The Lonely Ache of Self-Worth That No One Talks About

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” ~Kahlil Gibran

They don’t talk about this part.

The hardest part about knowing your worth—after doing the work, setting boundaries, and getting crystal clear on what you want—is the ache.

Not just any ache. The ache of being awake. The ache of knowing. The ache of not settling.

I remember the first time I walked away from someone who didn’t mistreat me but who also didn’t quite meet me. I had spent years unraveling my old patterns: the people-pleasing, the over-giving, the “maybe this is enough” mindset. For the first time, I didn’t override my intuition. I didn’t pretend I was okay with something that didn’t feel like home.

I left. And I felt powerful.

But two days later, I sat alone on my kitchen floor, not crying, not spiraling—just aching. Aching for company. Aching for closeness. Aching for the comfort of being chosen, even if it wasn’t quite right.

That’s what no one talks about: the emotional hangover of choosing yourself.

No one warns you how lonely it can feel when you finally stop contorting yourself to fit someone else’s story. When you stop abandoning yourself just to be loved, there’s often a pause before something new begins. A stillness that used to be filled by “almosts” and “maybes” and “well, at least I’m not alone.”

When you’ve been used to bending, standing tall can feel stark. Spacious. Bare.

You’re no longer wasting energy explaining your needs or trying to make the wrong person understand your heart. But that clarity comes with a cost. And sometimes, that cost is company.

The ache of growth is quieter than chaos, but it cuts deeper. It lingers in the in-between: that sacred space between no longer and not yet.

There’s grief that comes when we raise our standards. A grief for the illusions we used to cling to. A grief for the comfort of something, even when it wasn’t truly nourishing.

We don’t talk enough about how healing isn’t just insight and empowerment. It’s also the slow disintegration of everything that used to be familiar. Your old identity. Your old dynamics. Your old sense of “enough.”

It’s disorienting because the world doesn’t always reflect your new clarity back to you. You may find yourself sitting across from someone on a date, and while they’re kind and curious, they don’t feel like resonance. You may feel unseen in rooms you once blended into easily. You may notice the distance between you and your past life widening without any clear sense of where you’re headed.

That’s the paradox of healing. You do the work thinking it will bring you closer to connection—and it does. But only to the kind that matches the version of you who did the work.

And that kind often takes time.

This is the part most advice columns skip: the emotional soup you wade through after you’ve walked away from what no longer fits.

It’s thick with contradictions: grief for what you had to leave behind, hope that what you long for still exists, fear that maybe it doesn’t.

There’s a raw tenderness in the quiet. A new intimacy with yourself that feels more honest but not always more comfortable.

You might bounce between feeling empowered and heartbroken. Proud of your boundaries one day, questioning them the next. Rooted in self-respect in the morning, lonely by evening.

This isn’t backsliding. This is integration.

You’re building something new within yourself. And like any reconstruction project, it comes with debris, dust, and disorientation. But it’s real. It’s yours. And it’s lasting.

Eventually, something begins to shift.

One morning, you wake up, and the ache feels less like emptiness and more like spaciousness. You start to trust the quiet. You no longer hide your pain to make others more comfortable. You realize your worth has stopped being a negotiation.

This is the sacred turning point—when the waiting becomes an invitation. When the pause between what was and what’s coming becomes a place of preparation, not punishment.

You begin to notice the difference between being alone and being lonely. You stop shrinking your needs just to have someone next to you.

Your loneliness, paradoxically, becomes a sign of your healing. Because you’re no longer willing to fill the void with what doesn’t serve you. You’re holding your own gaze. And while that might not feel cinematic, it’s powerful.

Because not everyone gets here. And not everyone stays.

In the moments when it gets hard, when it feels like maybe you should settle, maybe you are being too much, maybe love isn’t coming after all, I want you to come back to this: I trust that it’s worth waiting for the love I deserve, and that it’s possible for me.

Repeat it when the doubts creep in. Write it on a Post-it. Say it into your tea. Breathe it into your bones.

Because you didn’t come this far just to go back to what hurt you. You didn’t do all that work just to re-audition for roles you’ve outgrown.

You came this far to call in something real—something that honors the truth of who you are now.

One of the hardest things about this journey is that there’s no timeline. No guarantee. It can feel like you placed a very specific order with the universe and it’s taking forever to show up.

But here’s what I’ve learned: when you ask for something deeper, more aligned, and more rooted in mutual presence, it takes time. Not because it’s not coming but because you’re asking for more than fast. You’re asking for true.

And true takes time.

If you’re feeling lonely on the other side of healing, please hear this: You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just no longer willing to fill your life with noise. You’ve stepped into a deeper honesty with yourself. And that’s rare.

This is the season of sacred discomfort. A liminal space where the old has gone, but the new hasn’t fully arrived. It’s tender. Uncertain. And wildly fertile.

Trust the ache. It’s not here to punish you. It’s here to refine you. To shape you into the kind of person who will recognize the love you’re calling in because it will feel like the love you’ve already chosen to give yourself.

Today, I sit in my own presence and feel mostly calm. Slowly, almost without notice, that refining did its work. The ache has softened. The loneliness has eased. There’s a quiet joy in just being here, in just being me.

What surprises me most is how peaceful I often feel. Not numb. Not distracted. Not pining for someone to see me. Not begging the universe for faster delivery. Just fully, intimately present.

It’s strange, but the more I’ve allowed myself to embrace the hurt, the longing, the more open I’ve become to beauty. A song hits deeper. Small moments feel more meaningful. I see love everywhere.

Life shimmers differently these days.

And in this calm, I finally recognize just how powerful I am. The ache has carved a wider capacity within me, just as Gibran said. I hold more joy, more love, more connection. And that feels utterly magical.

So if you’re feeling that ache right now, please remember: the very sorrow that feels so heavy now is making room for a fuller, richer experience of life and love. It’s the foundation for the kind of love that doesn’t ask you to shrink, dim, or settle but invites you to show up as your whole, radiant self.

And as you release your anxiety about finding someone else, you might find that the greatest love comes from yourself.

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About Emily Brown

Emily Brown is a trauma-informed REBT and MBSR-trained mindset coach, mother, writer, podcast host, humanities professor, and communications expert. With a master’s degree in Women’s Studies and English from Old Dominion University and a certificate in positive psychology from UC Berkeley, she explores relationships, parenting, and the power of language in shaping values. Her work combines academic rigor with real-world experience. EmilyBrownConsulting.com

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How I Found My Midlife Roar in the Beautiful Mess of Perimenopause

“Menopause is a journey where you rediscover yourself and become the woman you were always meant to be.” ~Dr. Christiane Northrup

I recently had a healing session with a dear client of mine.

“Before we begin,” she asked, “how are you?”

