“Contentment has more to do with a heart of joy as life unfolds than it ever will with a life filled with stuff.” ~Kate Summers

Recently, an older friend who was no longer able to attend to life without assistance was placed in a senior care facility. From my observance, she seemed content, and her relatives confirmed that when they visit, they find her awake and alert, propped up in bed or sitting in a chair, peacefully gazing out her window.

One of my immediate thoughts when reflecting on my visit was, we should all be so lucky to enter our final years in a mind space of inner peace and contentment.

The hope to be content in the final years of life is not a new concept, but the idea of a “bucket list” and the quest to achieve it is. The term bucket list was introduced in 1999 and solidified into pop culture with the subsequent release of a movie.

For those who are unfamiliar with the expression, a bucket list consists of a catalog of experiences and adventures that someone wants to have before they kick the bucket, meaning die. The idea is that if someone checks off all the items on their bucket list, their final stage of life will be bearable because they will be satisfied with how they spent their time.

The visit to see my friend put the time I have remaining into perspective. As I approach sixty years old, the truth that in twenty-five years I will be eighty-five is inescapable. The fact that the twenty-five years between thirty-five and sixty had gone by in the relative blink of an eye caused me to pause and think.

What did I want to do and experience before my final stage was upon me?

My mind went immediately to my hobbies and interests, and although I could think of many goals to strive for, nothing seemed important or compelling enough to be considered for my bucket list.

As examples, I enjoy traveling and have a desire to see all the magnificent natural wonders across the globe and walk in the footsteps of ancient cultures, but I do not see myself in my final years upset because I never made it to Victoria Falls or knelt before the Moai of Easter Island. And I thrive on learning, but earning a master’s degree or PhD will not bring me contentment on my deathbed.

And what about my friend? I don’t recall her speaking of a list of experiences she desired to have or tangible targets that she strove to hit before her life was over. Yet, as I witnessed, she had entered her final phase of life with an air of inner peace and contentment.

Throughout our friendship, I observed my friend actively focusing on seeing the glass as half full and consciously concentrating her focus on the bright side of events. She did not cultivate drama within herself, and consequently, she repelled it when others brought it around. And she fostered love for herself and others.

When the realities of individual agendas and manufactured circumstances triggered a need to respond in a heavy-handed way, she delivered the reprimand swiftly and, as best as she could, without the emotion of hate and thoughts of judgement.

And the rare time when she fell completely short of her behavioral standards with her thoughts and emotions sinking deep into a dark muck, I observed her climb out, find her light, and move on. She never berated herself for what she referred to as a “little dip.”

Many times, I asked her how she could rise above the fray of office politics, for example, or shift her focus to what was hopeful and good in an otherwise dreary situation. Her response was unfailingly along the lines of “Why waste time dwelling on unpleasantness?”

Her words came back to me as I pondered what I wanted to experience and accomplish in the next twenty-five years. How could I spend my time in a way that would leave me content in the final stage of my life?

Having already run through my goals and desired escapades and determined they were not the answer to what had become a nagging question for me, I reversed the query and asked, “In what ways is my time wasted?”

My answer came to me the next day. I had just hung up the phone after completing a conversation with a member of my greater social network. Having too little in common to consider her a friend, I find our interactions to be tedious, and we rarely see eye-to-eye.

She views herself as the victim in all situations and thrives on stress and drama. In this conversation, she expressed that she was feeling left out because a group dinner was scheduled for a night on which she was not available.

I spent twenty minutes attempting to reassure her the chosen date was not intended to exclude her, that she was a valued member of the group, and similar proclamations. All of them landing on the unfertile soil of her negative self-image. Nothing short of changing the date could convince her the decision was not personal.

As I terminated the call, I heard myself say, “Well, that was a waste of time.”

A few days later, I found myself involved in an interaction with a co-worker with whom exchanges typically left me feeling shaken and upset. The pace and tone of that afternoon’s conversation were especially triggering. Once at home, even with the co-worker nowhere near me and the interaction several hours in the past, simply thinking about what had transpired caused my body’s fight-or-flight response system to kick in.

With limbs ready to spring into action and breath quick and shallow, I hung suspended in a state of physical limbo, waiting to fight a battle perceived and conceived in my head. It took me close to an hour to calm myself down, and afterward the sense of time wasted was palpable.

At that moment, I committed to not wasting time feeding the unpleasantness created by others and to take responsibility for ways in which I cultivated upset within myself.

After a bit of reflection, I realized that I disrupted my peace of mind and contentment by:

• Taking things personally
• Needing to be right
• Overreacting by magnifying small issues into major problems
• Continuing unproductive conversations in my head with others long after they have concluded in real time

While commitment is the initial action needed for instigating change, practice is the many small steps taken to solidify the habit.

Over time, I developed a practice that involved morning meditation, journaling, and body awareness.

• Meditation cultivates a calm mindset, allowing for heightened self-awareness and control of my thoughts and emotions.
• Journaling gives tangibility to my unpleasant thoughts. By making them visible, I am able to challenge their validity and shift them towards ones that uplift me.
• Body awareness gives way to enhanced intuition. By paying attention to sensations in my gut and noticing the pace of my heart and breath, I can quickly sense when I am shifting from a responsive, cooperative mode to a reactive, fight/flight approach to a person or situation.

If you are interested in cultivating a mindset that brings you inner peace and contentment, below are a few tips to get started.

1. Find a meditation style that works for you.

My practice utilizes mindfulness, focused, and loving-kindness styles of meditation. Mindfulness meditation allows greater access to my thoughts, focused meditation sharpens my ability to keep my brain from wandering, and loving-kindness meditation cultivates compassion and patience for my ego struggles and those of others.

Here is a list of the nine most common forms of meditation. A definition of each can be found here.

• Mindfulness meditation
• Spiritual meditation
• Focused meditation
• Movement meditation
• Mantra meditation
• Transcendental meditation
• Progressive relaxation
• Loving-kindness meditation
• Visualization meditation

2. Write down thoughts and feelings that you struggle with.

My journal is a loose compilation of thoughts and the emotional responses they trigger. By writing them down, I am able to distance myself from my thoughts and see them from an objective point of view. I am then able to explore alternative thoughts and assess their capacity for cultivating pleasant feelings.

According to this article, the benefits of journaling include:

• Stress reduction
• Increased sense of well-being
• Distance from negative thoughts
• Avenue for processing emotions
• Space to figure out your next step
• Opportunity for self-discovery

3. Get in touch with your body.

Whenever I feel my shoulders creeping toward my ears, my breath becoming shallow, or my digestion being disrupted, I take it as a signal to check in with my brain. A quick scan reveals thoughts and conversations happening in the background that might otherwise have gone unnoticed until they transitioned into action.

I achieve and maintain my mind/body connection through a combination of contemplative running and intentional stretching. Both of these allow me to focus on my body and become aware of areas where I am holding tension.

While I chose running and stretching, there are many other methods, such as:

• Yoga
• Tai Chi
• Qi Gong
• Solo Dance
• Intentional cleaning

Above are the ways that I chose to strengthen my commitment to not wasting time wrapped up in someone else’s drama or creating unnecessary turmoil in myself.

I am far from perfect in this practice. I still catch myself rallying against what I view as someone’s agenda or reacting to what I consider a personal affront, but I am able to quickly identify the thoughts, feelings, and behaviors in real-time and mitigate the damage to my sense of well-being.

When it comes down to it, the only goal for my life is to cultivate inner peace and contentment. And along the way, connect with and encourage those who, like me, are actively seeking to heal, grow, and live in a space of positivity and love.

