Author: admin

Inner peace lies within — it’s something I often speak about, something I’ve preached for a long time. I’ve been on this path for years, working to examine my thoughts and uncover the reasons why certain outcomes keep repeating.

My understanding of myself has deepened through experience and through the teachings of Neville Goddard — teachings that, in the end, are about ourselves and who we believe ourselves to be.

For many years, I lived in an institution that left me feeling helpless. I used to speak constantly about my past, repeating the same stories I had endured throughout my upbringing. I identified so strongly with them that I believed that was who I was.

In the beginning, after I stepped out of that reality — the one where I was a Hare Krishna girl married at a young age — I felt a lot of anger and frustration. I didn’t know which reality to belong to, or what to identify with.

I had entered society — the so-called “real world” — with an open, innocent spirit, hopeful for a better life. I was finally free. But was I truly free?

Yes, on the outside. But inside, I still carried my conditioned way of seeing things.

It didn’t take long before my old doubts and low self-worth returned to haunt me. I found myself in situations full of chaos and drama — situations I couldn’t break free from because of my deep fear of rejection or of not being good enough.

I lived in a constant state of adjustment — always making sure others were comfortable, tending to their needs, and never claiming space for my own.

Looking back, I can now see that growing up in the movement did have beautiful aspects. I was fulfilled in ways many people never get to experience.

But I had to step away for a long time, because I had also been hurt — not by spirituality itself, but by the dogma and fanaticism surrounding it.

Though the movement emphasized that children should never be forced into spiritual practice, in reality, it was rigid, joyless, and imposed upon us.

I still remember walking into the temple for the first time at the age of seven. The air was filled with sweetness — a mix of fruit, flowers, and thick incense smoke. My mother spoke of the sleeping deities resting behind the curtains. I had no idea what that meant.

She gave me japa beads to chant the Hare Krishna mantra. I felt an immediate attraction to Krishna and all the divine figures I was introduced to.

Then, one day, she took me to the temple room to finally see the deities. I remember the sound of the bell, the soft chime, and how the curtain slowly opened.

There stood Caitanya Mahaprabhu and his brother Nityananda in ecstatic dancing poses, adorned with flower garlands and radiant with joy. Their faces were filled with bliss, and even as a child, I turned to my mother and knew — this was something meaningful.

It was 4 a.m., the sacred hour for meditation, and though waking that early was hard, I was grateful for the spiritual experiences I had.

Still, I had to face the damage caused by the rigidity — the cold, rule-based system that neglected emotional needs.

Years later, after leaving the movement at age thirty, I was disgusted. I wanted nothing to do with it. I rejected everything I had once known. I desperately wanted to be “normal,” to fit in with the rest of society.

Until that point, I had only known the inside world of the movement. I had to step out.

Today, I can see both the beauty and the pain of what I experienced. I understand now that practicing spiritual life doesn’t mean you understand spiritual life.

Many people live by the rules, dependent on the rituals they follow, yet remain disconnected from joy and meaning. That’s not fulfillment — that’s spiritual dependency. That’s fear.

True spirituality means walking with your own legs — not clinging to the chain out of fear of falling.

I carried many spiritual tools with me from childhood, but for a long time, I didn’t know how to use them.

Then I discovered Neville Goddard. His words helped me connect the dots: that everything is consciousness, and reality is shaped by how we perceive it.

There is no fixed world. We are the dreamers.

What we experience — the people, the stories, the emotions — all arise from our awareness. Just like our dreams at night, all the characters and situations we encounter are reflections of us.

Neville says, “Things have no reality other than in consciousness. Therefore, get the consciousness first, and the thing is compelled to appear.”

We can only perceive that which we are aware of.

So, who are we, really?
What is the reality we’re perceiving — right now?
And can we say that it’s truth when ten people beside us may be seeing something entirely different?

I was heavily influenced by how I was raised and how I saw myself.

Sometimes, I still forget who I truly am. My habit-mind clings to the old narratives and labels.

For a long time, I lived as a victim of my past.

But today, more often than not, I feel gratitude. Gratitude for the journey that brought me back to myself.

We’ve all lived through experiences that left their mark. But perhaps we can start seeing those moments not as things that broke us, but as the very things that shaped us.

Because in the end — I decide what I do with my story.
And so do you.

After writing about money and security in my last blog, I found myself unexpectedly drawn to the story of the Titanic. I had never looked into it in detail before, but something called me to reflect on it.

So many wealthy people boarded that ship with confidence, perhaps even a sense of invincibility. They brought with them their treasures, their finest clothes, and their precious jewelry. Yet, when the ship sank, all of it went to the bottom of the ocean with them. Some passengers gave up their places on the lifeboats for others. They accepted their fate with calm. Others panicked. But regardless of their reactions, they shared the same ultimate reality: everything external can be taken from us in an instant.

What remains in moments like these? Inner peace. Self-connection. Faith. No amount of wealth or possessions can protect us from life’s unpredictability. True security doesn’t come from the outside — it’s rooted deep within.