I blinked and said, “Oh, you know, the usual. Just navigating perimenopause. Hallucinating about living alone without my partner one minute and panicking about dying alone the next.”

She burst into laughter.

“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I find myself browsing apartment listings weekly. Good to know I’m not the only one.”

Ah, yes, the sacred scrolls of apartment listings, or how I see it, midlife porn for the spiritually exhausted woman who just wants to drink tea in silence without someone breathing in her direction in the morning.

Another friend, a psychologist, recently told me her partner kept his old studio even after they moved in together. Every month, during her hormonal spikes, he retreats there for a few days. Sometimes, they upgrade to one night per week in addition to that.

Brilliant! I call that preventative medicine. Maybe the couple that gives each other space stays together and doesn’t make weird headlines in the “Relationships Gone Wrong” subreddit.

Because here is the truth no one prepared me for: perimenopause is not just a hormonal rollercoaster; it’s a full-blown existential rave. One moment, I’m craving solitude like it’s a basic human right; the next, I’m sobbing at a dog food commercial and wondering if I’ll end up alone in a nursing home run by AI robots.

And then there’s the fog that makes my brain feel like a group chat with no admin and everyone talking at once. My short-term memory, once razor-sharp, now resembles a moth-eaten scarf. Entire thoughts evaporate mid-sentence, names disappear like ghosts, and I have started writing everything down so I don’t forget.

Add to that the sleepless nights, the 3 a.m. existential spirals, and the relief that I’m not suffering from the other fifty-plus perimenopausal symptoms. At least for now…

It reminds me of my teenage years when I slammed my door (multiple times, one after another, because once wasn’t enough to make my point!), rolled my eyes, and decided everyone was annoying.

Well, welcome to perimenopause: the reboot. Only now, you can’t blame puberty. And yet, you are expected to function, hold a job, maybe raise a human or two.

My partner, bless him, is a genuinely kind, grounded man. He cooks. He shops. He walks our Shiba Inu pup. He supports my business and all my spiritual rants. And yet, lately, his mere existence makes me want to silently pack a bag and join a women-only monastery in the Pyrenees.

My midlife journey is wrapped in complexities. I have an estranged father and a mother with Parkinson’s disease who lives in the UK. Thanks to Brexit, I can’t just pack up and live with her. Nor does she want to leave the UK.

And I? I’m nomadic by nature. My roots are in motion, more like driftwood than oak, so even if she wanted to join me, there is no permanent place I call home.

Recently, I signed a power of attorney for my mum’s health and finances. The doctor had suggested it after suspecting early signs of dementia. “It’s best to get your affairs in order now,” she said.

I nodded. And then, I woke up with a frozen right shoulder the next morning. My body had declared mutiny, and I knew this wasn’t random. My right shoulder was reacting to the invisible weight, the pressure, the emotional inheritance of being the one who holds it all.

And I can’t help but wonder: how many of us in midlife are carrying too much? How many of us have aching backs, inflamed joints, tight jaws, and no idea that our bodies are the ones screaming when we don’t?

Our generation inherited the burnout of our mothers and the emotional silence of our fathers. And now, our bodies are saying, “Enough.” And through it all, my body shows up. Even when aching or confused. Even when the wiring feels off. She—this body—keeps holding me. Keeps asking me to come home.

But amid the aches and obligations, something else began to stir beneath the surface, and I realized that not all is negative. I also recognize midlife for what it is: a powerful transition. A threshold. A sacred invitation to step into deeper sovereignty.

I believe that beneath the hormonal rollercoaster lies something deeper: A quiet, seismic shift from performing to becoming. What if midlife isn’t just about loss or exhaustion but also a portal: a wild, fiery, phoenix-shaped portal to something richer and more meaningful?

In mythology, there is a sacred archetype we rarely talk about: the Crone. The word comes from Old Norse and Celtic roots and was reclaimed by Jungian analyst Marion Woodman and feminist scholars to signify the wise elder woman—she who sees in the dark, who knows, who no longer needs to be pretty or polite.

She is bone and truth and howl, and what’s even better, she is awakening inside of us, taking up more and more space inside our minds, hearts, and souls.

Midlife is when we begin to embody her. It’s when we stop whispering and start roaring. It’s when we say, “Actually, no, I won’t do that. I don’t want to. I’m tired. And I need silence, space, and possibly a cabin in the woods with good Wi-Fi and nobody talking.

We begin to reclaim our right to be contradictory, to change our minds, to speak from the fire in our bellies instead of the scripts we memorized to be loved.

I’m proud to announce that my people-pleasing days are over. Gone is the spiritual language I used to soften my rage, to be accepted in the love-and-light circles. I started questioning toxic positivity years ago, but now I am fully allergic to it.

Don’t tell me “Everything happens for a reason” when there are genocides unfolding as we speak. Don’t tell me to raise my vibration while I’m caring for a mother who might forget my name in the near future. Don’t tell me that anger is a “low frequency” emotion when it’s a healthy response to witnessing atrocities happening everywhere.

My anger, or sacred rage as I like to call it, is what fuels me to speak up, to raise my voice, to speak about what’s important to me.

Midlife isn’t just a phase; it’s a rite of passage that comes with many gifts and also responsibilities.

One: Grounded power.

While my thirties were spent floating in “ascension” mode—channeling, visualizing, forever raising my frequency—my forties have been a lesson in descension: in landing fully in my body, in the mess, in the moment. In letting my roots grow deep and wild and unafraid. I no longer want to float or ascend.

Two: Embodied truth.

Midlife strips us of our masks. I no longer pretend. I tell the truth in my podcast, in my sessions, in my writing. I don’t want clients who expect me to be their guru. I want kinship. I want real, authentic connections.

And yes, I still have moments of spiraling. I still fantasize about living alone. But I also know now, deeply, that those longings aren’t escapism. They are calls to return to myself, and this return to self needs some form of silence and solitude.

Three: Fierce compassion.

I no longer hold back what I feel. But I also no longer feel the need to carry everyone else’s pain. Right now, I am learning to care deeply without losing myself.

As Anaïs Nin said, “And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

Midlife, for me, is the season of blooming open even if the petals are a little singed. I might not go and live alone any time soon, but I will spend a month alone traveling through China this September. And my partner, the understanding man that he is, will stay with my mum to take care of her that month.

So if you, too, are hallucinating about renting a solo flat, crying over a parent’s future, snapping at your beloved for simply blinking, and wondering who you even are right now, you are not broken. And you are also not alone. You are becoming.

Welcome to the middle. It’s messy and holy and completely yours. This season isn’t meant to break you. It’s meant to reintroduce you to the version of yourself that was always waiting.