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“Listen to the wind, it talks. Listen to the silence, it speaks. Listen to the heart, it knows.” ~Native American Wisdom

Have you ever felt stuck? Stuck in a business you’ve lost passion for, a job you no longer enjoy, a relationship that no longer fulfills you, or simply stuck in indecision about how to move forward in life?

That feeling of “stuck-ness” often leads to anxiety, fear, and even shame. I understand these feelings well.

When the pandemic hit in 2020, my life turned upside down—as it did for many. I was the founder and executive director of a national arts organization, something I had built from the ground up and led for eighteen years.

Suddenly, overnight, I felt like I could lose it all. My funding partners and sponsors pulled out, I was sinking deeper into my line of credit, and I was responsible for a staff spread across the country.

The stress was overwhelming. I couldn’t sleep, I became irritable and edgy with my family, snapping at them over the smallest things, and some days it took a tremendous amount of willpower to just get out of bed and face the day. I had never felt so lost, uncertain, or fearful.

It wasn’t just the fear of losing a business and my paycheck—although that certainly caused a lot of anxiety. The bigger fear was losing my sense of identity. Who was I if I wasn’t the executive director and founder of this organization? Before starting this non-profit, I felt insignificant, like a nobody. I didn’t want to go back to that place. I didn’t want to lose what I had built.

This fear consumed me, and I asked everyone I knew, “What am I supposed to do?”

One day, I brought this question to my business coach. She responded with a single question of her own: “What do you typically do when you feel stressed and anxious?”

“Well, I usually go for a walk in the woods,” I replied.

“Perfect,” she said. “Here’s what you’re going to do: Every day for the next thirty days, you’re going to go for a walk in the woods and simply look and listen.”

“What? I can’t do that. I don’t have time for that,” I stammered. In my head, I thought, What kind of business coach tells her clients to go for a walk in the woods? I needed business advice, not nature therapy.

Somehow, she got a commitment out of me. Every morning at dawn, as this was the only time I felt I could make this daily walk work, I was out the door into the forest behind my house. And every day, I demanded answers from God, the squirrels, and the universe: “What am I supposed to do?”

Slowly—ever so slowly—something shifted. A sense of calm settled over me. I began to notice the beauty around me: the varying shades of green, the way light filtered through the canopy of leaves, the chorus of birdsong, the creek’s melody as it rushed over rocks, the silky texture of moss-covered bark, the intoxicating scent of spring blossoms—you could almost taste the air.

And then, I started to feel gratitude. Gratitude for the trees, the air, the stillness. Gratitude for my business coach, who had nudged me toward this practice. This gratitude felt like a swelling of love in my chest for everything that is in this moment.

And in this calmer state of mind with gratitude in my heart, I asked the question again: “What am I supposed to do?”

This time, I got an answer.

“What do you want to do?” a voice bubbled up from within.

It was my own voice—but like an older, wiser version of me.

I didn’t miss a beat. “What do you mean, what do I want to do? What am I supposed to do?”

“No, Anita,” came the steady response. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

That stumped me.

Later that day, I found myself wandering the spirituality section of a bookstore. A book caught my eye: Conversations with God by Neale Donald Walsch. I picked it up, flipped it open, and one line jumped off the page:

“Frustration and anxiety come from not listening to the soul.”

My breath caught. I read the words again, letting them sink in. In that moment, I realized a profound truth—I wasn’t listening to my soul.

I had been here before. This wasn’t the first time I’d been reminded to slow down, go inward, and reconnect with my inner wisdom. But I had gotten so busy, so caught up in my business, my family, and all my responsibilities, that I had forgotten. Not only did I lose my connection to that part of myself, but in many ways, I had lost sight of who I really was and what I truly wanted.

For nearly five years now, I’ve devoted myself to the study of remembering—of reconnecting with my higher self, God, Source, the Universe (whatever name feels right to you—they are all the same to me). When we connect with our higher self and consistently listen to our soul voice, three truths are revealed:

• The truth about who we are.
• The truth about what we really want.
• And the truth about why it matters.

When we stop listening to our inner wisdom, we become drowned out by external noise—the voices of others telling us who we should be, the media convincing us we’re not enough, the fearmongering that keeps us feeling small and powerless.

But when we reconnect with our higher self:

• Clarity of purpose and direction emerges.
• Fear and self-doubt loosen their grip.
• An inner harmony steadies us, no matter how chaotic the world seems.
• Our capacity for self-love deepens.

And with that, we become un-stuck. We step into our greatest potential. We create a life filled with meaning, well-being, and joy.

How Do We Reconnect with Our Higher Self?

When I first realized I was asking the wrong question and switched to asking, “What do I want?”, I skipped an essential step—the inner work that allows you to connect with your higher self and find the answers you seek. Eventually, I figured it out. And it’s really quite simple.

At its core, reconnecting with your higher self is about slowing down and giving yourself the time and space to cultivate that relationship.

Here are three key steps to help you do that.

Step away from the busyness of life.

Block out time each day to unplug from work, responsibilities, and distractions. Make this a daily non-negotiable. My favorite way to unplug is by walking in nature, which has additional health benefits. I recommend at least twenty minutes of mindful walking daily. Mindful walking is a form of meditation, but simply sitting in meditation is also a great option.

Speak your gratitude.

Science has shown that practicing gratitude reduces stress, elevates mood, and improves overall well-being. More importantly, it opens the heart—making it easier to hear the whispers of your soul.

Engage all your senses in the present moment.

What do you see, hear, smell, feel, and even taste? When you fully engage with your environment using all your senses, you become present. And presence is the gateway to connecting with your higher self.

Once you’re grounded in the here and now, that’s when you ask yourself one simple question: “What do I want?” Then, listen.

Listen with your whole body. Pay attention to ideas that surface, images that appear in your mind’s eye, sensations that arise. Don’t judge any of it. Just be open and curious.

Nothing may come at first. But keep returning to this practice—getting present, going inward, and asking, What do I want? Soon, you’ll hear the whispers of your soul. And if you learn to listen and act on those whispers, you too will get unstuck and be guided to a most remarkable life.

Are You Ready to Listen to Your Soul?

I invite you to embark on your own thirty-day nature challenge. Each day, step outside, breathe deeply, and simply observe. Let nature be your guide as you reconnect with your inner wisdom. Notice what shifts within you—how clarity emerges, how gratitude deepens, how your soul whispers its quiet truths.

Will you take the challenge? Let me know how your journey unfolds—I’d love to hear what insights arise for you.

PS: In case you’re wondering what happened next—when I finally tuned in and listened to the whispers of my soul, my life radically changed. I realized that what I truly wanted was to close my business, as I had lost my passion for it years ago, but fear had kept me stuck. The whispers of my soul then guided me to let go of most of my possessions and embrace a nomadic lifestyle.

This decision has led my husband and me on an extraordinary journey, experiencing many incredible corners of the world. Along the way, I recreated myself as a life and leadership coach, guiding others on their journey to their highest selves. As I continue to listen, life unfolds in the most beautiful and unexpected ways.

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The most profound personal growth happens when we stop running from our pain and start listening to what it’s trying to teach us.

For years, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror.

Her body felt foreign—betraying her with weight she couldn’t lose, hot flashes that set her skin on fire, and exhaustion so deep, it felt like her soul was crumbling. Her mind, once sharp and confident, was now clouded with doubt, anxiety, and brain fog so thick she could barely think.

But the hardest part?

She didn’t just feel different. She felt invisible.

