Month: April 2025

It was a soft spring evening, the air light with birdsong and the hum of bumblebees. My sister-in-law and I were on a walk, enjoying the peaceful surroundings near my home. As we wandered, I could sense she had something deeper on her heart—something that had been quietly forming within her.

We found a quiet bench and sat down. After a long pause, she turned to me and said, “You know… I actually think becoming sick was a blessing in disguise.”

I looked at her gently. “How so?”

She shared how the past year had been one of the most difficult of her life how her health had broken down in ways she never expected. But in that breakdown, something essential had surfaced. “When you’re forced to stop,” she said, “you begin to see what you’ve been running from. I used to think being a good mother and wife meant doing everything perfectly, keeping everything under control. But now… I just want to live. I want to feel the moment. I want to choose happiness over performance.”

I nodded, deeply moved. “We give so much of ourselves, especially as women. But if we lose our joy in the process, we lose the spark that gives everything meaning. The most powerful gift we can offer our children is our own fulfillment. That shows them what’s possible.”

She smiled, and then said, “Did you know you can actually train your brain to see life differently?”

“Yes,” I said. “Neville Goddard used to describe the subconscious mind as a garden. It doesn’t choose what grows—it simply reflects the seeds we plant. If we want something new to blossom, we have to be conscious of what we’re planting.”

I explained how early experiences, especially in childhood, often shape the lens through which we see everything. “If we don’t take back our awareness,” I said, “the script of our life continues to be written by old fears.”

She listened intently. I shared a little story—a time when I had a pair of headphones with a long cord. I used them while cleaning, and they’d constantly get tangled or caught. Eventually, I bought wireless ones, but for weeks, I still moved as if the cord were there. “That’s how deeply conditioned we become. Even when nothing is holding us back anymore, we move like something still is.”

Her eyes lit up. “It’s time for a new version of me,” she said. “I’ve always dreamed of opening a place in the countryside to care for dogs. It’s simple… but it’s my dream.”

“There’s more to life than working and paying bills,” I said. “But to experience that, we have to change how we see ourselves. Everything outside begins inside.”

We talked about how easy it is to let dreams slip away in the name of responsibility. And how many women wake up one day, only to realize their own happiness was left behind years ago—buried under expectations, roles, and guilt. But when we prioritize our joy, our children learn that joy is worth protecting. That dreams are worth following.

The sun dipped lower, casting golden light through the trees. We wrapped our jackets a little tighter as the breeze cooled. We stood, holding onto that warm moment of connection, and embraced.

“Let’s keep reminding each other,” we said, “to follow what truly matters.”

As she walked away, I felt a quiet fire rekindle inside me. Gratitude, love—and a deeper sense of purpose. I knew I was ready to keep writing, to share my journey, and to inspire others to reconnect with their own inner freedom.

Because the dream doesn’t have to wait.
It begins with a single decision:
To live it—now.

Are we not here to experience happiness?

It’s a question I ask myself often. And if the answer is yes—and I believe it is—then it becomes crucial to investigate what truly stands in the way of our peace. When certain patterns in life repeat—whether in relationships, work, money, or success—we must pause and ask: What is this trying to show me about myself?

Because everything we experience starts with the way we perceive. Our world is colored not by the facts alone, but by the lens through which we interpret those facts—what we think about them, how we feel, and the inner conversations we keep alive. Just like a theater play, we play our role each day. But who wrote the script? Who is directing? And are we aware of the role we’re choosing?

The other day, I was in a workgroup with a colleague—a diligent, creative woman who takes pride in her work. She moved quickly, efficiently, cleaning tables before I had the chance to help. Though I asked if I could assist, there was never quite the space for me to contribute.

On the surface, this might seem small. But it triggered something deep in me—old feelings of being unnecessary, unhelpful, invisible. I recognized the pattern right away. She reminded me of the strict teachers I had as a child—those who told me I wasn’t good enough, whose criticism left me carrying a weight of insecurity.

And in that moment, without realizing, I stepped back into the role of the little girl again. I let the past play itself out in the present.

Yes, people have their personalities and behaviors. But the power we give to those behaviors—that’s on us. The moment I made her opinion more powerful than my own self-worth, I handed her my peace. That’s the pedestal we so often build for others—without realizing we’re climbing down from our own.

Later that week, another small moment brought profound clarity. I was crossing the street when a man sped up and stopped right in front of me. I raised my hand instinctively—a small gesture of frustration. He honked loudly in return. It startled me, and then it upset me. I walked away fuming.

But the more I replayed the scene, the more I asked: Why am I still holding onto this? He had driven off long ago. Yet I was still carrying him—in my chest, in my mind, in my mood. I had swallowed the poison, hoping he would suffer.

Sadhguru once said, “Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” That quote has stayed with me.

So I made a conscious choice not to take that man—or the woman from work—into my living room in the evening. I set them down at the door, as an act of love toward myself.