And if your shoulder or your back starts acting up: Pause. Breathe. Put your hand on your heart and whisper, “I hear you.”

Then, slowly, powerfully, roar. Because your voice—raw, ragged, and real—was never meant to whisper.

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About Lais

Lais is a writer, intuitive healer, and space-clearing expert. Through her Quantum Energy Healing Program, she facilitates deep transformation by clearing ancestral wounds, past-life imprints, and energetic blocks. She also hosts The Alchemy of Light and Shadow Podcast & Happy Home Space Clearing Podcast. Download her free meditation to release resistance & embrace perimenopause as a sacred transformation here. Learn more about her work here, or sign up to her Space Clearing Academy Waitlist here.

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When Your Body Is Carrying More Pain Than You Realize

If you live with chronic pain, you already know how exhausting it can be. Not just the physical sensations but the constant trying—trying to push through, trying to find answers, trying to explain something that feels invisible to others. The search for relief can become its own full-time job, and it’s easy to feel discouraged or alone.

Over the years of running this site, I’ve heard from many people who’ve felt trapped in their bodies, like life was happening around them, not with them. I’ve also connected with many people who learned to bury their feelings (a struggle I know all too well) because they were simply too painful or because they never learned how to embrace and process them. For some people, this emotional holding eventually shows up in the body as tension, fatigue, or chronic pain.

Pushing things down might look like strength from the outside, but it’s the source of immense suffering that only ends when we face and feel what we’ve been avoiding.

This awareness is what draws me to Nicole Sachs’ work. Nicole is a therapist, author, and teacher who’s spent over twenty years helping people understand the mind-body connection, and how unprocessed emotions can sometimes show up in the body as chronic pain.

When we understand how our nervous systems try to protect us, we can gently teach our bodies that they no longer need to stay in defense mode.

In her upcoming online workshop with the Omega Institute, Introduction to Freedom from Chronic Pain, Nicole will introduce you to her approach to releasing stored emotions so you can reconnect with your body instead of battling it.

In this 90-minute live session, Nicole will offer:

• Insight into how the brain and nervous system create chronic pain as protection
• A guided JournalSpeak exercise to support emotional release
• A sense of hope and understanding, especially if you’ve felt alone in your experience
• Time for live Q&A to support your specific questions and challenges

So many people live with chronic pain thinking they just have to endure it. But healing is possible. It won’t happen overnight, but with the right tools, you can greatly improve the quality of your life.

If you’re ready to release the pain that’s holding you back, you can learn more and register here:

Introduction to Freedom from Chronic Pain
Date: Wednesday, November 5, 6:00–7:30 PM ET (3:00–4:30 PM PT)
Replay: Available on demand until January 4, 2026

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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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When Your Body Betrays You: Finding Strength in a New Identity

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

I didn’t know what it meant to grieve a body that was still alive until mine turned on me.

It began like a whisper—fatigue that lingered, strange symptoms that didn’t match, a quiet fear I tried to ignore.

Then one night, I collapsed. I woke up in a hospital room I didn’t recognize, attached to IVs I hadn’t agreed to, surrounded by medical voices that spoke in certainty while I sat in confusion.

It wasn’t just a diagnosis I was given. It was a line in the sand.

Before that night, I thought I knew who I was. I had moved across the world for love, leaving behind my home, my language, my work, my identity. I thought that leap of faith had already redefined me.

I was wrong.

Illness Doesn’t Just Change Your Health; It Changes Everything

When you live with chronic illness, the world doesn’t change with you.

Everyone else keeps moving. Fast.

Meanwhile, your pace slows to survival mode. Appointments become your calendar. You measure your days in energy—not hours. You go from thinking “I’m strong” to wondering “Am I weak now?” And the hardest part is, people still see you as who you were before.

But inside, you’re unraveling.

I remember standing in the shower, my hands trembling, trying to wash my hair, crying because I couldn’t lift my arms long enough. I remember sitting in a café with friends pretending I was fine, while every muscle screamed. I remember how silence became my shield because explaining felt harder than hiding.

I Had to Mourn My Old Self

No one tells you how much grief comes with getting sick.

Yes, I mourned the physical freedom I lost. But more than that, I grieved who I thought I was. The capable one. The dependable one. The one who could do it all.

I had been that woman.

Now I couldn’t even cook dinner some nights, let alone help others like I used to.

And it made me angry. Sad. Ashamed.

Illness stole not just my stamina but also the image I held of myself. That was the most painful part. I didn’t know where I fit anymore. I wasn’t who I used to be, but I wasn’t sure who I was now.

The Turning Point Wasn’t Dramatic; It Was Quiet

Healing didn’t arrive with fanfare. There was no great epiphany.

It came one small moment at a time.

The first shift happened when I stopped fighting what was. I realized I couldn’t move forward until I stopped clinging to the past. That realization didn’t heal my body, but it softened my soul.

And that softness became the doorway to something new.

I began to see that maybe the goal wasn’t to get back to who I was but to become who I could still be.

That gave me hope—not because things got easier, but because I wasn’t resisting everything anymore.

What Helped Me Rebuild from the Inside Out

If you’re facing a change you didn’t choose, especially one that lives inside your body, I want to offer you what I needed most: permission to become someone new.

Here are a few things that helped me begin again—not as a fix, but as a practice:

Grieve the old version of you. Seriously.

Don’t rush past your sadness. Say goodbye to the “you” who did it all, carried everything, said yes, pushed through. That person mattered. They were real. They deserve your tears.

Grieving isn’t weakness—it’s the beginning of truth.

Redefine strength.

Strength is not being able to run five miles or check every task off your list.

Strength is waking up in pain and choosing to get up anyway—or choosing to rest instead of proving something.

Strength is asking for help when your whole identity was built around helping others.

Stop waiting to feel like your old self.

The truth? You may never feel like your old self again.

But that’s not a tragedy—it’s an invitation. To live differently. To deepen. To slow down. To choose softness over striving.

Some days that will feel like a loss. Other days, it will feel like grace.

Let others in—selectively, honestly.

It’s okay if most people don’t understand. Find the few who do, or who are willing to listen without needing to fix.

Speak even when your voice shakes. Share even when you don’t have a tidy ending.

You’ll be surprised how many people whisper “me too.”

Make peace with the pause.

You’re not falling behind. You’re not broken.

You’re simply in a new season. One that asks different things of you.

Don’t measure your worth by how fast you move. Measure it by how deeply you stay with yourself, especially on the hard days.

I wish I could tell you that I handled all of this with grace from the beginning. But the truth is, I resisted every part of it.

I wanted my old life back. I wanted to prove I was still the same person. So I kept pushing—ignoring symptoms, pretending to be okay, trying to keep up.