I was that woman.

A pharmacist. A mother. A wife. A woman who had spent decades helping others navigate their health, only to find myself drowning in my own. I was in my forties, staring down the barrel of perimenopause, but I didn’t know that at the time. All I knew was that my body was breaking down, my emotions were unraveling, and no one—not even my doctors—could tell me why.

So, like any overwhelmed, desperate woman, I did what I thought I was supposed to do.

I went to my doctor.

And, like so many women before me, I left with a handful of prescriptions that did nothing but mask my symptoms and a vague, dismissive diagnosis:

“You’re just getting older. It’s normal. You’ll be fine.”

But I wasn’t fine. And I knew, deep down, that this wasn’t just “aging.”

That was the moment I realized: If I wanted answers, I was going to have to find them myself.

Breaking Up with the Lies I Believed About Myself

It took years for me to unlearn what I had been taught about women’s health.

I was a pharmacist, after all. I had spent my entire career dispensing medications, trusting the guidelines, believing that if something was truly wrong, there would be a pill to fix it.

But what I never learned in pharmacy school was how to truly heal.

That healing doesn’t come in a prescription bottle. That it isn’t about “powering through” or “sucking it up.”

It’s about listening to your body instead of fighting against it.

And that meant I had to start seeing my body, not as something that was failing me, but as something that was trying to speak to me.

The weight gain? That was my body saying, “Something isn’t right. Pay attention.”

The hot flashes? “Your hormones are shifting. Don’t ignore me.”

The anxiety and depression? “Your body is in survival mode. Let’s figure out why.”

For the first time in my life, I stopped fighting myself.

I started learning about functional medicine, hormone balance, and the intricate ways our bodies change as we age. I discovered that perimenopause wasn’t just “the beginning of the end” but a crucial transition that—if supported properly—could actually lead to my healthiest, most vibrant years.

I realized that hormones rule everything, and when they’re out of balance, nothing works the way it should.

But more than that, I started to see how deeply my self-worth was tied to my physical body.

I thought if I gained weight, I was less valuable.

I thought if I struggled, I was weak.

I thought if I couldn’t figure it out, I was failing.

I had to break up with those beliefs.

The Hardest (and Most Important) Lesson

The hardest part of my healing journey wasn’t changing my diet, adjusting my lifestyle, or even balancing my hormones.

It was learning to love the girl in the mirror again.

Not just when she looked “good.”

Not just when she felt confident.

Not just when she fit into her favorite jeans.

But when she was struggling.

When she was exhausted.

When she was bloated, broken out, and sobbing on the bathroom floor because she felt like she was losing herself.

Because the truth is, healing doesn’t start with a diet plan or a hormone protocol. Healing starts when you decide you are worthy of feeling better. And that means learning to love yourself—even when you don’t feel lovable.

Even when your body is changing.

Even when your energy is gone.

Even when your reflection doesn’t match the way you feel inside.

Because you are not broken.

And menopause? Perimenopause? The hormonal rollercoaster that makes you feel like you’re losing your mind?

It’s not the end of you.

It’s the beginning of a new version of you. A wiser, bolder, stronger you. A version that doesn’t shrink herself for others. A version that doesn’t put herself last. A version that knows she is still powerful, radiant, and worthy—at any age.

And when you finally see her—really see her—you’ll never let her go again.

If You’re Struggling Right Now, Read This

If you are sitting in your car after a doctor’s appointment where they dismissed your symptoms…

If you are staring at your reflection, feeling like a stranger in your own skin…

If you are exhausted, overwhelmed, and wondering if you will ever feel like yourself again…

Please hear me when I say:

There is hope. You are not crazy. You are not imagining things. Your body is speaking to you, and it’s time to start listening.

Do the research.

Ask the hard questions.

Get the right testing.

Eat the foods that fuel you.

Move your body in ways that bring you joy.

But most of all, love yourself through it.

Because this is not the end.

It’s just the beginning.

And you, dear, are just getting started.

And that is how I started learning to love the girl in the mirror.

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“I’ve found beauty in the whimsically ordinary.” ~Elissa Gregoire

The pervasive message of our time asserts that success is essential in every facet of life, be it education, career, friendships, or relationships. In the relentless pursuit of success, many of us toil ceaselessly, ingrained with the belief that triumph is the gateway to happiness.

Rewind three decades to when I was ten, and the emphasis was on excelling in school. Family, teachers, and even movies emphasized the narrative that good grades equated to happiness.

The equation was simple: good grades led to a good job, financial stability, a great partner, and happiness. I clung to this formula, except for a temporarily rebellious phase in college when momentary fun felt more important than grades. Soon enough, I recalibrated my focus.

Reflecting back, I wish I could have advised my younger self that straight A’s don’t guarantee success or an immediate stellar job but, more importantly, a content life.

I don’t harbor regrets about discovering this later; however, I would have spared myself unnecessary stress over a single B-, thinking it signaled the demise of my promising future.

I secured a decent job as a social worker in my professional life. While the financial rewards were modest, I was helping people, which I always wanted to do.

I gained happiness from helping people, as evidenced by glowing yearly evaluations from my supervisors. Yet, the reality of working with adults grappling with mental health and substance abuse issues challenged the conventional markers of success. The transformation I envisioned for my clients didn’t materialize on a broad scale. Only two clients graduated from high schools and found jobs in my three years, a relatively meager success rate by my grading standards.

Following my brief period as a social worker, I delved into my passion for writing. This endeavor proved to be one of the most disheartening professional experiences. Rejections outnumbered any I had faced previously.

Despite the setbacks, I stayed resilient, recognizing that success in writing often hinges on probability and luck. I am determined not to abandon my pursuit of writing because I feel confident that perseverance will eventually tilt the odds in my favor. It is just a matter of time.

While higher-ups may have expressed dissatisfaction, getting published drew praise. The dichotomy of rejection versus acceptance raises the question of whether one success outweighs numerous failures. Does public recognition invalidate personal setbacks?

Friendships thrived until my late thirties, but they underwent a shift when I moved to Indiana. Prior successes in maintaining a diverse group of friends diminished, leaving me with acquaintances but no deep connections I craved. Whether due to the pandemic, my age, or the location, I encountered my first failure in forming meaningful friendships.

Looking at all spheres of my life, I’ve walked a path of moderate success.

I’ve hovered between not excelling and not faltering massively, settling into a comfortable averageness. The pressure to outperform those around me is always present, but I’ve realized the futility of never-ending comparison. Striving for greatness is admirable but invites overwhelming stress and overwork.

Being okay with being average doesn’t mean I’m lazy or have no goals. I know some people will always be better than me, and some will be less skilled. But trying to be the best doesn’t have to mean I’m always stressed.

Ultimately, my journey has been one of navigating the middle ground and avoiding extremes. I haven’t soared to great heights, but I’ve found contentment in averageness. Whether it’s education, career, friendships, or writing, pursuing excellence should coexist with accepting personal authenticity and avoiding the trap of incessant comparison and overbearing expectations.

Contrary to societal conditioning, being average isn’t undesirable. The happiest people often live everyday lives, enjoying time with family and friends without constantly chasing fame or fortune.

Choosing a simpler life instead of constantly competing has made me much happier.

There’s something extraordinary about just being ordinary and having peace of mind. But it seems like everyone’s always pushing for “more.” Why, when true happiness comes from appreciating what we have and ignoring the pressure to always strive for something bigger?

Is there ever a conclusion to the ceaseless pursuit of outperforming others? I don’t think so.

