Full Circle: Reclaiming the Me Who Felt Most Alive

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” ~T.S. Eliot

In my early twenties, I packed a backpack and boarded a plane alone with a one-way ticket to Southeast Asia. It was a move that baffled my father, inspired my friends, and quietly terrified me.

I was drawn by something I couldn’t fully articulate at the time: a craving for freedom, truth, and a kind of belonging I hadn’t yet known. What I didn’t realize then is that this two-year trip would imprint on me a version of myself I’d spend the next twenty years slowly forgetting, and then, almost by surprise, begin to reclaim.

Three weeks into that trip, I found myself in Northern Thailand feeling completely lost. I wasn’t sightseeing like I “should” have been, or checking off cultural highlights. I felt aimless. Lonely. A bit ashamed that I wasn’t “making the most” of the experience.

The structure I was used to (school, expectations, a tidy plan…) had fallen away. I felt unmoored, as if I’d made a huge mistake. Who was I to think I could just wander and have it mean something?

And then I met Merrilee.

She was older, solo, sun-wrinkled and wise—the kind of woman who carries stories in her skin.

Over an afternoon spent talking at our quiet guesthouse, she helped me see something I hadn’t yet understood—that the point wasn’t to fill the time. The point was to be with myself. To let the lack of familiarity and structure teach me how to listen inward. To begin trusting my own rhythm and desire without external cues.

The kind of freedom I’d dreamed of required discomfort first and a willingness to stop outsourcing my worth to what I was doing.

That single conversation changed the entire arc of my trip. And it changed me. Forever.

For the first time, I felt connected to myself not because I was achieving something, but because I was simply attuned. I moved at a pace that felt good. I made decisions from joy, not obligation. I stopped trying to prove anything. And in the middle of that season of self-connection, I met the man who would become my husband. A new chapter began rooted in love and partnership, and eventually, in motherhood.

And slowly, without really realizing it, the version of me that woke up in Thailand began to dim.

Over the years, I became a mama to two beautiful boys. I cultivated a stable career. I managed a household. I became, in many ways, the kind of adult we are told to strive for: organized, reliable, efficient, productive. I wore those traits like armor, and at times, even like a badge of honor. But beneath it, there was a soft ache.

I had flashes of her—that younger, aligned me—the one who had danced through temples, laughed with strangers, trusted the moment. I saw her in photos. I reread journal entries and marveled at how whole I’d felt. But the distance between us seemed too wide. I didn’t resent the life I’d built. I just felt like I’d built it around everyone but me.

Some seasons are shaped by who needs us and how we choose to show up. And when we decide to set aside our deepest longings for the sake of others, it can serve as a useful contrast.

Maybe that soft ache was there to remind me that while raising children, tending to aging parents, or holding together the invisible threads of a household can offer deep meaning and purpose… it’s not the whole of me.

Somewhere in my early forties, with my kids nearly grown and a job that no longer felt right, the stirring got stronger. Roaring and insistent.

Only this time, it didn’t send me packing to the other side of the world. It sent me inward. And I was ready for it now. I had the capacity to respond.

I began exploring new trainings. I started a side business that brought me alive in ways I hadn’t felt in years. I slowly reduced how much I was giving to my secure job to devote more time to the work that felt aligned with my soul. I was awakening again, but with responsibilities and relationships that complicated the path.

Eventually, I knew it was time to leave my job entirely. It was a leap that, while intentional, shook me more than I expected.

The weeks after submitting my resignation were not the liberating breath I’d anticipated. Instead, I felt untethered, afraid, and riddled with doubt. Who was I now? What if I failed? What if all of this was some naive midlife fantasy?

Every structure I had leaned on—title, paycheck, certainty—was gone. I felt like I was falling. And then it hit me: I’d been here before.

That lost, floating, what-the-hell-am-I-doing feeling? It was the exact same emotional terrain I’d walked through in Thailand. Only now, I had more to lose. The stakes were higher, so the fear was louder, but the lesson was ultimately the same.

To let go of structure without losing myself. To trust the process of becoming before I had evidence of it all working out. To believe that flow, intuition, and joy are valid guides, even in business.

