In honor of my 25th birthday, I decided to reflect and share 25 things I’ve learned throughout my life.
This isn’t generic advice—it’s the raw truth of my reality. Lessons I had to face, process, and grow through. I’m sharing them not to preach, but in case they offer insight or reflection for anyone moving through their own path.
I touch on themes like sovereignty, introspection, healing, spirituality, success, and the kind of personal truth that doesn’t always fit into clean quotes. It’s layered with depth, honesty, and lived experience.
Feel free to read them all, or just click through the ones that resonate.
Change doesn’t start outside—it starts inside.
For a long time, I believed that changing my surroundings would change my life.
So I tried it all: new routines, new environments, new versions of myself.
But no matter what I did, the same patterns kept repeating.
The same restlessness.
The same fears.
The same ache for something more.
Nothing shifted—because I was still carrying the same pain.
The same story.
The same habits of thought and emotion that were shaping the world around me in the first place.
Eventually, I stopped trying to fix my life by rearranging it.
Instead, I asked a different question:
Who’s the person behind all this effort to change?
What is she running from?
What is she still holding onto that no longer fits?
That’s when things actually began to move.
Not because I discovered some perfect plan—
but because I finally got honest.
I stopped performing change and started listening to the part of me that wanted it.
Not to fix her.
Not to shame her.
But to understand her.
She wasn’t asking for more just to have more.
She was asking to feel safe.
To feel seen.
To feel whole.
That’s where reality creation truly begins:
Not with manifestation. Not with strategy.
But with honesty. With presence. With a willingness to meet yourself where you actually are.
It means finally turning toward the parts of you you’ve ignored, avoided, or forgotten—
the ones that never had space,
the ones you silenced to survive,
the ones that didn’t fit the version of you the world made room for.
It’s not about reinventing yourself from scratch.
It’s about remembering what’s already there—
and choosing to bring it forward.
Not just noticing it,
but claiming it.
Living from it.
Letting it lead.
Because real growth doesn’t always look like adding more.
Sometimes, it means peeling back everything that isn’t truly you—
and realizing that who you are beneath the masks
is more than enough to build a life around.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not peaceful.
It hurts—in ways I didn’t expect.
Not just in my thoughts, but in my body.
It drained me.
Shook me.
Brought up things I thought I’d buried for good.
Some days I felt numb.
Other days, everything hit at once—
grief, rage, shame.
Not just over what happened,
but over the fact that I was still affected.
There were times I resented the process altogether.
But I learned that healing isn’t clean or linear—
it’s messy, raw, and uncomfortable.
The only way through was to stop fighting it.
To sit in the discomfort.
Let the pain speak.
And somehow, in the middle of that,
learn to be gentle with myself.
Not to feel good—
but to feel safe.
That’s when real healing began.
Not in my mind—
but in my body.
In the way I stayed with myself,
instead of trying to escape.
The silence. The isolation.
I thought it meant I was missing out—
on life, on connection, on everything.
I craved more: more people, more memories, more “living.”
But what I didn’t see then
was that loneliness was protecting me.
It gave me space.
It gave me clarity.
It gave me a mirror.
In that stillness, I found strength in my own presence.
I stopped chasing noise
and started hearing myself.
That’s where my self-worth began.
That’s where I started to really love who I was.
When I stopped seeing solitude as punishment,
I tuned in—
and I bloomed.
It was not understanding life at all.
I was taught who to be,
what to believe,
how to behave—
not through options, but expectations.
Be good. Be obedient. Don’t ask questions.
Follow the steps. Stay in line.
But I’ve always had a restless spirit.
Even without better options, I questioned everything.
Why does it have to be this way?
Why does no one seem to have real answers?
I did what I was “supposed” to do,
but I didn’t feel guided—I felt conditioned.
Work. Survive. Repeat.
And no matter how hard I tried,
it still felt like I was losing a game I didn’t even believe in.
Eventually, I realized:
life isn’t fixed.
There’s a default path we’re born into—
and then there’s the sovereign path.
The one you carve for yourself.
No map. No guarantees.
Just a knowing that there has to be more than this.
Choosing that path hasn’t been easy—
but it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m truly living.