That only deepened the exhaustion, physically and emotionally. My body would shut down for days. I would hide in bed, ashamed that I couldn’t ‘push through’ like I used to.

What I didn’t realize then was that trying to be who I used to be was costing me who I was becoming.

There’s a moment I remember vividly: I was sitting at my kitchen table, the afternoon light pouring in. I had a warm cup of tea in my hand. And for once, there was no rush. No guilt. Just a breath. Just presence.

It wasn’t a breakthrough. But it was something. A tiny opening. A softness. I remember thinking: maybe I don’t need to heal back into the person I was. Maybe I can heal forward.

This mindset shift changed everything.

It didn’t fix the illness. But it fixed the part of me that kept believing I had to earn rest, prove my worth, or hide my pain.

Now, when the flare-ups come—and they still do—I try to meet them with compassion instead of frustration. I speak to myself like I would to someone I love.

On the outside, not much has changed. But inside? I’ve made space. Space to be exactly who I am, even in discomfort. Even in uncertainty.

To anyone reading this who feels like their body has betrayed them—who wakes up wondering who they are now—I want to say this: your softness is strength. Your slowness is sacred. Your survival is heroic.

Even if the world doesn’t see it, I do. And I hope someday, you will too.

You Are Still You

There are moments, even now, when I miss who I was before the diagnosis. I miss the energy. The ease. The certainty.

But I wouldn’t trade what I’ve found: A self that is more tender. More present. More aware of what really matters.

Illness taught me to slow down. To let go. To stop living as a checklist.

And it taught me that I’m still worthy, even when I’m not productive.

If you’re in the middle of an identity shift—whether from illness, loss, divorce, or something else—you are not alone. You’re not broken. And you don’t need to rush toward reinvention.

You are still you. Just different.

And that different might be where the real light gets in.

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About Micaela Becattini

Micaela Becattini is a mentor and educator who helps people move through life transitions, grief, chronic illness, and identity shifts with grounded compassion. She writes about emotional resilience and soulful growth based on her own lived experiences. You can find her and her work at micaelab.com.au or connect on Instagram instagram.com/micaelabecattini/ and on Facebook facebook.com/micaelaauthor.

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The Great Horned Owl That Kicked Me Out of Burnout

“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~Lao Tzu

I’d known for months that I was burned out.

The kind of burnout that creeps in quietly—behind your eyes, in your spine, in your calendar. I was volunteering in raptor rescue, monitoring eagle nests as the busy season ramped up, juggling consulting work, supporting adoption placements, writing, creating. I was showing up fully in every space except the one I lived in: my body.

And yet I refused to let go. I told myself it was just a busy season. That if I could push through, things would calm down. That my exhaustion was noble, temporary, necessary.

That’s the trap when you build identity around usefulness. You stop listening for limits.

Raptor rescue had become more than a commitment—it was part of who I was. I loved it. I was invested. I was finally making progress in catching and handling, and every shift brought new confidence. Even after everything I’d learned about rest, boundaries, and overfunctioning, I still couldn’t walk away.

It took getting kicked in the face by a great horned owl to wake me up. And I mean that literally.

The Moment It Broke Open

It was one of my regular volunteer shifts. I’d worked with this particular great horned owl before—had caught her successfully more than once. It felt like business as usual: enter the enclosure, take a breath, begin the catch.

Except this time, it wasn’t usual. And I wasn’t ready.

I took my eyes off her for a split second. That’s all it took.

She flared, leapt, and with perfect precision, delivered a full-force kick to my face before escaping.

Pain blurred into shock. And then into shame.

Wounded pride doesn’t begin to describe it. My confidence evaporated. I had spent months building trust, practicing skill, stepping into this work fully. And yet, in one moment, it all felt like it had unraveled.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror—face aching, spirit heavy—and the truth landed with brutal clarity:

I’m not on top of my game. And I’m making rookie mistakes. Because I’m too tired to see straight.

The Grief of Letting Go

People talk a lot about burnout. But they rarely talk about how hard it is to walk away from something that feels meaningful.

I wasn’t just physically drained—I was emotionally split. My time in raptor land had changed my life. It gave me resilience I didn’t know I had. It helped me feel grounded during periods of personal chaos. It reminded me that healing is messy and wild and worth it.

The idea of letting go wasn’t just sad. It felt unbearable.

And yet, I knew I had to. Not out of failure. Not even out of fear. But because continuing at the pace I was going—without rest, without recalibration—wasn’t sustainable. I was breaking. Slowly. Quietly. And now, visibly.

Letting go wasn’t graceful. It was layered and raw.

I cried. I wrestled. I tried to bargain with the truth.

And when I finally stepped back, I didn’t feel immediate relief. I felt lost.

The In-Between Is a Sacred Space

People don’t talk enough about the in-between.

That space where you’ve left something but haven’t landed in something new. Where you know what isn’t right anymore but aren’t sure what will be right next.

It’s disorienting. It’s vulnerable. It’s uncomfortable.

I wasn’t who I used to be—the eager, confident raptor catcher with fresh adrenaline in her chest. But I wasn’t yet someone with clarity about where to go next. My body needed rest. My spirit needed stillness. My heart needed time.

But my mind? My mind wanted control. It wanted answers. It wanted speed.

The in-between demanded something softer.

It didn’t want me to leap. It wanted me to linger. To listen. To relearn what strength looks like when it’s gentle, not forceful.

It’s the space where grief becomes teacher. Where identity sheds its armor. Where you realize you don’t just miss what you did—you miss who you believed you were when you did it.

What That Owl Really Taught Me

Yes, the kick hurt. It disrupted my rhythm. But more than anything, it delivered a message that I had been resisting:

Even the things that change your life aren’t always meant to stay forever.

There’s a difference between honoring a season and clinging to it. I wasn’t just volunteering—I was gripping. I was folding myself around an identity that made me feel capable, valuable, essential. I didn’t want to lose it, so I ignored the signs. I numbed out the signals. I kept showing up while my body whispered, “Not this.”

And then it stopped whispering. It got loud.

That owl didn’t punish me. She mirrored me.

And once I heard what she mirrored back—once I stopped resisting the truth—I began to ask what my grip had been keeping me from.

What Letting Go Made Room For

Letting go didn’t mean losing everything I loved. It meant loosening my grip long enough for something gentler—and more lasting—to find me.

I didn’t leave raptors behind. I shifted toward a deeper kind of care—one rooted in conservation, long-term observation, and relational presence. Nest monitoring, habitat awareness, quiet stewardship that still creates impact, but from a place of balance.

It wasn’t about giving up my place in raptorland. It was about learning to show up differently—without the urgency, without the exhaustion.

I’m rediscovering who I am in this space now. Someone who listens more. Who stays longer. Who works with the rhythm of the wild, instead of rushing through it.

