Month: May 2025

Today, after only a few hours at work, I stepped out of the daycare center and felt an overwhelming tension in my chest. Everything felt foreign and distant. My breath was shallow, and a flood of thoughts rushed through my mind.

I crossed a large bridge and paused to look down over the city. Something in me needed stillness—to go inward and ask: What’s happening inside?

Being a visual person, I immediately saw an image in my mind: a huge water balloon, heavy and on the verge of bursting. I felt the weight of it, emotionally, physically, and then the tears came. Just like clouds that can no longer hold the weight of summer rain, my tears fell freely. And with them, came relief.

As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I found myself reflecting on my life. I asked, Have I truly dared to dream big? Am I being honest with myself?
Where in my life am I not living what makes me feel truly alive? And if I’m not — what’s holding me back?
Why is it that, at times, life feels like something I merely have to endure, rather than something I’m free to fully embrace?

We tell ourselves that “now” isn’t the right time. We postpone joy, rest, change. We wait for the children to grow up, for the right partner, for more money, less responsibility, the perfect moment. But what if we only had 24 hours left to live? Would we still be waiting?

Too often, our reasons become excuses.
We say it’s because of work, the relationship, the household, the money.
And maybe there’s some truth to that.
But it’s only as true as we choose to believe it.
The deeper truth is this: if it doesn’t make you happy, something needs to change —
because your life is meant to be lived in joy.
And that begins with a decision.

Neville Goddard once said, “The word ‘impossible’ does not exist in my vocabulary.” What if we removed it from ours too? What if we chose to believe that life supports us when we dare to trust our inner voice?

We spend so much energy focused on why things can’t change. What would happen if we gave that same energy to how they might?

As I stood there on the bridge, I realized how often I had given away my energy, how often I had prioritized the well-being of others over my own. Sometimes out of love, but often out of a sense of duty.
And yet, what we often call love is really a yes to the other and a no to ourselves.
In the end, it becomes a no to the other as well, because when we say yes outwardly but no in our hearts, we are not being honest with ourselves or with the other person.
From this inner conflict, expectations often arise, the hope that our own needs will somehow be met. And that’s human, even beautiful, as long as we don’t lose ourselves in the process, and don’t forget that only we can truly fulfill ourselves.

Our inner voice knows. It tells us quietly when we’ve wandered too far from our truth. But we’ve been taught to ignore it, to be sensible, to be “good girls,” to stay in line.

There’s a saying: “Good girls go to heaven; bad girls go everywhere.” Maybe we’ve misunderstood what being “good” really means. Goodness, in its highest form, starts with truth. It starts with doing what lights you up from the inside.

In my case, I had to ask: Am I living to serve others? Or am I doing what makes my soul sing?

Time passes. Life doesn’t wait. If we want to feel fully alive, we have to be willing to look at the beliefs and fears that keep us stuck. We must ask, Is it really true that I can’t change this? Or am I hiding behind an old story because I’m afraid of what change might demand of me?

We have to be honest—with deep, compassionate clarity. Real happiness is not found in the approval of others, or in waiting for perfect conditions. It’s found when we take full responsibility for the direction of our lives.

Like Neville says, “I AM” is the most powerful phrase in the universe—whatever follows it shapes our world.

Everyone has to be something. Even those who feel lost still carry an identity.

So I ask you the same question I asked myself on that bridge:

Who are you? And who are you becoming?Who Are You—Really?

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Today, I had a beautiful conversation with my sister.
We reflected on how much our lives have changed since we began shifting our perspective, noticing how generous life truly is. And when we become aware of that, our whole perception starts to focus on what is being given to us, rather than on what feels missing or taken away.
It’s a shift from a mindset of lack to one of abundance.

We both noticed how many doors have opened since we stopped seeing ourselves as victims of past experiences, circumstances, or other people, and instead began asking what each encounter came to teach us.

In the end, it always comes down to one simple truth:
Either we reclaim our power, or we allow external situations, people, thoughts, or old habits to take control.
Do we let life bring us down, or do we allow it to make us stronger?

It means asking ourselves: What can I do in this moment?
Often, the answers are right in front of us, but we don’t trust ourselves.
We’re afraid, of failing, of losing something, of not being good enough. These fears are rooted in the ways we learned to see ourselves in the past.
And even today, we move through life still connected to those old beliefs, relating to the world as we once did, without realizing it.