Not a life handed to me—
but one I’m creating, piece by piece.
You might build something that looks like success—
money, attention, aesthetics.
But beneath it? There’s a fracture.
Because if you don’t know yourself,
you’re not really living your life—
you’re just performing in someone else’s script.
Eventually, the noise fades.
The distractions slow down.
And what’s left is you—
and everything you’ve been avoiding.
That moment is heavy.
Because once you see the misalignment,
you can’t unsee it.
If you look away,
you’ll start trying to drown it out—
scrolling, overworking, performing.
Doing anything to avoid feeling the gap.
That’s how people burn out in lives built for approval instead of peace.
Knowing yourself isn’t a luxury.
It’s survival.
It’s clarity.
It’s the only way to build a life that actually fits your soul.
And the longer you avoid that truth,
the louder the ache becomes.
We live in a diverse world.
Different people.
Different cultures.
Different lives.
Humanity is vast, layered, and complex.
So why would the Creator of everything
only show up in one form?
One path? One story?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
If God is the source of all,
then connection to that source should be just as expansive
as the world it created.
People feel that connection in different ways—
through prayer, silence, music, grief, joy, nature…
or even through nothing at all.
And all of it can be real.
All of it can be holy.
Because the divine doesn’t limit itself—
people do.
Not without care.
Not without presence, honesty, or the willingness to protect what’s sacred.
I’m a lover girl.
I love deeply, fully, with everything I have.
But that love has cost me—
my peace, my voice, my sense of self.
I’ve learned that love needs more than emotion.
It needs honor.
Responsibility.
Stability.
Reciprocation.
Safety.
Authenticity.
Love can open you—
but without those foundations, it can also unravel you.
We think love is the answer to everything—
and in many ways, it is.
But it’s also a responsibility.
A daily practice.
A choice.
Because real love doesn’t die—
but it can turn into resentment, confusion, or pain
when it’s not nurtured with care.
Not just the lack of resources—
but the belief that there’s never enough.
Not enough time.
Not enough money.
Not enough love, beauty, safety, or worth.
That belief breeds fear, greed, competition, control.
People fight for scraps because they’ve been convinced
that’s all there is.
Scarcity turns survival into a mindset.
It becomes the lens through which people see everything—
success, relationships, even self-worth.
And when you're stuck in that lens,
nothing ever feels secure.
Even when you "have," you're afraid to lose.
Even when you "win," it still feels like it’s not enough.
Scarcity keeps people desperate, distracted, dependent—
too tired to imagine something different.
But here’s the truth:
The world is not truly scarce.
There is abundance—
in nature, in love, in creativity, in possibility.
What’s lacking isn’t supply—
it’s access.
It’s belief.
It’s trust.
Until we heal the illusion of scarcity,
we’ll keep repeating cycles that harm.
Not what you say you want—
but what you’re willing to settle for.
Who you chase.
Who you wait for.
Who you give endless chances to,
even when they’ve shown they’re not ready to hold you.
I had to ask myself hard questions:
Why did I stay in dynamics that drained me?
Why did I call it love
when it was really just attachment, habit, or fear of being alone?
Sometimes it wasn’t about them at all—
it was about me.
What I thought I deserved.
What I felt I had to prove.
What I was scared to walk away from.
It’s not easy to admit—
but it’s true:
The love you accept tells you more about your relationship with yourself
than it does about anyone else.
I don’t chase connection just to feel connected.
I don’t mind company, but I’ve learned to be intentional with it.
Out of every ten people you let into your life,
maybe one is actually meant to be there.
Not always forever,
not always for some deep spiritual reason—
but there’s usually alignment behind the ones who stick.
I used to be around someone who believed
the more people you talk to, the better.
More contacts. More conversation. More everything.
But to me, most of it felt like noise—
just energy with no direction.
The best connections in my life happened naturally.
No force. No chasing.
And when I tried to force them?
I ended up drained, disappointed, or played.
Especially when people sensed my softness—
my openness, my light.
Some took advantage of that.
Now I move different.
I don’t chase.
I let it unfold.
And I pay attention to how people make me feel,
not just who they appear to be.