After four decades, I’ve become content with who I am and where I stand. No longer entangled in the web of comparison or the pursuit of outdoing others, I find joy in simply existing where I am.

I used to feel like I had to be better than everyone else, but that pressure is gone now. I’m much more relaxed and at peace, something I never felt when constantly trying to be the best. I’m happy with where I am now, and I’m enjoying learning about things that interest me. I love this new feeling of calm and am grateful for the experiences that helped me finally accept myself. I am finally at a place of genuine self-acceptance.

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“There are no right or wrong decisions, only choices.” ~Sanhita Baruah

When I was younger, everything felt simple. Not necessarily easy, but simple in the sense that there was always a next step. A clear direction. A right way to do things.

If I studied, I’d pass the test. If I practiced, I’d get better at my sport. If I followed the rules, I’d stay on track. Life moved forward in a straight line, like climbing the rungs of a ladder—one foot after the other, up and up and up.

I didn’t question this structure because it was all I knew. And honestly? It was comforting. The certainty of it all. The feeling that as long as I did what I was supposed to, things would work out. Teachers handed out syllabi at the start of the year, neatly mapping out what was coming. Coaches had game plans. Parents had advice. Even when things got hard, there was always a framework. A way forward.

I think about how movies portray childhood memories—colors cranked up to impossible brightness, the world rich and saturated, full of warmth. Because when you’re a kid, things feel solid. The rules make sense. The paths are laid out. You don’t realize how much of your life is being decided for you, and in a strange way, that makes things feel safe.

Then, at some point, it all disappears. The structure. The guideposts. The sense of certainty. And suddenly, life stretches out in front of you like a blank map, and you’re holding the pen, unsure of what to draw.

That moment—the moment you realize no one is handing you the next step anymore—is terrifying. Because if there’s no clear “right” choice, what’s stopping you from making the wrong one?

There wasn’t a single moment when it all changed. It happened gradually, like the end of a song fading out until you realize there’s no music playing anymore.

At first, I kept waiting for the structure to return. I thought maybe adulthood had its own version of lesson plans and progress reports, that someone—anyone—would step in and hand me a checklist of what to do next. But that never happened. Instead, I was met with an unsettling quiet.

No more automatic next steps. No more guarantees.

And with that silence came an unexpected weight.

I started second-guessing everything. Not just the big, obvious life decisions, but the small, everyday ones too.

Was I supposed to stay where I was or move? Take this job or hold out for something better? Was I wasting time? Making the wrong choices? Shouldn’t I know what to do?

I realized then that I had spent years assuming every decision had a right answer. That life was a series of multiple-choice questions, and if I just looked hard enough, I’d find the correct one. But now, it felt like I was staring at a blank page, trying to write in pen, afraid of messing it up.

No one told me how heavy uncertainty could be.

And the worst part? I started believing that not knowing meant I was failing. That if I wasn’t moving in a clear direction, I must be doing something wrong. I looked around at other people—some who seemed so sure of their path—and wondered why I couldn’t feel that same clarity.

But then I asked myself: What if they’re just as unsure as I am?

What if we’re all just making it up as we go?

For so long, I thought the goal was to figure out the right path. To make the right choices. To avoid the wrong ones at all costs. But lately, I’ve started wondering: What if there isn’t a right choice? What if there’s just… a choice?

That question should feel freeing, but for a long time, it paralyzed me.

I became so obsessed with making the “right” move that I stopped moving altogether. Every option felt like a risk. If I picked wrong, I’d waste time, waste effort, maybe even waste years. What if I chased the wrong career? Moved to the wrong city? Invested in something that wouldn’t pay off? Every path had its unknowns, and instead of picking one, I stood still, overthinking every possibility.

And the longer I stood still, the harder it became to take any action at all.

I convinced myself that not deciding was better than making the wrong decision. That staying in place was safer than stepping in the wrong direction. But that’s the thing about waiting—nothing changes. The fear doesn’t go away. The answers don’t magically appear. You just sit in the same uncertainty, hoping for clarity that never fully comes.

At some point, I had to ask myself: What if the only way forward is to move, even if I’m not sure? What if the worst outcome isn’t choosing wrong, but never choosing at all?

So maybe the next thing isn’t the “right” thing. Maybe it’s just something. A step. A choice. A movement.

And maybe that’s enough.

At some point, I realized that life wasn’t black and white—but it also wasn’t gray. Gray implies balance, a predictable mix of extremes. Something stable. But that’s not what life feels like. Life is more like an off-white—uncertain, shifting, something that looks different depending on the light.

I used to think uncertainty was something to fix. A problem to solve. But what if uncertainty isn’t the enemy? What if it’s just part of being alive?

The truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel 100% certain about anything. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I don’t need to know. Maybe the point isn’t to eliminate doubt but to learn how to exist alongside it. To accept that I can move forward without having every answer.

Some days, that’s easier said than done. On those days, I remind myself:

• Not knowing doesn’t mean I’m lost. Just because I don’t see the full path doesn’t mean I’m not on one.
• No decision is final. Even if something doesn’t work out, I can pivot. I can start over. I can change my mind.
• Other people don’t have it all figured out either. Some just got better at pretending.
• Waiting for clarity won’t bring clarity. The only way to figure out what works is to try something. Anything.

I used to think confidence meant being sure of everything. Now, I think it means being okay with uncertainty.

Life is never going to be neat or obvious. It’s never going to fit into clear categories of right and wrong. But maybe that’s the beauty of it—maybe life is meant to be lived in the off-white.

I think back to all the times I agonized over a decision, convinced that one wrong move would ruin everything. I stressed, I overanalyzed, I played out every worst-case scenario in my head. And yet, when I look back now, most of those choices—whether they turned out “right” or not—don’t carry the same weight they once did.

Some of the things I worried about didn’t matter at all. Other things didn’t go how I expected, but they still led me somewhere meaningful. And the most surprising part? Some of my so-called “mistakes” ended up being the best things that ever happened to me.

At the time, I didn’t see it that way. At the time, I was convinced I had taken a wrong turn. But looking back, I can see that every decision—good, bad, uncertain—shaped me.

The job I took because I thought I had to? It taught me what I didn’t want.

The opportunity I turned down out of fear? It made me realize I needed to be braver.

What I once saw as missteps were actually just steps—part of the path, part of the process.

I wonder what choices I’m agonizing over right now that, in a few years, I’ll see differently. I wonder if I’ll laugh at how much I overthought things, how I was so afraid of getting it wrong when, in the end, everything was just unfolding the way it needed to.

It makes me think: If I’m going to look back someday and see that everything worked out one way or another, then why not trust that now? Why not let go of some of the pressure?

Maybe I don’t need to know if I’m making the perfect decision. Maybe I just need to make a decision and trust that I’ll figure the rest out along the way.

I used to believe that one day, I’d wake up and just know. That clarity would arrive like a neatly wrapped package—here’s your answer, here’s your direction, here’s the certainty you’ve been waiting for.

But that day never came.

And I don’t think it ever will.

Because life doesn’t work like that. There’s no singular moment where everything clicks into place. No guarantee that the path we’re on is the one we were “meant” to take. No cosmic confirmation that we’re doing this whole life thing correctly.

And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Maybe the goal isn’t to have everything figured out. Maybe the goal is to get comfortable not knowing. To make peace with the ambiguity instead of fighting it. To stop treating life like a problem to solve and start seeing it as something to experience.

So what if I don’t know what’s next? So what if I don’t have a perfect plan? I’m still here. I’m still moving. I’m still learning.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe I’m enough. Right now. In the middle of the uncertainty. In the middle of the mess. In the middle of the off-white.

