The Prowler in My Mind: Learning to Live with Depression

“There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” ~Leonard Cohen

When depression comes, I feel it like a prowler gliding through my body. My chest tightens, my head fills with dark whispers, and even the day feels like night. The prowler has no face, no clear shape, but its presence is heavy. Sometimes it circles in silence within me. Other times it presses in until I don’t know how to respond.

In those moments, I feel caught between two choices: do I lie still, hoping it passes by, or do I rise and face it? Often, I choose lying down—not out of paralysis but patience. Sometimes the only way to coexist with the shadow is to rest, to surrender for a while, to let sleep take me. And sometimes, when I wake, I feel a little lighter. Not free of the prowler but reminded that it is possible to live alongside it.

Carl Jung once wrote, “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in our conscious life, the blacker and denser it is.” I know this to be true. The more I try to push my depression away, the heavier it becomes. But when I bring awareness—even reluctant awareness—its power weakens.

The Shadow as Teacher

The shadow is not only my enemy. It also serves as a teacher. Depression forces me to face the parts of myself I would rather outrun: shame, grief, fear, anger, discontent. But it also carries hidden truths. Jung suggested that the shadow holds not just what we reject but also forgotten strengths and possibilities.

For me, the shadow’s message is humility. It reminds me I am not in control, that I can’t polish myself into perfection. It pushes me to listen more deeply—to the pain I carry and the struggles I see in others. It insists that healing doesn’t come from pretending the darkness isn’t there. It comes from being willing to see it.

Buddhism and the Prowler

Buddhism gives me another way to see this. The Buddha taught that suffering doesn’t just come from clinging to what we crave; it also comes from turning away from what we don’t want to face. That turning away is called aversion.

When the prowler moves through me, my instinct is always to turn away. I want to push it out, distract myself, pretend it isn’t there. But each time I run from it, the shadow grows stronger.

In meditation, I practice staying. I sit and breathe, whispering silently, “May I be free from fear. May I be at peace.” I’ll be honest, sometimes these words feel empty or even silly. They don’t always lift me. But saying them creates a pause—a moment of willingness to stay instead of running. The prowler doesn’t vanish, but it softens a little under the light of compassion.

Creativity and the Shadow

I’ve also discovered that my documentary work—filmmaking, writing, teaching—is only authentic when I acknowledge the shadow. My camera becomes a mirror. When I pretend everything is light, the images feel flat. But when I allow the complexity of shadow into my seeing, the work has depth.

When I sit with people to listen to their stories, I often sense their shadows too—grief unspoken, fear beneath the surface, contradictions in how they see themselves. I can recognize those shadows because I have lived with mine. Facing my own shadow allows me to meet others with greater truth and compassion.

To create honestly means letting the shadow into the frame. Without it, there’s no contrast, no tension, no truth.

Caregiving as Light

One of the greatest gifts in my life now is caregiving for my ninety-six-year-old mother. These small daily acts bring moments of unexpected reprieve.

I remember one morning, bringing her a simple breakfast—just toast and tea. She looked at me and smiled, her face lighting up with gratitude. In that moment, the prowler loosened its grip. It was such a small thing, yet it fed the part of me that wanted to live.

Playing her old-time tunes on my Gibson mandolin does the same. When I see her foot tapping or hear her hum along, something shifts inside me. Caregiving sheds light into the darker places of my heart. The simplicity of preparing food or sharing music reminds me that love and service are stronger than despair. These acts don’t erase the shadow, but they bring balance, showing me I am more than my depression.

Feeding the Shadow, Feeding the Light

I’ve come to see that I sometimes feed my depression. Not on purpose, but through worry, anxiety, and rumination. Each time I circle the same fears, I am handing the prowler a meal.

And then there are other times when I feed something else. The words of meditation may feel hollow, the wolf story may sound idealistic, but the simple acts are real: making my mother breakfast, playing her a mandolin tune, writing with honesty, or even just breathing one steady breath.

It reminds me of the well-known story of two wolves: A grandfather told his grandson that inside each of us are two wolves. One is fierce and destructive, filled with anger, envy, fear, and despair. The other is peaceful and life-giving, filled with compassion, hope, and love. The boy asked, “Which one will win?” The grandfather replied, “The one you feed.”

For me, both wolves are real. The prowler and the peaceful one live side by side. I don’t deny my depression. I know it is part of me. But I also know I can choose, moment by moment, which one I will feed.

Presence with the Shadow

The prowler still comes. I suspect it always will. Some days it circles silently like a vulture. Other days it urges me to lie down and surrender. And sometimes, when I wake, I feel a small relief—a reminder that coexistence is possible.

This is what presence has come to mean for me. Presence is not escaping into light or denying the dark. Presence is staying with what is—the prowler, the heaviness, the caregiving, the fear. It means breathing with it, resting with it, even sleeping with it, without running away.

Both Jung and the Buddha point in this direction. Jung says we cannot become whole without making the darkness conscious. The Buddha says we cannot be free if we turn away in aversion. And I have learned that I cannot create or care for others or live fully if I refuse to face the prowler inside me.

So I continue step by step. I breathe. I stay. I rest. I create. I bring my mother breakfast. I play her mandolin tunes. I feed the peaceful wolf. I coexist. The shadow still prowls, but I am here too—more awake, more human, more present.

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About Tony Collins

Tony Collins, EdD, MFA, is a writer, documentary filmmaker, and educator whose work explores presence, creativity, and meaning in everyday life. His essays blend storytelling and reflection in the style of creative nonfiction, drawing on experiences from filmmaking, travel, and caregiving. He is the author of Creative Scholarship: Rethinking Evaluation in Film and New Media Windows to the Sea: Collected Writings. You can read more of his essays and reflections on his Substack at tonycollins.substack.com.

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Why Narcissistic Abuse Doesn’t Define You and How I Found the Love I Deserve

“When it hurts to move on, just remember the pain you felt hanging on.” ~Unknown

There was a time when I thought my heart would never heal.

I’d been lied to, betrayed, and broken by a man I thought I loved. A man who turned out to be nothing more than a beautifully packaged nightmare.

If you’ve ever been hurt by a narcissist, you know that the pain cuts deeper than most people can imagine. You know the way it seeps into your bones, the way it makes you question your worth and replay every moment, wondering if you could have stopped it.

I’ll never forget that night in Paris when I learned what love is not.

The Champs-Élysées was alive with golden lights strung high in the air. Shoppers moved slowly, bags swinging in their hands, laughter spilling out of nearby cafés. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the crisp night. And in the middle of that beauty, my world shattered with one heavy punch to the stomach I did not deserve.

