I Wanted Revenge; Here’s Why I Let It Be Instead

“To let go does not mean to get rid of. To let go means to let be.” ~Jack Kornfield

I must admit right off the bat—as a serial entrepreneur, I’m a risk-taker. Throughout my twenties and thirties, I jumped at opportunities without always vetting the characters involved or asking what six months down the road might look like. I trusted, I leapt, I learned.

At twenty-three, I launched my first real business with another partner—an upscale pet resort. We had climate-controlled suites, a beautiful play yard, and classical music playing softly in the background. An elaborate four-tier fountain greeted guests in the lobby, where you could also view the handcrafted “Catio” patio built by my father himself.

Within a few months, it was already turning a profit. On the surface, it seemed like a dream come true. But something felt off.

My partner, M, was in charge of the books. At first, I brushed off the small red flags. A check deposited here, a discrepancy there. But one night after the last guest was picked up, I went into the office, pulled the books, and began a deeper investigation. What I found left me cold.

There were large withdrawals I hadn’t approved. Checks made out directly to M. While we had agreed on how much we would each take from the business, these amounts far exceeded our arrangement—and were happening far more often.

I was sick with disbelief. I confronted her. She cried. She apologized. But she didn’t offer an explanation, only tears. I kept asking, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

The betrayal grew stranger. Tensions rose. Communication broke down. One day, I pulled into the parking lot, and someone was there—recording video because they believed I would become physically violent (huh? Me? I don’t even hurt bugs!) as they told me I was no longer allowed on the property.

Wait, what?

I was the president of the company. I had put up all the money. It was my vision. My energy. My debt.

But here’s the thing—I had trusted M to handle the legal paperwork. And while I believed I was an equal owner, I never verified that the documents said so. I wasn’t listed as a shareholder. I had no legal stake.

I was the president of a company I didn’t actually own.

At thirty-three, I didn’t know what to look for. I had no real business background—just ambition, trust, and big dreams. And now I was being lied to, stolen from, and kicked out of the very place I built.

The desire for revenge was overwhelming. I wanted to scream. I wanted to sue. I wanted justice.

I met with attorneys. I weighed the options. And ultimately, I had to accept one of the hardest truths of my life: pursuing justice might bury me further. The legal costs, the emotional toll—it wasn’t a fight I could afford to win. So I let it be.

This was the beginning of a long line of “Let it Be’s” with many entrepreneurial hardships, missteps, and mistrusts. It was just the first in what would become an incredibly wild journey over the next twenty years. I was wronged again and again—faced the pain of greed, anger, narcissism, and outright insanity—and I let it ALL be.

And believe me, the devil on my shoulder had a full revenge script ready—dramatic, petty, borderline illegal. But I never acted on it.

Every. Single. Time.

And the truth of it all is taking the higher road isn’t easy. Letting things be is HARD.

But it’s not weakness. It’s wisdom.

Because here’s what I’ve learned: fighting fire with more fire only leaves you burned. And the more oxygen you give a flame, the bigger it gets. The longer you cling to betrayal, the more time you spend stuck in it.

And time? It’s precious.

Instead of plotting revenge, I began to rebuild. First, I crumbled. Then, brick by brick, I picked myself back up. I changed direction. I started over.

Here’s what helped me through:

• I got quiet. No grand social media posts, no smear campaigns. Just space. Silence gave me clarity.
• I got help. From mentors, therapists, friends who spoke truth when I couldn’t see it.
• I wrote everything down. The facts. The feelings. The fear. Putting it on paper helped me process it.
• I took responsibility. Not for what M did, but for what I missed. I studied, I learned, I vowed never to be that uninformed again.

Because I chose to let it be, I didn’t carry the weight of revenge, I moved forward with grace, and my integrity stayed intact.

Yes, I lost money. I lost years. I lost a dream.

But I didn’t lose myself.

Letting it be doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t happen. It means choosing not to carry it forward. It means making peace with what you can’t control—and putting your energy where it counts.

This was the first of a long line of experiences I’ve had throughout my entrepreneurial journey. After this event, I faced even more heartbreak and challenges. But every time, I have chosen to let it be.

Sir Paul McCartney once shared how his mother visited him in a dream and told him the simple words: “Let it be.”

Well, Mother Mary—you were right.

This is the way to do it.

So the next time you’re standing face-to-face with betrayal, I hope—for your sake—you let it be.

We only get so much time here. Let’s not waste it on battles that don’t build us.

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About BrookeLynn Cohol

BrookeLynn Cohol is a writer, entrepreneur, songwriter, and creator focused on personal growth, resilience, and creative expression. She believes in starting over as many times as it takes. Connect with her and her current projects at EllaVatour.com.

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What If Growth Is About Removing, Not Adding More to Your Life?

“Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about un-becoming everything that isn’t really you, so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.” ~Paulo Coelho

For years, any time I felt sadness, insecurity, loneliness, or any of those “unwelcome” feelings, I jumped into action.

I’d look for something new to take on: a class, a language, a project, a degree. Once, in the span of a single week, I signed up for language classes, researched getting certified in something I didn’t actually want to do, and convinced myself I needed to start training for a 10K.

Because if I was doing something productive, I wouldn’t have to sit with what I was feeling. That was the pattern: uncomfortable emotion → frantic pursuit of something “more.”

I became a master at staying busy. If I was chasing something, I didn’t have to face the ache underneath. But the relief was always temporary, and the crash afterward was always the same.

Because deep down, I wasn’t looking for a new skill. I was looking for a way to feel like I was enough.

I once heard someone say, “We can never get enough of what we don’t need.” I felt that in my bones.

Looking back, I can see why. I spent a lot of my life trying to earn my place, not because anyone said I wasn’t enough, but because it never really felt safe to just be. There was a kind of emotional instability in my world growing up that made me hyperaware of how others were feeling and what they needed from me.

I got really good at shape-shifting, staying useful, and keeping the peace, which eventually morphed into perfectionism, people-pleasing, and a chronic drive to prove myself. I didn’t know how to feel safe without performing. So, of course I kept chasing “more.” It was never about achievement. It was about survival.

But no matter how much I accomplished, I never felt satisfied. Or safe. Or enough.

It reminded me of something a nutritionist once told me: when your body isn’t properly absorbing nutrients, eating more food won’t fix the problem; it might even make things worse. You have to heal what’s interfering with absorption. The same is true emotionally.

When we don’t feel grounded or whole, adding more—more goals, more healing, more striving—doesn’t solve the problem. We have to look at what’s blocking us from receiving what we already have. We have to heal the system first.