Because it’s not about how many people you know—
it’s about how many are solid.
The rest? Just background noise.
Before the world told you who to be.
Before you adjusted to survive.
Before you traded your voice for approval—
you had your own rhythm.
Your own truth.
Your own way of moving through the world.
In a world that profits off your confusion,
you have to remember that.
Because if you don’t own yourself—
your mind, your choices, your energy—
someone else will.
Systems will.
People will.
Trends will.
That’s why knowing yourself matters.
Not for image.
Not for control.
But because everything in your life starts from there.
From you.
Sovereignty isn’t loud.
It’s quiet.
Steady.
Rooted.
And once you recognize it,
you stop living on autopilot—
and start living on your own terms.
or what I call my Divine Creator or Divine Consciousness—
I had to step away from all the mainstream language.
I needed words that felt personal, real, and mine.
At first, I leaned on my Creator to carry me.
Because honestly, life is too big to handle alone.
But over time, I realized something else—
that I needed to build that same level of faith, trust,
and devotion within myself, too.
That’s where co-creation really begins.
It’s not just about being carried—
it’s about walking with.
Showing up with something real in your hands, too.
I wanted to give God a version of me
that reflected love, strength, and presence—
not just dependence or low self-worth.
God carried me through those versions, yes.
But also toward my growth.
And that growth?
It isn’t something that can just be given.
It has to be reclaimed.
And when you do, it deepens the bond.
That goes for any type of relationship.
Because at some point, it’s not just about being loved—
it’s about becoming someone who can love,
show up,
and carry too.
You have your own path—
your own timing, your own rhythm.
And for all you know,
there may not even be a blueprint for where you’re headed.
You might be the first.
The one carving it out.
The one showing others what’s possible.
So if your journey doesn’t look familiar,
it doesn’t mean you’re behind—
it might mean you’re the trailblazer.
Not just in theory—
in real life, they’re tangled together.
What you believe shows up in how you move.
What you ignore shows up in your body.
The things you try to heal spiritually
still have to be dealt with physically—
through choices, habits, environments.
It’s not just about energy or mindset.
It’s about your money.
Your relationships.
Your nervous system.
Your day-to-day life.
You can’t say you want peace
but keep placing yourself in spaces that drain you.
You can’t talk about healing
while avoiding rest, boundaries, or truth.
Spirituality isn’t separate from life.
It’s in how you live.
How you show up.
Even in the mess.
Even when you’re still figuring it out.
I realized they weren’t ugly or negative—
just history.
Just things I picked up trying to survive
or make sense of what didn’t make sense at the time.
The more I dug, the more context I found.
It didn’t excuse everything—
but it explained a lot.
Why I react the way I do.
Why I shut down.
Why certain things trigger me when they shouldn’t.
It wasn’t about blame—
it was about finally seeing the full picture.
And once I did, I stopped picking myself apart.
I stopped trying to fix everything.
I started moving with more awareness.
Not perfect—
but clearer.
And that alone gave me room to breathe—
and a lot more compassion for myself.
because I go “above and beyond” in my thought processes for ideas he sees as small.
But I told him straight up:
I’m not an overthinker.
I’m a deep thinker.
And I have to be—this is my life.
I’ve seen what happens when I don’t go deep.
When I brush things off.
Miss the patterns.
Ignore the signs.
Say “it’s not that deep”
and end up stuck in something I could’ve avoided.
Not thinking deeply cost me.
It kept me in draining spaces.
Let the wrong people in.
Had me operating uncomfortably on autopilot—
moving from low self-worth without even realizing it.
I suffered because I didn’t ask the hard questions.
Didn’t sit with myself long enough to really get myself.
So if thinking deeply is what keeps me grounded—
what helps me choose better,
what protects my peace—
then so be it.
I’ll gladly “overthink” my way into saving my own life.
I know that’s how a lot of people move—
running themselves into the ground to prove they deserve more.
But I can’t do that.
Not anymore.
I’ve already been through that—
and because of it,
I had to go through that exhausting healing phase.
And honestly,
I’m just now making it out alive.
I had to unlearn so much just to realize:
I don’t have to suffer to get somewhere.