It happened on the balcony of a famous Paris hotel. I had overheard a phone call. His voice casual, almost bored. “I’ll be home in a few days.”

Home.

To. His. Wife.

My blood ran cold.

The words clung to my skin like ice. Betrayal swelled in my chest, my breath sharp and ragged. I demanded answers. My voice cracked, trembling between anger and disbelief.

The first slap was so fast I barely registered it. Then another. Then the kick. A sharp, merciless blow to my stomach that folded me in two and dropped me to the floor.

My lungs emptied. I gasped, but no air came.

I needed to scream. I wanted to claw, to fight, to make him hurt. But some part of me knew that to stay alive, I had to stay still. My body shook in silence, hot tears sliding down my cheeks, my ears ringing as his voice faded into a blur of meaningless words.

The carpet felt rough beneath my palms as I steadied myself. My ribs ached with each shallow breath.

When his rage finally burned out, I slipped away and stepped onto the balcony. The night air stung my face. Through the blur of tears, I saw the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the distance, each light flashing like a cruel reminder of where I was—the city I had dreamed of visiting. In love.

I gripped the railing, fighting the urge to collapse again. I wanted to disappear. I wanted to wash every trace of his hands from my skin. I wanted to go home, crawl into my bed, and erase Paris from my memory.

It took months to unravel what had happened that night. Months to understand why I had let a narcissist treat me like that. I wasn’t naive. I wasn’t unloved. I came from a loving family. I cared for people.

So why did I believe I deserved this?

Somewhere deep inside, I had confused love with proving my worth. I believed that if I could just give enough, forgive enough, understand enough, I could earn love that stayed.

That belief had been quietly living in me for years—from the little girl who learned to keep the peace by being “good” to the woman who equated over-giving with strength. I didn’t think I deserved cruelty, but I didn’t yet believe I was worthy of love that came without pain.

Looking back, all the signs were there. Endless red flags I chose not to see. The charm that drew me in, the constant need for attention, the way he twisted the truth until I doubted my own sanity. The anger when I questioned him, followed by the empty promises meant to keep me hooked.

The bruises faded in weeks. But the ache inside stayed.

For a long time, I hated Paris. I had been there with the wrong person. I had imagined us wandering hand in hand along the Seine, kissing on Pont Alexandre III as the city lit up around us. I had pictured mornings in Montmartre with coffee and croissants, sunlight spilling through tiny café windows.

Instead, I got a nightmare.

Deep down, I always knew real love was effortless. Not that it didn’t require work, but that it didn’t demand your dignity and your soul.

After months of healing, I wrote down exactly what I wanted in a partner, and I refused to settle for less.

Then, when I least expected it, he showed up. One email led to another, and soon we were talking across time zones, our words building a bridge neither of us had seen coming.

He wanted to meet right away. I stalled. Part of me still needed the safety of distance.

When we finally met in New York City, the moment felt like something written long before we were born. I had landed early that morning, wandering the city in the winter chill. When I called from a payphone near Bryant Park to confirm, I turned, and there he was, smiling at me like I was the only person in the crowd.

In the past, I would have rushed in and molded myself to fit his rhythm. But this time, I moved slowly. I asked questions I used to avoid, and I said what I needed without apology.

My healing had raised my standards, not for others but for how I treated myself in love. I was no longer searching for someone to fill a void, and because of that I could actually see him—not through the lens of fantasy or idealization but through truth.

His steadiness and confidence didn’t scare me. They grounded me. He met me where I was. I could simply receive his presence without fear it would disappear. And that was brand new to me—being loved without having to abandon myself to keep it.

Years later, we’re still together. We’ve faced storms, held the line when things got hard, and fiercely protected the magic we built. And we visited Paris together. This time, it was the city I had always wanted—champagne kisses, walks by the river, and a skyline wrapped in light.

For the first time, there’s safety. There’s no fear in being honest, no punishment for being human. We listen, we repair, and we hold each other accountable without shame. When one of us feels hurt, we talk instead of withdrawing. When one of us makes a mistake, we forgive and learn instead of blaming.

Love doesn’t take from us. It expands us. It’s steady, mutual, and kind. I can ask for what I need without guilt. I can express my fears without shrinking. We celebrate each other’s successes and hold each other through failure.

For me, this love feels like finally being able to breathe, like exhaling after years of holding my breath, and knowing I can rest in someone else’s presence without losing myself.

If you’ve been hurt by a narcissist, I see you. I know the nights you lie awake replaying everything. I know how heavy your chest feels, how loud the silence is.

You may need to close the chapter that destroyed you, then open a new one and write the story you’ve been longing to live.

Forgive yourself. Forgive them. Not for their sake, but because you deserve the peace it will give you.

One day, you’ll wake up and realize the darkness is gone. The fear, the self-doubt, the endless ache are no longer yours to carry. And in that moment, you’ll know the truth: you will never again return to what broke you.

It took months for my nervous system to finally feel safe around men again. For a long time, my body reacted before my mind could catch up, flinching at raised voices, shrinking from affection, bracing for betrayal even when love was right in front of me.

This is how I slowly found my way out of the grip of narcissistic abuse:

Belief work.

I had to meet the invisible story I’d been carrying for years—that love had to be earned. Rewriting it didn’t happen overnight, but each small reminder felt like a crack in the opening around my heart. I began telling myself, again and again, I am deeply worthy of love. I am enough, exactly as I am. When my mind drifted back to old patterns, I didn’t fight it. I simply offered a new story, one where I was already enough and worthy of calm, steady love.

Listening to my body. 

I began to notice how my chest tightened or my stomach knotted when something felt off. Instead of ignoring those signals, I treated them as truth. My body knew what my mind wanted to deny.

Somatic healing. 

Breathwork, sound therapy, gentle movement, and trauma-informed bodywork helped me release stored fear and regulate my nervous system.

I remember one session lying on my mat, my breath shallow, my chest heavy. As the sound bowls vibrated through the room, a trembling began to move through me. First it was rage, then a deep grief for all the ways I had abandoned myself, and finally a relief, like my body was releasing what it had carried for years.

Something softened inside me. Something I couldn’t name. But what that moment taught me is that healing isn’t about forgetting. It’s about allowing what was once trapped to move through you, until it no longer owns you.

Boundaries. 

I practiced saying no. At first, it felt unnatural, even selfish. But every no became a small act of reclaiming myself.

I started small. I stopped saying yes to coffee dates I didn’t have the energy for or to men who mistook my kindness for an open door. Then it extended into every corner of my life.