We live in a culture that convinces us that growth is about accumulation.

More insight. More advice. More goals. More tools. If you’re stuck, clearly you haven’t found the right “more” yet.

So we reach for books, podcasts, frameworks, plans, certifications—anything to build ourselves into someone new.

But here’s what I’ve learned from years of doing my own work: Real growth doesn’t come from becoming someone new. It comes from letting go of what no longer serves you so that you can make room for the version of you that’s trying to emerge.

There’s a quote attributed to Michelangelo that says, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”

He believed his sculptures were already complete inside the stone; his job was simply to remove what wasn’t part of them.

When I heard that, I realized: That’s exactly how real transformation works. Not more, not better, not shinier. Just… less in the way.

But when people feel stuck, they react by piling on layer after layer of effort, advice, and activity until the thing they are actually looking for (peace, clarity, ease, joy) gets buried even deeper.

When we feel inadequate or incomplete, our instinct is to reach outward for something to fill the space. But the real work is to turn inward and get curious about what that space is trying to show us.

That might sound airy-fairy, but the truth is, identifying and transforming the parts of us that are carrying old stories isn’t passive. It’s not just a mindset shift or a nice thought on a coffee mug. It’s work.

It’s learning how to sit with discomfort without immediately escaping into productivity.

It’s noticing the parts of us that over-function, over-apologize, and over-control and asking where they learned to do that. It’s exploring the beliefs we’ve carried for years, like “I have to earn my worth” or “If I stop striving, I’ll disappear”—and getting curious about who they actually belong to and what they really need from us.

This isn’t about erasing who you’ve been. It’s about honoring the roles you played to survive and choosing not to let them lead anymore.

You don’t have to overhaul your personality or give up on ambition. This work is about clearing away what’s outdated and misaligned. The thoughts, roles, and behaviors that might have kept you safe once—but are now keeping you stuck.

Here’s what that might look like:

• Letting go of the belief that love must be earned.
• Dismantling the habit of saying “yes” to avoid disappointing others.
• Releasing the fear that setting boundaries will make you unlovable.
• Recognizing that staying small isn’t humility, it’s protection.

I’ve used every one of these tools myself. I began to notice when I was performing instead of connecting, fixing instead of feeling. I caught myself hustling for approval and validation and started asking: What am I afraid will happen if I stop? I practiced pausing. I gave myself permission to rest, to say no, to take up space. And slowly, I began to trust that I didn’t have to be more to be enough.

This kind of letting go isn’t instant. It requires awareness, compassion, and support. It requires choosing to stop running and start listening… to yourself.

Many of us are afraid to let go because we believe we’ll be left with less—less identity, less stability, less value. But in my experience, the opposite is true.

When we stop performing and start unlearning, we uncover a version of ourselves that feels more whole than anything we could have constructed.

Under the perfectionism? There’s peace.

Under the overthinking? There’s clarity.

Under the fear of being too much? There’s boldness.

We are not lacking. We are hidden.

If this resonates with you—if you’re tired of doing more and still feeling stuck, here are a few places to begin:

Pause the performance. Notice when you’re trying to “fix” something about yourself. Ask what you’re feeling underneath the fixing.

• Identify the beliefs you inherited. Were you taught you had to earn love? Be useful to be safe? Stay small to be accepted?
• Get curious about your patterns. What roles do you play at work, in relationships, in your head? Where did they start?
• Create space. That might mean working with a coach or therapist or simply setting time aside to be with yourself, without distraction.
• Be gentle. You’re not broken. You’re patterned. And patterns can be unlearned.

Here’s what I want you to know: what’s on the other side of the removal process isn’t emptiness. It’s clarity. Peace. Energy. Trust.

That person you’re trying so hard to build? That person is already there, just waiting for you to set them free.

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About Melissa Lorin

Melissa Lorin is a holistic leadership coach who helps people identify and transform the hidden blocks that keep them from leading the lives they long for. Her work blends emotional insight, somatic practices, and actionable tools to help create real, lasting change. Find her at melissalorinleadership.com.

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6 Simple Things I Do When Life Feels Completely Overwhelming

“You can’t calm the storm, so stop trying. What you can do is calm yourself. The storm will pass.” ~Timber Hawkeye

Overwhelm doesn’t always knock politely. Sometimes it crashes into my day like an unexpected storm—suddenly I can’t think straight, and everything feels urgent, impossible, and too loud. One minute I’m fine, the next I’m spiraling in my head, convinced I’m falling behind on everything and failing everyone.

If you’ve ever sat frozen in your car in the grocery store parking lot, staring blankly at a to-do list that now feels like a personal attack, you’re not alone.

Here are six things I turn to when I feel completely overwhelmed—none of them fix everything, but they all help me find my footing again.

1. I stop trying to “figure it all out” right now.

When I’m overwhelmed, my brain turns into a malfunctioning computer with eighty-seven tabs open and nothing loading. I immediately try to solve everything at once, like I can outthink the chaos if I just try hard enough.

But thinking harder doesn’t fix it. It just fries my system.

I’ve learned to pause and remind myself: I don’t need to fix my whole life in this exact moment. When I feel myself spiraling into “fix all the things” mode (shoutout to ADHD), I write down whatever I’m trying to remember or control. That way I’m not ignoring it—I’m just parking it somewhere so I can get through the thing I actually need to do right now.

2. I pick one tiny thing I can do.

Sometimes I stare at the mountain and forget I can just take one step. My brain immediately goes into “do it all right now or you’re failing” mode. And that’s when I end up doing absolutely nothing except overthinking and hating myself for not being productive.

So I stop and ask: What’s the next five-minute task I can do without using my last brain cell?

Not the whole kitchen—just get the dishes out of the sink. Not the whole inbox—just respond to the one email that’s been haunting me for days. One drawer. One phone call. One bill.

It doesn’t feel glamorous, but it’s how I trick my brain into motion. Because five minutes of action beats two hours of beating myself up for not doing anything. Tiny progress is still progress. And sometimes, it’s the only kind that’s available.

3. I ground myself in something sensory.

When anxiety hits, it’s like my brain hijacks my whole body. Suddenly, I’m not just stressed and overwhelmed. No amount of logic works in that moment because my nervous system doesn’t care that everything’s technically fine.

So instead of trying to think my way out of it (which never works), I shift focus to anything physical. I take a cool shower, drink a cold glass of water, light a candle, or put on my favorite scented lotion. I’ve held ice cubes before just to shock my brain back into my body.