Change doesn’t always mean departure. Sometimes it just means choosing a slower path, a softer landing, and a future built on sustainability—in nature and in self.

If You’re in the In-Between

If you’re standing in that strange, sacred middle—between what was and what’s next—I see you.

It’s not weakness to feel unsure. It’s not failure to step back. It’s not quitting to admit you need rest. The in-between is tender. It’s transitional. And it’s necessary.

Whether it arrives through heartbreak or a literal kick in the face by an owl, change will always come to escort you out of what no longer serves—even when you swear it still does.

You don’t have to leap before you’re ready. You just have to be willing to pause. To ask:

What am I gripping that’s already trying to release me?

What would it mean to let go gently, instead of waiting to be torn?

Can I honor the season I loved without dragging it forward?

Your next chapter doesn’t need to arrive with fanfare. It may enter quietly, through silence, through softness, through surrender. But it will arrive.

And until it does, the pause is not empty. It’s everything.

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About Heather Allen

Heather Allen is a feline behavior educator and founder of Pet Sitting Cat Trainer, where she helps rescued cats rebuild trust through compassionate, relationship-centered care. Through her writing at Soul Life Lessons, she explores what it means to heal, soften, and reorient after burnout—often guided by the quiet wisdom of animals and the sacred space of the in-between.

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The Hidden Lesson in Projection: It’s Never Really About Us

“What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.” ~Don Miguel Ruiz

For most of my life, I didn’t fully understand what projection was. I just knew I kept becoming the problem.

I was “too much.” Too intense. Too emotional. Thought too deeply. Spoke too plainly.

Again and again, I was blamed, misunderstood, and cast out for holding up a mirror to things no one wanted to see.

But in my forties, I began doing shadow work in and out of therapy. At first, I thought the shadow was the broken part. The mess to fix. The thing to hide.

But I slowly realized: the shadow is where the gold lives. It’s the part of us we disown—but it’s also the most authentic expression of who we really are.

As a little girl, I was naive and blunt in the way that children often are. I remember saying I didn’t want to share the toys I’d just received for my birthday. My stepmother called me spoiled. But I wasn’t being selfish—I was just being honest. The toys were mine.

What I didn’t understand then was that my words touched a nerve that had nothing to do with me.

I think, deep down, my stepmother felt she was always sharing my father—with his past, with his pot-smoking, drug-dealing friends—and there wasn’t much left over for anyone else. Adding me into the equation was one more person who might “take” him from her. And when I voiced a desire to keep something all to myself, it reflected something she couldn’t have: all of him.

Rather than face that pain, she projected it onto me. I became the one who was “too much,” “too selfish,” “too entitled.”

My father didn’t know—he was always gone. And I was punished, not for being bad but for mirroring what she couldn’t name in herself.

And so I learned to shrink. To share when I didn’t want to. To give more than I had. To stop being “the problem.”

But I wasn’t the problem. I was just being real. And being real in a family built on denial was dangerous.

Eventually, the truth would always find its way out—on my tongue, in my eyes, in the questions that slipped past my filter. And when it did, I paid for it. With silence. With exclusion. With shame.

Again and again, I internalized it: I talk too much. I am too much.

But the truth is—I was never the problem. I was the mirror.

I reflected what others didn’t want to see in themselves. And people hiding from themselves don’t want mirrors near them.

When someone’s identity depends on a carefully constructed mask, truth feels like a threat. And most people? They’re wearing masks.

Therapy helped me see it differently. I stopped asking, “What’s wrong with me?” And started asking, “What if this isn’t about me at all?”

That question changed everything.

When someone’s reaction to me was intense or filled with judgment, I learned to pause. To listen more closely.

And most of the time, I realized they weren’t telling me about me. They were narrating their own wounds. Their history. Their fear. I just happened to be standing close enough to reflect it back.

Because that’s what mirrors do. They don’t distort. They reveal.

Eventually, I stopped defending myself. Stopped over-explaining. Stopped pleading to be understood by people who had already cast me in a role I didn’t choose.

I just stood still. Reflected what I saw. Sometimes I might say, “You seem really bothered by what I just said—what’s that about?” Not because I’m better. Not because I’m more evolved. But because my gift is clarity. I see and name what’s real.

I still ask for clarity—and that’s the reason for the question. But the question itself often raises awareness of that person’s own motivations, their own inner truth or knowing. Some people pause and reflect. Most don’t—or at least I don’t get to see it. And that’s okay with me.

I don’t chase belonging anymore. I don’t shrink myself to fit.

Because now I understand: this is my gift. I see clearly. I speak clearly.

My clarity doesn’t always make people comfortable. But it’s mine. And I won’t abandon it anymore.

Because I now know that when someone reacts strongly to me, it’s rarely about me at all. It’s about what my presence reflects. And I don’t need to defend against that—I just need to stay clear, stay kind, and stay me.

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About Allison Briggs

Allison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, writer, and speaker specializing in helping women heal from codependency, childhood trauma, and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward self-trust, boundaries, and authentic connection. Allison is the author of the upcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Codependent Heart of a Woman and shares reflections on healing, resilience, and inner freedom at on-being-real.com.

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A Quiet but Powerful Shift: How Slowing Down Transformed My Life

“Slow down and enjoy life. It’s not only the scenery you miss by going too fast—you also miss the sense of where you are going and why.” ~Eddie Cantor

In today’s hyper-connected and fast-paced world, slowing down isn’t just rare—it feels almost countercultural.

For years, I tied my identity to productivity. My self-worth hinged on how much I could accomplish in a day, how many boxes I could check. The busier I was, the more valuable I believed myself to be. But that constant need to perform left me mentally and emotionally drained, disconnected not only from others but from myself.

The shift didn’t happen overnight. There wasn’t a single moment of clarity, but rather a quiet unraveling of old habits and a tentative embrace of new rhythms.

It started with one simple change: drinking my morning coffee without looking at a screen.

Then came short walks without headphones, evenings spent journaling instead of scrolling. I also began ending each day by writing down three things I was grateful for.

These tiny pauses felt insignificant at first. But gradually, they started to stitch together a new way of being. I noticed my breath more. I felt the texture of sunlight on my skin. I paid attention to the stories I was telling myself—and questioned whether they were even true.

The more I slowed down, the more I began to hear the quiet voice within me that I had long ignored.

Slowing down didn’t mean abandoning ambition. It meant redefining it.

I started asking myself: Is this opportunity aligned with the life I want to create? Am I doing this because it brings me joy or because I feel I should? I said no more often, but with less guilt. I said yes with greater intention.