This time, there was no Merrilee waiting for me on a bamboo veranda. But there was embodied memory. There was me. There was the version of me who had lived it once and come alive because of it. The gift of having that experience in my early twenties wasn’t just the adventure. It was the blueprint it gave me for how to find my way back when I felt lost.

I didn’t have to figure it all out from scratch. I just had to remember who I was when I felt most alive. What she trusted. How she moved. What she believed.

She didn’t need five-year plans or marketing funnels or perfect clarity. She needed space. And courage. And breath. She needed to like herself and to let that be enough.

And so, I began letting that version of me take the lead again.

Building a business, especially one rooted in healing, service, and soul, isn’t just about offers and strategy. It’s a spiritual path. It asks you to meet your edges, again and again. It confronts your conditioning. It stirs up your doubts. But it also calls forward your truest voice: the one that got quiet when you were busy being “good” and responsible and reliable.

For years, I looked back on that time in Asia with a kind of reverence—a fond and distant memory of a life I couldn’t believe I was once brave enough to have lived. I never saw it as a departure from real life, but I did place it in a separate category, a luminous chapter that shaped me, but felt hard to access again.

Now I see it more clearly. That moment was the original map of who I am when I’m not trying to be what the world wants. And now, in this middle chapter of life, I get to choose her again.

Not by backpacking across the globe (though I admit that’s tempting), but by waking up each day and building a life, a business, a version of myself that’s led by truth, flow, and trust. It’s scarier now. But it’s also richer. Because I know what it feels like to come home to myself.

And I know the ache of the contrast if I don’t.

Maybe you’re reading this and feel like you’re standing at a similar threshold, untethered, uncertain, trying to trust the pull of something deeper.

If so, let this be your Merrilee moment.

The path might feel blurry. You might question whether you’re wasting time, or if you are foolish for wanting more.

But what I continue to learn in new ways is that the process of returning to yourself and recentering your needs doesn’t always come with clarity. It often arrives with chaos. With fear. With silence. With the pain of letting go.

But what’s waiting for you on the other side of the unraveling is a more vibrant you. And that person is so worth meeting again.

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About Natasha Ramlall

Natasha Ramlall is a trauma-informed mind-body health practitioner. She helps individuals see their pain in a new way which moves them into more evolved levels of mind-body health, wholeness and healing. To learn more or work with her, visit humanistcoaching.ca and get her Journaling Bundle to explore how this tool can support you.

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The Trauma Keeps Talking—But My Voice Is Now Louder

“Turn down the volume of your negative inner voice and create a nurturing inner voice to take its place.” ~Beverly Engel

After the abuse ends, people think the pain ends too. But what no one tells you is that sometimes the loudest voice isn’t the abuser’s anymore—it’s the one that settles inside you.

It whispers:

“You’re broken.”

“You’re used.”

“You don’t deserve better.”

And over time, that voice doesn’t just whisper. It becomes the rhythm of your thoughts, the lens through which you see yourself.

That’s what I mean when I say the trauma keeps talking.

Living with the Echo

In the months after my assault, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I just knew that every choice I made seemed to come from a place of damage.

I found myself in situations that felt eerily familiar—letting people use me, letting hands roam without question. I wasn’t saying “yes” because I wanted to; I was saying it because a voice inside had already decided I wasn’t worth more.

And to anyone watching from the outside, it might have looked like I was reckless. But inside, I was just tired. Tired of fighting a voice that seemed louder than mine.

Why We Stay Stuck

Trauma has this way of rewriting the script in our heads.

It convinces us that we’re not the same person anymore, that we’re tainted beyond repair. And because we believe that, we keep choosing situations that prove the voice right.

It’s not that we want to keep hurting ourselves. It’s that the part of us that knows we deserve better gets buried under layers of pain and self-blame.

I remember once thinking, “What’s the point of saying no?” I felt like I’d already lost the right to draw boundaries.

Looking back now, I realize that wasn’t me speaking. That was trauma—still in control.

The Turning Point

For me, things didn’t change overnight. There wasn’t a single moment when I woke up healed. But there was a moment when I got tired of losing to that voice.

I remember looking in the mirror and realizing, “If I keep going like this, the abuse wins forever—even without him here.”