Sometimes I just sit with my cat and focus on the feel of his fur under my hand, like, “Okay, this is real. This is here. I’m not being chased by a bear.”

Sensory grounding actually helps. It’s not deep or profound, but it’s basic anxiety relief. And honestly, that’s the vibe I’m going for when I’m spiraling: survive first, analyze later.

4. I do a ten-minute reset (phone-free).

I set a timer and do something quiet and simple—no phone, no news, no notifications. Just ten minutes without input. That alone feels like a luxury.

I sit outside and zone out to whatever the wind is doing. Or I color like a bored kindergartener. Sometimes I wash the dishes really slowly, like I’m doing a meditative art form instead of basic hygiene. And occasionally, I just lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling like I’m rebooting my entire existence.

It’s not about being productive or using the time well. It’s about giving my brain a break from having to be on all the time. Ten minutes of stillness doesn’t fix everything, but it gives me just enough space to breathe again—and sometimes, that’s all I need to keep going.

5. I check my self-talk for cruelty.

Overwhelm brings out the absolute worst inner dialogue. My brain turns into a mean girl with a megaphone. She says things like:

“Why can’t you handle this?”

“You’re behind—again.”

“Everyone else is doing just fine. What’s your excuse?”

It’s not helpful. It’s just self-bullying, dressed up as motivation.

When I catch that voice spiraling, I try to pause and respond the way I would if a friend came to me in the same state—exhausted, anxious, and trying their best. I’d never say, “Wow, you’re really bad at life.” I’d say something like:

You’re not failing. You’re overwhelmed. Let’s figure out what would actually help right now.

That shift—from shame to support, from blame to curiosity—changes everything. It doesn’t magically make the stress disappear, but it keeps me from mentally kicking myself while I’m already down. And honestly, that’s a win.

6. I let it be a “low power mode” day.

Phones go into low power mode when they’re drained—and so do I. And on those days, I stop expecting myself to function like I’m fully charged.

I do the bare minimum. I eat something simple (whatever takes zero brain power and maybe comes in a wrapper). I wear the comfiest clothes I can find, even if they don’t match and have questionable stains. I don’t force motivation to show up or try to “push through.” I let it be enough that I exist and made it out of bed.

And I stop treating rest like something I must earn. I don’t need to check off five tasks or prove I’m productive before I’m allowed to take a breath. Sometimes, the most responsible thing I can do is shut everything down and reboot.

Because being human is hard. Being sensitive, overstimulated, exhausted, or just done is part of it. And it’s okay to have days when I’m not okay. I don’t have to explain or justify it. Low power mode is still functioning—it just means I’m protecting my energy until I have enough to show up fully again.

Final Thoughts

Overwhelm doesn’t mean I’m broken. It usually means I’ve been running on empty for too long while trying to hold everything together without enough rest, support, or room to fall apart safely. It’s not weakness. It’s a warning light.

These six things don’t magically fix the mess. They’re not a makeover or a glow-up. They’re a ladder. A gentle, scrappy, wobbly little ladder I’ve built over time that helps me climb out of the mental spiral one small rung at a time.

If you’re feeling buried right now—under expectations, emotions, responsibilities, or just life in general—I hope something in this list reminds you:

You don’t have to do it all. You don’t have to be productive to be worthy. You don’t have to perform your pain or prove how hard things are.

You just have to come back to yourself. One breath. One step. One tiny act of care at a time.

You’ve got this. And even if today, this just means brushing your teeth, replying to one text, or microwaving some sad leftovers—that still counts.

You still count.

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About Melissa McNamara

Melissa McNamara, the creator of Happy Easier, is dedicated to showing that happiness is attainable for everyone. Her blog shares practical, fact-based tips and techniques for leading a healthier and more fulfilling life. As a nurse practitioner, Melissa combines her healthcare expertise with clear, actionable advice. Despite early challenges, she turned difficulties into opportunities for growth, and through Happy Easier, she provides tools to help others achieve lasting happiness.

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How Understanding Complex Trauma Deepened My Ability to Love Myself

“Being present for your own life is the most radical act of self-compassion you can offer yourself.” ~Sylvia Boorstein

In 2004, I experienced a powerful breakthrough in understanding what it meant to love myself. I could finally understand that self-love is about the relationship that you have with yourself, and that relationship is expressed in how you speak to yourself, treat yourself, and see yourself. I also understood that self-love is about knowing yourself and paying attention to what you need.

These discoveries, and others, changed my life and led me into a new direction. But as the years went by, I began to feel exhausted by life. Despite all that I had learned, I could feel myself burning out. It became clear to me then that there was a depth of self-love and healing I still wasn’t able to reach.

What I didn’t realize yet was that I had been living with complex trauma my entire life. It stemmed from a painful childhood, and it had created blind spots in how I saw myself and others. Because of complex trauma, I moved through life in a fog—feeling lost, disconnected from myself, and seeking self-worth through external validations.

So, I continued on with life—struggling, yet still hoping to find my answers. Then one day the fog began to lift, and the healing process began. I couldn’t see it all at once, but little by little, it became clear what I needed to learn in order to reach a deeper level of self-love and healing. Here’s a glimpse into my journey.

From 2011, I spent the next five years helping my dad take care of my mom because she had advanced Alzheimer’s disease. I was helping three to four days a week, even though I was dealing with chronic health issues and severe anxiety. This was an extremely difficult time that pushed me past my limits—yet it was a sacred time as well.

Six months after my mom died in 2016, my health collapsed due to a serious fungal infection in my esophagus. I had never felt so broken—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I was desperately searching for ways to recover my health, I was grieving the death of my mom, and I was struggling with a lost sense of identity. Because of this, and more, the goals and dreams I once had for my life vanished—as if the grief had caused some kind of amnesia.

A few years later, I had my first breakthrough. I was texting with a friend, and he was complaining to me about his ex-girlfriend, who has narcissistic personality traits.

He told me about the gaslighting, manipulation, ghosting, lack of empathy, occasional love-bombing, devaluing, discarding, and her attempts to pull him back in without taking accountability for the ways that she had mistreated him.

His description sounded oddly familiar. It reminded me of the dynamic I had with many of my family members in different variations. I had always sensed that something was off in the way my family treated me, but I was so conditioned to normalize their behavior that I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong.

Once I became aware of narcissistic personality traits, I started doing my own research by listening to narcissistic behavior experts such as Dr.Ramani Durvasula, and it was very liberating.