And yet, how tightly we hold on to the illusion of outer security. We stay in jobs we don’t enjoy, in roles that limit us, just to feel safe. I hear people say, “I’m not happy here, but at least it’s secure.” But what is security, really, if it robs us of joy?

I’m not saying we should walk away from everything. Not at all. Security can be a beautiful thing. But we have to remember: we can only hold something new when our hands are empty. Clinging too tightly to what we have — out of fear — leaves no room for the life we could live.

A quote I heard recently from the Indian monk Keshava Swami stuck with me:

“We have taller buildings but shorter tempers. Wider highways but narrower minds. We’ve conquered outer space but are still struggling with inner space… We lose our health to gain wealth, then spend that wealth to regain our health. We have more degrees, but less sense.”

So true, isn’t it? We’ve gained so much — materially — but in many ways, we’ve lost ourselves. And that’s the greatest loss of all.

Don’t get me wrong. I love comfort. I love beauty. I love nice things. I’m not anti-pleasure or anti-material. I just know that without a strong relationship to ourselves, none of it satisfies. The outer can only enhance what is already alive inside us.

This comes back to one essential truth:

Everything begins with awareness.

How do we experience life? What lens are we looking through? If we’ve been raised to believe that life is a struggle, that joy is rare, that nothing comes easy — then that becomes our experience. Not because it’s true, but because we’ve accepted it as our truth.

We watch the news and consume the worst of the world — because we’ve lost touch with the news inside of us. Our own desires. Our joy. Our curiosity. And so we fill that empty space with fear.

But what if life is simply a reflection of what we’re aware of?

Dreams work like this. When we dream at night, we create everything — the people, the setting, the fear, the love. It’s all us. And waking life isn’t so different. We experience life not as it is, but as we are.

Even on the Titanic, everyone was living the same event, but not everyone experienced it the same way. Some resisted. Some surrendered. Some panicked. Others chose peace. The difference wasn’t the situation — it was their state of being.

I’ve realized something: only I can free or imprison myself.

It’s not money.
Not my job.
Not a relationship.
Not circumstances.
Only me.

The side of the coin I choose to look at becomes my reality. I used to see only one side — the side of fear, lack, self-doubt. But pain made me curious. Suffering made me ask: Is this really all there is? That question led me to spiritual truth. To teachers. To inner work. To stillness.

Truth has many faces, but it always leads to the same place: home. Peace. Awareness.

If you’re seeking peace, you have to go there — into yourself. That’s where the answers are.

And if I can help share what I’ve learned, or walk a few steps with you on your path, I would be deeply honored.

We all need money, so much so that many of us are willing to sacrifice our dreams for it. We push ourselves through jobs we don’t love, often complaining about how exhausting it is to show up day after day. And yet, we rarely question why we keep doing it.

When we love what we do, something shifts. We enter a state of flow. It’s no longer about the paycheck — it’s about fulfillment. But most of us don’t dare to believe such a life is possible. Instead, we cling to the idea of security, even when it costs us our joy.

How often have you heard people gather at work just to talk about how boring, unfair, or underpaid their job is? It becomes a kind of united suffering. A collective story of endurance. But why do we endure what we don’t want, what doesn’t make us happy?

The answer is simple: fear.

I know this well.

After leaving the Hare Krishna movement, I had to start life from scratch. I came to Switzerland at 15 to get married. I had just completed boarding school in France, where all classes were in English. Because the Swiss temple needed a cook, and I was the new young wife, I was sent to the kitchen.

Nobody asked me what I wanted to do. And honestly, back then, I didn’t even ask myself.

Later, I became a mother at 20 and stayed at home. My then-husband was a missionary who sold Vedic scriptures door-to-door. We lived with very little. When my son turned five, we moved away from the temple and enrolled him in a public kindergarten — a huge shift for us. I had never lived in society before, and suddenly, I found myself isolated in a small apartment, disconnected from the only world I had ever known.

That’s when I decided to get a job — to feel useful, to contribute, to belong.

My first job was delivering ads. It was tedious. Eventually, my ex-husband and I burned them all in a giant bonfire in the forest. That was the end of that. My second job was better. I finally earned real money, for the first time in my life. But I had no relationship to money. I had never handled it. And when I had it, I felt guilty and gave it away.

Money scared me.

I didn’t know how to keep it, how to use it wisely, or even how to enjoy it. I thought having it made me selfish. I often gave it to my husband, then panicked when I had none left. The fear of not having enough — and the shame of having anything at all — kept me trapped in a cycle of lack.

Looking back, I see how much of my money story was shaped by the environment I was born into. My mother was 15 when she had me. Our family was rich in love but poor in financial security. There was always an undercurrent of anxiety around money. I learned that money was stressful, elusive, and not something I could trust — or that would trust me.

Working at the temple for no pay felt easier than negotiating a salary. I was simply “given what I needed.” Later, in the outside world, I accepted being underpaid and overworked because I didn’t believe I deserved more. I thought I had to prove myself to belong.

But what I’ve realized is this: I’m not alone.