That realization didn’t silence the trauma, but it gave me a reason to fight back.

I started doing small, almost invisible things to reclaim myself:

Saying “no” even when my voice shook.

Choosing one safe person to tell the truth to.

Permitting myself to stop—to pause—before walking into another cycle that would hurt me.

Each of those choices felt impossibly hard at the time. But with every pause, with every “no,” the voice of trauma got quieter.

Healing Is a Process, Not a Snap

I used to think healing meant waking up one day and feeling nothing.

Now I know healing means learning to talk louder than the trauma.

It means choosing—again and again—to believe a different story about yourself.

If this is where you are—if the trauma is still talking and you feel powerless to shut it up—I need you to know something:

You can stop. You can pause. You can turn around.

Not for anyone else—for you. For your peace. Your sanity. Your healing.

What I Want You to Remember

I won’t insult you by saying, “Just snap out of it.” That’s not how this works.

But I will tell you that one pause, one moment of reclaiming yourself, can change everything.

It’s not easy, I know. But it’s possible. And it’s worth it.

You deserve better than pain on repeat. You deserve to be more than what was done to you.

If you’re reading this and the trauma is still talking, please hear this from someone who’s been there:

The voice isn’t you. You’re still here. And you’re allowed to fight for a story where the abuse doesn’t win.

I may not have all the answers, but I know the terrain of this road—the stops, the setbacks, the slow turning around. And I want to walk it with you, one better choice at a time.

Because healing isn’t out of reach. You just have to start talking louder than the trauma.

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About Ibukun Oluwaseun Adesina

Ibukun Oluwaseun Adesina is a trauma-informed social worker, coach, and soul-writer who believes that healing can take many forms—from professional guidance to personal reflection and storytelling. Through her movement, Virginia Heals and its youth initiative, SafeNest Teens, she helps others find safety, courage, and self-worth after pain. She’s also the author of How to Heal When You Can’t Talk About It, a guide for silent survivors learning to find their voices again. Connect with her on Facebook or email virginiaheals@gmail.com.

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The God I Lost, the One I Found, and the Faith That Changed Me

“I searched for God and found only myself. I searched for myself and found only God.” ~Rumi

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that happens when you realize some of your prayers are going nowhere.

There’s a painful silence that follows unanswered calls. Yet, despite the ache, I can still feel the pull to pray to the God outside of myself—that old reflex to place faith in something bigger, some invisible force in the sky, who, apparently, can make things happen magically here on Earth.

But it doesn’t always go that way, does it?

I prayed my cancer would go away. It didn’t.

I prayed the world would heal from climate change. It didn’t.

I prayed my business would make enough to live on. It didn’t.

I prayed my book would reach thousands. Still hasn’t.

I prayed for peace in the world. It’s getting worse.

So, I stopped. Stopped praying. Stopped hoping in that way where my heart is wide open and a little desperate.

It didn’t feel brave. It felt hollow. But in the silence that followed, something shifted within me. When the noise of asking subsided, a quieter truth emerged.

For a long time, I thought my discomfort came from out there. From God. From other people. From difficult situations. Blaming something outside myself gave me a sense of control—a story to hold onto. But no matter how convincing that story was, the ache inside remained.

It took time, but eventually I saw it: the root of my suffering wasn’t external at all. It was internal.

When I finally stopped waiting for life to bend to my will and turned inward, I came face-to-face with something uncomfortable—my attachment to control.

What I discovered was a mind conditioned to grasp, to fix, to be right, to judge, to compare, to push. And most of the time, that’s where the struggle began—when reality didn’t match my expectations. I’d get caught in loops of thought, unable to see clearly, tangled in ego and forgetting the essence of my being—my heart.

The heart is where our whole, compassionate selves live. We feel it. We recognize what Howard Thurman called the sound of the genuine. That’s who we are—at our core.

So, it’s not that I lost faith entirely. It’s that I relocated it. I remembered the genuine within.

Now, I have faith that life will unfold as it will, and sometimes, that’s painful. Life doesn’t often match the visions we hold. It burns plans to the ground. It humbles. It disappoints.

And still, I have faith.