Creativity, which had felt like a dried-up well, slowly began to flow again. I wrote not for deadlines or approval but to explore my inner world. I painted, even if the results were messy. I read poetry aloud in the quiet of my room. These acts weren’t about achievement—they were about presence.

Relationships changed, too. When I wasn’t preoccupied with the next thing on my to-do list, I could be fully present with the people around me. I listened more deeply. I responded instead of reacting. I laughed more freely, loved more fully, and felt a deeper sense of connection.

I also became more attuned to my body. I noticed when I was tired—and let myself rest. I recognized signs of stress and anxiety and learned not to push through them but to sit with them. I stopped seeing rest as something to earn and began to see it as something essential.

With time, slowing down transformed from an experiment into a lifestyle. It became a guiding principle rather than a temporary fix. And perhaps the most surprising thing? I didn’t lose momentum—I gained clarity. I pursued goals with greater focus and more ease. I didn’t do more, but what I did had more meaning.

Slowing down also helped me develop greater resilience. When life inevitably brought challenges, I didn’t spiral into panic as I once might have. I had built up a foundation of calm, a toolkit of stillness, and an ability to ground myself in the present moment. This made me stronger, not weaker.

I discovered that the richness of life is often found in the pauses—in the moments we allow ourselves to simply be rather than constantly do. The world didn’t fall apart when I slowed down. In fact, it came into sharper focus. I was able to appreciate the subtleties of life: the way a friend smiled, the sound of rain on the roof, the comfort of a quiet evening at home.

My relationship with technology changed as well. I became more intentional with my screen time, setting boundaries around social media and emails. I reclaimed hours of my day and filled them with activities that nourished me instead of drained me. I learned to value solitude not as loneliness but as sacred space for reflection and growth.

Slowing down helped me tune into my intuition. I stopped crowding my mind with noise and distraction, and I started listening—really listening—to what I needed. Sometimes it was rest, other times movement. Sometimes it was connection, and sometimes it was solitude. I began honoring these needs without judgment.

I even noticed changes in how I approached work. Instead of multitasking and burning out, I began focusing on one task at a time. The quality of my work improved, and I found more satisfaction in the process rather than just the outcome. This shift in mindset rippled into every area of my life, bringing more balance and peace.

Slowing down helped me reconnect with the rhythms of nature. I paid attention to the seasons, the moon, the cycles of energy in my own body. I learned to embrace periods of rest as much as periods of growth. I found wisdom in the stillness.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, anxious, or simply disconnected, I invite you to try your own quiet shift. Start small. Five minutes of silence in the morning. A walk without your phone. One deep breath before opening your laptop. These moments add up.

They’re not about escaping life—they’re about returning to it. You don’t have to escape your life to reconnect with yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is a little stillness. In that space, you might rediscover not just calm—but the truest parts of who you are.

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About Mike

Mike is a freelance writer who is excited to share his first post for Tiny Buddha.

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You Don’t Have to Be Strong All the Time

“Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is to ask for help.” ~Unknown

We live in a world that praises strength—especially quiet strength. The kind that shows up, gets things done, and rarely complains. The kind that’s resilient, dependable, productive. But what happens when the strong one quietly breaks inside?

“You are a superwoman!”

“You’re so reliable!”

“You’re the glue that holds everyone together.”

I wore those compliments like badges of honor. For years, I believed them. Not just believed them—I built my identity around them.

I’ve always been a multitasker. A jack of all trades. I managed work, home, relationships, and a hundred moving pieces in between. I cooked elaborate meals, remembered birthdays, bought thoughtful gifts, checked in on friends regularly, showed up for strangers when needed, pursued hobbies, supported others’ dreams, and pushed through physical pain or emotional fatigue without complaint.

I was the one people turned to. And if they didn’t turn to me, I turned to them. If someone was going through a hard time, I’d show up with soup, a handwritten card, or a call that stretched for hours. I’d intuit needs before they were spoken.

And when people said things like “Wow! How do you even manage all this?” or “You’re incredible,” my heart swelled with pride. It felt good to be seen. It felt powerful to be needed.

But over time, I began to realize something quietly tragic.

Underneath all that strength was someone tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix—but the kind that comes from years of overriding your own needs for others. The kind that comes from confusing love with over-giving. The kind that sneaks up when you’ve worn the strong-one mask for so long, you don’t know who you are without it.

I didn’t see it as people-pleasing back then—I truly loved being helpful. I believed that if I could ease someone’s burden, why shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what love looks like? Isn’t that what kindness does?

But slowly, quietly, invisibly, it was taking a toll on me. My skin had withered, my hair had thinned, and I’d put on weight around my waist.

As I grew older, I began to feel the shift. The same enthusiasm that once lasted until midnight now faded by sunset. The fatigue wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual. My body wasn’t breaking down, but my soul was whispering, “You can’t keep carrying everything.”

And eventually, I listened.

Because something beautiful and painful hit me all at once:

Strength isn’t about holding it all together. Sometimes, real strength is in knowing when to let go.

It’s in saying, “I don’t want to be strong today.”

It’s in resting, without needing to earn it.

It’s in telling the truth when someone asks, “How are you?” and answering, “I’m actually not okay.”

It’s in giving yourself permission to be fully, messily, unapologetically human.

The world doesn’t tell us that. It tells us to hustle. To push. To keep going. That rest is a reward, not a right. That slowing down is weakness. That softness is fragility.

But now I know that softness is a kind of strength too. A brave kind. A kind that doesn’t scream or perform—it just is.

So, How Do You Begin Letting Go of the “Strong One” Role?

Letting go doesn’t mean giving up on your values. It means loosening the grip on the pressure to be everything to everyone. It means rewriting what strength means to you. Here’s how I began doing that:

1. Check in with yourself daily.

Ask: What do I need today?

Not what’s on my to-do list or who needs me, but what would make me feel centered right now?

Sometimes the answer is water. Sometimes it’s stillness. Sometimes it’s movement, or tears, or music. You won’t know unless you pause to ask. Even five minutes of silence—before bed, in the shower, or while sipping your tea—can reconnect you to yourself.

2. Learn to receive help.

You don’t have to carry everything alone. Let someone else cook the meal. Let someone else take the lead. If someone offers support, don’t reflexively say “I’m fine” or “I’ve got it.” Say thank you. Let them show up for you.

I remember one day telling a friend that I was exhausted and just not in the mood to cook. She offered to send over food, and I accepted it—with gratitude and relief.

Letting someone care for you like that doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. Accepting help builds connection, allows others to show love, and often brings a quiet joy that’s just as nourishing as the support itself.

3. Let go of the applause.

Here’s the hard truth: validation feels amazing—but it can also be a trap. You start doing things not because you want to, but because others expect it from you. The cycle is addictive.

Ask yourself: Would I still do this if no one noticed or clapped?

