Here’s a question I didn’t realize I was carrying for so much of my life:
“What does this mean about me?”
But over time, this habit of filtering everything through “what does this mean about me?” can leave us feeling heavy, reactive, and deeply self-critical.
It becomes easy to define ourselves by what’s happening outside of us—by how someone responds to us, by what they think of us, or what we think they think of us, and even by what they don’t say.

We often become acutely aware of what’s missing:
The friend who always focuses on the negative.
The partner who gets defensive when we share that something hurt.
The roommate who never apologizes.

But here’s the reflection I keep returning to:
In that same relationship—am I offering what I’m asking for?

Have you ever thought, “If that had never happened, everything would be different”—or wished you could go back and handle something differently?

Some things hurt so deeply, or carry so much shame, that it’s easy to get caught in the longing to rewrite the past. But that longing often leaves us trapped with no way to change what happened—and separated from the life that’s still unfolding…

Every single person holds a different version of me in their mind. A version I have no control over…
You look back and can see just how much you’ve grown—how your responses, your patterns, your way of being have evolved. But someone in your life still sees an old version of you. Maybe even a version that never felt quite true to begin with.
It can feel disorienting, even painful.

There’s never a perfect time for change. And most of the time, we don’t ever feel fully ready.
What I’ve come to believe matters most… is willingness.
It’s the willingness to be vulnerable.
To explore what’s within.
To let go of what we’ve known in order to make room for what could be.

One of the most bittersweet truths about this human life we live is the impermanence of everything. Nothing lasts forever…The only constant in life is that it will keep unfolding - always changing, often in ways we can’t control or predict.

For some, that might feel exciting. But for many of us, it can feel daunting, even terrifying. It seems to go against the safety and stability we naturally crave.

It’s that time of year…
The time we gather with family, friends, chosen community—and sometimes, people we wouldn’t normally choose at all.
People whose values feel misaligned with our own.
People we have a painful history with.
Or people we simply don’t understand.

We’ve all been there — caught in the aftermath of a rupture with someone we care about. Whether it’s a friend, a partner, or a loved one, and whether it gets resolved or not, the hurt that lingers can feel intense: confusion, disappointment, defensiveness, frustration, grief, and anger.

Sometimes that looks like tight shoulders or shallow breathing. Sometimes it looks like withdrawing or replaying the moment over and over again. And sometimes, it looks like this…

You find yourself replaying the moment over and over, trying to locate where things went wrong. Maybe you’re hoping to learn something. Maybe, there’s a part of you secretly hoping to justify how it all unfolded. But despite all the analyzing, all this cycling, you're not feeling any clearer. You're just stuck.
Sound familiar?
If you recognize yourself in this pattern, you’re not alone.

Raise your hand if you want to feel more joy, more inspiration, more excitement in your life.
Now, raise your hand if you believe those are things you need to chase —things outside of you to find?
I’ve been there. Feeling stuck or bored. Like life has gone a little dull. Looking for something — an experience, a shift, a person — that could shake it all up. Or maybe it's not boredom at all, but anxiety or grief we're trying to avoid.

As frustrating as it can be to hear, the answer doesn’t lie out there.
It lies within.

Here’s a question:
The last time you felt let down by someone—maybe they said something that hurt your feelings, or they didn’t show up the way you hoped—what do you think would’ve helped you feel better?…
For so long, I believed what I needed to feel better was an apology—to hear “I’m sorry.”
And sure, I’d still like that. But what I’ve come to understand is that when I’m aching for an apology, what I’m really yearning for is a witness.

Have you ever found yourself circling a decision, not because you don’t know what you want—but because you’re afraid of what might happen if you choose it?
Maybe you feared hurting someone. Or losing something. Or being wrong.
Maybe you were scared of where it might lead—or what it might mean if it didn’t work out…

It’s a quiet but powerful belief: that if we’re not thriving in every area, we’re falling behind.
That if something doesn’t come easily, it’s a personal flaw.
That struggle is a sign we’re not enough. Maybe we should just quit.
But what if struggle is just part of being human?
What if we’re not meant to be good at everything?

Have you ever felt yourself hesitate—not because you didn’t want something, but because you were afraid of how it might unfold?
Not because it felt wrong, but because you hadn’t seen it done in a way that felt right?

Disappointment often carries an extra sting because it’s rooted in something tender: hope.
Hope usually involves some kind of emotional investment—mixed with a whole lot of uncertainty. We imagine a possibility, something we care about, and wait for the outcome. When things don’t unfold the way we hoped, we’re often left holding not just the moment itself—but everything we layered onto it.

Lately, I’ve been hearing a lot of stories—stories of how people are or aren’t showing up. Moments of kindness gone unacknowledged. Interactions that felt dismissive or cold. The kind of experiences that leave us quietly wondering, “Where is everyone’s heart these days?”

We all move through seasons—some bright, some heavy. And in those heavier moments, what we often need most is space—not a solution…
When we try to quickly move someone out of their feelings, even with the best intentions, the message that often lands is “Your feelings aren’t welcome here,” or “You’re too much right now."

Twenty years ago, I knew something was off—but I didn’t know what. I couldn’t even articulate exactly what felt wrong. I just knew that I didn’t feel like myself…
So, I booked an appointment with a doctor, hoping for some clarity. What followed was a formal diagnosis: depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and dysthymia. And honestly? Those labels felt like a relief…
But what I didn’t realize then was that naming it wasn’t the end of the road. It was the beginning.

We’re often flooded with messages that paint self-care as indulgence—watching a show, playing a round of golf, treating yourself to a dessert, a vacation, a shopping spree, or even a luxurious bubble bath. And those things can be part of self-care.
But they’re only one layer…
True self-care can be gentle, and it can also be confronting.

We all carry a past—but not all of us are ready to look at it.
I heard someone recently say that their childhood didn’t affect them at all.
But their patterns revealed something else—in the way they kept people at arm’s length, struggled to ask for support, and avoided anything that felt too vulnerable.

They weren’t “stuck in the past”—they were quietly run by it.