I have faith in the goodness of the human heart. I have faith that we can hold grief in one hand—the image of the life we imagined—and, with the other, steady ourselves enough to rise and take the next step forward.

I have faith in our ability to choose compassion over entitlement. To sit with discomfort and still reach for the just response. To place our hand on our chest, close our eyes and choose to respond—not from the head, but from the heart.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what God actually is.

Not some white-bearded man in the sky. Not a distant savior. But the part of us that knows how to return—not to the mind’s spirals, but to the body. To the breath. To the quiet pulse of the heart.

What if we—all of us, even world leaders—stopped looking to the God outside and, instead, returned to the one within?

Because the God within doesn’t need to be right. The God within doesn’t dominate or divide. The God within creates peace. Is peace.

And maybe that’s the kind of faith we need now.

Because when faith in something outside of us falls away, what’s left?

We are.

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About Lara Charles

Lara Charles is an Australian writer exploring the deeper threads of life through thought-provoking personal essays and memoir. Her work has appeared in national and international publications. She is the author of the Substack newsletter Deeper Threads and a teacher on the global cancer support platform Thrivers Ark. Her debut memoir, Joy, Regardless, is a powerful reflection on illness, identity and self-discovery. Discover more about her work at laracharles.com.

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The Grief No One Talks About: How to Heal After Losing a Soulmate Pet

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” ~Anatole France

When my cat Squiggles died, I didn’t just “lose a pet.” I lost a part of my identity, my greatest source of comfort, and my sense of home.

Squiggles was the one constant in my life through every milestone, every heartbreak, every version of myself I grew into over the course of two decades. I had her since the moment she was born, and for almost twenty-two years, Squiggles was my constant companion, my emotional support, my soul-kitty.

But no matter how much I prepared myself, nothing could soften the blow of saying goodbye and being forced to live without her.

As a therapist, I tried to apply all of the coping mechanisms I’ve learned over the years. But the human in me wanted to reject them all. I was just too deep in my grief.

So I turned inward. And over the past two years, I’ve been learning how to live with the loss of my soul-kitty. Not get over it. Or try to forget. But live with it.

Here are five things that helped me cope with life without her.

1. I validated the pain of my grief.

I knew the loss of Squiggles was going to be devastating one day, but knowing it didn’t make it easier. What it did do was help me validate just how deeply it hurt.

I didn’t try to hide how sad I felt. I cried every day for weeks. I canceled plans. I moved slowly. And instead of shaming myself for how awful I felt, I tended to the pain.

Even though many people out there might think, “She was just a pet,” to me, she was everything.

There’s a term for this kind of mourning: disenfranchised grief. It’s when your grief isn’t recognized by society in the same way a human loss might be. That doesn’t mean the grief is less real. It just means others may not understand how impactful the loss is.

The bond I had with Squiggles was deeper than many human relationships. I’ve heard countless people say the death of their pet hurt more than the death of a relative. I believe them. I felt it.

So I reminded myself daily: This was one of the most significant relationships in my life. I’m allowed to be this heartbroken.

2. I tried to find balance.

As a therapist, I’m well-versed in the idea that “the only way out is through.” But when you’re in the middle of overwhelming grief, feeling your feelings can quickly turn into drowning in them.

So I did it in small doses. I yearned for her. I cried. I talked to her. I allowed myself to remember.

And I also gave myself permission to take breaks from my grief when I could.

In the early weeks, I couldn’t imagine feeling anything other than sorrow. But slowly, I started allowing myself to step back from the pain. I gave myself a night out with friends. I practiced guitar. I gardened. I let myself laugh without feeling guilty about it.

And here’s the truth of taking breaks: It does not mean you’re moving on. It means you’re doing the best you can to survive.

Joy and grief can live side by side. One doesn’t cancel out the other.

3. I stopped saying “should.”

Grief doesn’t follow logic. Or timelines. Or “shoulds.”

And yet, they still popped up:

“I should be feeling better by now.”

“I should get rid of her things.”

“I should be grateful I had her for so long.”

At some point, I realized those “shoulds” were self-judgments in disguise. So I started replacing “should” with “could,” or “would like.” Sometimes I just asked, “Who says?”

Who says I have to move on quickly?