We often convince ourselves that there are no solutions, but the deeper question is: What are we actually afraid of?
Are the problems even real? Or are they projections of a fearful mind, telling us stories that aren’t necessarily true? Our entire life is shaped by the assumptions we hold about how things are, or how we believe they are not.

A situation is just a situation. It only gains weight or meaning through the lens we’re looking through.
So we must ask: What assumptions are tied to the fears we carry?
What insecurities keep us from daring to choose for ourselves?
What beliefs stand in our way, holding us back from allowing ourselves to live our dreams, feel our desires, and finally make decisions that are true to who we really are?

I recently heard an interview with Tom Cruise that really struck me. He spoke about fear, saying:

“Don’t be so worried if you feel afraid. It’s okay, just keep working through it. Fear is the unknown. It’s what you don’t yet understand. Recognize that, and know it’s okay not to know. Move toward knowing, one step at a time.”

He explained how he trains himself and others:

“First, you learn to crawl. Then you walk. Then jog. Then run. Then sprint.”

A simple yet powerful image of growth:
It’s not about doing everything at once —
but about asking ourselves again and again: What can I invest in myself today?

It’s not about perfection.
It’s about curiosity, presence, and self-care.
It’s about returning to ourselves,
gaining a new perspective,
and realizing that we are capable of so much more
when we understand:
We are not the identity we’ve carried with us all our lives.
The real question is: Who is the one identifying?

What do I truly need to feel nourished, alive, and whole?

My sister told me a story that stayed with me.
She knew a family living in deep poverty. Their home was old, worn down. In an effort to “modernize” it, they broke down and burned the antique doors, cupboards, and a beautiful old tiled stove—unaware that these were rare, valuable pieces of craftsmanship. Only later did someone tell them what they had destroyed.

The treasure was right under their noses — yet they couldn’t see it.
Because they weren’t able to recognize what life was offering them.
They even destroyed what could have led to their abundance,
firmly believing it was worthless.
Because they saw it through the lens of lack —
not through the eyes of abundance.

She also shared another tale: a farmer, frustrated that nothing would grow on his rocky land, decided to sell it. A passing gemologist recognized the “rocks” as valuable gemstones and bought the property for a fair price. The farmer was relieved—but unknowingly walked away from a hidden fortune.

How many times do we do the same?

We think we lack what we need, when in truth, the treasure is already there. Right under our feet. Right within us.

But fear and self-doubt cloud our vision. We compare ourselves to others. We say, If only I were more like her. If only I had more talent. If only I looked different…
I lived like that for many years.

And yet—each of us has a unique path. As Einstein once said:

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it’s stupid.”

He also said:

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

We can’t solve our problems with the same thoughts that created them.
That’s why deep change begins not with action—but with awareness. We have to be willing to meet ourselves honestly, investigate our patterns, and reconnect with who we truly are.

For me, two teachers were life-changing:
Byron Katie taught me that I am not my wounded ego. Her Four Questions helped me unravel the beliefs that had kept me stuck.
Neville Goddard helped me understand the power of the subconscious mind—that everything I’ve experienced was shaped by the assumptions I carried. And that I could change it all, if I changed my inner conversation.

Why did I repeat the same cycles in love, work, and self-worth?
Not by chance. But through patterns that went unexamined.
Now, I examine them—and in doing so, I set myself free.

That’s why I feel so called to share what I’ve learned. Not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve walked the path. I’ve fallen. I’ve risen. I’ve found tools that helped me come home to myself.
And I know that if I could do it, so can you.

The treasure is already within you.
You don’t need to earn it, prove it, or chase it.
You just have to remember it.

“To change our behavior, we must change our feelings, and to change our feelings, we must change our thoughts.”
Dr. Edith Eva Eger

I recently listened to an interview with Dr. Edith Eva Eger, a Jewish woman who survived the Holocaust. Her story deeply moved me. What stood out the most was her unshakable resilience and the message she now shares with the world: that no matter what we’ve lived through, we are not broken. We can change our lives, starting with how we think.

This message is also at the heart of what Neville Goddard and Byron Katie teach: if we want to experience a new world, we must first look at the world through a new lens. We are not fixed identities, we are shaped by thoughts, habits, and beliefs. And we can change those.

“Each of us bears his own hell.” – Virgil

Of course, none of our personal stories can or should be compared to the unimaginable pain of something like the Holocaust. But I believe we each carry a story, a quiet suffering, a set of experiences that shaped our worldview and challenged our sense of safety, self-worth, and hope. Some call it trauma, others call it life. Regardless of the label, what unites us is how we choose to move forward.

