Mindfulness Practice

  I didn’t just make a small mistake. I messed up badly, in a way that hurt a lot of people, but most of all my family. That fact sits heavy on me every single day. I wake up with it, go to sleep with it, and it follows me in every quiet moment in between. The shame isn’t just a thought; it feels like a living thing inside me, pressing on my chest, making me question who I am and whether I even deserve to be here. And the truth I have to face is brutal. Can it even be called a mistake if I actively chose to do the wrong thing? That hits differently. A mistake is something accidental, something you stumble into. But this was conscious. This was a choice. And owning that choice, fully and without excuses, is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It’s like staring into a mirror and seeing someone you barely recognise, someone capable of hurting the ones you love the most. I’ve spent so long punishing myself, replaying every detail over and over, wishing I could take it bac...

I blew up my life. Not in a dramatic, movie-style way. It was quieter than that — slower. A series of choices, secrets, shame-filled moments. And then, like a dam finally giving in, everything burst. That moment? That’s what I call the pivot chapter . It’s the part of the story no one wants to live. The dread. The weight. The horror of it all being real — and out. And you’re left to face it. I found out then who was really with me. And who never had been. Some people disappeared — maybe out of fear, maybe out of hurt. But some stayed. And in the middle of the mess, I realised I still had me. Shaky, terrified, ashamed… but still standing. Shame is a strange thing. It feels like the price you should pay — like penance. But the truth is, it’s selfish. Shame pulls the focus inward: I am bad. I am broken. I am the worst thing I’ve done. And when you sit in that, you don’t move. You don’t heal. You don’t help. I carried shame for things I couldn’t even control. I shackled myself ...

Words. Tiny little things made of letters and sound. But oh , how they carry the weight of worlds. A single sentence can stop your heart. A phrase can mend it. An echo of something once whispered can live rent-free in your mind for years—long after the speaker has forgotten they ever said it. They can break you. Think back. To the moment someone said you weren’t enough. Weren’t thin enough, smart enough, worthy enough. Those words wrapped themselves around your ribs, squeezing slowly over time—until one day you started repeating them to yourself. That’s the thing about words. When repeated often enough, they stop sounding like someone else’s opinion. And start feeling like truth. They can make you. “I believe in you.” Three words. But said at the right moment, in the right voice, they hit different. They lift you. Not in a hyped-up, fake-confidence kind of way. But in the slow, anchoring way that makes you stand up straighter. Speak softer, but with more conviction....

  It’s always the small things that tip me over. A cancelled visit. An unanswered text. Something that shouldn’t matter so much, but somehow… it does. It really does. Suddenly, I’m not just disappointed—I’m spiralling. The voice in my head wastes no time. See? You’re not a priority. People always leave. You care too much. You’re too much. Or worse: You’re not enough. I try to quiet it. Try to reason with myself. Tell myself it’s not personal, that they’re busy, tired, caught up in life. But the damage is done. That tiny crack becomes a storm, and I feel myself losing footing. It’s not coming from nowhere. There were times when silence meant punishment. When cancelled plans meant I’d done something wrong. When the lack of response felt deliberate. Cold. Designed to teach me a lesson. That kind of trauma doesn’t just vanish. It lingers in the nervous system, in the body’s quiet reactions, in the way I brace myself for rejection—even when no harm is intended. So yes, i...

I’ve got my square squad . The people who know me—really know me. They see my heart, they see my effort, they see the messy, raw, real me, and they hold space for it all. Their voices are the ones I trust, the ones I go to when the world gets loud. And yet, this week… someone outside that circle said something cruel. Something untrue. And it got to me. I found myself spiralling—defending, justifying, doubting. Then I caught myself trying to apply logic: “She’s not in your square squad. Her opinion doesn’t matter. Don’t let it in.” But here’s the hard truth: It still hurt. Because no matter how strong our boundaries are, or how clear we are on who matters and who doesn’t, we’re human. And words—especially unkind, false ones—can sting, even when we know the source is irrelevant. This is where the work lives. Not in pretending we’re untouchable. But in acknowledging the sting, sitting with it, and choosing not to let it define us. I reminded myself of three things today: Just b...