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“Your body is precious. It is your vehicle for awakening. Treat it with care.” ~Buddha

For years, I thought I was healthy. I was eating what I thought was a “balanced” diet, working out regularly (mostly cardio and HIIT), and I felt like I was ticking all the boxes for self-care. On the surface, everything seemed fine. I thought I had health all figured out.

But the truth is, I wasn’t actually healthy. I was caught up in a cycle of restriction and over-exercise, trying to make my body fit a version of health that wasn’t serving me. I was punishing my body, not nourishing it. And it wasn’t until I hit a breaking point that I finally started to question everything I thought I knew about health and well-being.

The Illusion of “Being Healthy”

Growing up, like most, I was surrounded by diet culture. Thinness was celebrated, and I was constantly told that my worth was tied to how I looked. I learned to equate “health” with being skinny, and any deviation from that ideal felt like failure.

This mindset became a driving force in my life. I believed I had to earn my self-worth through extreme exercise and rigid food control. It wasn’t just about being healthy—it was about fitting into a certain mold. My body became a project, something to be molded, shaped, and controlled rather than something to be nurtured and cared for.

I spent a lot of time believing I was healthy because I was always doing the “right things”—working out and eating “clean.” But I wasn’t really paying attention to how I felt. Cardio and random gym sessions were my go-to, and I never took any days off. The goal was always to burn calories, not to feel strong or energized. I thought that the more I exercised and the fewer calories I ate, the healthier I would become.

And when it came to food, I was equally obsessed with control. I counted every calorie, avoided anything “bad,” and felt guilty every time I ate something that wasn’t on my list of approved foods. I never went out to eat, as it gave me too much anxiety. I wasn’t eating to nourish my body; I was eating to control it.

Despite all these so-called “healthy” habits, I was exhausted. I was drained all the time, despite my best efforts to fuel myself with “good” food and work out regularly. My body was telling me something was off, but I wasn’t listening.

The Wake-Up Call: Realizing I Wasn’t Truly Healthy

The turning point came once I realized I was still unhappy with my body, even after pushing it to its limits. I had finally found myself in a healthy relationship, yet I was still trying to make myself as small as possible.

That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t truly taking care of my body. I was pushing it too hard with exercise and restricting the food I ate, trying to mold it into some version of myself I thought was “healthy.”

It was clear: Health isn’t about being obsessed with calories burned or how little I can eat. It’s about taking care of yourself holistically, nourishing your body, and respecting its signals.

Strength Training: The Empowerment I Was Looking For

Once I realized something had to change, I decided to shake up my routine. I swapped my hours of cardio for strength training with a plan. I was always under the impression that weightlifting would make me bulky, but I realized it was exactly what I had been missing. I wasn’t just exercising to burn calories or eating to punish myself—I was exercising and eating to become stronger, to take up space.

Strength training taught me something profound: It’s not about punishing your body to fit into some ideal. It’s about building your body’s power and resilience, which translates to feeling stronger, more confident, and energized. I was working to feel strong and capable rather than just lean or toned. It wasn’t about what I looked like but how I felt in my own skin.

As I started lifting weights, I noticed a huge shift. I felt more empowered. I was proud of my progress. Every time I got stronger, I felt more in tune with my body. I realized that true health comes from building resilience, not burning out.

Nourishing My Body, Not Punishing It

The next major shift for me was with food. I had spent so long treating food like the enemy—avoiding it, restricting it, and feeling guilty when I ate something “bad.” But I soon realized that nourishing my body was not about deprivation. It was about fueling it with the right nutrients to support my strength and energy.

I started to focus on eating foods that made me feel good: healthy fats, lean proteins, complex carbs, and plenty of veggies. I stopped counting calories and started listening to my body. I ate when I was hungry and stopped when I was full, without guilt or shame.

For the first time, food became a tool for nourishment, not something to control or punish myself with. I stopped labeling foods as “good” or “bad” and instead focused on what fueled my workouts, gave me energy, and helped me feel my best. Nourishing my body became a form of self-love.

A New Understanding of True Health

Looking back, I understand that true health isn’t about fitting into a particular mold or following strict rules. It’s not about punishing your body with excessive cardio or restricting what you eat. True health is about building a sustainable, balanced lifestyle that allows your body to thrive—physically, mentally, and emotionally.

I thought I was healthy when I was obsessing over calories and pushing myself to exhaustion with cardio, but I was missing the bigger picture. Real health comes from nourishing your body, moving in ways that empower you, and caring for yourself with kindness and respect.

Practical Tips for Shifting Toward True Health

If you find yourself in a similar cycle of over-exercising, restricting food, and feeling drained, here are some tips to help you shift toward a more balanced approach.

1. Focus on strength, not just cardio.

If you’ve been stuck in a cardio-only routine, try adding two thirty-minute sessions of strength training per week. It doesn’t have to be intimidating. Start with bodyweight exercises or dumbbells and gradually increase the challenge as you build strength.

2. Nourish your body.

Shift your focus from restriction to nourishment. Eat foods that make you feel energized and strong—whole foods that support your body’s needs, like lean proteins, healthy fats, and lots of vegetables.

3. Move with purpose.

Instead of overdoing cardio, choose movements that make you feel good. Strength training, yoga, walking, swimming, or even dancing are great ways to stay active without overstressing your body.

4. Let go of perfection.

Health isn’t about being perfect; it’s about balance. Don’t stress about eating the “right” foods all the time or burning as many calories as you can. Focus on what makes you feel good and sustainable in the long run.

5. Listen to your body.

Your body is your guide. Pay attention to its signals. Eat when you’re hungry, move with purpose, and rest when you need to. Trust that your body knows what it needs to be healthy.

6. Allow yourself to rest.

Rest is just as important as movement. Don’t skip it! Your body needs time to recover and rebuild strength. Allow yourself to rest and recover without guilt.

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“Sometimes letting go is the ultimate act of love—both for the other person and for yourself.” ~Unknown

I never imagined that the same classroom where I found love would become the first chapter of a story about letting go.

Ten years ago, as an undergraduate student full of dreams and certainty, I met him. We were classmates first, then friends, and finally, lovers who thought we’d conquered the dating game by finding our perfect match so young.

During our college years, our bond seemed unshakeable. We even chose to intern in the same city, not wanting distance to separate us. I remember the tiny apartment we’d meet in after long workdays, sharing instant noodles and big dreams. We thought we were building our future together, one shared experience at a time.

But as graduation approached and those dreams began taking concrete shape, hairline cracks started appearing in our foundation. While I envisioned building a family by twenty-seven, seeing myself hosting Sunday dinners and creating a warm home, he was focused on making his mark in his career. Every conversation about the future seemed to pull us in opposite directions.

Those differences erupted into arguments that stretched across two years. Each fight left us more entrenched in our positions, unable to find middle ground. What had once been loving support for each other’s goals became a tug-of-war between two different life paths. We kept trying to bend each other’s vision of the future until we finally realized that some dreams can’t be compromised without breaking the dreamer.

In 2022, after a decade of love, memories, and shared history, our relationship ended. The future I had spent ten years imagining disappeared overnight. Every plan, every dream, every “someday” we had talked about vanished, leaving me feeling like I was free-falling through space without a tether.

The first year after our breakup was the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced. I was struck down by bronchitis, and in those dark nights of physical and emotional pain, thoughts of giving up crossed my mind. Why should I continue when the future I had built my entire adult life around had crumbled?