I stopped overworking to prove my worth, stopped letting colleagues pile their tasks onto mine just because I was capable. I stopped replying to work messages late at night, stopped entertaining conversations that left me feeling small, but most of all, I stopped ignoring the quiet voice inside that whispered when something didn’t feel right. Each no created a little more space for truth, for me.

Choosing safe people. 

I surrounded myself with friends and mentors who treated me with kindness, who showed me what respect actually looks like. Their presence slowly re-taught my body that love doesn’t always come with pain.

Clarity in love. 

I wrote down exactly what I wanted in a partner, not just the surface traits, but how I wanted to feel with them: safe, cherished, seen. That clarity was my compass.

When we began talking, I noticed I didn’t feel anxious waiting for his reply. I didn’t need to edit myself to earn his affection. There was no chaos, only ease. That peace told me I was finally aligned with what I had written. He embodied nearly every quality I had put on that list—emotional awareness, consistency, integrity, and most importantly, a tenderness that made my nervous system begin to trust again.

Healing from narcissistic abuse isn’t linear. It’s a thousand tiny steps back to yourself. Some days you’ll stumble. Some days you’ll doubt. But little by little, the pieces come back together, and you realize you were never broken.

When the right one arrives, you won’t question it. You won’t shrink yourself to fit. You won’t beg to be seen. You will simply know, in the steady, quiet place inside you that this is real, this is love.

Rejection was never your ending. It was the redirection toward the life you were always meant to live.

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About Tiki

Tiki is a heart-centered energy guide who helps women release stored emotions and inherited patterns held in their bodies and nervous systems. Through somatic work, sound healing, and intuitive energy practices, she supports women in dissolving old stories and reclaiming their authentic voice. If you’ve experienced heartbreak, betrayal, or a relationship that left you doubting your worth, download Reclaiming Your Heart After a Painful Relationship, a calming guide to help you nurture your heart back to safety and deep peace.

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3 Surprising Causes of Burnout That Most People Miss

“Love yourself first and everything else falls into line.” ~Lucille Ball

The first time I experienced burnout, I was twenty-six.

I was at the height of my career in London, doing it all, and yet I somehow found myself back at my parents’ house, sobbing in my mom’s car, after signing myself off from work, not having a clue how I landed there.

Burnout isn’t just about being tired from overexertion. It’s when we reach physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion after pushing ourselves past our capacity for too long.

When we finally stop, often against our will, all the confusing symptoms surface. We feel overwhelmed, out of control, like we’re going mad. That was me at twenty-six, right when I thought I should have been thriving.

To give you some background, I was managing several boutique fitness studios in London, working under a highly demanding boss whose mood could swing and affect the whole office. I wasn’t much of a party girl, but I was still burning the candle at both ends, socializing with friends on the weekend and running around meeting demands during the week.

The burnout crept in slowly, starting with crying over the smallest things, gaining weight despite all the exercise I was doing, never being able to switch my mind off, and feeling constantly wired and overwhelmed with emotions I didn’t understand.

Burnout shows up differently for everyone, and I believe many of us live with a chronic, low-level version we don’t even notice until our well-being starts to fall apart.

At the time, I thought burnout was just about long hours and stress. But over the years, I realized there were deeper, less obvious reasons behind mine.

So, let’s get into the three not-so-obvious causes of burnout that most people miss.

The Hidden Pressure to Prove Your Worth

One of the biggest things I’ve learned about myself in the last ten years is that I’ve always had a need to prove myself. I’ve never quite felt good enough, and it’s always affected my confidence.

I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. We all struggle with our confidence and worth, wanting to prove ourselves—to the people we work for, to our parents, to our partners, and to the world.

However, I wasn’t conscious of this when I was younger. I knew I had a strong drive within me to work hard and meet other people’s demands, but I didn’t think it had anything to do with needing to prove myself.

I’ve come to see that many of us have a core wound around self-worth, even the most confident among us, and we all need to work on accepting, embracing, and loving ourselves exactly as we are.

But when we’re not conscious of our inner drivers, we can blindly rush into life, not understanding what’s really motivating our actions. For me, my lack of confidence played out in my need to please my boss, to the point where I was no longer conscious of my needs or desires.

Her disapproval terrified me. I dreaded missing her calls or not replying to her emails fast enough. I anticipated her demands constantly, beating myself up if I misjudged a situation or fell short.
It was a constant strain on my nervous system.

I pushed myself harder and harder until I simply couldn’t cope with the pressure. I couldn’t bear to let her down in any way, and if I did, I chastised myself for not doing better, for not being better.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was when I had to leave work early, to her great annoyance, to meet my mom, who’d booked a mother-daughter photoshoot (something I definitely wasn’t looking forward to, given the state of stress I was in).

All I remember is crying on the subway on my way there and not stopping even as the concerned makeup artist was trying to sort out my puffy eyes. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, and it was too much.

That’s when I began to understand that burnout isn’t just about physical overwork. It can come from the emotional pressure we place on ourselves, such as the pressure to meet expectations, to keep people happy, and to prove our worth to those that we feel we constantly need to impress.

It’s only when we realize that our well-being is far more important than our productivity that we can start to recognize how our need for approval is driving our actions and start to gently and lovingly address the deeper root cause.

Why Burnout Thrives Without Boundaries

One of the worst things about this need to prove myself was that my boss also recognized it and took advantage of it.

At the time, I didn’t even know what boundaries were. I wanted to keep everyone happy, spinning plates and spreading myself thin.

We’re conditioned to believe that it’s wrong to be selfish, that we shouldn’t say no, and that we need to put others’ needs before our own, but at what cost? Well, the cost is often our own happiness and well-being.

We often think of boundaries as physical, but they are also mental and emotional.

We may have shut our computer, but are we still thinking about the meeting tomorrow morning? We may have left the office, but are we anxious that we’ll forget to send that important email?

I used to feel this dread in the pit of my stomach every morning on my way to work as I wondered what I might have gotten wrong or forgotten to do. It was like my mind couldn’t switch off, and it drove my stress levels higher and higher.

One of the reasons why boundaries can feel so challenging is when we attach ourselves to the thing that we do, making it our identity, our purpose, and all that we are.

Whether our burnout comes from being a parent, being a caregiver, being an employee or entrepreneur, or any other roles we hold, we need to remember to create a sense of healthy separation from what we “do,” because that is not all that we are.

This is such an important boundary for us to create.

We are human beings, not human doings. When we mistakenly attach our worth, our identity, or our purpose to what we do rather than who we are, that boundary becomes blurred.