I learned that parents who have narcissistic personality traits, often treat their children in ways that serve their own emotional needs instead of meeting the emotional needs of their children. And this can cause negative programming in the way those children think about themselves and others.

For example, since my dad treated me like my emotional needs didn’t matter, this may have modeled to the rest of my family to treat me in the same way. And it most definitely taught me how to treat myself, especially when I was around my family.

I also learned that narcissistic relationships can cause you to lose yourself, because they can systematically break down your identity, confidence, and state of reality.

At the same time, I also learned that narcissistic behavior often stems from a deep sense of insecurity, usually rooted in a painful and abusive childhood. Recognizing this helped me to see my family members through a more compassionate lens—not to excuse their behavior, but to understand where it might be coming from.

Learning about narcissistic personality traits has deepened my ability to love myself because of the clarity it has given me. I finally understand my family dynamic and how I used to abandon myself when I was around them.

I would always give them my full and undivided attention, hoping it would be reciprocated, but it never was. Instead, in their presence, I became invisible—as if what I thought, felt, or needed didn’t matter. Around them, I learned to silence myself in order to stay connected, even if it meant disconnecting from myself.

Understanding narcissistic patterns and the impact that they can have helped me to face reality. My family members were unlikely to ever change, and I would always need to protect my emotional well-being when I was around them.

As I learned about narcissistic personality traits, I started to come across information about other related topics, such as complex trauma and how it can dysregulate the nervous system. Peter Levine and Gabor Maté are two of my favorite teachers on this subject.

I discovered that many of my health issues—including inflammation of the stomach, panic attacks, chronic anxiety, chronic fatigue, depression, lowered immune function, pain, and chemical sensitivities—could be linked to a dysregulated nervous system.

This can happen when the nervous system is chronically stuck in survival mode. In survival mode, the body deprioritizes functions like digestion in order to stay alert and survive. Over time, this can cause fatigue and other problems by draining energy and disrupting key systems needed for rest, repair, and vitality.

Learning about complex trauma has deepened my ability to love myself because it has opened my understanding to why I might be chronically ill and always in a state of anxiety. Knowing this gives me clues in how I can help myself.

I also learned that complex trauma is caused less by the traumatic events themselves and more by how those events are processed in the nervous system and in the mind.

According to the experts, if you are not given context, connection, and choice during traumatic events—especially when those events occur repeatedly or over an extended period of time—it’s more likely to result in complex trauma.

For example, if during my own childhood, it had been explained to me why my dad was always so angry and sometimes violent… and if I would have had someone to talk to about how his words and actions affected me and made me feel unsafe… and if I would have been given a choice in the matter and wasn’t stuck in harm’s way, then I would have been much less likely to have walked away with complex trauma.

But since those needs were not met, I internalized the message that I wasn’t safe in the world, which caused my nervous system to become stuck in a state of dysregulation. As a result, constant fear became an undercurrent in my daily life—often stronger than I knew how to manage.

When I wasn’t in school, I would often retreat into my wild imagination—daydreaming of a perfect fairy tale life one minute and scaring myself with worst-case scenario fears the next. Fortunately, my wild imagination also fueled my creativity and artistic expression, which was my greatest solace. To protect myself, I developed the ability to fawn and to people-please. All of these survival responses have been with me ever since.

Before I learned about complex trauma, I was told that the only course of action you can take in regard to healing from past emotional abuse was to forgive those who have abused you. But that’s not correct. Forgiveness is fine if you feel like forgiving, but it doesn’t magically rewire years of complex trauma and nervous system dysregulation. The real course of action is to identify and to gently work on healing the damage that was caused by the abuse.

As I explored the internet in search of ways to begin healing my dysregulated nervous system, I came across two insightful teachers, Deb Dana and Sarah Baldwin. They teach nervous system regulation using polyvagal theory, and I found their classes and Deb Dana’s books to be extremely informative.

Polyvagal theory, developed by neuroscientist Dr. Stephen Porges, helps people to understand and befriend their nervous systems so they can create a sense of safety within themselves.

Learning about polyvagal theory has deepened my ability to love myself by teaching me how my nervous system works and by helping me understand why I feel the way I feel. It also teaches exercises that help me to send signals of safety to my body, gently communicating to my nervous system that it doesn’t need to stay in survival mode all of the time.

Nervous system rewiring is a slow process, and while I still have a long way to go before I get to where I want to be, I’m already feeling subtle shifts in the way I respond to stressful situations. This breakthrough has given me new hope for healing and has provided a new path forward.

I also learned from complex trauma experts that fawning and people-pleasing can actually be trauma responses. These responses were the reason why I was so willing to sacrifice my health to help my dad take care of my mom. It was because I had been conditioned to always please my parents and to put their needs ahead of my own.

Learning about how fawning and people-pleasing can be trauma responses has deepened my ability to love myself by giving me new insight into my own behavior. In the past, it had always bothered me if I thought anyone didn’t like me, and now I can understand why I felt that way. It was because those thoughts triggered old feelings of fear from childhood, when not pleasing my dad felt dangerous. This taught me to never say ‘no’ to people in order to always feel safe.

By becoming aware of these trauma responses and wanting to reclaim my power, I have gained the ability to say ‘no’ with much more ease, and I’m much better at setting healthy boundaries. I’m also learning to accept that not everyone is going to like me or think well of me—and that’s okay.

During the later years of my dad’s life, we developed a much better relationship. Both my mom and dad were grateful for the help I gave to them when my mom was sick.

After my dad died in 2023, I no longer had the buffer of his presence to ease the stress of family visits. But I also no longer felt obligated to be around family members for the sake of pleasing my dad. So, a few months after his passing, when I received disturbing correspondence from a certain family member, I was able to make the difficult decision to go no contact. Spending time with family members had become too destabilizing for my nervous system—and to be completely honest with you, I had absolutely nothing left inside of me to give.

At first, I felt a lot of guilt and shame for going no contact, being the people-pleaser and fawner that I have been. But then I learned from complex trauma experts that guilt and shame can also be trauma responses.

When we are guilted and shamed in our childhoods for speaking up for ourselves, it can teach us that it’s not safe to go against the ideology of the family, that we should only do what is expected of us, and that our true voices and opinions don’t matter. This kind of programming is meant to keep us small—so that we are less likely to stand up for ourselves and more likely to remain convenient and free resources for the benefit of others.