But in those moments of deepest despair, a quiet voice inside me asked, “Why should I give up my life for a rejection? Why should someone else’s inability to choose me determine my worth?”

That was my turning point. I realized that by entertaining thoughts of giving up, I was rejecting myself far more brutally than anyone else ever could. The end of a relationship, even a decade-long one, didn’t have to mean the end of my story.

Here’s what I learned about surviving the death of a future you thought was certain:

1. Your plans changing doesn’t mean you failed. Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is acknowledge that two good people can want different things, and that’s okay.

2. The length of a relationship doesn’t determine its success. Those ten years weren’t wasted—they were filled with growth, love, and lessons that shaped who I am today.

3. Physical illness and emotional pain often go hand in hand. Taking care of your body becomes crucial when your heart is healing.

4. The future you imagined isn’t the only future possible. When one door closes, it doesn’t mean you’re trapped—it means you’re being redirected to a path you haven’t imagined yet.

5. Choosing life is an act of courage. Every morning you get up and face the day, you’re choosing to believe in possibilities over past pain.

It took me a full year to finally accept that I would never have that particular future I had planned. But in accepting that loss, I found something unexpected—freedom. Freedom to reimagine my life without compromising my core desires. Freedom to discover who I am outside of a relationship that had defined my entire adult life.

Now, looking back, I understand that the end of our relationship wasn’t just about losing someone I loved; it was about finding myself. In choosing to live, to move forward, to accept the end of one dream as the potential beginning of another, I discovered a strength I never knew I possessed.

To anyone reading this who’s in the depths of heartbreak, questioning whether they’ll ever feel whole again: you will. Not in the same way—you’ll never be the same person you were before this loss. But you’ll be stronger, wiser, and more authentically yourself than ever before. The future you imagined may be gone, but the future you’ll create might be even better than anything you could have planned.

Choose life. Choose yourself. Choose to believe that an ended relationship isn’t a failed one—it’s just a completed chapter in your ongoing story.

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“Rest and self-care are so important. When you take time to replenish your spirit, it allows you to serve others from the overflow. You cannot serve from an empty vessel.” ~Eleanor Brownn

My breaking point came on a Monday morning at 6 a.m.

It had been the same routine for months: up at 5 a.m., brush my teeth, put on my workout clothes, move my body, weigh myself.

On this morning, the scale’s numbers glared back, stubborn as ever. My reflection in the mirror seemed foreign—tired eyes, face still sweaty, a body that felt like a lead weight. Outside, cars hummed past, oblivious. I’d woken early to squeeze in a workout, but all I could do was sit there, shaking with anger—at my body, at the relentless grind, at losing myself… again.

That moment wasn’t just about the weight. It was the culmination of years of silent sacrifices: waking up much too early to move my body--because when else would I find the time? Cooking dinners through exhaustion, handing out store-bought fig bars while envying the “made-from-scratch” moms on social media, and collapsing into bed each night wondering, “Is this how it is now?”

The Myth of the “Selfless” Woman

For a long time, I’d absorbed a dangerous lie: that love and family meant erasing myself. My husband worked opposite shifts, leaving me racing against the clock each evening. We’d pass like ships in the night. Him heading to work as I scrubbed dishes. He envied my evenings at home, imagining cozy nights with the kids. I craved the solitude of his quiet days while the kids were in school, wishing for just one day alone in our empty house.

Society whispered that a “good” mother was a martyr. But my breaking point taught me a harder truth: selflessness isn’t sustainable.

When I snapped at my kids one night, abandoning story time and leaving them with a meditation instead, I realized my burnout wasn’t just hurting me—it was robbing my family of the calm, patient mom they deserved. The person I used to be was buried under layers of guilt and exhaustion. I wanted her back.

The First Rebellious Act

The first time I locked my bedroom door to exercise, my kids whined outside. “Mommy, why can’t we come in?” Guilt tugged at me as I turned on a workout video, letting their iPads babysit for thirty minutes. My husband supported me but would ask, “Why isn’t the scale moving faster?” I didn’t have answers—but for the first time, I’d chosen myself.

This wasn’t selfishness. It was survival.

The Three Lessons That Changed Everything

1. Being quiet is a radical act.

I began stealing slivers of silence: ten minutes of morning meditation, walks without podcasts, even turning off the car radio. In those moments, I rediscovered my own voice beneath the noise of expectations. Once, during a chaotic breakfast scramble, my six-year-old dropped a heaping spoonful of oats, spraying the counter and cabinets with the gooey mess.

Instead of snapping in frustration, I breathed deeply—a skill honed in those stolen quiet moments. I’d found my patience again. “Let’s clean it together,” I said, my calm surprising us both.

Try this: Start with five minutes of intentional quiet daily. No screens, no lists, no voices telling you how it should be done—just you and your breath. This time isn’t for silencing thoughts but sitting with them.

2. Progress isn’t linear (and that’s okay).

When my business flopped on social media, I felt exposed. Like I’d been forced to perform, not thrive.

Letting go of others’ strategies, I rebuilt quietly: phone calls instead of reels, emails instead of hashtags, intimate workshops instead of lives. It was slower, but mine. One night, my son asked why I hadn’t “gone viral yet.” I smiled. “Because I’d rather talk to you, not my camera.” 

Truth: Every “failure” taught me to trust my rhythm, not the world’s noise. Do what feels supported, not forced.

3. Boundaries are love, not rejection.

My husband started cooking on his nights home, shooing me off to go to meditate or move my body—whatever I needed in the moment. The kids built “cozy corners” with pillows, learning to honor their own need for space. Now, when my son says, “I need alone time,” I don’t panic or prod—he’s mirroring what I finally allowed myself.

Action step: Name one non-negotiable this week. For me, it’s my morning movement. What will yours be?

The Ripple Effect of Choosing Myself

Quiet became my sanctuary. No voices, no demands—just soft lo-fi playlists and the hum of my breath. My business grows steadily, my workouts are kinder, and the scale? It’s just a number now. Progress isn’t a race; it’s the quiet hum of a life rebalanced.

If I could write a letter to my former self, the woman racing to do it all “the right way” while drowning in guilt for every shortcut, this is what I’d say…

A Letter to My Former Self

Dear Matalya,You’re not failing. You’re drowning in a sea of “shoulds.” Let go. The dishes can wait. The store-bought snacks are enough. And that voice saying, “You’re selfish”? It’s lying.

When you rest, the whole family breathes easier.—The Woman You’re Becoming

A Metaphor to Remember:

Self-care is like lovingly tending a garden. You don’t rush the roses—you water them, step back, and let the roots grow strong.

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“Surrender to what is. Let go of what was. Have faith in what will be.” ~Sonia Ricotti

Turning fifty felt like a milestone worth celebrating—a time to honor myself, reflect on my five decades of life, and embrace the journey ahead.

For someone who had never believed I was worth the fuss of a big celebration, choosing to honor myself in this way felt like a profound shift. I wanted this celebration to affirm that I am worth the effort and expense.

The way I envisioned this milestone? Hosting a retreat for women like me, who were born in 1975 and at a similar life stage. But what began as an exciting idea turned into a chance for surrender, growth, and unexpected self-discovery.

The Vision: A Retreat for Reflection, Celebration, and Pampering

The idea hit me all at once, clear and undeniable. Why not create a customized birthday retreat experience to mark the milestone? The retreat would be intimate, luxurious, and restorative—a space where women could reflect and celebrate together.