That’s where boundaries begin: not with blame, but with awareness.

When we don’t question our thoughts, we become prisoners of our own perceptions. That’s why I love Byron Katie’s four questions:

1. Is it true?

2. Can I absolutely know it’s true?

3. How do I react when I believe that thought?

4. Who would I be without it?

These questions are like keys to the door of inner peace.

It’s not about denying what happens. It’s about choosing how we relate to what happens. Like Neville Goddard teaches, the outer world reflects the inner. So when I find myself saying, “The traffic is getting worse, people are becoming more aggressive,” I have to ask—am I unconsciously keeping that story alive inside me?

Everything we experience is filtered through our awareness. Our little “bubble” of reality is shaped by where we dwell in thought and feeling.

And so the journey back to peace is not about fixing everyone else. It’s about asking ourselves: What am I still believing? And do I want to keep believing it?

Because the power is always within.

There are days when I wonder: Who am I to speak about change, awareness, or inner freedom?
My old habit mind still knows how to sneak in quiet and familiar, trying to pull me back to an outdated version of myself. And in those moments, I ask myself: Have I really come any further than this?

I hear the whisper:
“Forget it. You can’t write. No one’s going to read what you have to say.”
That voice feels like an old coat—worn and heavy—but somehow still comforting in its familiarity. It’s tempting to crawl back into that old identity: to hide, to play small, to stay safely behind the curtain.

But that would be the real pain.
Lying to myself would hurt more than trying and failing ever could.

I’ve procrastinated so many times. I’ve convinced myself that now isn’t the right time. That I don’t have the money, the energy, the approval, the audience.
I’ve told myself: First, do the dishes. Then the shopping. Then, maybe, the writing.
But another day passes. And another. And nothing changes—because I haven’t changed.

The moment to act is never later. It’s always now.

We delay out of fear—out of the illusion that comfort is safer than growth. But more often than not, the thing that scares us most is exactly what we are meant to do.
And I know I’m meant to write.

Maybe my story will reach someone who needs to hear it. Maybe what I’ve learned through my struggle will help another woman take her first step out of fear.
But how would I ever know—unless I share?

I’ve decided: there is no going back.
This is a new me. One who dares. One who posts. One who writes not to impress, but to express.

Maybe I’ll receive criticism. Maybe I’ll get applause. Either way, I’ll grow.

As Byron Katie says: “It’s not the world that’s the prison. It’s our thoughts about the world.”
And Neville Goddard reminds us that even if we travel the globe, we’ll carry our prison with us if we haven’t found freedom within.

So here I am, standing at the edge of my old cage. And this time, I open the door.

Yes—fear is real. But so is faith.
Faith that the universe is kind. That life is responding. That everything is already within me.

We all know the phrase: “Ask, and it shall be given.” But most of us never truly ask—not with the certainty that it will come. We clutch the seed of our desire, but we don’t plant it.
And unplanted seeds never grow.

So today, I plant mine.
Not perfectly. Not without trembling.
But with sincerity and trust.

Because the time is now.
Because I am done giving my power away to fear and doubt.
Because someone, somewhere, may need this story.
Because this is my story.
And I’m finally ready to live it.

Fear is incredibly powerful. It doesn’t come in the shape of a monster—it comes in quiet disguises: hesitation, insecurity, self-doubt. It slips into our thoughts, into our stories, and our relationships until we forget who we are. Fear doesn’t scream—it whispers, until it numbs us. It convinces us that we’re stuck, that we can’t change, that the horizon is forever out of reach.

Yesterday, I worked with a kindhearted man. His gentle voice and his inability to express himself with clarity reminded me of a version of myself I once knew so well. I could sense his insecurity, not through what he said—but how he said it. His whole energy spoke of someone who didn’t feel chosen, who had learned to stay small to feel safe.

I remember being that way, too. I truly believed that was just who I was—born that way. Some people were simply stronger, I thought, and I was one of the softer ones. Even my mother used to say, “As long as the people she loves are around, she’s fine.” But deep down, I wondered: Isn’t there more in store for me?

This man reminded me of that younger self. I know how painful it is to feel stuck inside your own skin, to identify with fear so strongly that you forget it’s just a lens—not a truth.

He told me how unfairly he’d been treated. I listened. And to my surprise, he was telling my story. Almost word for word, he described an experience I had lived through years ago, when I was mistreated by a team I worked with. The pain, the resentment, the spiraling thoughts of injustice—I knew them intimately.

And yet, as he kept speaking, I noticed something strange. The more he stayed in the story of what had happened, the smaller he became. And though I felt compassion, I also felt my energy shift. I felt stronger. I began treating him like someone who was subordinate—not because I wanted to, but because he was casting himself in that role.

It struck me: we don’t see the world as it is—we see it as we are. And so the world responds to that version of us. As Neville Goddard said, “Everyone is you pushed out.” Our outer world mirrors the assumptions, beliefs, and expectations we carry inside.