I experienced a lot of rumination and intrusive thoughts the first year of going no contact, but with time and support I was able to get through the hardest parts. Watching Facebook and Instagram reels from insightful teachers, such as Lorna Dougan, were incredibly helpful and kept me strong.

A truth I had to keep reminding myself of was that my well-being was just as important as theirs, and that it was okay for me to prioritize my mental health—even if they could never understand.

Giving myself permission to go no contact with family members has deepened my ability to love myself because it has allowed me to help myself in a way that I had never been able to do before.

I now have a real chance to protect my mental health, to heal my nervous system, and to live the life that is most meaningful for me and for my husband. I no longer have to drain my last ounce of energy on family visits and then ruminate about how they treated me for the next 72 hours. It has also opened up my capacity to deal with other challenges in my life, like facing the new political landscape that is now emerging.

In conclusion, it was only when I began to tend to my complex trauma and examine my family relationships that I was finally able to recognize and understand the blind spots that had obscured my ability to know and to love myself more deeply.

Looking back on my journey, I’m grateful for how far I have come:

I now know and understand myself better. I have a greater understanding of what I need in order to heal.

I am able to think for myself and make decisions that align with my core values.

I like myself again, and I know that I’m a good person. I no longer believe that I’m too much or too sensitive—I just need to be around people who are compatible.

I am able to set healthy boundaries and to choose my own chosen family—people who treat me with genuine kindness and respect.

And I feel more confident facing life’s challenges now that I know how to turn inward and support my nervous system with compassion and care.

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About Rita Loyd

Rita Loyd is a writer and a watercolor painter dedicated to teaching unconditional self-love. Through her website, NurturingArt.com, she offers a variety of tools to support your self-love journey—including two inspirational books, an unconditional self-love message card deck, and a colorful greeting card line.

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The Beautiful Losses of a Childhood Moved to the Philippines

“The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” ~Alan Watts

I must admit, dear reader, that I wasn’t always a fan of change—not even a little. I wouldn’t say I entered this world naturally inclined toward new or unfamiliar things.

Like many children, I found comfort in routine—the joy that comes from ordinary moments repeating themselves. Whether we realize it or not, repetition builds a mental framework that quietly defines our comfort zones.

Maybe that’s where identity begins, slowly shaped over time. And perhaps that’s why, while others struggle to recall their earliest years, I remember mine so clearly—because the foundation of my childhood was disrupted early on by a dramatic shift.

You see, my early years were divided between two drastically different parts of the world. One chapter unfolded in the familiar calm of the United States; the next, in the chaotic hum of a developing country.

It’s not the most typical of childhood stories, but I was pulled from my life in San Francisco and thrown into the Philippines as a six-year-old girl. My story begins just before that life-changing move—in the heart of a city I called home.

Simple Days

My first memories of San Francisco are filled with pigeons on sidewalks, ice cream at Pier 39, sunshine in Yerba Buena Park, and seafood dinners with buckets of crab, shrimp, and fish. My parents ran a small corner store beneath our apartment while holding full-time jobs.

That shop was the source of many joyful moments—snacking on candy, hotdogs, and whatever treats we could get. I can still remember the layout of our three-bedroom apartment, the party room where my grandfather handed out chips, and the rooftop playground where we rollerbladed and played tag.

As a child, I was energetic and loud, especially in school. I often got in trouble—not for anything serious, but for being talkative, fidgety, or overly enthusiastic.

That trait hasn’t gone away. I still get excited easily—so much so that people sometimes question whether my enthusiasm is real.

But I never wanted to tone it down. Maybe I watched too many Robin Williams movies. Then again, it was the nineties.

Those were the simple, happy days I’ve always cherished—before everything changed.

Into Chaos

Picture a six-year-old who had just started first grade, still talking about Disneyland, now sitting on a plane heading to the other side of the world. The irony wasn’t lost on me—traveling to my family’s country of origin and yet feeling like a stranger to it.

All I had was the unknown ahead of me—and a handful of roasted peanuts to calm my nerves.

But it didn’t take long for the new reality to hit. I was thrown into a completely different world—fast, loud, and all at once.

Gone were the paved sidewalks. In their place: dusty roads with no curbs. The rivers I once knew were now polluted waterways, lined with trash and a lingering smell that hung in the air.

Dust rose with every passing vehicle. The traffic moved like chaos—cars weaving, horns blaring, people changing “lanes” at will. Looking back, it felt like a game of MarioKart—motorcycles, jeepneys, trucks all racing without rules.

And seatbelts? Nonexistent. People clung to the backs of buses, fingers gripping metal bars for balance. Honestly, even Mario Kart had more order.

The hardest part, though, was adjusting to the humble conditions of our new home. There was no hot water, so my mother would boil it in a kettle and pour it into a basin every day.

Power outages were common, and when it rained, the streets often flooded—sometimes with rodents or worse floating past as we walked home. Cockroaches flew through the air, and lizards skittered across the walls during breakfast.

Sure enough, words like “disturbed,” “terrified,” or “confused” don’t quite capture how I felt.

Homesick

It’s only natural to feel overwhelmed in that kind of environment at such a young age. I remember the shock vividly and how much I missed the world I had left behind.

If I’d been younger, maybe I wouldn’t have noticed. But I was already aware of the world and my place in it.

I’d learned to observe, mimic, and ask questions. I was sensitive and curious—and all of that made the transition harder.

I missed San Francisco—my school, my classmates, the little things that made life feel normal.

And though I’m not proud of it, I saw myself as different from the people around me. That discomfort became my first lesson in how flawed ideas of “otherness” truly are—a lesson that would grow with me over time.

But there was still so much more to learn.

Slow Opening

When you resist a situation, it becomes easy to judge everything around you. That judgment breeds negativity, and before long, it colors your entire experience. At some point, the only way forward is acceptance.

Somehow, I found the strength to stop resisting and take things one step at a time. Because wherever you are in the world, the need for human connection never changes.

So I went along with it. I showed up to school, even when I couldn’t understand my classmates’ language.

I tried. Every day, I tried—slowly picking up words, watching how people spoke, doing my best to be open.

Eventually, the language began to make sense. I started to come out of my shell.

With my siblings, I explored the street food that showed up each week in our neighborhood—ice creams in local flavors served with magic chocolate, hot cheesy corn, sour mangoes with fermented fish paste, salty pork and beef barbecue skewers, fried fish balls with oyster sauce, and caramelized bananas. Strange at first, but so delicious.

One unforgettable moment I can still recall was when our entire building lost power for several hours. These “brownouts,” as the locals called them, happened often and without warning.