This is a collective story. So many of us carry inherited beliefs about money — from our parents, our culture, our traumas. Some believe they’ll never have enough. Others look down on the wealthy as if wealth is shameful. Like in Aesop’s fable of the fox who couldn’t reach the grapes and decided they were probably sour anyway, we protect ourselves from disappointment by pretending we never wanted more to begin with.

But here’s the truth: abundance begins with self-worth.

We can’t experience value in money if we don’t see the value in ourselves.

If I have a lump of clay in my hand, I can either shape it into something beautiful or I can toss it aside and say, “It was just clay.” The same goes for our lives. Will we shape something meaningful out of our circumstances, or will we stay stuck in fear, convinced there’s nothing more for us?

Money isn’t inherently good or bad. It simply reflects us — our beliefs, our energy, our self-regard.

And no, money is not the answer to a happy life. I’ve known wealthy people who are constantly afraid of losing what they have. And I’ve met people with almost nothing who radiate joy and gratitude. It really is a mental and emotional relationship.

So the question is: what do you believe about money?

Do you believe life is on your side? Are you provided for? Are you worthy of receiving more?

You don’t have to stay trapped in the story you inherited.

As one quote says, “Abundance is not the absence of scarcity. It is the presence of abundant mentality.”

Another says, “Abundance manifests not just as money and possessions, but as health, love, happiness, and peace of mind.”

You always have a choice: To sculpt something meaningful from your experiences or to let fear decide what you’re worth.

Abundance starts in your mind.

And you are the sculptor.

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 they rolled down my cheeks, I reflected on my life. There have been beautiful moments. But I asked myself, Have I really dared to dream big? And if not, what is holding me back? Why do I sometimes feel that life is something I just have to get through, instead of something I can 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 our excuses. We say it’s the job, the relationship, the housework, or the money. And maybe those things matter. But the deeper truth is: if it doesn’t make you happy—something needs to shift.

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?

Standing on that bridge, I realized how often I’ve given my energy away—pouring it into other people’s needs, hoping that maybe, eventually, someone would fill mine. That’s beautiful in its own way—but only if we don’t sacrifice ourselves in the process.

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?

Today, I had a beautiful conversation with my sister. We talked about how our lives have changed since we began shifting our perspective—from focusing on lack to recognizing abundance. We both noticed how much has opened up for us since we stopped feeling like victims of situations and people. It always comes back to one thing: taking our power back.

That 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. We want immediate solutions. But the question is: What are we actually afraid of?
Are the problems even real, or are they projections of a fearful mind?

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, powerful metaphor for growth. It’s not about doing everything at once—it’s about asking, Where can I invest in myself today?
It’s not about perfection. It’s about curiosity, presence, and care.
What do I need to feel nourished? Inspired? Balanced?

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 had been there all along—but they didn’t recognize it.

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 connected to the Hare Krishna movement. From the outside, it might have looked peaceful, even idyllic. But inside that world were strict rules, spiritual ideals, and often, a lack of personal boundaries—especially for children like me. Life was structured and hierarchical. I moved between temples and boarding schools from a young age, always trying to be the “good girl,” the obedient one who didn’t cause trouble.

When I was ten, I returned home to Sweden after a year at a Krishna boarding school in France. I was happy to be home, but I didn’t really know where I belonged. My mother and her husband had a rocky relationship, and I often found myself trying to keep the peace. I had two younger siblings who looked up to me, and I quickly learned how to be strong—for everyone else.

That’s when it started: the habit of neglecting my own needs and emotions to maintain harmony around me.

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💔 A Flame Dimmed by Silence

Not long after, something happened that shaped the way I would relate to love, shame, and fear for decades to come. A young man from the temple began secretly grooming me. It started with small notes hidden in my shoes. There was mystery and attention—and for a lonely child, it felt like affection. At the time, I didn’t have the words to explain what was happening. I just knew it was forbidden, and yet, exciting.

Eventually, the adults found out. But instead of explaining or protecting me, they made me feel like I was the problem. They debated whether to marry me off to the man. I was only 11 years old. In the end, they decided to send me away again—to France, for my own “protection.” But no one sat me down to tell me I had done nothing wrong. No one told me I was just a child.

The shame was deafening.

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—drove many of the choices I made later in life. I got married young, not out of love, but because I was told it was the right thing to do. To this day, I know many people—especially women—who stay in jobs, relationships, and belief systems out of the same kind of fear.

The fear of being selfish. The fear of starting over. The fear that they don’t deserve more.

But at some point, that 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 I found inspiration in voices like Byron Katie, who says:

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

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. Because the truth is, our relationship had been draining for both of us. But I also felt shattered. I clung to him. I begged him to stay. I thought that if he would just love me enough, everything inside me would finally feel whole.

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 darkened. The pain was unbearable. But for the first time, I could see that it wasn’t only about him. The grief reached deeper. I wasn’t just mourning the loss of a man—I was mourning every time in my life I’d been left behind. The child in me that had once stayed quiet, stayed strong, stayed unnoticed—she finally rose to the surface.

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.