Now I move different.
I don’t see rest as slacking.
I don’t see slowness as falling behind.
I’m still learning how to honor my pace and protect my peace—
but I know one thing for sure:
I’m not burning out for anything.
That belief that you have to suffer to succeed?
It might work for some.
But I’m not subscribing to that version of success anymore.
It’s just not for me.
And none of it came from the world.
Not validation.
Not opportunity.
Not permission.
I kept searching outside myself—
hoping something or someone would hand me the answer.
A map. A green light.
A version of life that finally fit.
But all I found was noise, rules, and boxes I didn’t belong in.
Clarity came when I tuned in.
When I stopped outsourcing my worth, my voice, my direction.
Everything I’m doing now—
everything I’m building—
didn’t come from someone else’s blueprint.
It came from me saying: fuck the world, fuck y’all.
I outsourced myself to a system that didn’t give a damn about me.
They couldn’t—because it was fuck me too.
And with that logic? Bet.
I’ll do shit my way.
I don’t need the world to tell me it’ll work out—
because when I did it their way, it didn’t.
It made me miserable.
I’m not asking anymore.
I’m not waiting anymore.
I know who I am.
I know whose I am.
And I’m building from that.
I used to think they were just random—
especially the weird ones that made no sense on the surface.
People always said,
“If you remember a dream, it’s sending you a message,”
but I didn’t buy that at first.
Until life shook me—
and my dreams got loud.
They didn’t make sense logically,
but they lingered.
They clung.
And I couldn’t ignore that.
Out of curiosity, I started digging into the symbolism.
And when I did?
It blew my mind.
They mirrored everything I was going through—
not just emotionally,
but spiritually.
Even things I hadn’t admitted to myself.
It all made sense once I understood:
dreams come from the subconscious.
They reflect what we overlook, suppress, or feel too deeply to face head-on.
If I hadn’t leaned in,
I’d still be stuck in rooms I was never meant to stay in.
Now I pay attention.
Even when it’s strange.
Especially when it’s strange.
Even when it doesn’t make sense right away.
Because more often than not,
my dreams speak in symbols
that don’t reveal themselves all at once—
but once they do,
you can’t unsee it.
where freedom feels tied to money,
and even rest, food, and time have a price—
we forget that peace is free.
It doesn’t cost a thing.
Not a dollar.
Not a penny.
You don’t have to earn it.
You don’t have to chase it.
Most of the time, it’s just buried—
under noise, ego, pressure, or survival mode.
But it’s there.
It’s always been there.
Peace is free.
You just have to choose it.
Whenever you’re ready.
Some things just are—undefined, shifting, in-between.
And that doesn’t make them any less real.
There’s purpose in ambiguity.
It’s the space between certainty—
uncomfortable for some,
but full of freedom.
We’re taught to name everything to make it easier to understand.
But sometimes, naming it limits it.
Sometimes, meaning gets lost in the definition.
Whether it’s a feeling, a connection, a part of yourself,
or the phase you’re in—
it’s okay to let it be what it is.
You’ll feel it more clearly
when you stop trying to pin it down.
Not just some deep, spiritual thing—
but something you need to get through life.
Because if you don’t know how to sit with yourself,
you’ll keep repeating the same patterns.
You’ll keep blaming what’s outside of you
and never realize how much power you actually hold.
Life will come at you regardless.
People will project.
Situations will test you.
And if you don’t know how to check in with yourself—
to ask where it’s really coming from,
what it’s showing you,
what you need—
you’ll get lost in it.
Introspection isn’t just for healing.
It’s how you stay aware, grounded, and clear
in a world that constantly tries to pull you out of yourself.
I had to learn that the hard way.
I always saw myself as the “good girl”—
someone who moves with care, tries her best, and would never.
But I could.
I have.
Not on purpose, but it still happened.
And that forced me to face a hard truth:
I’m not exempt from causing pain just because I didn’t mean to.
I’ve seen this in others too.
We assume if someone isn’t “toxic” or “bad,” they must be safe.
But kind, well-intentioned people can cause harm.
We all can.
Sometimes the “good” person doesn’t even realize what they’re capable of.
