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.

Ever find yourself having to be around someone you just don’t click with?
Whether it’s someone who’s hurt you in the past, someone whose values don’t align with yours, or simply someone who gets under your skin for reasons you can’t quite explain—it happens. And sometimes, we don’t have the option to walk away. Sometimes they’re in our shared circle, part of our family, or tied to someone we love.
So, what do we do?

That moment of tightening.
Of pushing away.
Of tensing against what is.
Resistance, in and of itself, isn’t bad. It’s a messenger. One that often shows up as a way to keep us safe.
And that’s where the magic lies.

How do you determine your worth?
Is it based on what others say about you?
What you imagine others might think about you?
How you measure up to the people around you?
If you’re anything like me, it used to be a combination of all three…
It can feel as though we only exist through the eyes of others.

It can be easy to assume, “They were just born that way,” or “It must come with age.”
But the truth is—given all the conditioning we receive as children, and how hard it can be to release those narratives—it’s rarely that simple.
More often than not, the qualities we admire are the result of intentional practice.

We often think that by giving our children what we didn’t receive, we’re teaching them they’re worthy. But when we give everything—especially when we’re running on empty—we can unintentionally teach them that self-abandonment is a requirement for love. We perpetuate giving for love, instead of from love. And in doing so, we lose touch with ourselves…with what we really want…with what nourishes us.

I talk a lot about making space for emotions—feeling them, processing them—but what does that really mean? Often, what we’re actually doing is thinking about our feelings. We analyze them. We judge them. We try to solve them.
But thinking our way through a feeling isn’t the same as feeling it.