  Understanding the Impact of Emotional Abuse We often associate the word “abuse” with what we can see — bruises, scars, broken bones. Things that show. Things that can be explained. But what about the wounds no one sees? What about the damage caused by words that cut deeper than a slap ever could? By silence that screams louder than any raised voice? This is emotional abuse. And for so many of us, it goes unnoticed — even by the person living through it. “It’s not that bad…” — Except it is Emotional abuse is sneaky. It doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it whispers just loud enough to make you question your own voice. It might look like: Constant criticism disguised as “jokes” Being blamed for everything that goes wrong Feeling like you’re walking on eggshells Being ignored or given the silent treatment Being made to feel like you’re “too sensitive” or “overreacting” And the worst part? It builds slowly. So slowly that by the time you realise something’s wrong, you’...

There’s a quiet heaviness today. Like my heart is trying to breathe through a memory. I cried this morning. Not loudly — just the kind of tears that slip out when love and loss live too close together. I thought of her — my mom. How we sat beside her when she took her last breath. How beautiful she looked, even in goodbye. How the world felt both completely still and impossibly broken all at once. She used to play “I Hope You Dance” for us — her favourite song, the one she dedicated to her children. “ I hope you never lose your sense of wonder… ” Even now, those words feel like a whisper from her. A reminder to keep going. To keep feeling. To keep dancing, even when the music hurts. And I thought of my own children. Of all the ways I wish I could be the kind of mother they deserve. Of how much I miss them — in the ordinary, everyday ways. Their voices. Their hugs. The way they still see me with hope in their eyes, even when I struggle to see myself the same way. It’s the...

Some days, I wake up and I’m already in battle. Not with the world. Not with people. With my own thoughts. The ones that tell me I’m not enough. That I should have done more. That I’ve messed it all up—again. That everyone’s watching. Judging. Waiting for me to fail. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? To be your own biggest critic. To carry a war inside your head while trying to smile through the day. To look calm on the outside while your mind spins stories that feel so real, they make your stomach churn. I Used to Believe Every Thought If my mind whispered, You’re a disappointment , I’d nod in agreement. If it shouted, You’re not worthy of love , I’d retreat, make myself small, apologise for existing. I thought these thoughts were me . That they defined me. But I was wrong. Not every thought deserves my attention. Not every voice in my head speaks the truth. Sometimes, my thoughts are just echoes of old wounds—unhealed parts of me that resurface in moments of stress or fa...

I used to be highly functional—a woman who could do it all, juggle countless responsibilities, and forget nothing. My mind was sharp, my memory impeccable. I thrived on organisation, on efficiency, on being able to manage everything life threw at me. And the man I loved? He was the same. My soul mate. We understood each other’s drive and passion, our shared hunger for achievement, our ability to handle it all. Then everything changed when he burnt out. It was sudden and devastating. He couldn’t work anymore. The fire that once drove him dimmed, and then extinguished. I stood by him, unwavering. I fought for him, fought to keep him alive. I pulled blades from his hands, stopped him from slitting his wrists, did everything in my power to keep him safe. Even having him committed in the hopes that it would help, that it would give him a fighting chance. But it didn’t. In the end, he lost his battle. He took his own life. And with him, he took a part of me. Not just a huge chunk of my...

Nature has an incredible way of teaching us about resilience, strength, and renewal. The sun rises after every night, never questioning whether it should. The waves crash against the shore, retreat, and return again with unwavering certainty. Trees lose their leaves in autumn, stand bare in winter, yet bloom again in spring. These natural cycles remind us that we, too, can trust in our ability to rise, adapt, and keep going—even in the face of hardship. Embracing Life’s Ebb and Flow Much like the ocean’s tides, life moves in waves. There are moments of calm and clarity, and there are storms that shake us to our core. It’s easy to feel defeated in difficult times, but nature teaches us that nothing stays the same forever. Just as the storm eventually passes, so too will the struggles we face. When we understand that challenges are part of the natural rhythm of life, we begin to approach them differently. Instead of fearing the dark moments, we can learn to accept them as a necessary par...

Healing is not a destination. It’s not a place you arrive at, where everything suddenly makes sense, and the past no longer aches. Healing is a journey—a slow, winding path with detours, setbacks, and moments of clarity that feel like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. For so long, I thought healing meant erasing the past. If I could just forget, if I could just move on, then maybe I would be whole. But I’ve come to realise that wholeness isn’t about forgetting—it’s about integrating. It’s about taking the broken pieces and making something beautiful out of them. Some days, the weight of old wounds still presses against my ribs. Some nights, echoes of past pain whisper in the quiet. But I am learning to sit with it, to hold myself gently, to remind myself that I am more than my scars. Healing is in the small moments—the way I breathe deeper now, the way I listen to my body instead of punishing it, the way I choose love over fear, again and again. I am not the same person I was...