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🌿 Where It All Began

I grew up in a spiritual community, the Hare Krishna movement. From the outside, it may have looked peaceful, even idyllic. But within that world existed strict rules, spiritual ideals, and often a lack of space for personal needs or emotional support.
Especially for us children, it wasn’t always easy to express what we truly needed.

Life was structured and deeply hierarchical.
As girls, our voices didn’t carry much weight.
From a young age, I moved between temples and boarding schools, as attending public school wasn’t easy for a Hare Krishna child.
In some ways, I felt protected, spared from the pressures of mainstream school life. And I had a lot of fun with my friends, who shared my world and saw life the way I did.

But when it came to emotional support and personal needs, there was a void.
I learned early on that if I wanted to stay out of trouble, it was best to be the “good girl”, obedient, quiet, agreeable.
That way, I’d receive confirmation that I was doing everything right, meeting others expectations.
It was likely the moment I became a people pleaser, someone who learned to suppress her own needs in order to gain approval.
I began to confuse being loved with avoiding conflict and doing what was expected of me.

When I was ten, I returned home to Sweden after spending some time at a Krishna boarding school in France.
I was happy to be back, but I didn’t really know where I belonged.

They had just opened a Krishna school in Sweden, and I was the first child to attend.
Due to traditional Indian customs, there was a strict belief that a child in school should live with the teacher, outside the family home.
So even though I was back in Sweden, I didn’t live with my mother, I stayed at the school compound.
I often felt a bit lost.

My mother and her husband had, in their younger years, a somewhat turbulent relationship.

I often found myself wanting to help, but not knowing how.
It left me feeling helpless at times.

I had two younger siblings who looked up to me.
I played with them, cared for them, and very quickly learned to take responsibility for the well-being of others.
It became natural to me.

But perhaps more than any individual, it was the rigid way things were taught that planted in me a deep sense of guilt, and the feeling that I wasn’t good enough.
Along with that came the belief that others stood above me, and that I had no voice, nothing of value to say.
That left its mark.
Guilt and shame became emotions that followed me for years, shadows I had to work through later in life.
They serve no real purpose.
In truth, they are obstacles, standing in the way of both spiritual growth and a healthy, grounded life in the world.

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💔 A Flame Dimmed by Silence

Not long after, something happened that would shape the way I related to love, shame, and fear for decades to come.

A young man from the temple began secretly grooming me.
It started innocently, small notes hidden in my shoes.
There was mystery in it, and attention. For me, it felt like affection, a space where I could breathe, where someone saw me and made me laugh.
In the midst of everyday turbulence, it brought a sense of excitement.

At the time, I didn’t have the words to explain what was happening.
Deep down, I understood it was forbidden to meet him in the forest, but that secretly only added to the thrill.
It was the first time I experienced the feeling of idolizing someone. And he knew exactly how to navigate that space.

Eventually, the adults found out.
But instead of protecting me or seeking to understand what had really happened, they made me feel like I was the problem.

Once again, I felt it, guilt and shame.
They began to guard me closely. There were even discussions about whether I should be married off to the man.
I was only eleven years old.

In the end, they decided to send me away, to France, for my own “protection.”
But no one sat down with me to say, You did nothing wrong.
No one told me, You are just a child. This is not your fault.

And yet, going to France turned out to be the best thing that could have happened.
Even though arriving there wasn’t easy either, because, of course, you can never truly run away from yourself.

The teachers scolded me for looking so downcast.
But what could I say?
So I stayed silent, and sank deeper into the shame of not being good enough,
ashamed that I had somehow failed to be the “good girl” I had once promised myself to be.

There and then, I made a vow to myself:
No matter what happens, I will never again do anything wrong.
I will stay conscious. I will not bring disharmony to anyone.

.That shame followed me for years, shaping how I saw myself and how I showed up in relationships. I became a people pleaser, afraid of taking up space, afraid of being “too much.” Guilt became a silent companion, whispering that I wasn’t lovable, that I was the problem.

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🌱 The Choice to Heal

That feeling, that something was inherently wrong with me, along with guilt and shame, shaped many of the choices I made later in life. I got married young, after being told it would be safer for me. They said I was a danger to the men at the temple, especially after the incident with the young man who had fallen in love with me. I accepted it. I had learned that marrying young was normal, even wise, for my own protection. I told myself, Let me show I am sincere, that I don’t want to be a burden or a complication to anyone. Part of me was excited, it was a new beginning. But ultimately, it wasn’t a choice I made freely. I believed I was doing the right thing. I remained faithful for years, even when things no longer felt right. It was easier to stay, to avoid the discomfort of choices that might upset others or cause pain. Yet deep inside, I had already made a different decision. I had already outgrown that version of myself.