How Denial Keeps Us Stuck in Burnout

Another major cause of my burnout was my inability, or unwillingness, to be honest with myself.

I wasn’t conscious of how much I was struggling, and even if I had been, I wouldn’t have admitted it. To do so would have meant facing changes I wasn’t ready to make.

While change is a constant in all of our lives, it is still something that most of us fear. After all, it’s messy, unpredictable, and uncomfortable.

Yet, it’s always needed, especially when we suffer from burnout.

If we don’t change our circumstances, our attitude, or our boundaries, then nothing will change. So, we have to be willing to be honest about what’s not working and start making those all-important changes.

We can also struggle to be honest about our motivations for staying in burnout.

I’ll admit that at the time I really liked my life. Or rather I should say, I liked how my life looked. When I turned up late to dinner with friends due to work, I used to complain about work always making me late, but secretly I felt busy, important, and special.

There’s always a deeply unconscious part of us that becomes attached to the things that hurt us. It’s almost as if we become a martyr in our suffering. Yet, this is just reflective of the deeply unconscious desire to be seen, recognized, and taken care of.

That’s the tricky thing: when we’re in burnout, we often crave recognition and care from others. But waiting for someone else to rescue us keeps us stuck.

When I was struggling with burnout, I just wanted someone to notice and tell me what was wrong. I complained about my job to anyone who would listen, but I refused to take any advice. I just kept pushing myself, secretly hoping that one day someone, anyone, might notice.

Burnout isn’t a cry for help, but it is a cry from within to be taken care of, supported, and nourished. And first and foremost, we need to start looking after ourselves.

This Is Where Burnout Ends

If you’re struggling with burnout, please know that you’re not alone. Start by being honest with yourself. Recognize where you’re needing to prove yourself and where you need better boundaries so you can start taking care of yourself.

These subtle causes may not look like overwork, but they take just as much out of us, sometimes even more.

The turning point for me was when I admitted I wasn’t coping, signed off from work, and sought support from a holistic practitioner. That was the first time I began to listen to myself, and it opened the door to healing and growth I never could have imagined at twenty-six.

Ten years later, I’m so grateful for what it taught me. As cheesy as it sounds, it was the breakdown that became my breakthrough. While I still struggle with setting boundaries, feeling “enough,” and being honest with myself at times, on the whole those lessons have made me who I am today.

It all began with the simple realization that I needed to learn how to take care of myself with the same urgency I once gave to everyone else. And maybe you do too.

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About Antonya Beamish

Antonya Beamish is an emotional energy worker who supports sensitive, spiritual souls who feel stuck, overwhelmed, or weighed down by old patterns and emotional blocks. Her work combines deep self-awareness with gentle trauma release, helping you feel more confident, trusting, and grounded in who you are. She shares reflective writing on her blog, hosts free group healing workshops, and offers sessions at antonyabeamish.com.

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Be Like a Paddle Ball: How to Bounce Back to Yourself

“Come back to yourself. Return to the voice of your body. Trust that much.” ~Geneen Roth

I may be showing my age, but here goes… It has come to my attention that I’m like a paddle ball.

To anyone born in the 21st century: for context, before handheld devices ruled the world, kids entertained themselves with simple analog toys—such as the paddle ball.

Picture a small flat paddle (like a small ping-pong paddle) with a rubber ball attached to the center by an elastic string. The goal was to hit the ball with the paddle, watch it fly out and then back, and keep this going for as long as possible, until the ball returns wildly and goes rogue, missing the paddle altogether.

Recently, while I was flossing my teeth, much to my surprise, my dental crown popped off in my mouth. (I’ll connect these things together; stay with me.) I was fortunate enough that my dentist was able to get me in to fix it the next day, but this unexpected mishap added to an already incredibly hectic month.

Other notable events this month included a vacation with a six-hour time change (I find that the older I get, the more challenging it becomes to travel across time zones), a broken (on the second day of vacation) phone that the day after returning home required an entire day of driving back and forth all over town to resolve, my son’s new used car (that we just purchased a month prior) broke down and required towing, and now my errant crown, just to name a few.

Like I said, it’s been quite a month.

I arrived at the dentist’s office half an hour early (because I had other unavoidable obligations that morning as well) and decided to use this time for my daily meditation. I could feel that the gentle tug to slow down had turned into a more forceful pull.

Side note: I’ll admit that even though I have a daily meditation practice, I go through periods where I successfully carve time out earlier in the day for longer, more intentional practices, and other times when I barely squeeze in a quickie at the last minute of the day. If it’s not obvious, this was a last-minute-meditation kind of month.

Once in the office, while reclining in the long black chair waiting for the dentist, I resisted the urge to distract myself with my phone and instead did some box breathing to give myself space to slow down. And again, while waiting for the anesthetic to take effect, I decided to just be with myself.

There was no rushing this. I had nothing else to do, nowhere else to go. It was a welcomed pause.

With my mouth pried open, I reflected on all the life stuff I’ve been trying to keep up with and wondered if I would ever find balance. Why don’t I come back to myself more often? Why don’t I just stay put, centered all the time?

Well, as the saying goes, everything in moderation, right? If all I did was sit and meditate or pause indefinitely, I wouldn’t be dealing with these stressors, but I also wouldn’t be able to fulfill my purpose, help others, connect with family, or enjoy all the incredible experiences life has to offer.

Just “being” feels nice, but “doing” also has its advantages and is required for me to be the person I want to be.

So then it requires balance, yes? Coming back to myself often but also going out in the world to “do life.”

And that’s when my likeness to a paddle ball dawned on (or hit?) me. I am the paddle, and the rubber ball is all the stuff I’m doing—chasing lofty ambitions, checking off long to-do lists, slogging through mundane obligations, cherishing time with family, and so on… and taking time to center myself.

Just as the ball springs back to the paddle when the elastic stretches too far, I keep getting pulled back to myself, which then gives me the energy I need to catapult myself out into the world again, and off I go to do all the meaningful (and not so meaningful) things again.

In reflecting on this (my mouth is still pried open, but they’re close to finishing up), I realize that at least now in my forties, my ball keeps coming back to lightly tap the paddle, and that’s a win. In contrast, my earlier years were mostly spent with the ball flying around erratically, rarely making contact with the paddle at all.

These days, there’s a gentler rhythm to it—although I do still find myself going off course more often than I would like. But even this is softer, as I’m at peace with this truth, and I have confidence that I’ll continue to learn and adjust in ways that serve my highest self.