They can’t accept they caused harm—so they fall into shame, defensiveness, or victimhood.
Sometimes they project.
Sometimes they think being a good person is enough—so they stop reflecting altogether.
And sometimes we see so much good in someone that we overlook or excuse how they’re hurting us—just because they’re not a “bad” person or didn’t mean to.
When you believe in someone’s heart,
it can blind you to their harm.
We all know we’re not perfect—
but most people don’t realize how that truth actually plays out.
Harm doesn’t always come from bad intentions.
It comes from being unaware, unaccountable,
or too attached to the idea that “I’m one of the good ones,”
or “they’re one of the good ones.”
And when that image shatters—your own or someone else’s—
it gives you one hell of a reality check.
Sure, I’ve gained insight—some things make sense now that didn’t before.
But when I sit with it all—my beliefs, my choices, the lessons—
I always land in the same place:
I still don’t know.
Not in an insecure way. Just… honestly.
I’m not pretending to have it figured out.
I move through life with what makes sense to me,
and that’s what I live by.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
And who knows—
I might look back on this list in a few years and see it completely differently.
I might gain new insight.
I might change my mind.
Or I might crash out, spiral, or hit a season where I realize—
that nothing even fucking matters.
Oh well.
You just never really know.
And that’s fine. I made peace with it a long time ago.
Certainty sounds nice, but nothing is a guarantee.
I just need to keep moving—
with intention,
with awareness,
and trust in myself & my creator.
In honor of my 25th birthday, I decided to reflect and share 25 things I’ve learned throughout my life.
This isn’t generic advice—it’s the raw truth of my reality. Lessons I had to face, process, and grow through. I’m sharing them not to preach, but in case they offer insight or reflection for anyone moving through their own path.
I touch on themes like sovereignty, introspection, healing, spirituality, success, and the kind of personal truth that doesn’t always fit into clean quotes. It’s layered with depth, honesty, and lived experience.
Feel free to read them all, or just click through the ones that resonate.
In honor of my 25th birthday, I decided to reflect and share 25 things I’ve learned throughout my life.
This isn’t generic advice—it’s the raw truth of my reality. Lessons I had to face, process, and grow through. I’m sharing them not to preach, but in case they offer insight or reflection for anyone moving through their own path.
I touch on themes like sovereignty, introspection, healing, spirituality, success, and the kind of personal truth that doesn’t always fit into clean quotes. It’s layered with depth, honesty, and lived experience.
Feel free to read them all, or just click through the ones that resonate.
Change doesn’t start outside—it starts inside.
For a long time, I believed that changing my surroundings would change my life.
So I tried it all: new routines, new environments, new versions of myself.
But no matter what I did, the same patterns kept repeating.
The same restlessness.
The same fears.
The same ache for something more.
Nothing shifted—because I was still carrying the same pain.
The same story.
The same habits of thought and emotion that were shaping the world around me in the first place.
Eventually, I stopped trying to fix my life by rearranging it.
Instead, I asked a different question:
Who’s the person behind all this effort to change?
What is she running from?
What is she still holding onto that no longer fits?
That’s when things actually began to move.
Not because I discovered some perfect plan—
but because I finally got honest.
I stopped performing change and started listening to the part of me that wanted it.
Not to fix her.
Not to shame her.
But to understand her.
She wasn’t asking for more just to have more.
She was asking to feel safe.
To feel seen.
To feel whole.
That’s where reality creation truly begins:
Not with manifestation. Not with strategy.
But with honesty. With presence. With a willingness to meet yourself where you actually are.
It means finally turning toward the parts of you you’ve ignored, avoided, or forgotten—
the ones that never had space,
the ones you silenced to survive,
the ones that didn’t fit the version of you the world made room for.
It’s not about reinventing yourself from scratch.
It’s about remembering what’s already there—
and choosing to bring it forward.
Not just noticing it,
but claiming it.
Living from it.
Letting it lead.
Because real growth doesn’t always look like adding more.
Sometimes, it means peeling back everything that isn’t truly you—
and realizing that who you are beneath the masks
is more than enough to build a life around.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not peaceful.