If the answer is no, give yourself permission to step back. Choose joy over performance. Choose peace over praise.

4. Set soft boundaries.

You don’t need to explain or justify your “no.”

For years, I would justify mine, feeling the need to explain or defend it. Slowly, I began changing the narrative. Now, I gently and unapologetically say, “I’d love to help, but I don’t have the capacity right now.” “Can I get back to you on this?”“I need some time for myself this weekend.”

Boundaries aren’t about pushing people away—they’re about protecting your inner landscape. The more you honor them, the more spacious, calm, and kind your life becomes.

5. Redefine what it means to be strong.

We’ve been taught that strength is about endurance, resilience, and never showing weakness. But real strength can also be quiet, tender, and human.

I remember one day, completely overwhelmed, a close friend came to check on me. When she asked how I was, I couldn’t hold it in—I just broke down. She didn’t try to fix anything; she simply held me, letting me pour out everything I’d been carrying. And in that moment, I felt lighter than I had in months.

Strength isn’t always in doing more. Sometimes it’s in being fully present with yourself, in your softness, in taking a pause, and in saying “not today” without guilt.

6. Prioritize rest like you would a deadline.

Rest isn’t laziness. It’s fuel. It’s sacred.

You don’t need to wait for burnout to rest. You don’t need to finish everything on your list to earn stillness. Schedule it. Guard it. Honor it.

Make rest a daily ritual—not a rare luxury. Your body, mind, and spirit will thank you.

Once I began prioritizing rest, I noticed a shift—not just in my energy, but in my clarity, mood, and ability to truly show up for myself and others. Life felt lighter, and I finally understood that honoring my body wasn’t selfish—it was necessary.

To Those Who’ve Always Been the Strong Ones

If you’ve always been the caregiver, the doer, the reliable one… I see you. I honor you.

But I want to remind you of something you may have forgotten:

You don’t need to prove your worth through over-functioning. You don’t need to sacrifice your well-being to be loved. You don’t have to keep showing up as the “strong one” when your heart is quietly asking for a break.

You were never meant to carry it all.

You can take the cape off now. You can exhale. You can cry. You can be soft. You can ask for help. You can choose rest. You can let someone hold space for you.

Because you’ve already done enough. Because you are enough. And because strength isn’t about how much you carry—it’s about knowing when to let go.

Let your new strength be rooted in gentleness. Let your softness lead. Let your heart exhale.

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About Aruna Joshi

Aruna Joshi is an author of four books, an emotional wellness advocate, and the voice behind Zen Whispers, a blog for deep-feeling souls who crave gentleness, truth, and clarity. Through personal stories and soft reflections, she helps readers feel less alone in their inner struggles. You can find her at thezenwhispers.substack.com.

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When the Body Freezes: On Love and Grief in Midlife

“I was constantly seeking a balance between mourning what’s already been lost, making space for the time and moments we still had left, and making sense of this complicated process that felt like my heart was split between two contrasting realities: hope and heartbreak.” ~Liz Newman

There is a quiet heaviness that begins to settle into many of us in midlife.

It doesn’t announce itself with drama. It slips in through unanswered emails from an aging parent, through half-slept nights spent wondering how we will ever afford live-in care, or whether that one fall they had was the beginning of the end.

It’s not grief exactly. It’s the shadow of grief that lingers before the loss, that creeps in through ordinary moments and whispers that everything is slowly, quietly, but undeniably changing.

My mother has Parkinson’s. She lives alone in the UK while I live abroad—untethered by design, a traveling healer by choice—except now that freedom feels like it comes at a cost I never calculated.

She has started falling. Backwards. Her voice is nearly gone. I can barely understand her over the phone anymore, and every time she forgets a detail or struggles to find a word, my stomach knots.

I wonder when the dementia will get worse and instead of only forgetting my birthday, she will also forget about me: her eldest daughter. I wonder how long she can live on her own. I wonder what happens when things really go south.

And I panic.

The truth is, I can’t just pack up and move to the UK. Not anymore. Not with Brexit and visa restrictions. These days, my visits are brief, limited to a few weeks or months at a time. Right now, I’m here for the summer, doing what I can while I can.

Add to that the financial uncertainty of running a healing business and the lack of steady income to support full-time care. The weight of it all settles quietly. Like many of us, I carry it in silence and swallow the worry. I fold it into my body, into the slope of my shoulders. The right one, to be exact.

Until one morning I wake up, and I can’t move my right arm the way I used to. Turning it inward sends a sharp pain up through my upper arm. At first, I think I must have slept weirdly. But when the pain lingers for days, my hypochondriac side takes over. I start googling symptoms. And frozen shoulder pops up.

I pause. Then I type in “spiritual meaning of frozen shoulder.”

And everything clicks.

In spiritual traditions, the shoulder is where we carry burdens that were never ours. It’s where we hold onto responsibility, overcare, and all the invisible weight of things unsaid.

When a shoulder freezes, it may be our body’s way of saying, “I can’t carry this anymore.”

A frozen shoulder can also signify:

• Suppressed grief or emotion, often near the heart
• Over-responsibility and carrying others’ pain
• Fear of moving forward, or feeling stuck
• A lack of energetic boundaries
• A subconscious attempt to halt motion when our lives demand change

All of these mirror how I feel about my mother. The anticipatory grief. The helplessness. The guilt. The stuckness of being in-between countries, in-between decisions, and in-between who I was and who I need to become. Wanting to take care of her and to sign the power of attorney papers and equally not wanting to do any of it because it’s just so damn painful.

The Midlife Guilt That Has No Language

There is no manual for this phase of life. For the moment when your mother still lives but is slipping. When you are still someone’s child but also now the one silently parenting the parent. When love no longer feels light but edged with dread and uncertainty.

And unlike childhood, this stage has no defined rite of passage. We often endure it quietly, bravely, invisibly. We plan around it. We work through it. We cry into our pillows about it.

We don’t want to be seen as selfish. We don’t want to fail them. We don’t want to map a life of meaning only to feel like we missed the most important chapter back home. And then the body begins to speak.

Reclaiming the Self While Loving the Mother

Healing my shoulder may take time. Physically and emotionally. But it has also been an invitation to ask: Where am I over-caring? Where am I still trying to prove my worth through sacrifice? What if I let myself hold love and limits?

Maybe I don’t need to force myself to stay for an entire summer out of guilt that I otherwise don’t live nearby.

I don’t yet have all the answers about my mother’s care. But I know this:

• I don’t need to disappear to honor her: I don’t need to dim my joy in front of her so she doesn’t feel the contrast of what she’s lost.
• I don’t need to break to be a good daughter: I don’t need to say yes to every request out of fear that one day, she won’t be able to ask, nor do I need to say “I’m fine” when I’m anything but.
• I don’t need to put my dreams on hold to make up for the years I wasn’t there, or carry the weight of what I couldn’t prevent.