Driving home, I reflect on how grateful I am to have my crown re-cemented and that I took this opportunity to slow down and center. And I vow to keep making time to return to myself in a steady rhythm amid the chaos of a meaningful life.

You see, the key with paddleball is to maintain an even force and steady pace to keep the game going. If you slow down too much, it loses momentum, and if you try to go too fast or hit the ball too hard, you’re sure to lose control of it.

Similarly in life, a steady, balanced flow is achieved by keeping a gentleness and returning to yourself consistently, methodically even. When we push ourselves too fast or too hard or just against the natural grain of our being, we lose control, and it becomes harder to return to ourselves.

The crown is back in place, and so am I (for the moment). Tomorrow will bring its own pull outward, in the form of opportunity, lessons, and/or chaos. But I’ll approach it with confidence in my elastic tether, knowing that I’ll keep coming back to center myself when needed. After all, it’s not about staying centered all the time but rather always returning home.

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About Laura Hope Hobson

Laura Hope is a mental health clinician as well as a BFRB & habit coach who combines clinical expertise with lived trichotillomania experience to empower the BFRB community through habit coaching, support groups, and a BFRB Salon & Spa Directory. Learn more at hopeandhealingcoach.com or grab the free coping toolbox, Try This Instead: Regulation Strategies to Overcome Unwanted Habits here.

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When You’re Tired of Fixing Yourself: How to Stop Treating Healing Like a Full-Time Job

“True self-love is not about becoming someone better; it’s about softening into the truth of who you already are.” ~Yung Pueblo

One morning, I sat at my kitchen table with my journal open, a cup of green tea steaming beside me, and a stack of self-help books spread out like an emergency toolkit.

The sunlight was spilling across the counter, but I didn’t notice. My eyes kept darting between the dog-eared pages of a book called Becoming Your Best Self and the neatly written to-do list in my journal.

Meditation.
Gratitude journaling.
Affirmations.
Ten thousand steps.
Hydration tracker.
“Inner child work” … still unchecked.

It was only 9:00 a.m., and I’d already meditated, journaled, listened to a personal development podcast, and planned my “healing workout” for later.

By all accounts, I was doing everything right. But instead of feeling inspired or light, I felt… tired. Bone-deep tired.

When Self-Improvement Becomes Self-Criticism

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had turned personal growth into a job I could never leave.

Every podcast was a strategy meeting. Every book was an employee manual for a better me. Every quiet moment became a chance to find another flaw to address.

And if I missed something, a day without journaling, a skipped meditation, a workout cut short, I felt like I had failed. Not failed at the task itself but failed as a person. I told myself this was dedication. That it was healthy to be committed to becoming the best version of myself.

But underneath, there was a quieter truth I didn’t want to admit:

I wasn’t growing from a place of self-love. I was hustling for my own worth.

Somewhere along the way, “self-improvement” had stopped being about building a life I loved and had become about fixing a person I didn’t.

Self-Growth Burnout Is Real

We talk about burnout from work, parenting, and caregiving, but we don’t often talk about self-growth burnout. The kind that comes when you’ve been “working on yourself” for so long it becomes another obligation.

It’s subtle, but you can feel it.

It’s the heaviness you carry into your meditation practice, the quiet resentment when someone tells you about a “life-changing” book you have to read, the way even rest feels like you’re falling behind in your own healing.

The worst part? It’s wrapped in such positive language that it’s hard to admit you’re tired of it.

When you say you’re exhausted, people tell you to “take a self-care day,” which often just becomes another checkbox. When you say you’re feeling stuck, they hand you another podcast, another journal prompt, another morning routine to try.

It’s exhausting to realize that even your downtime is part of a performance review you’re constantly giving yourself.

The Moment I Stepped Off the Hamster Wheel

My turning point wasn’t dramatic. No breakdown, no grand epiphany. Just a Tuesday night in early spring.

I had planned to do my usual “nighttime routine” … ten minutes of breathwork, ten minutes of journaling, reading a chapter of a personal growth book before bed. But that night, I walked past my desk, grabbed a blanket, and went outside instead.

The air was cool, and the sky was streaked with soft pink and gold. I sat down on the porch steps and just… watched it change. No phone. No agenda. No trying to make the moment “productive” by mentally drafting a gratitude list.

For the first time in years, I let something be just what it was.

And in that stillness, I realized how much of my life I’d been missing in the chase to become “better.” I was so focused on the next version of me that I’d been neglecting the one living my actual life right now.

Why We Keep Fixing What Isn’t Broken

Looking back, I can see why I got stuck there.

We live in a culture that profits from our constant self-doubt. There’s always a “next step,” a new program, a thirty-day challenge promising to “transform” us.

And there’s nothing inherently wrong with learning, growing, or challenging ourselves. The problem comes when growth is rooted in the belief that who we are today is inadequate.

When every action is motivated by I’m not enough yet, we end up in an endless loop of striving without ever feeling at peace.

How I Started Shifting from Fixing to Living

It wasn’t an overnight change. I had to relearn how to interact with personal growth in a way that felt nourishing instead of punishing. Here’s what helped me:

1. I checked the weight of what I was doing.

I started asking myself: Does this feel like support, or does it feel like pressure? If it felt heavy, exhausting, or like another form of self-criticism, I paused or dropped it completely.

2. I let rest be part of the process.

Not “rest so I could be more productive later,” but real rest—reading a novel just because I liked it, taking a walk without tracking my steps, watching the clouds without trying to meditate.

3. I stopped chasing every “should.”

I let go of the belief that I had to try every method, read every book, or follow every guru to heal. I gave myself permission to choose what resonated and ignore the rest.

4. I practiced being okay with “good enough.”

Instead of asking, “How can I make this better?” I practiced noticing what was already working in my life, even if it wasn’t perfect.

What I Learned

Healing isn’t a ladder you climb to a perfect view.

It’s more like a rhythm—one that includes rest days, quiet seasons, and moments where nothing changes except your ability to notice you’re okay right now.

I learned that sometimes the most transformative thing you can do is stop. Stop chasing, stop fixing, stop critiquing every part of yourself like you’re a never-ending renovation project.

Because maybe the real work isn’t fixing yourself into a future you’ll finally love. Maybe the real work is learning to live fully in the self you already are.

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About Cristie Robbins

Cristie Robbins is a published author, speaker, and certified mental wellness coach. Through The Wellness Blueprint, she helps women reduce stress and reclaim vitality with a root-cause approach. Her books, including Scars Like Constellations, explore resilience, healing, and personal growth, and can be found on Amazon at her Author Page. Connect at The Wellness Blueprint. You can find her on Facebook here and Instagram here.