It hurts—in ways I didn’t expect.
Not just in my thoughts, but in my body.
It drained me.
Shook me.
Brought up things I thought I’d buried for good.
Some days I felt numb.
Other days, everything hit at once—
grief, rage, shame.
Not just over what happened,
but over the fact that I was still affected.
There were times I resented the process altogether.
But I learned that healing isn’t clean or linear—
it’s messy, raw, and uncomfortable.
The only way through was to stop fighting it.
To sit in the discomfort.
Let the pain speak.
And somehow, in the middle of that,
learn to be gentle with myself.
Not to feel good—
but to feel safe.
That’s when real healing began.
Not in my mind—
but in my body.
In the way I stayed with myself,
instead of trying to escape.
The silence. The isolation.
I thought it meant I was missing out—
on life, on connection, on everything.
I craved more: more people, more memories, more “living.”
But what I didn’t see then
was that loneliness was protecting me.
It gave me space.
It gave me clarity.
It gave me a mirror.
In that stillness, I found strength in my own presence.
I stopped chasing noise
and started hearing myself.
That’s where my self-worth began.
That’s where I started to really love who I was.
When I stopped seeing solitude as punishment,
I tuned in—
and I bloomed.
It was not understanding life at all.
I was taught who to be,
what to believe,
how to behave—
not through options, but expectations.
Be good. Be obedient. Don’t ask questions.
Follow the steps. Stay in line.
But I’ve always had a restless spirit.
Even without better options, I questioned everything.
Why does it have to be this way?
Why does no one seem to have real answers?
I did what I was “supposed” to do,
but I didn’t feel guided—I felt conditioned.
Work. Survive. Repeat.
And no matter how hard I tried,
it still felt like I was losing a game I didn’t even believe in.
Eventually, I realized:
life isn’t fixed.
There’s a default path we’re born into—
and then there’s the sovereign path.
The one you carve for yourself.
No map. No guarantees.
Just a knowing that there has to be more than this.
Choosing that path hasn’t been easy—
but it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m truly living.
Not a life handed to me—
but one I’m creating, piece by piece.
You might build something that looks like success—
money, attention, aesthetics.
But beneath it? There’s a fracture.
Because if you don’t know yourself,
you’re not really living your life—
you’re just performing in someone else’s script.
Eventually, the noise fades.
The distractions slow down.
And what’s left is you—
and everything you’ve been avoiding.
That moment is heavy.
Because once you see the misalignment,
you can’t unsee it.
If you look away,
you’ll start trying to drown it out—
scrolling, overworking, performing.
Doing anything to avoid feeling the gap.
That’s how people burn out in lives built for approval instead of peace.
Knowing yourself isn’t a luxury.
It’s survival.
It’s clarity.
It’s the only way to build a life that actually fits your soul.
And the longer you avoid that truth,
the louder the ache becomes.
We live in a diverse world.
Different people.
Different cultures.
Different lives.
Humanity is vast, layered, and complex.
So why would the Creator of everything
only show up in one form?
One path? One story?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
If God is the source of all,
then connection to that source should be just as expansive
as the world it created.
People feel that connection in different ways—
through prayer, silence, music, grief, joy, nature…
or even through nothing at all.
And all of it can be real.
All of it can be holy.
Because the divine doesn’t limit itself—
people do.
Not without care.
Not without presence, honesty, or the willingness to protect what’s sacred.
I’m a lover girl.
I love deeply, fully, with everything I have.
But that love has cost me—
my peace, my voice, my sense of self.
I’ve learned that love needs more than emotion.
It needs honor.
Responsibility.
Stability.
Reciprocation.
Safety.
Authenticity.
Love can open you—
but without those foundations, it can also unravel you.
We think love is the answer to everything—
and in many ways, it is.
But it’s also a responsibility.
A daily practice.
A choice.
Because real love doesn’t die—
but it can turn into resentment, confusion, or pain
when it’s not nurtured with care.
Not just the lack of resources—
but the belief that there’s never enough.
Not enough time.
Not enough money.
Not enough love, beauty, safety, or worth.
That belief breeds fear, greed, competition, control.