Who says keeping a box of her things means I’m stuck?

Who says I’m grieving “too much”?

Grief is a unique experience for everyone. No one knows how long the acute pain will last. For me, it has been about two years. My grief isn’t as all-consuming, yet I still have days where it hits me like a wave.

And now, two years later, I cherish those moments when the grief hits. Because it connects me back to Squiggles.

4. I connected with others who understood.

One of the most painful things about losing a pet is how isolating it feels. That one being who knows you in and out is no longer there. It feels incredibly lonely.

Friends didn’t always know what to say. People who had never had a close bond with a pet didn’t understand why I was so shattered.

Talking to people helped, but only if they really got it. The people who had been through their own soul-pet losses were the ones who I felt most comfortable with. And it helped.

Eventually, I created an online community where pet lovers could gather after losing a pet. A soft place to land where you don’t have to explain why you’re still crying six months later, or why it hurts more than you expected. People just get it.

This community has become a huge part of my healing. And I continue to witness the power of connection every time someone shares their story, their pet’s name, or even just their pain.

5. I used creativity and art to express how I felt.

In the beginning, the only way I knew how to stay connected to Squiggles was through my sadness. But as time went on, that love started to move through me in different ways.

I started gardening. Being in nature and witnessing seeds bloom into flowers reminded me of the circle of life and the connectedness of all beings.

When I really missed Squiggles and didn’t know what to do with myself, I’d express my emotions through poetry. Or draw every detail of her little face, the patterns in her fur, the way her paws tucked under her body. I looked through old photos and let my emotions guide me.

These small creative acts didn’t fix the grief. But they gave it somewhere to go. They gave me a way to keep loving her and helped me bring new forms of beauty into my life, even in her absence.

If you’ve lost a soulmate pet, please know that you’re allowed to take all the time in the world that you need to grieve. Our pets are members of our family and a huge part of who we are. The grief you experience is simply the love you have for them, just in a new form now.

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About Paige Rechtman

Paige Rechtman is a therapist and writer specializing in anxiety and pet loss. She is the author and illustrator of It’s All the Same Forest, a poetic tribute to the everlasting bond she shared with her soulmate cat, Squiggles. Paige hosts The Furever Forest, a supportive community for grieving pet parents who are looking for comfort, connection, and creative ways to heal. Learn more at paigerechtman.com or thefureverforest.com, and visit her on Substack here.

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The Weight of Regrets and the Choice to Live Better

“It is very important for every human being to forgive herself or himself because if you live, you will make mistakes—it is inevitable. But once you do and you see the mistake, then you forgive yourself and say, ‘Well, if I’d known better I’d have done better.’” ~Maya Angelou

I’ve lived long enough to know the difference between a mistake and a tragedy. Some of what I carry falls in between—moments I wish I could redo, things I said or didn’t say, relationships I mishandled, and opportunities I let slip through my fingers. They don’t scream at me every day, but they visit me quietly. The memory of my mistakes is like a second shadow—one that doesn’t leave when the light changes.

I’ve done a lot of good in my life. I’ve built meaningful work, taught students with heart, and showed up for people when it counted. I’ve loved deeply, even if clumsily. I’ve also failed—sometimes badly. And it’s the memory of those failures, more than the wins, that lingers.

The Woman on the Highway, and Others I Left Behind

I remember the woman on the side of a Mexican highway after our car ran off the road. She touched my forehead and looked into me with a deep compassion and mystical kindness—wordlessly holding space for what had just happened. I never thanked her. I left without saying goodbye, and I still think about her. I wonder if she knew how much that moment meant. I wish I could tell her now.

That moment wasn’t an isolated one. There have been many like her—friends, lovers, colleagues—people I walked away from too soon or too late. Some I hurt with silence. Others I lost because I couldn’t admit I was wrong. I see now that my pride got in the way. So did fear. So did the misguided belief that being clever or bold or accomplished could make up for emotional messiness.

It didn’t.

What I Thought Living Fully Meant

I used to chase experience and pleasure the way Zorba the Greek did—believing that living fully meant taking what life offered, especially when love or passion knocked. Zorba said the worst sin is to reject a woman when she wants you, because you’ll never stop wondering what could’ve been. There’s a strange truth in that, even if it doesn’t fit with modern ideas of love and consent and mutuality.