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What I See Clearly Now That I Can’t See Clearly

“The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen… they must be felt with the heart.” ~Helen Keller

I didn’t want to admit it—not to myself, not to anyone. But I am slowly going blind.

That truth is difficult to write, harder still to live. I’m seventy years old. I’ve survived war zones, illness, caregiving, and creative risks. I’ve worked as a documentary filmmaker, teacher, and mentor. But this—this quiet, gradual vanishing of sight—feels like the loneliest struggle of all.

I have moderate to advanced macular degeneration in both eyes. My right eye is nearly gone, and my left is fading. Every two weeks, I receive injections to try to preserve what vision remains. It’s a routine I now live with—and one I dread.

Living in a Vision-Centric World

We live in a world that privileges sight above all other senses.

From billboards to smartphones, from flashy design to social cues, vision is the dominant sense in American culture. If you can’t see clearly, you fall behind. You’re overlooked. The world stops making space for you.

Is one sense truly more valuable than another? Philosophically, no. But socially, yes. In this culture, blindness is feared, pitied, or ignored—not understood. And so are most disabilities.

Accessibility is often an afterthought. Accommodation, a burden. To live in a disabled body in this world is to be reminded—again and again—that your needs are inconvenient.

I think of people in other countries—millions without access to care or even diagnosis. I thank the deities, ancestors, and forces of compassion that I don’t have something worse. And I remind myself: as painful as this is, I am lucky.

But it is still bleak and painful to coexist with the physical world when it no longer sees you clearly—and when you can no longer see it.

How a Filmmaker Faces Blindness

As my sight fades, one question haunts me: How can I be a filmmaker, writer, and teacher without the eyes I once depended on?

I often think of Beethoven. He lost his hearing gradually, as I’m losing my sight. A composer who could no longer hear—but still created. Still transmitted music. Still found beauty in silence.

I understand his despair—and his devotion. No, I’m not Beethoven. But I am someone whose life has been shaped by visual storytelling. And now I must learn to shape it by feel, by memory, by trust.

I rely on accessibility tools. I listen to every word I write. I use audio cues, screen readers, and my own internal voice. I still write in flow when I can—but more slowly, word by word. I revise by sound. I rebuild by sense. I write proprioceptively—feeling the shape of a sentence in my fingers and breath before it lands on the screen.

It’s not efficient. But it’s alive. And in some ways, it’s more honest than before.

Try ordering groceries with low vision. Tiny gray text on a white background. Menus with no labels. Buttons you can’t find. After ten minutes, I give up—not just on the website, but on dinner, on the day.

This is what disability looks like in the digital age: Not darkness, but exclusion. Not silence, but indifference.

Even with tools, even with technology, it’s exhausting. The internet—a space with so much potential to empower—too often becomes a maze for those who can’t see clearly. It is bleak to live in a world that offers solutions in theory, but not in practice.

I still teach. I still mentor. But the way I teach has changed.

I no longer rely on visual feedback. I ask students to describe their work aloud. I listen closely—for meaning, for emotion, for clarity of purpose. I guide not by looking, but by sensing.

This isn’t less than—it’s different. Sometimes richer. Teaching has become more relational, more intentional. Not about being the expert, but about being present.

And still, I miss what I had. Every task takes more time. Every email is a mountain. But I carry on—not out of stubbornness, but because this is who I am. A teacher. A creator. A witness.

Buddhism, Impermanence, and Grief

So where do I put this pain?

Buddhism helps. It teaches that all forms are impermanent. Sight fades. Bodies change. Clinging brings suffering. But letting go—softly, attentively—can bring peace.

That doesn’t mean I bypass grief. I live with it. I breathe with it.

There’s a Zen story of a man who lost an arm. Someone asked him how he was coping. He replied, “It is as if I lost a jewel. But the moon still shines.”

I think of that often.

I have lost a jewel. But I still see the moon. Sometimes not with my eyes, but with memory, with feeling, with breath.

The Wisdom of Slowness

My writing is slow now. Not because I’ve lost my voice, but because I must hear it differently.

I still experience flow—but not in the old way. I write word by word. Then I listen. Then I rewrite. I move like someone walking across a dark room, hands outstretched—not afraid, but attentive.

This is how I create now. Deliberately. Tenderly. With presence.

And in this slow, difficult process, I’ve found something unexpected: a deeper connection to my own language. A deeper longing to make others feel something true.

Even as I fade from the visual world, I am finding a new way to see.

What I Still Offer

If there’s one thing I can offer—through blindness, grief, and slowness—it’s this: We don’t lose ourselves when we lose abilities or roles. We’re not disappearing. We’re still here. Just doing things differently—more slowly, more attentively, and perhaps with a deeper sense of meaning.

One day, I may not be able to see the screen at all. But I will still be a writer. Still be a teacher. Still be someone who sees, in the ways that matter most.

Even if the light goes out in my eyes, it does not have to go out in my voice.

And if you’re reading this, then the effort was worth it.

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About Tony Collins

Tony Collins, EdD, MFA, is a writer, documentary filmmaker, and educator whose work explores presence, creativity, and meaning in everyday life. His essays blend storytelling and reflection in the style of creative nonfiction, drawing on experiences from filmmaking, travel, and caregiving. He is the author of Creative Scholarship: Rethinking Evaluation in Film and New Media Windows to the Sea: Collected Writings. You can read more of his essays and reflections on his Substack at tonycollins.substack.com.

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How to Calm Anxiety That’s Rooted in Childhood Wounds

“Anxiety is a response to a nervous system that learned early on it had to protect itself.” ~Dr. Hilary Jacobs Hendel

Anxiety shaped much of my life—how I showed up, how I held myself back, and how I connected with others. For years, I didn’t even know what it was. I just knew the pounding heart, the tight chest, the trembling hands. I knew the shame that followed every “failure,” big or small, and the fear I would never be enough.

For a long time, I thought I was the problem. But anxiety isn’t a moral failing. It’s a part of me—a part that learned to survive in environments where my emotional needs weren’t met, where fear and shame felt louder than safety.

Where It Started

The roots of my anxiety began in childhood.

I was in first grade when I brought home my school report card and saw that I ranked seventh in my class. At that age, I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I was just excited to tell my dad.

When he came to pick me up, I smiled and shared the news innocently. Instead of a hug or encouragement, his eyes glared at me. His sharp, aggressive tone cut through me as he shouted, “It’s bad!”

