outside, while quietly wondering on the inside, Is this really it?

A job that pays the bills but dulls your spirit. A routine so rehearsed it feels like a loop you can’t break. A relationship that’s functional but not fulfilling. A version of yourself that checks every box—and yet still feels like something essential is missing.

That’s where I found myself. And let me tell you, it’s disorienting. Because how do you start over when you don’t even remember where you veered off course?

For me, it began with paying attention to that whisper. The one I’d been ignoring since the altar. It didn’t yell. It didn’t beg. It simply waited. Until one day, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I started to unravel the layers I had built around myself—layers of expectation, perfectionism, people-pleasing.

I started asking hard questions:

• Who am I when I’m not performing for someone else’s approval?
• What do I actually want?
• What parts of my life were chosen by habit or fear instead of by intention?

And that’s when everything started to shift.

I realized that being “stuck” wasn’t a personal failure. It wasn’t a character flaw. It was the natural result of abandoning my truth for too long.

When you spend your life tuning out your inner voice, the world will gladly offer you a script.

Go to school. Get the job. Marry the person. Smile. Say thank you. Be grateful. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t ask too many questions. Especially not the ones that start with what if…

But here’s the thing: That whisper inside of you? It doesn’t disappear. It waits. Patiently. Kindly.

It shows up as restlessness. As burnout. As Sunday-night dread. As the weird ache in your chest when you realize your calendar is full, but your soul feels empty. And eventually, it becomes too loud to ignore.

So if you’re reading this and thinking, That’s me, I want you to know this:

You’re not broken. You’re not behind. You’re waking up. And waking up is messy. It means grieving the life you thought you wanted so you can build the one you actually desire.

It means being honest about what’s not working.

It means risking disappointment or disapproval so you can live in alignment.

It means trading “perfect” for peace.

And it’s not always easy. But it is worth it.

You don’t have to disappear to be loved. You don’t have to shrink to fit in. You don’t have to betray yourself to belong. You just have to listen.

Start small. Ask yourself: Where have I been quieting my own voice to keep the peace?

Then ask: What would it look like to honor that voice, just a little bit today?

Maybe it’s saying no to something you’ve outgrown. Maybe it’s signing up for that class you’ve been secretly dreaming about. Maybe it’s sitting quietly for five minutes and asking your inner voice, What do you need from me right now?

You don’t have to burn it all down to begin again. You just have to be willing to begin.

Because the truth is… the life that’s calling you? It’s not waiting for the “perfect” moment. It’s waiting for you.

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About Danielle Dam

Danielle Dam is a life and leadership coach, speaker, and founder of Coach Dam LLC. Through her signature program, From Unseen to Unforgettable (U2U), she helps ambitious yet overwhelmed women stop living on autopilot and start leading lives that actually feel as good as they look. After years of chasing external validation, Danielle now empowers others to reconnect with their truth, rewrite old patterns, and build a life rooted in purpose, presence, and personal power. Learn more or connect with her at coachdam.com or on Instagram @Danielle_coachdam.

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The Child I Lost and the Inner Child I’m Now Learning to Love

“Our sorrows and wounds are healed only when we touch them with compassion.” ~Jack Kornfield

Her absence lingers in the stillness of early mornings, in the moments between tasks, in the hush of evening when the day exhales. I’ve gotten good at moving. At staying busy. At producing. But sometimes, especially lately, the quiet catches me—and I fall in.

Grief doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s a whisper, one you barely hear until it’s grown into a wind that bends your bones.

It’s been nearly three years since my daughter passed. People told me time would help. That the firsts—first holidays, first birthday without her—would be the hardest. And maybe that was true.

But what no one prepared me for was how her absence would echo into the years that followed. How grief would evolve, shape-shift, and sometimes grow heavier—not lighter—with time. How her loss would uncover older wounds. Ones that predate her birth. Wounds that go back to a little girl who never quite felt safe enough to just be.

I’d like to say I’ve spent the past few years healing. Meditating. Journaling. Growing. And I did—sort of. Inconsistently. Mostly as a checkmark, doing what a healthy, mindful person is supposed to do, but without much feeling. I went through the motions, hoping healing would somehow catch up.