But I also know now: not every yes leads to peace. Sometimes you dive in and still end up alone, or ashamed, or with someone else’s pain on your hands.

And here’s the truth—I even failed at being a Zorba purist.

I missed a lot of messages and opportunities, not just because of bad timing or external circumstances, but because of my own blindness. Fear, shyness, and a deep lack of self-confidence got in the way more times than I can count. In that sense, yes, it’s a kind of failure. I didn’t always seize the moment. I didn’t always say yes. Sometimes I watched the boat leave without me.

But here’s what I’ve learned: sometimes not getting what you wished for is the blessing. I missed out on things that might have done more harm than good. And while I’ll never know for sure, I’ve come to trust the ambiguity.

My appetite for imagined memories—for playing out what might have been—can still guide me in unhealthy ways. It’s easy to get lost in nostalgia for possibilities that never were. But that too has become a teacher. I’m learning not to be burdened by those alternate timelines. I’m learning to live here, now, in this life—the real one.

I Will Not Be a Victim

These days, people talk a lot about not being a victim—and that’s become something of a mantra for me. Not in a tough, self-righteous way, but as a quiet practice. I don’t want to turn my past into a story where I’m the hero or the helpless. I want to see it clearly.

I’ve struggled in so many ways—emotionally, financially, spiritually. I’ve suffered through losses I couldn’t control and some I helped create. But I have to constantly stay mindful of my point of view. How I frame my life matters. Am I seeing it through the lens of powerlessness? Or am I recognizing my part, owning it, and doing what I can from here?

Finding that balance isn’t easy. I fall out of it regularly. But I return to it again and again: I will not be a victim. I have the power to respond—not perfectly, but consciously.

Learning to Live With, Not Against, My Mistakes

I carry those memories not because I want to but because I’ve learned that regret has something to teach me. It’s not just a burden. It’s a mirror. And if I look at it with clear eyes, it shows me who I’ve become.

I’ve also learned that some mistakes don’t go away. They live in your bones. People say, “Let go of the past,” and I believe that’s a worthy aim. It’s consistent with the Four Noble Truths in Buddhism: suffering comes from clinging, and peace comes from release. But maybe some memories are meant to be carried—not as punishment, but as reminders.

Despite my tendency toward impostor syndrome—the whisper that I’m not wise enough, not healed enough, not even worthy of writing this—I know this much: I am learning to live with my mistakes rather than against them.

I no longer believe healing means erasing the past. I think it means letting it breathe. Letting it soften. Letting it speak—not to shame you, but to show you where the heart finally opened.

Sometimes I wonder—how could I have missed so much?

I don’t mean that I lacked intelligence. I mean I was often distracted. Caught up in my own ego, my longings, my fears. Sometimes I look back and shake my head, wondering how I didn’t see what was right in front of me. Not just once, but again and again.

There’s that old saying: Youth is wasted on the young. Maybe there’s a sharper version of that—Youth is wasted on the non-mindful. I see now how many years I spent reacting instead of reflecting, chasing instead of listening, trying to prove something instead of just being present.

And yet, maybe this is how it works. Maybe it’s necessary to go through the valley of mistakes before we can rise into any meaningful self-awareness. Maybe the errors—the cringeworthy ones, the silent ones, the ones we’ll never fully explain—are the curriculum.

Still, I have doubts.

Is mindful growth real? Or are we always just half-blind and half-deaf, hoping we’ve finally gotten it, only to be proven wrong again later?

Sometimes I think I’ve evolved. Other times I realize I’m repeating the same old pattern, just in more subtle ways. And yet… there’s something different now. A deeper pause. A longer breath. A willingness to admit I don’t know, and to stay in the discomfort.

Maybe that’s what growth really looks like—not certainty, but humility.

No, I wasn’t stupid. I was learning. I still am.

When the Weight Is Too Much

And then, just when I think I’ve made peace with the past, something happens that shakes me again.

This morning, I learned that someone I’ve known since high school—an artist and surfer, quiet and soulful—jumped off a cliff to his death.