Maybe the most radical thing we can do, in a world where many of us live oceans away from aging parents, is to stop blending ourselves into the expectations of those who stayed behind. Our parents. Our siblings. The ancestral and societal chorus of “You owe them everything.”

Because the truth is we can’t always return. Not like generations before. The village is gone, the visa expired, the life we’ve built stretches across time zones and cultures.

Maybe we need to learn to soften the guilt without hardening our hearts. I wonder if we can learn how to grieve the distance without erasing ourselves. Can we find a new kind of middle path where love is not measured by geography but by presence, honesty, and the quiet ways we still show up?

What if love is no longer a burden carved from duty but a bond held with tenderness and boundaries?

If your shoulder aches too, or your chest feels heavy or your body is acting up in any way, pause. Because we were never meant to disappear into devotion and carry too much. We were meant to love with presence. To grieve with grace. And to remain visible, even while honoring those we come from.

I have come up with a few journaling prompts I will journal through myself. If they are in any way helpful on your own journey, please feel free to do the same:

Journaling Prompts for the Tender Weight We Carry

1. Where in my body am I holding what feels too heavy to say aloud? What does this part of me wish I would finally hear or honor?

2. What roles or responsibilities have I inherited culturally, ancestrally, or emotionally that no longer feel sustainable? Am I willing to release or reimagine them?

3. When I think of caring for my aging parent, what emotions arise beneath the surface and beyond obligation? What fears, guilt, or grief live there?

4. What does love look like without self-sacrifice? Can I write a version of devotion that includes my wholeness?

5. If my body were writing me a letter right now about how I’ve been living, what would it say? What boundaries or changes might it ask me to consider?

If you do, share in the comments what realizations came up for you.

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About Lais

Lais is a writer, intuitive healer, and space-clearing expert. Through her Quantum Energy Healing Program, she facilitates deep transformation by clearing ancestral wounds, past-life imprints, and energetic blocks. Download her free digital journal to invite in more alignment into your life here. She also hosts The Alchemy of Light and Shadow Podcast & Happy Home Space Clearing Podcast. Learn more about her work here, or sign up to the Space Clearing Academy Waitlist here.

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When Friendship Is One-Sided: Letting Go of Someone Who Was Never Really There

“Finally, I realized that I was never asking too much. I was just asking the wrong person.” ~ Unknown

Friendship should nourish the soul. And in my life, for the most part, it has. I have a small, longstanding circle of friends steeped in a long-shared history. We’re basically a real-life, thirty-five-year-long John Hughes film.

However, every now and then, a hornet in disguise has buzzed into my life and stung.

He was one of them. A bad sting.

Love Bombing

Right off the bat, knowing him felt amazing.

I was still reeling from the aftereffects of living with an abusive man who died a few months after I finally got away. Emotionally raw, my nervous system felt like it was covered in third-degree burns being scrubbed with a Brillo pad.

But this new friend? He felt safe. Quiet. Peaceful.

He wanted to see me multiple times a week. He introduced me to his child. We spent time watching TV, going out for drinks and dinner, living in what felt like a comforting routine. His good morning texts became a comfort for my sleepy eyes.

It felt good. Really good.

Until it didn’t.

A Bouquet of Red Flags? For Me?

Small things began happening that just didn’t sit well.

He began to speak ill of others in our mutual friend group. If he’s talking about them like this, what is he saying about me? Then I’d dismiss it. No, Jennifer. He’s a good friend.

Once, when I asked him to repay money he owed me, I received a semi-scathing text accusing me of not being a “real friend,” because “real friends” don’t expect repayment. Am I here to subsidize your income?

You’d think I walked away entirely at that point. No, not quite.

When There’s No Communication, There’s No Friendship

Instead, I drank too much one night and made out with him. (Stop judging me.)

I felt uncomfortable and needed to talk about it. I asked if I could come over for a quick chat. He declined. He was “too busy gardening.”

Right. Gardening. Okay.

The good morning texts stopped. The invitations to hang out vanished.

Days later, I texted, “Are you upset with me? We usually see each other all the time, and I haven’t heard from you.”

His reply: “I’m not upset.” No explanation. No elaboration.

Five weeks passed. Silence. Crickets.

And it hurt—more than I expected. I had let someone in after a traumatic experience. I was vulnerable, open, willing to trust again. But the friendship only existed on his terms. Everything was fine—until I asked for emotional accountability.

Inner Work and Uncomfortable Truths

After doing a lot of inner work, I realized something painful: I have a pattern of projecting qualities onto people that they simply don’t possess. I want people to be kind, emotionally intelligent, and loyal. So, I make them that way in my mind.

But people are who they are—not who I wish them to be.

And for my own well-being, that pattern had to end.

Not everyone is ready to do the work. And that’s fine. I can only be responsible for my healing, my boundaries, my growth.

In any relationship—be it romantic, familial, professional, or platonic—every individual has a right to be seen, heard, and valued. To be acknowledged as a complete person with thoughts, feelings, and needs.

Our voices and wants should be respected and celebrated. Without this foundation of trust, emotional safety, and genuine connection, we begin to feel invisible, diminished, or invalidated.

And sometimes the most loving thing we can do for ourselves is to leave a space that no longer aligns with who we are.

It’s not about giving up on people too quickly but recognizing when staying becomes a quiet betrayal of our own needs.

Self-Respect and Goodbye

So how did I move forward?

After acknowledging a deeper truth—that I had lived in a place of unworthiness for far too long, repeatedly allowing myself to be manipulated and emotionally abandoned—I decided to no longer chase breadcrumbs and worked hard on setting clear boundaries. And if those aren’t respected, I give myself permission to walk away.

And I walked away from him. I declined invites where I knew he’d be present and performed a digital detox: the phone number, the photos, the threads—all deleted. Unfollow. Unfollow. Unfollow.

And none of it happened out of anger or malice, but from a place of peace. A place of self-respect.

In the end, we teach others how to treat us by what we allow, and leaving is sometimes the most powerful way to be seen and heard—by ourselves most of all.

I was whole before I met him. And I remained whole after saying goodbye.

A Final Note

Not every friend is meant to stay. Not every connection nourishes the soul.

Some buzz in for a bit, give a quick sting, and buzz right back out.

The lesson? To stop letting ourselves be stung over and over again.

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About Jennifer Tomlin

Jennifer is an advertising copywriter with over twenty-five years in the creative services and corporate communications field, A lover of animals, coffee, and music, she resides in the Philadelphia suburbs. Contact Jennifer at jennifertomlinwrites.com.

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