I spent weeks researching, contacting venues, and considering every detail meticulously:

• A stunning eco-conscious venue blending luxury with nature
• A top-rated plant-based chef to nourish us
• Thoughtfully designed activities that honor our individual and collective needs, including a group birthday celebration and opportunities for deep introspective work

The host venue I found was a gem, exceeding my list of must-haves, but it was meeting the owner of the venue that felt truly serendipitous.

From our first conversation, we shared a kindred energy that was both grounding and inspiring, and I knew I was meant to find her. Our connection felt like a sign—one that I wouldn’t fully understand until much later.

I joyfully secured the dates with a deposit, brimming with excitement to share this beautiful offering with others.

Every Project Has Its Challenges, Right?

Despite my enthusiasm, something didn’t feel quite right. The response from my friends and acquaintances was lukewarm. Cost and personal preferences were barriers for some, and others simply didn’t resonate with the idea.

From others, I received unsolicited advice that the retreat just wasn’t compelling. My ego bristled at their comments, interpreting them as doubts in my capability and vision.

Adding to this, I encountered bureaucratic issues and had to navigate compliance with the retreat regulating body in my province, bringing unexpected stress and layers of complexity I hadn’t anticipated. If this piece wasn’t sorted, the retreat would put me in the red beyond what made sense.

I believed in my vision, though, or at least, I believed in that strong feeling of alignment I had whenever I spoke with the retreat venue owner.

After perseverance and more hours of work, I was able to solve the compliance issue. I also revised the retreat to reduce the cost to attendees and broaden the audience to include women born in 1974 and 1976, editing all of the marketing materials and recosting everything.

After my modifications, I informally launched to my circle again, and this time… drum roll please… more crickets.

A Moment of Truth: To Let Go or Double Down?

I knew that the retreat would be magical for the right women, but I considered calling it off anyway. Anyone who’s marketed a retreat knows it’s no small feat. To make it happen, I’d need to pour in more time, energy, and finances—yet something in me just didn’t want to.

When I really tuned in, the idea of letting go and surrendering to the quiet message my heart was sending brought an unexpected sense of relief.

My ego whispered reasons to keep pushing forward: proving the doubters wrong, justifying the time and money I’d already invested, and showing myself I could make it work. But my heart’s quiet, persistent voice urged me to release it.

The Gift of Letting Go

After weeks of introspection, I made the decision to cancel the retreat. It wasn’t easy—old patterns of shame and fear of failure surfaced, and I had to really sit with them. But over time, I found peace with my choice.

Since I had planned so far ahead, I was able to redirect my deposit toward attending a retreat at the same venue—this time, for myself.

And THAT decision changed everything.

The retreat opened up a new path in my healing journey, guiding me toward a piece of the puzzle I’d been trying to figure out but hadn’t yet understood. The deep connection that I felt with the retreat host made sense in a new way. She was meant to be one of my guides, and I would be returning to retreat with her many more times in my future.

A Powerful Learning

My experience also highlighted an area of growth asking for my attention. In my professional life, giving of myself is at the heart of what I do. I continually work on myself to strengthen my capacity to hold space for others to do their work.

I love this calling deeply, and I receive so much in return for my giving—but I’ve realized that I still struggle outside of this context with receiving. That is, receiving without feeling the need to give something back. I also find it hard to surrender to others caring for me and holding space for me to be my messy, human self.

The truth is, my intention behind planning the retreat was misguided. I convinced myself I was finally allowing myself to deserve a celebration, but I still felt I had to earn it by planning something for others. Yes, I would enjoy it, but I would be receiving through giving—which is beautiful, but not the same.

By trusting my intuition and listening to the message from my heart—that I didn’t need to pursue this—I gave myself permission to let it go. And in doing so, I recognized a deep need to learn how to truly receive.

What better way to mark the transition into my fiftieth year than by learning this essential self-care skill?

My Takeaways from a Lesson in Letting Go

1. Find the value.

Letting go can feel like you’ve wasted your time, money, or energy when you don’t ‘achieve’ the outcome you set out to create, but if every experience carries value, then it’s not a waste. In my case, I gained impactful insights into the women I serve, learned how to navigate retreat regulations in my province, and met a pivotal person on my path to healing.

2. Trust your intuition.

Letting go of control created space for something unexpected: a profound healing experience and invaluable clarity and guidance that wouldn’t have happened otherwise. My decision to cancel wasn’t analytical—it was intuitive. But leaning into that inner voice led me to something far more meaningful than the original plan. I got what my heart knew I needed, not what my thinking self thought that I needed.

3. Honor the balance of giving and receiving.

Letting myself receive requires surrender. And while offering space for others to receive is deeply fulfilling, allowing myself to be cared for fills a far-reaching need I hadn’t fully acknowledged. As I enter this milestone year, I realize that true wholeness comes from honoring both sides of the equation.

Trusting my heart and letting go is an ongoing practice for me, as it is for many women who have been socialized in a ‘fixing’ and ‘doing’ culture such as what is typical of North America.

The gift of remembering to trust was a deeper understanding of what I truly need in my next phase. Sometimes, the most powerful way to meet our needs is to stop striving and simply allow ourselves to receive—both from others and from the wisdom of our own intuition.

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TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with an account of domestic violence and may be triggering to some.

Growing up, I learned early on how to be aware of the little things that spoke volumes. My mom wasn’t just an alcoholic; she was also bipolar, and I never knew if I’d come home to a mom who was cheerful and loving or to one who would say hurtful things and obsess over cleaning.

I grew up in AA, surrounded by people trying to rebuild their lives. My parents were both recovering alcoholics, and while I didn’t fully understand it at the time, it made sense later in life. The environment made it easier for me to fall into drugs.

When I was fifteen, my first experience with meth came at the hands of adults who, in hindsight, should have known better. At the time, I couldn’t understand why they would lead me down that path. However, as I’ve gone through my healing journey, I’ve come to realize that those individuals were deeply broken themselves. They were trapped in their own struggles, in a place of darkness and pain, and they simply didn’t know any better.

For six years, meth controlled my life. My addiction led me into a toxic, abusive relationship with my now ex-husband.

He was supposed to save me. He was my knight in shining armor, my prince, the person I thought would protect me, love me, and help me heal. He was once my best friend, someone I trusted more than anyone else. But all of that changed.

I remember the first time he hit me. It was a moment I’ll never forget. I had broken his picture on purpose, trying to send some sort of message, trying to make him feel the anger and hurt I had inside me. But in return, he punched me in the face.

I went down, stunned, but then I got up. I hit him back. He hit me again, and I got up again, hitting him back in an attempt to defend myself. This went on a few more times before I couldn’t get back up anymore. He stood over me, telling me, “Stay down, stay down,” and in that moment, I felt broken.

It was the first time I truly saw how deeply our relationship was damaging me, but even then, I couldn’t see a way out. There was something inside of me that had already started to shatter, piece by piece. It was as if the very foundation of who I was was crumbling, but I couldn’t figure out how to rebuild it. I had spent so much time in survival mode that I couldn’t recognize the destruction.

The abuse had taken its toll on me, eroding my sense of self, and I didn’t know how to escape the cycle. I had once believed in this person, believed that he would protect me, but in that moment, I saw that he was the very one hurting me. Yet, I was still stuck in the relationship, still hoping for a change that would never come.

Trauma has a way of blurring the lines between love and pain, and in that moment, I couldn’t see that the person who was supposed to be my protector had become my abuser.

It was a crushing realization, but at that time, I didn’t know how to fight my way out. I was trapped in a world of emotional and physical turmoil, and it felt like a prison I couldn’t escape from.