Looking back, I can see his reaction came from fear—that my performance might limit my future and that shaming me would push me to improve. But as a child, I couldn’t see that. I felt shocked and humiliated. My small body trembled, and my younger brain concluded:

“I’m only worthy of love if I perform better.”

The next semester, I ranked third. My dad bragged about it to everyone, and I felt brief relief. But the fear returned quickly:

“What if I can’t keep this up?”

That was the beginning of a belief that no matter how much I achieved, I was never “enough.”

This pattern followed me for decades, surfacing in unexpected places. As an adult, I would freeze with anxiety at gas stations, trembling as I pushed my motorbike forward even when no one was rushing me.

Eventually, I connected it to another childhood memory: my dad shouting at me to move faster in line at a gas station, his glare and sharp tone burning into me again. When processing this as an adult, I realized he had a good intention—to move things along for the other people waiting. But before I began my healing process, my nervous system was wired to react to the present as if I were reliving the past.

Even years later, the anxiety lived on in my body, and I didn’t know how to process it.

The Breaking Point

I carried this unprocessed anxiety into adulthood. When I was five weeks pregnant, my partner was in a tragic accident that left him in a coma for two weeks before he passed away. Suddenly, I was alone, grieving, and without money to survive.

I didn’t have the privilege of avoidance anymore. Grief, financial instability, and the responsibility of carrying a child forced me to face emotions I had buried for years.

This was when I learned the practices that helped me stop spiraling and regain my composure.

10 Tips That Help Me Prevent and Manage Anxiety

Important note: These tips are not a substitute for therapy, medication, or professional diagnosis. They are complementary practices to help restore balance and create a sense of safety in the body.

1. The gratitude shift—turn anxiety into information.

Instead of berating the intense sensations anxiety brings, I now try meeting it with gratitude. Anxiety is my body’s built-in alarm system.

When I feel it rising, I say, “Hi, anxiety. I see you doing your job. Thank you for showing up.”

Then I ask:

What is this sensation trying to tell me?

Where is this coming from in my history?

What action can I take now to feel safer and more supported?

This small act of acknowledgment makes space to feel more in control and invites curiosity instead of fear.

2. Slow down and simplify your life.

Too many distractions can block memories and emotions from surfacing. Simplifying my life gave me mental space for self-awareness.

I released unnecessary obligations, overpacked schedules, and numbing habits like endless scrolling. When I slowed down, I could finally hear myself and recognize what was driving my anxiety.

3. Trace the roots through quiet observation (and fasting).

Closing my eyes and observing the first persistent memories that surface often reveals the root of anxiety.

When I couldn’t afford therapy, I used intentional fasting to access clarity. (If you decide to give this a try, I recommend consulting with your doctor first. This is my personal spiritual practice, not a universal recommendation.) I started slowly with:

• A twelve-hour fruit and vegetable fast, then
• A twelve-hour water fast, then
• A full-day fast (6 a.m. to 6 p.m.)

Each time hunger arose, I named my intention out loud through prayer or journaling: “Please show me the root cause of this anxiety and how to release it.”

Fasting, for me, was a deliberate way to quiet external noise so buried memories and insights could surface.

4. Catch the first emotion—shock.

My body often stores layers of pain, and shock is usually the first overwhelming emotion. If I can name it quickly, I can interrupt the spiral.

For example, when I was feeling overwhelmed as a mother, I’d sometimes snap at my daughter. I’d get frustrated and angry with myself, but after fasting, the memory of my parents snapping at me came up quite vividly.

Remembering this, I allowed myself to see, acknowledge, experience, and accept how painful and shocking it was for me to be treated that way.

5. Write in detail what shocked you (and other emotions).

After naming shock, I write the exact details of what triggered it: the sudden glare, the change in tone, the clenched jaw, the slammed door.

Then I name the other emotions as honestly as possible: fear, humiliation, sadness, anger, or betrayal—whatever is true in that moment.

Being radically honest in this process helps me release the experiences that I previously stored as trauma.

6. Grieve the losses.

Once I release the shock, I let myself grieve. I cry for the safety, compassion, and respect I needed but didn’t receive.

Sometimes I use music to amplify the sadness so it can move through me. This isn’t weakness—it’s how the body processes pain instead of storing it.

7. Name the unmet needs.

Grief opens the door to understanding my needs.

“When I was shouted at by my dad after making mistakes, I felt unsafe and ashamed. My need for emotional security was violated.”

“When I was only praised for achievements, I felt unseen. My need for consistent acceptance was neglected.”

Naming needs clarifies what’s important so I can ask for it clearly and assertively as an adult. It’s empowering to name the hurt and see how it helps me understand my emotional needs better.

8. See the context—compassion for your parents’ limitations.

Fasting and becoming a mother helped me understand the hardship my parents faced. Parenting a neurodivergent child with limited resources, little support, and financial stress is overwhelming.

This doesn’t excuse the harm, but it helps me hold two truths:

1. Their actions hurt me.
2. They were also struggling humans who lacked the tools to parent better.

This perspective softens resentment and breaks cycles.

9. Write down the worst-case scenarios.

While processing the past experiences that have contributed to my anxiety can help decrease anxious feelings in the present, it also helps to challenge how I think about the future.

When I spiral, my brain floods me with worst-case scenarios. Positive thinking never helped—it only deepened my fear.

Instead, I confront the fears by writing down every possible worst-case outcome, even the most extreme. I’ve lived through homelessness, earthquakes, and tragic losses. Pretending they couldn’t happen again didn’t work.

By naming them, I strip them of their power.

10. Prepare intuitive actions and identify help.

After writing the worst cases, I ask:

What is the first intuitive action I can take to prevent or reduce the impact?

Who is the first person I can contact for help? Who else could I reach out to?

Writing these down gives me agency. It tells my nervous system, “I’m not helpless. There are things I can do and people I can ask for help.”

—

Anxiety is a part of me. Experiencing the spiral because I didn’t know how to name, process, and communicate it sucks.

I’m still a work in progress when it comes to maintaining composure consistently, but I feel empowered knowing that I’m mastering emotional intelligence—skills I can pass down to my child.

Healing is not linear, and some steps will feel harder than others. But with consistency, these practices can help you restore a sense of safety, reclaim your agency, and soften the belief that you must always be on high alert.

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About Sri Purna Widari

Sri Purna Widari is a writer, mother, and advocate for social justice relevant to single/solo motherhood, special needs children, environmental issue and trauma repatterning. She shares practical tools for navigating anxiety and bereavement. Connect with her on Instagram here.