I know so many people—especially women—who stay in jobs, relationships, or belief systems out of the same kind of fear. And others who never make a choice at all, instead numbing that quiet knowing with something else: pills, alcohol, soap operas, living inside someone else’s story. It’s the fear of being selfish. The fear of starting over. The fear that it might get worse. The belief that we don’t deserve more.

But we do. We always have.

At some point, the flame that had dimmed inside me began to flicker again. I started asking different questions:
What if I’m not broken?
What if I don’t have to earn love?
What if I can choose my own path?

It wasn’t easy. Healing never is. But as I began to walk my path, I found comfort and clarity in voices like Byron Katie, who said:

“Nothing you believe is true. Knowing this is freedom.”

This reminded me to question my thoughts, to look closely at the fears I clung to. Were they really true? Or were they simply reflections of old wounds, filters shaped by my past, by the way I had learned to see the world? With time, I came to understand that the way we perceive things can be more limiting than reality itself.

And Dr. Eger again:

“In the end, it’s not about what happens to us that matters most, it’s what we choose to do with it.”

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✨ What is Your Flame?

We all carry pain. But we also carry strength.

That strength lives in the decision to start again. It lives in the moment we decide to stop waiting for approval, and begin choosing ourselves. It’s the part of us that knows there’s more beyond the darkness. It’s the part that whispers, “Keep going.”

We don’t have to live the dream we were told to dream. We can live the one we create.

So I leave you with this: What is your inner flame? Where did you lose it? And how will you choose to keep it alive?

After writing about returning to the flame within, I asked myself:
What does it take to keep it alive?

Remembering who we are is one thing, but living from that place every day is something else entirely. It takes practice. Because even when we know better, we tend to fall back into familiar patterns. Thought loops, old pain, outdated beliefs, they all pull us like gravity.

This morning, I awoke with anxiety. And although I’ve learned how to meet those moments with awareness, today felt like a real struggle. The kind of inner resistance that whispers: Why bother? Nothing’s changing. But I’ve walked this path long enough now to recognize the voice for what it is, just another wave to pass through.

In the past, I would have given up. Accepted that heaviness as truth and called it my way. Today, I’ve come to see these feelings like ghosts in a tunnel: strange and looming at first, but when I face them, they fade into mist. They aren’t dangerous. They’re just visitors. And the fear of fear itself, that’s the only thing that can keep me stuck.

I read a quote from the Tao Te Ching that stayed with me:

“Go with the flow. Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes.
Don’t resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality.
Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”

Those words have comforted me more than once, especially when life felt messy and nothing made sense.

One of those times was when my long-term partner suddenly left me. We had just bought an apartment together. I had plans. I wanted to start a new education. He used to say I was the most important person in his life. Then one day, he walked out, and went traveling instead.

At first, I felt a strange relief. The truth is, our relationship had been draining—for both of us. But soon after, I felt shattered. I clung to him. I begged him to stay. I believed that if he could just love me enough, everything inside me would finally feel whole. But in that moment, the truth became painfully clear: my relationship with myself was broken. Because if it hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have been begging for love from someone who no longer wanted to give it. I thought I couldn’t survive without his love. But where was my love for me, the moment I treated myself like a beggar with nothing left to offer? I was clearly being confronted with old fears—fears of abandonment, of having to beg for love because, deep down, I believed I wasn’t good enough. But as Osho so wisely said:

“Two people, both begging for love, become like two beggars
holding their bowls before each other, and both bowls are empty.”

That’s what we were: two people hungry for something we hadn’t found within ourselves. He believed freedom lay in escape. I believed fulfillment lay in his approval. And so we both remained empty.

When he finally moved to Thailand with someone new, my entire world went dark. The pain was unbearable. But for the first time, I could see that it wasn’t just about him. The grief ran deeper. I wasn’t only mourning the loss of a man, I was mourning every time in my life I had been left behind. The little girl in me, the one who had always stayed quiet, stayed strong, stayed invisible, she finally rose to the surface. And she was no longer willing to be hidden.

And that’s when the healing began.