If you believe people will overlook you, they will.
If you believe you’re powerless, life will reflect that back.
If you believe you’re unworthy of love or abundance—you’ll live in the shadow of that belief.

Fear is not truth. It’s a distortion of truth. A colored lens through which we perceive life. And our awareness—what we consistently focus on—creates the reality we live in.

Even this morning, I felt it. I looked at my bank balance and saw a number I didn’t like. Immediately, a wave of fear rose up. A mental movie started playing: What will I do? How much more will I have to work? What if I can’t make it?

But as Byron Katie teaches: “Is it true? Can you absolutely know it’s true?”

In that moment—right now—I had a roof over my head, food in my kitchen, warmth, and peace. But my thoughts wanted to live in a catastrophic future that hadn’t happened yet. That’s how sneaky fear is—it pulls us out of the moment and into illusion.

I see this often in the children at daycare. They play different roles, try on different identities. Through play, they imagine who they will become. But somewhere along the way, as we grow up, we forget that we’re still allowed to choose. We forget we can rewrite the script.

We start believing we are our fears.
We start believing we are our traumas.
We start believing we are what others told us we were.

But we’re not. We’re the one who decides. Always.

And when we forget, we give our power away—to people, to situations, to numbers on a screen.

So I ask you:

• What are your fears?

• What inner conversation do you keep alive?

• Who is the new version of you waiting to be born?

• Where are you still playing the role of the victim, when you could be the hero of your story?

• Where do you hand your power over to others?

• Where are you still choosing fear over freedom?

Remember: fear doesn’t disappear by force. It dissolves through awareness.

Come back to that calm center—the quiet place within the hurricane of your thoughts. It’s always there, waiting for you. And from that stillness, you can choose again.

Every day, I encounter women who long for change. And of course—they’re not alone. We all reach moments when we ache for something different. But here’s the truth: if we want change, we must be the change. Life doesn’t happen to us—it happens through us.

In my last blog, I wrote about wanting a child. It’s a helpful picture to understand how life moves through us. If we want a child, we must first sow the seed. A baby isn’t handed to us; it grows within us, shaped by time, nourishment, and care. And just like any seed, it carries a unique DNA—its future is already embedded in the intention.

It’s the same with every desire.

I think of myself years ago when I left the spiritual cult I had grown up in. I had been married young by the community’s authorities. My entire world—my friends, family, and beliefs—was wrapped up in that structure. I had no formal education, little financial independence, and a young son who needed me. I was told I knew nothing. I believed it. And I thought change was impossible.

Neville Goddard once said he cut the word “impossible” out of his dictionary. I hadn’t found Neville yet back then—but I had found something just as important: desire. I didn’t know how I would survive on the outside, but I knew I couldn’t stay.

Walking away from everything I’d ever known felt like throwing myself into a river with no shore in sight. The current was strong. I was terrified. And yet—somewhere inside, a voice kept whispering, “Keep going. There’s more.”

Without any real roadmap, I often wandered into situations where others took advantage of my vulnerability. I confused kindness with approval. I clung to others’ needs before my own. I mistook survival for love. My inner compass had been hidden under years of guilt, obedience, and shame.

But it was still there.

The years since then have taught me more than I can capture in one blog. But the most important truth I’ve discovered is this: you can change your life. No matter where you start from. No matter how stuck it seems. You just need to take responsibility for how you perceive your life—and that’s where your power lives.

People sometimes say to me, “Your situation is different than mine.” Maybe. But as someone once said: “Each person’s hell is the worst hell.” That may be true—but it also means that each person’s hope can be the most powerful hope.

You have to ask yourself:

• Do I see life as something that won’t change—or as something that’s already beginning to shift?
• Am I investing energy in all that’s going wrong—or imagining what might finally go right?
• Am I willing to step into the unknown?

For so long, I wasn’t.

And people often think I’ve always been strong or peaceful. The truth? I’ve been a fighter from the very beginning. I believe that spirit has always been with me—even from before birth. My mother once told me she almost had an abortion, but something stopped her. She said she felt my will to live. And that same spirit carried me through the darkest tunnels of my life.

Yes, I’ve been scared. Yes, I’ve been a victim. But I’ve also woken up. And I’ve learned that the mind loves the comfort of familiar suffering more than the risk of freedom.

What helped me most was beginning to question my thoughts. Byron Katie’s four questions became a lighthouse in my storm:

1. Is it true?
2. Can I absolutely know it’s true?
3. How do I react when I believe that thought?
4. Who would I be without it?

Those questions taught me to slow down the wild horses in my mind.

So if you’re reading this and you’re stuck, afraid, or exhausted by your own looping thoughts—I’m here to tell you: you are the one who sows the seed. And the life that grows from it is already waiting inside you. But only you can water it.

Don’t wait for life to hand you the change. Be the change.