I don’t know why I ever allowed it. I know that the person in that relationship was not me. The things I did and the things I allowed were not who I truly was. I was not weak because I was in that relationship, and I was not weak because I stayed.

Abuse and trauma do things to you that you would never imagine. It’s not just the emotional scars that leave a mark—it’s physical, too. Your body becomes so attuned to constant stress, to the fight or flight that never stops, that it begins to break down.

The tension, the fear, and the anxiety all build up and stay with you. Your heart races, your muscles tighten and stay that way, your sleep is restless, and your body is in a constant state of exhaustion. Trauma doesn’t just affect your mind; it takes a toll on your body, making you feel physically sick, tired, or overwhelmed without knowing why.

You are so broken down, piece by piece, that you are just stuck. Every part of you—your body, your mind, your soul—becomes conditioned to expect pain. Your sense of self diminishes, and you start to believe that this is the way things will always be.

But it’s not weakness. That’s strength. That is survival. The strength to keep going, even when every part of you is begging to give up.

Trauma rewires you. It changes how you see the world and how you see yourself. It takes away your ability to trust, to feel safe, to love without fear. It leaves you questioning your worth, but deep down, there is a flicker of strength, a small voice telling you that you are more than the broken pieces. It tells you that you are worthy of healing, worthy of peace. And eventually, you start to listen to that voice, even though it feels so small. That voice, that strength, is what ultimately pulls you out of the darkness.

Our relationship was destructive on both sides. His hands were violent, and my words were sharp, cutting deep into both of us. It wasn’t just the abuse—it was the shame, the hopelessness, and the feeling that things would never get better. But there were also moments of love, moments that reminded me of the three beautiful kids we brought into the world. They were my light, the reason I kept going even when everything around me seemed to be falling apart.

I couldn’t bear the thought of them growing up in that environment, witnessing violence, and believing that it was normal. My son, only eleven, had to hit his dad with a broom to get him off me—it hit me harder than anything. It wasn’t just about me anymore; it was about their futures.

If I stayed, I knew my daughters were going to experience the same kind of abuse. They would believe that they deserved it, that this was what love looked like. And my son—he was learning that this was how men treat women. The cycle was being set. It was a terrifying realization, and I couldn’t let it happen.

That day, when my son stood up for me, it was as if I saw the future laid out in front of me—a future where my children, like me, would be broken.

That was the moment I knew I had to leave. I knew that getting out was the only way I could protect them—and heal myself in the process. If I didn’t, I would be condemning them to the same broken, destructive life I had lived, and I couldn’t allow that. They deserved better, and so did I.

We stayed together for twelve years, but eventually, my ex took the kids. I was too scared to fight for them, too broken to believe I could do better. For a long time, I carried the weight of that loss, feeling like I had failed them. But I’ve spent the years since working to repair the damage, to rebuild the trust, and to be the best mom I can be for them.

After my ex took the kids, I spiraled into a place darker than I ever thought possible. My heart ached, not just from the loss of my children, but from the emptiness that consumed me. I turned to alcohol, a familiar crutch that numbed the pain for a little while. But the numbness never lasted, and the deeper I sank, the more I made terrible choices. My life became a series of bad decisions, one after another, and every one of them felt like a reflection of how broken I was inside.

My ex-husband used my kids to hurt me. He told them I didn’t want them, twisting the truth to create more distance between us. He took any money I sent them, using it to make me feel powerless, like I had no control over anything, not even the small ways I tried to help.

When they called to talk to me or I called them, the name “incubator” was what they saw on the phone—it was the name my ex had saved for me. Every time they called, or I reached out, I was reminded of how little I seemed to matter, how distant and cold I had been reduced to in his eyes.

For a long time, I only saw my kids for six weeks in the summer. The summers were nice, but I didn’t have a car or money, and I couldn’t offer them experiences or fun. I wish I could’ve done more; I wish I could’ve been better for them. I wanted to give them everything, but I couldn’t. It was heartbreaking, knowing I was limited in so many ways, knowing my kids deserved so much more. I felt like I was failing them every single day.

I finally reached a point where I couldn’t just keep wishing I had done better. I had to take action. I knew I had to work to rebuild the relationship with my kids and show them that, despite all the mistakes I made, I could still be there for them. I started finding ways to improve, to create a stable life, even if it meant small steps forward. I realized that as long as I was trying, I wasn’t lost. And if I could get myself to a place where I was better for them, then that was all that mattered.

I was diagnosed with complex PTSD, and dealing with it has been a long and painful journey. I still deal with flashbacks and nightmares that take me back to moments I wish I could forget. There are times when I still don’t feel like I can make my dreams come true. I struggle with the feeling that I don’t deserve it, that I’m not worthy of a life beyond the pain I’ve known. Sometimes, I continue to live in fear, afraid of failing, of being stuck, of letting the past define me.

But I don’t give up. I keep pushing forward. I started with therapy. I began looking inward, facing the things I’d been avoiding for so long. But therapy wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until I started seeking something deeper, something spiritual, that I began to feel like I was truly healing.

I began exploring meditation, shadow work, and candle work, and these practices began to offer me more than just a temporary escape. They became tools to reconnect with myself in ways I had never imagined.

Healing wasn’t just about working through the pain—it was about building a deeper connection to something beyond the physical. It was about tapping into a power greater than myself, learning to trust it, and surrendering to the process.

These spiritual practices helped me find peace and clarity, but more than anything, they helped me rebuild my sense of self-worth.

For so long, I thought I was just a broken, empty shell of a person. But I wasn’t. I was a strong, loving, and amazing person. I just had to find her again. And that’s what I’ve been doing—slowly but surely. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been quick, but with each step, I’ve been reconnecting with the woman I was always meant to be. And through it all, I’ve realized that I am enough, just as I am.

I worked for years, digging into the deep, dark stuff. I thought it all stemmed from my broken marriage, but I soon realized it was much deeper than that—it was rooted in a lifetime of struggles, traumas, and wounds.

It was years of healing, and there were times when I wanted to quit. The weight of it all felt suffocating, and the journey seemed too long to keep going. But I couldn’t quit. I had to heal for others—more than for myself. I had to show my kids that we could overcome anything, that we could build a new life despite everything we’d been through.

And as I healed, I also worked on healing my relationship with my kids. I knew I had to be present for them, not just in the physical sense but emotionally and mentally as well. I made sure to show up as the mom they deserved, someone who could be there to listen, to support, and to love them unconditionally.

The spiritual practices I had learned gave me the tools to create these deeper connections with my children, helping me become the mother I had always longed to be. With time, the bond between us grew stronger, and I began to see that the love we had for each other was unbreakable, no matter what had happened in the past.

I got a job. I started paying my own bills. I dug myself out of the hole that I had created, a hole that was shaped by both my actions and what I had allowed to be done to me.

It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight. But each day, I became a little more independent, a little stronger. I took responsibility for my life, for my choices, and for the changes I needed to make. And though I still have moments where I struggle, I know I’ve come so far, and I’ve proven to myself that I can rebuild.

And then, I went back to school. I knew I had finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I started working toward a degree in psychology, a field that had always fascinated me and a way I could help others the way I had helped myself.

I realized that my own healing journey had sparked something inside me. It wasn’t just about recovering from my past; it was about using my experiences to make a difference in the lives of others. I knew this was my path, and it felt like everything I had been through had led me here.

I will continue to work on myself, healing the parts of me that still need to be healed. We are always working to be better, always continuing to heal, and we are not alone in this world. So many people have stories like mine, stories of pain and survival, and I know we can all rise above it together.

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