What I found instead was a voice I hadn’t truly listened to in years—my inner child, angry and waiting. While this year’s whirlwind pace pulled me further away, the truth is, I began losing touch with her long before.

She waited, quietly at first. But ignored long enough, she began to stir. Her protest wasn’t loud. It was physical—tight shoulders, shallow breath, scattered thoughts, restless sleep. A kind of anxious disconnection I kept trying to “fix” by doing more.

I filled my days with obligations and outward-focused energy, thinking productivity might shield me from the ache.

But the ache never left.

It just got smarter—showing up in my body, in my distracted mind, in the invisible wall between me and the world.

Until the day I finally stopped. I don’t know if I was too tired to keep running or if my grief finally had its way with me. But I paused long enough to pull a card from my self-healing oracle deck. It read:

“Hear and know me.”

I stared at the words and wept.

This was her. The little girl in me. The one who had waited through years of striving and performing and perfecting. The one who wasn’t sure she was lovable unless she earned it. The one who held not just my pain but my joy, too. My tenderness. My creativity. My curiosity.

She never left. She just waited—watching, hurting, hoping I’d remember.

For so long, I thought healing meant fixing. Erasing. Becoming “better” so I wouldn’t have to feel the ache anymore.

But she reminded me that healing is less about removing pain and more about returning to myself.

I’m still learning how to be with her. I don’t always know what she needs. But I’m listening now.

Sometimes, she just wants to color or lie on the grass. Sometimes she wants to cry. Sometimes she wants pancakes for dinner. And sometimes, she wants nothing more than to be told she’s safe. That I see her. That I won’t leave again.

These small, ordinary acts feel like re-parenting. I’m learning how to mother myself, even as I continue grieving my daughter. It’s a strange thing—to give the care I long to give her, to the parts of me that were once just as small, just as tender, just as in need.

I’ve spoken so much about the loss of my daughter. The space she once filled echoes every day. But what also lingers is her way of being—her authenticity. She was always exactly who she was in each moment. No apologies. No shrinking.

In my own journey of trying to fit in, of not wanting to be different, I let go of parts of myself just to be accepted.

She, on the other hand, stood out—fearlessly. The world called her special needs. I just called her Lily.

Her authenticity reminded me of something I had lost in myself. And now, authenticity is what my inner child has been waiting for—for so, so long.

Sometimes I wonder if the universe gave me Lily not just to teach her but to be taught by her. Maybe our children don’t just inherit from us—we inherit from them, too.

Her gift, her legacy, wasn’t just love. It was truth. The kind of truth that comes from living as you are.

Maybe her lesson for me is the one I’m just now beginning to accept: that being fully myself is the most sacred way I can honor her.

It’s not easy. The adult in me wants a checklist, a result, a clean timeline. But she reminds me: healing isn’t a destination. It’s a relationship.

It’s a relationship with the past—yes—but also with the present moment. With the part of me that still flinches under pressure. With the softness I once thought I had to abandon in order to survive.

I’m learning that my softness was never the problem. It was the silence that followed when no one responded to it.

She is the key. The key to my own heart.

It doesn’t always come in waves.

Sometimes it’s a flicker, a breath, a quiet knowing that I’m still here—and that they are, too.

My daughter, in the memories that move like wind through my life. And my inner child, in the softness I’m learning to reclaim. In the space where grief and love hold hands, we all meet.

Maybe that’s the lesson she’s been shouting all along: that we can’t truly love others if we abandon ourselves. That within our own hearts—tender, bruised, still beating—lies the key to beginning again.

We can’t mother our lost children the way we once did.

But maybe, in their absence, we can begin to mother the small, forgotten parts of ourselves—with the same love, the same patience, the same fierce devotion.

Maybe that’s how we honor them—not by moving on, but by moving inward.

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About Elizabeth Candy

Elizabeth Candy is a writer, mother, and spiritual seeker. She writes about grief, healing, and the journey of coming home to oneself after loss. She believes we can find our way by listening inward and loving the forgotten parts of ourselves. You can read more of her writing at lifeafterlil.blogspot.com, or follow her on Instagram @lifeafterlil.