That was the turning point, when I stopped looking outward for love and began turning inward to find myself again. To find that little girl. That flame. That joy.

Today, I don’t wait for others to tell me I’m enough. I don’t need anyone to name my worth. I don’t stand waiting anymore, because I know who I am. And I’ve made peace with the girl who once thought she had to be strong to be loved.

Neville Goddard says:

“Those who go searching for love only make manifest their own lovelessness.
And the loveless never find love.”

I understand that now.

To keep the flame alive, we must stop waiting for someone else to tend to it.
We must build the fire. Breathe into it. Nourish it.
And know—deeply—that we are already enough.

I once heard someone say that every child is born with a burning flame inside. A flame of curiosity, joy, and boundless imagination. Children don’t question their worth—they play freely, dream wildly, and believe they can be anything.

As someone who works with children, I see that flame every day. I listen to their conversations, and I can already hear the world shaping them—mirroring back the beliefs of their caregivers, repeating patterns passed down through generations. And slowly, as we grow, that flame begins to dim. We’re told to be more realistic. To stop dreaming. To toughen up. We are scolded for being “too much,” “too sensitive,” or “too different.” Bit by bit, we trade our inner fire for approval, obedience, and belonging.

Many people end up living lives they were advised to live—not the ones they once dreamed of.

I remember when I was nine years old. My mother decided to send me to a Krishna boarding school in France. We were living in Sweden, and the local temple didn’t have facilities for children, so she felt this was the best choice. We packed into a VW Beetle—my mother, brother, stepfather, and me—and drove south. I still remember stopping overnight at a friend’s house, watching Singing in the Rain on a little black-and-white television. Fred Astaire danced across the screen, and it felt like magic—one of the last “normal” moments before life changed.

When my mother left me at the school a few weeks later, I felt something shift. I didn’t cry—not because I didn’t want to—but because I felt I had to be strong. I wanted to be strong for her. Something inside me decided that my own needs were less important than those of others.

Looking back, I can see how that moment became a thread I followed for many years. I learned to endure. To be the “good girl.” To carry the emotional weight of others without question. I thought that if I just stayed quiet, helpful, and strong, I would be loved. That was the cost of acceptance: self-denial.

But here’s what I now understand—being “strong” in that way isn’t really strength. It’s survival.

As a child, I didn’t yet have the tools to know that. I found my own little islands of comfort at school, made friends, and even had moments of joy. But I also cried at night, overwhelmed by loneliness. I was learning, silently and deeply, how to dim my own light to avoid rocking the boat.

So many of us are shaped by those early impressions. And as adults, we keep living in those same loops—afraid to speak out, afraid to take up space, afraid to feel. We’ve forgotten how to watch our thoughts rather than become them. We’ve forgotten to dance in the rain. We’ve forgotten how brightly we once burned.

Guilt, shame, and fear are the great silencers of joy. They shrink us, making us believe that happiness is somewhere far off. But the truth is: there is no way to happiness. We are the way.

The more we feed the monsters of our past with fear and doubt, the more they grow. But the moment we pause and observe them, we remember—we’re not the fear. We’re not the monster. We’re the one watching. And the one watching still carries that flame.

If we want to find our way back, we must return to that original spark. We must become aware of the lens we’ve been using to see the world. Because it’s not too late to choose a new one.

We’re not broken. We’ve just forgotten the way home.

 There was a time in my life when I didn’t know anything about how the world outside worked. I was 30 years old, a woman with no formal education, no status, and no real interaction with life beyond the society I had grown up in. My world had been small and tightly managed. When I first came to Switzerland as a teenager, I was assigned to work in the kitchen. I didn’t know how to cook—but I learned quickly. Sometimes we cooked through the night, and although I was often exhausted, I became a skilled cook. I even traveled to India to learn their culinary traditions. So yes, I had worked hard. I had achieved things. But on paper, I had nothing to show for it—no diploma, no proof, no official education.

My son was around nine. I had been married for 17 years. I took care of children and delivered advertising flyers. At the time, I believed there could be no better job for someone like me. I simply accepted what life handed me—just as I had been taught. I thought it was normal to submit to any authority. Even when my then-boss mistreated me, I didn’t stand up for myself. My husband would scold me, not understanding why I couldn’t speak up. But it wasn’t about courage—it was conditioning. I had learned obedience, not self-advocacy.