It was the same spot where he first learned to surf, first fell in love with the sea, maybe even first became himself. A place filled with memory. And maybe, pain. Maybe too much.

We weren’t especially close, but I respected him. His art. His quiet way of being in the world. And now he’s gone.

I don’t pretend to know what he was carrying. But I do know this: memory is powerful. Returning to it can heal us, or it can crush us. Sometimes both.

So I write this with no judgment. Only sadness. And the reminder that what we carry matters. That being kind—to others and to ourselves—is no small thing. That sometimes the strongest thing we can do is stay.

What I Know Now

So what have I learned?

I’ve learned that tenderness outlasts thrill. That presence matters more than persuasion. That a goodbye spoken with kindness is better than a door closed in silence. I’ve learned that some apologies come too late for anyone else to hear—but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say them.

I’ve learned that showing up—however imperfectly—is always better than disappearing.

And I’ve learned that even now, even at this point in life, I can still choose how I respond. I can meet the past with compassion. I can meet this moment with clarity.

To the ones I left too soon… to the people I failed to thank, or hear, or stand beside… to the ones I loved imperfectly but truly… here is what I can say:

I see it now. I wish I’d done better. I’m sorry. I’m still learning.

And I’m still here—still trying, still growing, still becoming the person I hope to be.

And if you’re reading this, carrying your own memories, your own regrets, know this: you’re not alone. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to keep showing up. That’s what I’m trying to do, too.

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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 Pain to Peace: How to Grieve and Release Unmet Expectations

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

Before 2011, I had heard many spiritual teachers talk about “accepting what is.” It sounded nice in theory, like good mental information to chew on. But it didn’t feel embodied. I understood it intellectually, but I wasn’t living it.

Then I attended a weekend intensive with a teacher I deeply respected, and something in the way he explained it hit deeper. It wasn’t just talk. The essence of his words turned a spiritual idea into something I could start to live.

In that talk, he shared a story about a father whose son had become paraplegic. The father was devastated because he had so many expectations—that his son would go to college, graduate, get married, and have children. But those dreams died the day of the accident.

The father was still living in a mental loop: “I should be going to his graduation.” “I should be at his wedding.” He couldn’t let go of the life he thought his son was supposed to have.

The teacher explained that the father needed to grieve his expectations, not just in his mind, but in his body. That hit me hard. It was like an athlete expecting to win a championship and then getting injured. They’re stuck in that same mental trap: “I should have had that career,” and they suffer for years because life handed them a different card.

That story cracked something open in me.

The Weight of ‘Shoulds’ on the Body

I’m someone who tends to be idealistic. I had high expectations for myself, others, and how life was supposed to go. And when people didn’t live up to those ideals, whether in business, relationships, or everyday interactions, it really hurt. I believed people should be honest, ethical, and truthful. They shouldn’t lie; they shouldn’t manipulate. I had a long list of “shoulds” and “shouldn’ts” that governed how I expected life to go.

When life didn’t meet those expectations, I felt disappointed, angry, even hateful at times. My body held the tension. I had chronic stress, emotional pain, and health challenges. For six months, I was even coughing up blood, and doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. Looking back, I see now that I was holding on so tightly to my expectations that my body was breaking under the pressure.

This is what that teacher was pointing to: that to truly accept what is, we have to grieve our expectations on a body level. It’s not enough to tell yourself affirmations like “just accept it” until you’re blue in the face. You have to feel where your body says, “No.”

That means noticing: does your body feel heavy? Is your heart tight or tense? If there’s anything other than lightness or peace, then there’s something you haven’t grieved or released.

By staying present with those sensations, without trying to fix or change them, you start to feel shifts. The signs of release are subtle but real: yawning, tears, vibrations, or a sense of energetic movement. It’s like something in your nervous system finally says, “Okay, I can let go now.”

Letting Go Became the Practice

After that retreat, I spent the whole summer sitting with these “should” beliefs. Every day, I made time to observe my thoughts and emotions. I noticed how often I was clinging to ideas like “I should have done this” or “they shouldn’t act that way.” It was uncomfortable at first. I didn’t realize how much I had been carrying around.