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How I Learned to Treat Myself Like Someone I Love

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life.” ~J.K. Rowling

Most people who know me will say I am incredibly kind, loving, and empathetic. They know me as a safe person that they can share anything with and that I won’t judge. What they may not know is I am incredibly judgmental and unkind to myself.

When it comes to others, I see light and love. I see confusion and fear behind their misguided actions. I see mistakes as learning opportunities. For myself, I used to see…if I dare say it, a stupid girl who should know better and do better and be better.

That felt mean even to write. It is an odd combination to love and accept others so deeply but to not love myself in the same way. Sometimes I wonder if my ability to truly see others’ greatness, potential, and beauty is linked to the fact that I didn’t see my own—like perhaps I put all my energy into valuing others instead of directing some of it toward myself.

I’ve always wished I could treat myself with the same love I’ve extended to others, but instead, I set myself a different set of standards—ones that cannot be reached because they’re unrealistic. The path of no mistakes, no pain, and no suffering. The path where everything works out according to plan. My plan was always simple: try to do the right thing and follow the rules so I can stay in control.

So that’s what I did—played it safe and small in many life areas to avoid mistakes, conflict, and my own harsh judgment.

With friends, I kept quiet when I had different opinions. In romance, I tried to be easy and straightforward. At work, I took the most cautious route, determined to prove my worth before reaching for more. I did it “the right way”—thoughtful, careful, and safe.

So everything worked out according to plan, right? Wrong—that is not what happened. Because life never goes “to plan” for any of us.

Case in point: When a discussion with one of my closest friends ended in a disagreement, I felt a stab in my heart that led to a free fall of tears. It wasn’t the disagreement that hurt but the realization that I wasn’t being my true self with her and that, perhaps, she didn’t accept my true self.

This brought up feelings of abandonment. Was it safe to have a different opinion? Would I be pushed aside, or could I share what I believed to be true and still be loved?

I now know the pain I felt after her abandonment wasn’t just about our friendship ending; it was about all the times I’d abandoned myself. The times when I’d chosen someone else’s approval over my own and blamed myself when things didn’t work out instead of accepting that pain is inevitable in life—and it doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.

When my dream job went to someone else, I felt the sting of rejection and replayed everything I might have said or done wrong. I thought of all the reasons I wasn’t qualified and didn’t belong. Being such a harsh judge, I could see all the reasons they hadn’t chosen me, but not the reasons I was still worth choosing. Before I knew it, I agreed with their choice.

I chose to put other people’s feelings first—empathetically considering their perspective without considering my own.

This realization hit me hard during a therapy session. I was speaking about a time growing up when my family had to suddenly move and how hard this was for everyone, but I struggled to express how hard it was for me, quickly transitioning to the bigger picture.

I realized then that I needed to slow down and reflect on my own experiences and feelings in order to show myself the same compassion I so easily extended to others. It was no longer one or the other but both, and this wasn’t easy because it meant I had to sit with the pain of being my true self instead of covering it up.

I’d always blamed myself for everything that had gone wrong in my life because it gave me a sense of control. If I was the problem, I didn’t have to sit with the pain of life’s unpredictability.

In truth, I hated parts of myself and didn’t know why until recently. The quality I most despised was my insecurity. It led me to over-analyze my choices and compare myself to others instead of celebrating my own accomplishments. For example, when I was invited to teach a class in college, I turned it down, pretending to be sick, because I didn’t believe I was good enough.

Many of my struggles stemmed from my sensitive and creative nature. I was a sponge, soaking up every detail, seeing things from all perspectives. This gave me the gift to empathize and support others on a deep level, but it also led to overthinking and self-recrimination.

For example, in my twenties, I stayed in a relationship that didn’t feel right because I was scared and unsure of myself. When it ended badly, I blamed myself for not knowing better instead of recognizing that I couldn’t have known until I learned through experience.

The inability to love my true, whole self—including my faults and past experiences—was at its core an unwillingness to accept pain. It stunted my growth and led to suffering. It kept me small and stuck in repeating negative cycles of overthinking, comparison, and insecurity.  