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The 2026 Tiny Buddha Calendar Is Ready for Holiday Gifting!

Hi friend! As we head into the holiday season, I know many of us are starting to think about gifts for the people we love (and maybe a few things for ourselves as well). With that in mind, I wanted to remind you that the 2026 Tiny Buddha Day-to-Day Calendar is now available.

It’s one of my favorite projects every year because I include the kind of daily reminders that I personally find validating, comforting, and encouraging—some from me, some from site contributors, and some from authors I enjoy. And as the number-one bestselling calendar in Mind-Body-Spirit for the past two years, I know it’s become an annual staple for lots of readers.

Featuring vibrant tear-off pages, the calendar is printed on FSC certified paper with soy-based ink and covers topics like happiness, love, relationships, change, meaning, mindfulness, self-care, letting go, and more.

Here are a few recent reviews from the 2026 edition:

“I got this as a gift last year and fell in love with all the advice from many different sources! So I ordered one for this year, and I just received my new one and it is the same! If you want gentle daily messages that not only inspire but also make you think, this is it!”

“I buy this calendar every year, and I love it!!! I look forward to the daily inspiration. Sometimes you just need a little kick in the pants to get your mind right, and this calendar does that for me. Thank you!”

“I love, love, the daily quotes, and this will be my third year of purchase. I would really miss them if I didn’t have them each day to read a different quote. They brighten my day.”

If you’d like to bring a little Tiny Buddha wisdom into your home and your day—or give someone you love the gift of comfort and insight—you can grab a calendar (or two!) here.

Thank you, as always, for being here and for supporting my work.

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About Lori Deschene

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

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What Happened When I Stopped Expecting Perfection from Myself

 

“There is no amount of self-improvement that can make up for a lack of self-acceptance.” ~Robert Holden

Six years ago, I forgot it was picture day at my daughter’s school. She left the house in a sweatshirt with a faint, unidentifiable stain and hair still bent from yesterday’s ponytail.

The photographer probably spent less than ten seconds on her photo, but I spent hours replaying the morning in my head, imagining her years later looking at that picture and believing her mother had not tried hard enough.

It’s strange how small moments can lodge themselves in memory. Even now, when life is smooth, that picture sometimes drifts back. The difference is that I no longer treat it as proof that I am careless or unloving. I see it as a reminder that no one gets it all right, no matter how hard they try.

I tend to hold on to my “failures” long after everyone else has let them go. My daughter has never mentioned that photo, and one day, if she becomes a mother, she might discover that small imperfections are not proof of neglect. They can be a kind of grace.

For most of my life, I thought being a good person meant being relentlessly self-critical. I stayed up too late worrying over things no one else noticed, like an unanswered text or a dusty shelf before company arrived. Sometimes I replayed conversations until I found the exact moment I could have been warmer or wiser.

The list was endless, and my self-worth seemed to hinge on how perfectly I performed in every role. Somewhere along the way, I started expecting myself to already know how to do everything right. But this is the first time I have lived this exact day, with this exact set of challenges and choices.

It is the first time parenting a child this age. The first time navigating friendships in this season. The first time balancing today’s responsibilities with today’s emotions.

The shift came on a day when nothing seemed to go my way. I missed an appointment I had no excuse for missing, realized too late that I had forgotten to order my friend’s birthday gift, and then managed to burn dinner. None of it was catastrophic, but the weight of these small failures began to gather, as they always did, into a heaviness in my chest.

I could feel myself leaning toward the familiar spiral of self-reproach when I happened to glance across the room and see my daughter. And in that instant, a thought surfaced: What if I spoke to myself the way I would speak to her if she had made these same mistakes?

I knew exactly what I would say. I would remind her that being human means sometimes getting it wrong. I would tell her that one day’s mistakes do not erase years of love.

I would make sure she knew she was still good, still worthy, and still enough. So I tried saying it to myself, out loud. “We all make mistakes.”

The words felt clumsy, almost unnatural, like I was finally trying to speak the language I had only just begun to learn. But something inside softened just enough for me to take a breath and let the day end without carrying all its weight into tomorrow.

Self-compassion has not made me careless. It has made me steadier. When I stop spending my energy on shame, I have more of it for the people and priorities that matter.

Research confirms this truth. Self-compassion is not about lowering standards. It is about building the emotional safety that allows us to keep showing up without fear.

And here is what I have learned about actually practicing it. Self-compassion is not a single thought or mantra. It’s a habit, one you build the same way you would strength or endurance.

It begins with noticing the voice in your head when you make a mistake. Most of us have an internal commentator that sounds less like a mentor and more like a drill sergeant. The work is in catching that voice in the act and then, without forcing a smile or pretending you are not disappointed, speaking to yourself like someone you love.

Sometimes that means literally saying the words out loud so you can hear the tone. Sometimes it means pausing long enough to remember you are still learning. Sometimes it means choosing kindness even when shame feels easier.

It also helps to remember what self-compassion is not. It is not excusing harmful behavior or ignoring areas where we want to grow. It is acknowledging that growth happens more easily in a climate of patience than in one of punishment.

The science supports this. When we practice self-kindness, our stress response begins to quiet, and our nervous system has a chance to settle. This does not just feel better in the moment; it makes it easier to think clearly and choose our next step.

I’ve noticed other changes as well. Self-compassion makes me braver. When I’m not terrified of berating myself if I fall short, I am more willing to try something new.

I take risks in conversations. I admit when I do not know something. I start things without obsessing over how they’ll end, and when mistakes inevitably happen, I don’t have to waste days recovering from my own criticism.

Sometimes self-compassion is quiet, like putting your phone down when you begin to spiral through mental replays. Sometimes it is active, like deciding to stop apologizing for being human. Sometimes it is physical, like unclenching your jaw or placing a hand on your chest as you breathe.

Over time, these small gestures add up. They rewire the way you respond to yourself, replacing the reflex of blame with the reflex of care.

We are all walking into each day for the first time. Of course we will miss a detail or lose our patience. Of course we will get things wrong.

But when we meet ourselves with kindness instead of condemnation, we remind ourselves that love, whether for others or for ourselves, has never depended on perfection.

And that lesson will last far longer than any perfect picture.

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About Lissy Bauer

Lissy Bauer is a writer and certified life coach who explores emotional honesty, resilience, and the courage to stay present in a world built for escape. Drawing on lived experience and positive psychology research, she helps readers navigate uncertainty without rushing to fix or flee it. Her books offer compassionate tools for sitting with what hurts and embracing imperfection. Connect with her at lissybauer.carrd.co.

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