When my son started school, I began to interact more with the world outside. Slowly, I developed a desire for independence. I remember meeting a woman eating pizza alone. She had just divorced her husband. I was captivated by her freedom. She had her own money, her own time, and the simple pleasure of eating a meal in peace. That was a luxury I had never known.

But stepping out into the world wasn’t easy. I went from one government office to another, asking for support. Since I had no papers, no records, they kept sending me away. One morning, discouraged but determined, I picked up a newspaper and saw a job ad: a sales position at the most exclusive chocolate shop in Zürich.

Something inside me stirred. I felt nervous but called the number. The man who answered had a kind, cheerful voice. I told him I wanted the job. He laughed and said, “Tomorrow is the 9th of the 9th, 1999. Come at 9:00 a.m.” It felt like a sign.

I arrived in a long dress and braid. He greeted me warmly and invited me into his office. When he asked if I had experience in sales, I admitted I didn’t. But I told him that as a young woman, I used to admire the shop windows and dream of working there. I mentioned my knowledge of Indian sweets and my strong desire to work.

He looked at me and said, “Well, it’s clear you don’t know much—but I admire your courage. I’m only the hiring manager for another year, and I’d like to give you this job. You seem sincere.” He asked if I had any documents. I didn’t. Later, we had to improvise a bit, but it worked out. He decided to place me at the airport branch, in transit, where I wouldn’t have to deal with the rigid branch managers.

That was the beginning. The other women supported me. At first, they thought I came from another planet. But once they got to know me and heard my story, they were kind.

That job was the start of my emancipation. I began leaving everything I had ever known behind—everything that had once felt safe but also held me back. I began stepping into something completely unknown.

I remember my sister once told me, “Not making a decision is the only wrong decision.” She was right.

It was scary. But I know that had I not made that leap back then, I wouldn’t be where I am today.

And that’s the point. Sometimes the hard steps, the terrifying ones, are the beginning of a new life.

Even the tough times can become a blessing—if we’re willing to walk into the unknown.

There was a time in my life when I just lived from day to day, as if inside a bubble of reality. Everything I saw was colored by that bubble—filtered through the lens of my past, my conditioning, and my limited sense of self. It reminds me of the film The Truman Show with Jim Carrey. His whole life had been staged since childhood. His family, friends, even his job—all of it was a scripted illusion. But Truman didn’t know anything else, because he had never seen beyond the world built around him.

Still, something inside him began to stir. He started to feel that something was missing, and despite his fear, he dared to search for the truth. That’s when everything changed.

In many ways, I was Truman.

The world I grew up in had strict rules and rituals. I was taught that as long as I obeyed, everything would be okay. My life had been dictated by the authorities in the institution I was raised in, and I had never learned to make choices for myself. I believed I needed others to tell me what to do, even how to think. That’s how deeply I had internalized the belief that I couldn’t trust myself.

It felt easier to live in a system that told me who I was. The only responsibility I had was to follow the rules. And yet, like Truman, I began to feel dissatisfied. I didn’t want to just survive. I wanted to live.

When I left my first husband, I didn’t know how to function outside the system I’d grown up in. I had no tools, no formal education, and no real experience making decisions for myself. Most of my conversations at the time revolved around shared complaints—especially the lack of love we felt. We’d speak in circles, reinforcing the belief that something was wrong out there. I believed that if I could just find the right relationship, the right partner, then everything would finally fall into place.

But after my last two long-term relationships ended, I realized something: it wasn’t just about them. The pain I carried was deeper. These men had been mirrors—reflecting back the wounds I hadn’t healed.

I started to see that I was still living from the belief that I was not good enough. That love had to be earned. That I had to suffer through what was given to me. And most of all, that the solution was outside of me. I didn’t see the gold I already carried within.

It’s only in the last years that I’ve begun to see clearly. To sit in the stillness and realize: I am not broken. I am not helpless. And I am not at the mercy of other people’s actions or opinions.

Like Byron Katie says, we must always question our thoughts. “Can you absolutely know that it’s true?” she asks. So often, what we believe is only a story we’ve repeated to ourselves for so long that it feels like reality.

Neville Goddard wrote, “Do not try to change others—they are only messengers telling you who you are. Revalue yourself, and they will confirm the change.” That was a truth I had to learn firsthand. The moment I began to revalue myself, everything around me started to shift.

There’s still work to do. Life still brings its challenges. But today, when I notice the familiar stories playing in my mind—the old lenses of fear, doubt, and worthlessness—I pause. I sit in the middle of the storm and remember: I am the source of my peace.

And so are you.