In therapy, in coaching groups, and in my writing, I began sharing the stories I’d once hidden in shame, and my inner hatred slowly disappeared.

I shared the many times I was confused about my own emotions and struggled to be kind to myself. With time, I began to see my own mistakes from a different lens—as the witness of my younger self rather than the judge. I felt different—like a closed door in my heart opened.

I was finally able to have compassion for myself when I started seeing myself as deserving of love and allowed to make mistakes—when I allowed myself to be human just like everyone else. I also began to understand that not everything that goes wrong is my fault, and I don’t have to beat myself up just because things don’t go “to plan.”

My friend shared a metaphor about turning a big rock upside down and how, underneath that rock, you’d find darkness, mud, and bugs scurrying around as they are exposed from their hiding place. That’s exactly what it feels like to me. Every time I share honestly and expose my heart, my fears, and the things I am ashamed of, I am left with the warm sun shining down, and those little pesky bugs disappearing.

I now know that I deserve love too, even though I am imperfect. I am still worthy—but I have to believe it. It took a lot of tears to get there. A lot of embarrassment and confusion. A lot of willingness and courage.

Reflecting on this reminded me of my strength and capacity to overcome hardships. Then another powerful realization occurred to me—I am powerful enough to get through any storm, and I wouldn’t trade this particular storm for anything in the world.

I wouldn’t trade the pain, the hardship, or the dark nights of learning to embrace myself for the perfect plan I originally wanted—because this is what connects our hearts to each other, and that means more to me than anything.

Recently, I received an email from a reader saying, “Thank you, and keep writing.” I sat in silence and cried.

I have always dreamed of someone saying that to me, but this time it was different. It was like I truly felt it in my heart. In that moment, I believed my words had value. I believed that I have value. My own heart finally had room for me too.

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About Orly Levy

Orly Levy is an Intuitive Life Coach and Writer. She offers guidance for the sensitive soul struggling to see their gifts. Through her one-on-one programs, she leads others to meet with "what is" to release blockages, reconnect with their intuition, and discover true peace. Visit her virtual home for tools, to schedule a free session, and follow her on Instagram.

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How I Got Free from the Trap of Resentment

“Jerry, there is some bad in the best of people and some good in the worst of people. Look for the good!” ~George Chaky, my grandfather

I was seven when he said that to me. It would later become a guiding principle in my life.

My grandfather was twenty-one when he came to the US with his older brother, Andrew. Shortly afterward, he married Maria, my grandmother, and they had five children. William, the second youngest, died at the age of seven from an illness.

One year later they lost all of their savings during the Great Depression of 1929 when many banks closed. Two years afterward, my grandmother died from a stroke at the age of thirty-six.

As I grew older and learned about the many hardships my grandfather and family of origin had endured, his encouragement to look for the good in people would have a profound impact on me. It fueled a keen interest in trying to understand why people acted the way they did. In retrospect, it also had a lot to do with my becoming a therapist and author.

Easier Said Than Done

As a professional, I am able to objectively listen to my therapy clients’ stories with compassion and without judgment. However, in my personal life, I’ve often struggled to see the good in certain people, especially some elementary school teachers who physically and emotionally abused me and male peers who made fun of my small size.

In my youth I often felt humiliated, but not ashamed. I knew that for them to treat me that way, there must have been something wrong with them. But it still hurt.

I struggled with anger and resentment for many years. In my youth, I was taught that anger was a negative emotion. When I expressed it, certain teachers and my parents punished me. So, I stuffed the anger.

I Didn’t Know What I Didn’t Know

When I was twelve, I made a conscious decision to build walls to protect myself from being emotionally hurt. At the time, it was the best that I could do. Walls can give one a sense of safety, but walls also trap the pain inside and make it harder to trust and truly connect with others.

About that same time, I made a vow to myself that I frequently revisited: “When I get the hell out of this house and I am fortunate to have my own family, I will never talk to them the way my parents talked to each other and my sister and me.” I knew how I didn’t want to express my emotions, but I didn’t know how to do so in a positive and healthy manner.