It was always inconvenient, but on that particular night, large groups of kids and parents came out of their homes during the outage. Despite the darkness, candles and battery-powered lights lined up the edges of the open spaces, imbuing the entire building with a warm glow.

I can still remember enjoying the cozy atmosphere they made along with the background sounds of small talk and guitar music while meeting other neighbor kids for the first time. Little did I know that a few of them would become some of my closest friends and playmates for several years to come.

That night changed something in me, and not just from the possibility of new friendships, but because it was the first time in my life that I saw how a begrudging inconvenience could be transformed into a beautiful moment of connection.

Small World

After that, my energy returned, though with more caution. After all, it was still life in a third-world country I was dealing with, and it was not very difficult to get hurt at random, like someone running your foot over with their car by accident.

Still, before long, I was speaking fluently, playing after school, and venturing out to buy snacks in the neighborhood. It was common for families to hang signs of what they were selling outside their homes.

With just a few coins, I could buy candy, pastries, or a soft drink tied in a plastic bag. It wasn’t the usual way to drink, but on hot days, it felt like a treat.

There were plenty of local sights that stayed with me—boys climbing coconut trees, old men puzzled by Halloween. But there were also shared experiences: Gameboys, Nokia phones, WWE wrestling, karaoke, and pop music from Britney to Eminem. At this point, it was the 2000s.

In many ways, I started to see how big and small the world can be all at once—how culture spreads and how much we share, no matter the distance.

Lasting Lessons

We spent four years in the Philippines. By the end, I felt at home in a lifestyle that once felt impossible.

But eventually, we returned. And when I sat in a California fifth-grade classroom again, it felt surreal.

There were well-dressed teachers, Costco cupcakes, and cubbies painted in bright colors. Everything looked polished—and yet, I felt like I had lived a secret life.

It’s hard to describe. Maybe it’s something you can only understand if you’ve lived it. It felt like carrying two childhoods inside one life.

My personality shifted. I became more grounded, more grateful—for electricity, hot water, and the simplest comforts.

I learned to value what truly matters: connection, community, and confidence—not built on material things but earned through effort and heart. That’s the lesson that’s stayed with me, and I carried it into my teenage years, into teaching English in the Czech Republic, and into my current life here in Finland.

I’ll be forever grateful for my childhood years in the Philippines. It taught me that abundance and scarcity can live side by side—and that sometimes, in embracing the art of less, you discover so much more.

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About Retzel Lightly

Retzel Lightly is a writer and creator of Cherish & Jots—a space exploring the beautiful mess of being human through essays on creativity, culture, personal growth, life lessons, and well-being. At the heart of her writing is a deep belief in the power of self-direction in a world full of noise. Subscribe to her weekly newsletter for inspiration, intention-setting prompts, and meaningful insights to guide your days with clarity and purpose. Retzel lives in Finland and shares regularly on her website.

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The Strength I Found Hidden in Softness

“You can’t heal what you won’t allow yourself to feel.” ~Unknown

I used to act strong all the time. On the outside, I looked like I had it all together. I was competent, composed, and capable. I was the one other people came to for advice or support.

The stickiness was that my version of strength created distance. I couldn’t allow myself to appear weak because I was terrified that if I let myself break down, I wouldn’t be able to pull myself back together.

Maybe underneath it all, I was so fragile I might actually break.

So I held it in. All of it—my grief, my fear, my loneliness. This is what strong people do, right?

I learned to be strong early because I had to.

My mother was depressed and suicidal for the younger years of my life. From a young age, I felt like it was up to me to keep her alive. I became the caretaker, the one who made things okay, even when nothing was.

My father left before I was born. I didn’t meet him until I was six, and when I did, it wasn’t safe. He was abusive and schizophrenic. One time, he tried to strangle me. That moment embedded something deep: every moment is a risk. To survive, I learned to stay alert, in control, and numb.

Later, my mum entered a same-sex relationship—a bold move in the eighties, when that kind of love wasn’t accepted. Her partner, a former homicide detective turned trauma therapist, was emotionally volatile and narcissistic. My home didn’t feel safe. There wasn’t a lot of room for me to be a child.

So, I became hyper-responsible. A perfectionist. A fixer. I micromanaged not only my life but also the emotions of others when I could. My version of “strength” became what I hid behind and my identity.

But underneath it all, I was scared. My “strength” was survival, not freedom.

Years later, I moved to Australia and found myself with a friend in a power vinyasa yoga class. It was hot, sweaty, and intense. I hated it. The carpet smelled. The teacher talked the entire time. I was angry.

And then it hit me: I was always angry.

Beneath the appearance of having it all together, I was exhausted and resentful. The yoga mat didn’t create these feelings—it just revealed what I had been carrying all along.

That night, something shifted. I realized my “strength” wasn’t really strength; it was my wall. A wall that had kept me safe but also kept me from feeling.

So, I kept going back. First to yoga, then to a deeper journey of healing.

The process came in layers.

Along my healing journey, I explored many different modalities. The first was EFT (emotional freedom technique), where I touched emotions I had buried for decades. Later, kinesthetic processing showed me that it was safe to feel everything—every emotion, every memory—through my body. This was the beginning of softness integrating into my life, not just as an idea, but as a lived experience.

For so long, my strength had been armor—the courage to survive. But softness opened something new: the courage to thrive, because my heart was no longer closed.

There was no single breakthrough, no magic moment.

With each layer that fell away, I began to replace resistance with openness, walls with connection. Slowly, I came to trust that softness wasn’t something to fear—it was something I could lean into.

And what I learned is this: my healing required softness, which meant vulnerability and allowing myself to fully feel.

Softness isn’t weakness.

It’s staying open when everything in you wants to shut down.

It’s allowing yourself to be seen without the mask.

It’s choosing presence over performance.

True power isn’t control. It’s vulnerability. It’s feeling your way through life and trusting yourself—trusting your thoughts, your decisions, and your impulses so you stop second-guessing and stop relying on constant external validation. Trust allows you to act from clarity instead of fear.

It’s trusting your body, noticing what nourishes you versus what depletes you, and setting boundaries without guilt. It’s trusting life’s natural flow, letting go of the pressure to force things to happen according to a strict schedule. It’s trusting your own inner truth. Trust and softness go hand in hand; the more you trust yourself, the more you can stay open and present without fear.

If you’ve been holding it all together for too long, maybe strength doesn’t look like pushing through. Maybe it looks like slowing down. Like taking a breath. Like feeling what’s been waiting to be felt.