I committed three to four months to this work. Being self-employed gave me the space to dive deep, and I felt it was necessary to do my own inner work before I could help others with theirs. I probably put in hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours during that time.

Through that commitment, I released huge chunks of subconscious programming I didn’t even know were there. I realized I had inherited a lot of my “should” thinking from my upbringing. My mother also had strong expectations; when things didn’t go her way, she’d have intense emotional reactions. I had absorbed that pattern without realizing it.

At the end of those few months, I felt like I had begun the real journey of embodying spiritual growth. Not just reading about it. Living it. Accepting what is became something I could feel in my bones, not just think about.

But that was just the beginning.

Acceptance Happens in Layers

Over the next ten years, I noticed a pattern: about every six months to a year, a similar trigger would arise. Same emotion, same resistance, but less intense. The duration of my suffering shrank, too. What used to upset me for weeks now only remained for a few days, then a few hours.

I came to understand that accepting “what is” happens in layers, like peeling an onion. At first, I released the more obvious emotional charges held in the heart or gut. But as time went on, I discovered deeper, more subtle conditioning stored in the nervous system, bones, tailbone, even in my skin and sense organs.

The body doesn’t release it all at once—maybe because doing so would overwhelm the system. With each layer that releases, it feels like the body grants permission to go deeper.

To find and clear these deeper layers, I learned muscle testing from the Yuen Method of Chinese Energetics that helps uncover subconscious resistances. Muscle testing was quite a powerful experience, teaching me to intuitively talk to the body to find and release unconscious ancestral conditioning and forgotten traumas that are decades-old or generational programs located in different body areas.

My Personal “Should”: Loved Ones Should See My Good Intentions

For example, I used to hate it when my father made negative assumptions about my good intentions or deeds. Instead of appreciating my efforts, he would criticize them, leaving me with the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, it was never good enough for him.

This took me many years to work through, and each year, with each trigger, I discovered so much conditioning. I would have emotional meltdowns; my body would be tense and angry, just like my mom, because that’s how she is. From working on these triggers over the years, he can hardly get a reaction out of me anymore.

I was essentially reacting in a hardwired way. When my father made negative assumptions about my mom, she would often respond with emotional meltdowns and angry outbursts. I realized I had inherited the same pattern.

Over the years, each time my father pushed a button, I had to do continuous work on the different layers of conditioned reactions in specific areas of the body. His button-pushing became a gift: it constantly revealed more hidden layers of emotional reactivity.

These days, if he makes negative assumptions, it might still bother me a little, but it’s nothing like the angry, hateful emotional reactions I used to have. If my body still reacts slightly, it’s giving me feedback, making me aware that there is still unconscious conditioning that needs to be released.

If you do this work, over time, you will notice your loved ones may still push the same buttons and sometimes even say unkind words or behave in ways that used to deeply hurt you. But your triggers and reactivity can be significantly reduced.

You won’t take their words or actions as personally anymore. Instead, there’s a growing sense of love and acceptance—for yourself, the situation, and your loved ones, regardless of what they do. Doing this work feels like moving closer to unconditional love, or at least as close as we can get.

The Ongoing Unfolding of Acceptance

This process taught me that accepting what is isn’t a one-time breakthrough. It’s a slow unwinding of everything we were taught to expect, demand, or resist. It’s a return to what’s actually here, moment by moment, breath by breath.

Even now, I still get triggered. But I’m better at meeting those moments with curiosity instead of judgment. I know the signs in my body. I can feel when something hasn’t been grieved yet.

If you’re like me, if you have a long list of “shoulds” about yourself, about others, about life, maybe it’s time to sit with them. To feel where they land in your body. To grieve the life you thought was supposed to happen.

Because healing doesn’t come from controlling life. It comes from letting go of the fight against it. It comes from feeling into what is, with an open heart and a patient presence.

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About Paul Wong

Paul Wong is the founder of Chinese Energetics, a method he’s practiced for over fifteen years to help high-performing professionals release chronic stress and insecurities rooted in generational and early life imprints. His work supports a return to clarity, emotional stability, and grounded inner power. Paul offers live workshops, online classes, and personalized sessions. Learn more at www.chineseenergetics.com or contact him at paul@chineseenergetics.com.

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