Stuffing emotions is like squeezing a long, slender balloon and having the air, or anger, bulge in another place. In my late twenties, individual and couples counseling slowly helped me begin to recognize how much anger and resentment I had been carrying inside. They would occasionally leak out in the tone of my voice, often with those I wasn’t angry with, and a few times the anger came out in a frightening eruption.

“Resentment is the poison we pour for others that we drink ourselves.” ~Anonymous

I heard that phrase at a self-help group for families of alcoholics. After the meeting, I approached the person who shared it and said to her, “I never heard that before.” She smiled and replied, “I’ve shared that a number of times at meetings where you were present.” I responded, “I don’t doubt that, but I never heard it until tonight!”

The word “resentment” comes from the Latin re, meaning “again,” and sentire, meaning “to feel.” When we hold onto resentment, we continue to “feel again” or “re-feel” painful emotions. It’s like picking at a scab until it bleeds, reopening a wound.

Nowhere have I ever read that we should like being treated or spoken to unfairly. However, when we hold on to resentment, self-righteous indignation, or other uncomfortable emotions, it ties us to the past.

Holding onto resentment and grudges can also increase feelings of helplessness. Waiting for or expecting others to change gives them power over my thoughts and feelings. Many of those who I have held long-standing resentment for have died and yet can still have a hold on me.

When we let go of resentment, it frees us from much of the pain and discomfort. As author John E. Southard said, “The only people with whom you should try to get even with are those who have helped you.”

I’ve continued to learn how to set healthier and clearer boundaries without building walls. I’ve learned that I don’t have to accept unacceptable behavior from anyone, and I don’t have to go to every argument I am invited to, even if the argument is only inside my head.

Still, for a long time, despite making significant progress, periodically the anger and resentment would come flooding back. And the thought of forgiving certain people stuck in my craw.

When people would try to excuse others’ behavior with statements like “They were doing the best they knew how,” I’d say or think, “But they should never have become teachers” or “My sister and I had to grow up emotionally on our own!”

Forgiving Frees the Forgiver

For a long time now, I have started my day with the Serenity Prayer: (God) Grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. It has helped me try to focus on today and what I can control—how I think, feel, and act. Sometimes I get stuck, and all I can say is, “Help me let go of this anger.”

“When we forgive, we heal. When we let go, we grow.” ~Dalai Lama

I frequently hear the voices of many people who have helped, supported, and nourished me. I hear my wife’s late sister, MaryEllen, a Venerini nun, saying, “Jerry, the nuns treated you that way because that was the way they were probably treated by their superiors.” She validated my pain and planted another seed that slowly grew.

I’ve also heard that “hurt people hurt people.” At times, I would still lash out at innocent people when I was hurting. I desperately wanted to break this generational cycle. I’ve learned that I don’t have to wait for other people to change in order to feel better.

I am learning that everyone has a story, and I can practice forgiveness without excusing what they did or said.

Forgiving is not forgetting. Forgiving liberates me from the burden of resentment, helping me focus on connecting with supportive people and continuing to heal. Letting go of resentment cuts the ties that bind me to the past hurts. It helps me be present today where I can direct my time and energy toward living in the present instead of replaying old pain.

For the past year I have made a conscious effort to start each day by asking my Higher Power, whom I choose to call God, “Help me be grateful, kind, and compassionate to myself and others today and remember that everyone has their own struggles.” This has become one of the biggest turning points in my travels through life.

You Can’t Pour from an Empty Cup

I have learned that taking care of myself is one of the most effective ways to stop resentment from building up. When I neglect one or more of my needs over time, I’m quicker to snap, less patient, and more likely to take things personally. Who benefits from my self-neglect? Not me, and certainly not my spouse, children, coworkers, or others. When I am H.A.L.T. (hungry, angry, lonely or tired) or S.O.S. (stressed out severely), I usually don’t like being around me either.

Self-compassion also weakens resentment’s hold, making it easier to be compassionate with others. Remembering that we’re all works in progress helps me treat myself and others more gently.