And maybe, just maybe, your sensitivity isn’t something to hide or harden.

Maybe your sensitivity is your superpower.

In a world that teaches us to be strong, brave, and unshakable, we can forget that our greatest wisdom often comes in stillness.

It comes when we soften. When we listen. When we let go of who we think we should be and come home to who we already are.

Strength isn’t about being unbreakable. It’s about being real.

When I started listening to myself, I realized how often I had ignored my own needs and desires, pushing through life according to what I thought I “should” do. I learned to honor my feelings, trust my instincts, and make choices that nourished me instead of drained me. As a result, my relationships deepened, my confidence grew, and I found a sense of ease and flow I never thought possible.

Sometimes the greatest thing you can do for yourself is listen to the quiet, unchanging wisdom within you and trust what you hear.

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About Shauna Hawkes

Shauna Hawkes is a women’s embodiment mentor, Gene Keys guide, and yoga teacher with over fifteen years of experience. She helps women at a crossroads break free from self-sabotage, find clarity, and step confidently into the next chapter of their lives through mentorship, workshops, yoga retreats, and Gene Keys readings. Curious to discover more about yourself? Take her free archetypes quiz at shaunahawkes.com or click this link direct - Take Quiz

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Micro-Faith, Huge Benefits: Reasons to Believe in Something Bigger

“Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.” ~Martin Luther King Jr.

My grandmother passed away a few years ago after a long battle with cancer. Even as her health deteriorated, she never lost her spirit. She’d still get excited about whether the Pittsburgh Steelers might finally have a decent season after Ben Roethlisberger’s retirement. She’d debate the Pirates’ chances with the kind of passionate optimism that only comes from decades of loyal disappointment.

But what I remember most are the afternoons she’d spend napping in her favorite chair with my son curled up against her. He’d drift off clutching some random object, like a wooden spoon or random toy from my parent’s basement. She’d just smile and close her eyes too. Even when she was tired, even when the treatments were wearing her down, she found joy in those stolen moments.

In her final years, she lived with my parents, but she brought her faith with her.

Her rosary beads found new homes on nightstands and windowsills. Her worn Bible sat open on the end table, bookmarked with a picture of her husband. The little curio cabinet filled with angels followed her too, a portable shrine to stubborn hope. Wherever she was, the air around her carried that same indefinable quality that I later realized was simply peace.

My grandmother had the kind of faith that could part emotional storms with a single glance. She didn’t need to preach it. She lived it. You could feel her belief before you even stepped through the front door. She believed in prayer, in miracles, in second chances. In the Steelers. And in Diet Pepsi.

After she was gone, I expected to feel completely untethered. Instead, I discovered something surprising. Things seemed to hold together. The sadness was real and deep, but underneath it was something solid. A foundation I’d never realized she’d built in me.

My mother always said I “lived with my head in the clouds,” and it wasn’t until after Grandma passed that I understood where that came from. While I was raised in the Catholic church and spent years as an altar boy, my faith had always been fuzzier than hers. Less certain. More questions than answers.

But it was there, hidden under the surface, because of her. I’d been benefiting from her quiet influence in ways I never fully understood or appreciated until she was gone. Her faith hadn’t just surrounded me. It had somehow taken root in me, even when I wasn’t paying attention.

Learning to Recognize What Was Already There

The months after her death weren’t filled with the existential crisis I expected. Instead, I found myself noticing things. How I naturally looked for the good in difficult situations. How I held onto hope even when logic suggested otherwise. How I moved through the world with a kind of quiet optimism that I’d never really examined before.

I was still a professional overthinker, still a card-carrying worrier. But underneath all that mental noise was something steadier. Something that whispered, “This too shall pass,” even when I wasn’t consciously thinking it.

It took time to understand that this wasn’t something I needed to build from scratch. Grandma hadn’t just modeled faith for me; she’d been quietly cultivating it in me all along. Through her example, through her presence, through those countless afternoons when she’d choose hope over fear, even when the odds were stacked against her health and her beloved sports teams.

Discovering My Own Messy Version

What I came to realize was that my faith was never going to look like Grandma’s. Hers was rooted in tradition, in ritual, in the comfort of centuries-old prayers. Mine was more scattered, cobbled together from different sources and experiences.

My faith, I discovered, is held together with hope, a healthy dose of skepticism, and about six different kinds of sticky notes. It’s not the neat, organized kind. It’s more like a spiritual junk drawer full of useful things, but you’re never quite sure where anything is.

I believe in second chances and fresh starts. I believe in the power of afternoon sun to reset your entire day. I believe that kindness is contagious and that sometimes the universe sends you exactly what you need, even if it arrives late, confused, and covered in cat hair.

Some days, my faith is a whisper: “Maybe things will get better. Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe I can try again tomorrow.” Other days, it’s louder: “This is hard, but I can handle hard things. I’ve done it before.”

My faith doesn’t look like Grandma’s, but it carries her DNA. It’s messier, less certain, but it has the same stubborn core, a refusal to give up hope, even when hope seems foolish.

The Science of Belief

Here’s what I wish I’d known during those dark months: You don’t have to be religious to benefit from faith. Science shows that belief in something greater than yourself can be a powerful tool for mental and emotional well-being.

Faith literally reduces stress. Studies show that people who report a strong sense of meaning or spiritual belief have lower levels of cortisol, the hormone associated with stress. Translation? Faith helps your brain pump the brakes on panic.

It improves emotional regulation by activating the brain’s prefrontal cortex, which helps you pause before spiraling. It builds psychological resilience by reminding you that you’re not at the center of every catastrophe. Whether you believe in God, the universe, karma, or cosmic duct tape, faith acts as a buffer against hopelessness.

Acts of spiritual reflection can trigger the same brain regions involved in feelings of safety and joy. And faith often leads to rituals or conversations with others, building the connections that are crucial for well-being.

Here’s the kicker: You don’t have to get it right. Wobbly faith counts. Uncertain, whispered-in-a-closet faith is still valid. Half-hearted “Okay, Universe, I trust you… kinda” mutterings are welcome here.

The Power of Micro-Faith

Big transformations feel great in theory but hard in practice. That’s why I’ve learned to embrace what I call “micro-faith,” these small, digestible moments of intentional belief. Like appetizers for your spirit.

Today, try believing in something small:

• The possibility of a good cup of coffee
• The strength hiding inside your own weird little heart
• The fact that what you need might already be on its way
• The idea that this difficult season won’t last forever
• The chance that tomorrow might feel a little lighter

Faith doesn’t have to be grand or glowing. Sometimes it’s just showing up anyway, even when you’re not sure why.