I often think about my grandfather’s words, “Look for the good.” Self-care and self-compassion help me to see the good in myself as well as in others. I can dislike someone’s actions or tone of voice and also recognize they’re not really about me.

I actually have a Q-tip (representing “quit taking it personally”) taped on my desk to remind me that someone else’s actions or words are likely the result of their own struggles. It helps me to “catch myself,” and instead of taking things personally, I try to remember that everyone has a story.

Gratitude Puts Everything in Perspective

There are days when I am faced with great or even overwhelming challenges, when it would be easy to default to anger—with other people or with life itself. On those days, I might notice a beautiful sunrise or feel touched by the love and kindness of others. Practicing gratefulness helps me to see life as both difficult and good. It is like an emotional and spiritual savings account, building reserves that help me to be more resilient during the rough patches in life, even when I feel wronged.

Specifically focusing on what I am grateful for each day also helps me heal and gives me periods of serenity. It empowers me to try to approach my interactions with others in a warm and caring manner while respecting my and their personal boundaries, which keeps small misunderstandings from growing into resentment.

Gratefulness and compassion toward myself and others take practice. It’s not a one-and-done thing. It’s like learning any new skill—the more I practice, the more it becomes a positive habit and feels more like second nature.

Without repeated practice, old, undesirable thoughts and patterns can come back. When I neglect self-care, I am most vulnerable to quickly regress.

I also need to be vigilant when things seem to be going well within and around me. I can become overly confident, trying to coast along and slack off from practicing gratitude and compassion.

I have been unlearning many things that no longer work for me. I have unlearned “Practice makes perfect,” replacing it with “Practice makes progress, and I will do my best to continue to learn, grow, and be grateful, one day at a time.”

I don’t always get it right, but every time I choose compassion, understanding, or gratitude over resentment, I am more at peace and more connected to everyone around me.

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About Jerry Manney

Jerry Manney is a long-time therapist and writer. His book, Why We Argue and How to Stop shows you how to navigate disagreements, manage emotions, and create healthier relationships. Jerry has written numerous articles on family distress, substance abuse, and communicating more effectively. He has also taught college courses for seventeen years and spoken at national conferences. Follow Jerry on tiktok @thebooktokshrink.

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Pay What You Can for 21 Days of Laughs and Light

My electric toothbrush has seen it all.

I usually look in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth, and for a while last fall, I often cried when I stared into my own eyes.

I did my best to hold it together in front of my sons—most of the time, anyway. But the mask often cracked when I met my own gaze. Deep sobs set to the gentle hum of my sonic. Life was just that overwhelming—with medical issues, a loved one’s shock diagnosis, and countless other challenges too numerous to list.

Then one day, after months of carrying more emotional weight than I had in decades, I decided to start looking for little ways to make myself smile again. And that toothbrush became a microphone.

First it was dramatic, cathartic songs like Fix You by Coldplay.

Then more hopeful ones, like Hey Jude—tears turning to chuckles with “Jude Jude Judy Judy Judy Judy!”

Eventually, completely ridiculous ones, like Bohemian Rhapsody, complete with head banging.

And suddenly life started feeling a little lighter. I still had problems. I still lacked solutions. But those laughs between the tears got longer and more genuine with every small moment of levity.

That’s what my When Life Sucks: 21 Days of Laughs and Light series is all about. (Spoiler alert: it’s pay-what-you-can—because I know what it’s like when money’s tight!)

I started writing these emails because it can be incredibly hard to find a little relief when life feels like a nonstop barrage of punches from the universe. I also know that sometimes laughter can come with a side of guilt if someone you love has a lot less to smile about.

But small flashes of light really can help us get through the darkness, and they don’t always appear on their own, which is why we have to create them.

These three weeks of emails outline my path to sparking joy, with a little insight and a gentle nudge for you each day.

And though the suggested payment is $19, you can sign up for as little as $1. (Or more if you just love Tiny Buddha and want to give a little more to balance out the $1 signups!)

If you’re ready for a little break from life’s relentless struggles, you can sign up here.

I hope it brings you a little

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About Lori Deschene

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

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