What Grandma Taught Me

Years later, I realize Grandma didn’t just give me faith; she showed me how to live it. She taught me that faith isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about trusting that you’ll find your way, even in the dark.

She taught me that belief can be quiet and still be powerful. That faith isn’t a destination but a traveling companion. That sometimes the most profound act of faith is simply getting up and trying again.

Most importantly, she taught me that faith isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up. Showing up to your life, to your relationships, to your own healing, even when you feel completely unprepared.

I carry pieces of her faith with me now, mixed in with my own messy, imperfect beliefs. Some days I feel like I’m floating through life with my head in the clouds. But thanks to Grandma, and a whole lot of trial and error, I’ve learned to float up here without getting totally fried by the sun.

If your faith feels fractured, fuzzy, or faint, you’re not doing it wrong. You’re just human. Faith isn’t a finish line. It’s a floating device. It won’t always steer you straight, but it might keep you above water long enough to find the shore.

So go ahead and believe in something today. Even if it’s just the idea that the clouds will eventually clear… and the coffee won’t taste burnt this time.

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About Jason Hall

Jason Hall is a writer, mental wellness advocate, and professional overthinker who believes in the power of imperfect faith, a well-timed joke, and the occasional snack-fueled epiphany. He writes about finding light in the messy middle of life and the small, stubborn joys that help us float through. You can find him at chilltheduckout.com, where he shares stories about stress, hope, growth, and how to chill the duck out one microjoy at a time.

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Remembering What Truly Matters in a World Chasing Success

“Strive not to be a success, but rather to be of value.” ~Albert Einstein, adapted

I often feel like I was born into the wrong story.

I grew up in a time when success meant something quieter. My father was a public school music teacher. We didn’t have much, but there was a dignity in how he carried himself. He believed in doing good work—not for recognition or wealth, but because it mattered.

That belief shaped me. I became a teacher, filmmaker, and musician. And for decades, I’ve followed a similar path: one rooted in meaning, not money.

But somewhere along the way, the story changed.

All around me—especially in places like Los Angeles, where I’ve lived and worked—I see people running. Hustling. Branding. Monetizing. It’s not enough to be good anymore. You have to be seen. Promoted. Scaled. Life itself has become something to market.

And in that shift, I’ve felt something sacred go missing.

The False Promise

I’m not against success. I want to be able to pay my bills, support my family, and feel valued. But the version of success we’re fed—fame, visibility, endless productivity—is a lie. It promises meaning but often delivers emptiness.

We’ve replaced presence with performance. Care with clicks. Integrity with optimization. And the result? A society where exhaustion is normal and enough is never enough.

Psychologists call it extrinsic motivation—doing something for a reward, like money or applause. It’s not inherently bad. But when it dominates our lives, we lose touch with intrinsic motivation: the joy of doing something just because it matters to us.

When everything becomes a transaction, even joy starts to feel like a product.

The Scarcity Game

Sometimes I feel like we’re all scrambling for crumbs. Competing for attention, clients, gigs, or algorithms. Everyone trying to survive, to be seen, to matter.

It’s primal—like a twisted version of the hunter-gatherer instinct. But where ancient humans balanced competition with community, we’ve kept the fight and lost the tribe.

Now, even collaboration often feels strategic—a means to climb, not to connect. “Networking” replaces friendship. “Partnerships” become performance. We’re told to “collaborate” so we can get ahead—not because it nourishes our souls.

That scarcity mindset doesn’t just shape how we work. It distorts how we see ourselves. If someone else is thriving, we feel like we’re falling behind. If we’re not being noticed, we start to doubt our worth.

This isn’t just economics. It’s spiritual erosion.

Capitalism and What It Forgot

I’ve been thinking about capitalism—not as a political slogan, but as a cultural story. Adam Smith imagined markets built on freedom and mutual benefit. But today’s version often rewards extraction over contribution, performance over presence, and individual gain over shared good.

Even education and healthcare—things meant to uplift—are judged by efficiency, growth, and return on investment. I’ve seen schools cut arts programs in the name of data. I’ve watched care become content.

And I’ve felt it in myself—this pressure to prove my value with numbers, even when the most meaningful things I do can’t be measured.

Another Way of Living

I’ve spent time filming in remote indigenous communities in the southern Philippines, where life moves at a different pace. There, people didn’t ask how to monetize their purpose. They lived it. Storytelling was teaching. Planting was prayer. Taking care of elders wasn’t a chore—it was an honor.

Nobody was branding themselves.

But even in these places, that way of life is vanishing. Global markets, smartphones, and social media have arrived. The younger generation is pulled toward modern success. And who can blame them? Visibility promises power. But what’s quietly lost is the rootedness of belonging.

And it’s not just them. It’s all of us.

Do We Have to Disappear?

Sometimes people say, “If you don’t like the rat race, go live in a monastery.”

But I don’t want to disappear. I love music, conversation, cities, teaching. I want to live in the world—not retreat from it.

So the real question becomes: Can we live meaningfully within this world, without being consumed by it?

I believe we can. In fact, I think we must.

There are people everywhere doing quiet, vital work: teachers who never go viral, gardeners who share food, coders who write open-source tools, volunteers who show up without posting about it. They aren’t trending—but they are tending to something real.

Choosing What’s Real

I don’t have a formula. I still worry about money. I still wonder if what I do matters. But I keep coming back to this:

I’d rather make something honest that reaches ten people than fake something that reaches ten thousand.

I’d rather be present than polished. I’d rather care than compete.

If you feel this too—this ache, this fatigue, this quiet grief that something essential is being lost—you’re not alone.

And you’re not broken. You may be one of the ones who remembers.

Remembers what it feels like to listen deeply. To give without scoring points. To live from the inside out, not the outside in.

That remembering isn’t weakness. It’s your compass. And even in a monetized world, it still points you home.

The Truth Beneath the Lie

Here’s what I’ve learned: Success, as we’re taught to define it, is a moving target. You can chase it for decades and still feel empty.

But meaning—real, soul-deep meaning—is something we can return to at any moment. It’s in how we love. How we show up. How we make others feel. It’s in the work we do when no one is watching.

We may not be able to change the whole system. But we can tell a truer story.

One where value isn’t based on performance. One where success isn’t a finish line. One where we belong—not because we’re impressive, but because we’re human.

That story is still possible. And it’s worth telling.

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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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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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