People fight for scraps because they’ve been convinced
that’s all there is.
Scarcity turns survival into a mindset.
It becomes the lens through which people see everything—
success, relationships, even self-worth.
And when you're stuck in that lens,
nothing ever feels secure.
Even when you "have," you're afraid to lose.
Even when you "win," it still feels like it’s not enough.
Scarcity keeps people desperate, distracted, dependent—
too tired to imagine something different.
But here’s the truth:
The world is not truly scarce.
There is abundance—
in nature, in love, in creativity, in possibility.
What’s lacking isn’t supply—
it’s access.
It’s belief.
It’s trust.
Until we heal the illusion of scarcity,
we’ll keep repeating cycles that harm.
Not what you say you want—
but what you’re willing to settle for.
Who you chase.
Who you wait for.
Who you give endless chances to,
even when they’ve shown they’re not ready to hold you.
I had to ask myself hard questions:
Why did I stay in dynamics that drained me?
Why did I call it love
when it was really just attachment, habit, or fear of being alone?
Sometimes it wasn’t about them at all—
it was about me.
What I thought I deserved.
What I felt I had to prove.
What I was scared to walk away from.
It’s not easy to admit—
but it’s true:
The love you accept tells you more about your relationship with yourself
than it does about anyone else.
I don’t chase connection just to feel connected.
I don’t mind company, but I’ve learned to be intentional with it.
Out of every ten people you let into your life,
maybe one is actually meant to be there.
Not always forever,
not always for some deep spiritual reason—
but there’s usually alignment behind the ones who stick.
I used to be around someone who believed
the more people you talk to, the better.
More contacts. More conversation. More everything.
But to me, most of it felt like noise—
just energy with no direction.
The best connections in my life happened naturally.
No force. No chasing.
And when I tried to force them?
I ended up drained, disappointed, or played.
Especially when people sensed my softness—
my openness, my light.
Some took advantage of that.
Now I move different.
I don’t chase.
I let it unfold.
And I pay attention to how people make me feel,
not just who they appear to be.
Because it’s not about how many people you know—
it’s about how many are solid.
The rest? Just background noise.
Before the world told you who to be.
Before you adjusted to survive.
Before you traded your voice for approval—
you had your own rhythm.
Your own truth.
Your own way of moving through the world.
In a world that profits off your confusion,
you have to remember that.
Because if you don’t own yourself—
your mind, your choices, your energy—
someone else will.
Systems will.
People will.
Trends will.
That’s why knowing yourself matters.
Not for image.
Not for control.
But because everything in your life starts from there.
From you.
Sovereignty isn’t loud.
It’s quiet.
Steady.
Rooted.
And once you recognize it,
you stop living on autopilot—
and start living on your own terms.
or what I call my Divine Creator or Divine Consciousness—
I had to step away from all the mainstream language.
I needed words that felt personal, real, and mine.
At first, I leaned on my Creator to carry me.
Because honestly, life is too big to handle alone.
But over time, I realized something else—
that I needed to build that same level of faith, trust,
and devotion within myself, too.
That’s where co-creation really begins.
It’s not just about being carried—
it’s about walking with.
Showing up with something real in your hands, too.
I wanted to give God a version of me
that reflected love, strength, and presence—
not just dependence or low self-worth.
God carried me through those versions, yes.
But also toward my growth.
And that growth?
It isn’t something that can just be given.
It has to be reclaimed.
And when you do, it deepens the bond.
That goes for any type of relationship.
Because at some point, it’s not just about being loved—
it’s about becoming someone who can love,
show up,
and carry too.
You have your own path—
your own timing, your own rhythm.
And for all you know,
there may not even be a blueprint for where you’re headed.
You might be the first.
The one carving it out.
The one showing others what’s possible.
So if your journey doesn’t look familiar,
it doesn’t mean you’re behind—
it might mean you’re the trailblazer.
Not just in theory—
in real life, they’re tangled together.
What you believe shows up in how you move.
What you ignore shows up in your body.
The things you try to heal spiritually
still have to be dealt with physically—
through choices, habits, environments.
It’s not just about energy or mindset.
It’s about your money.
Your relationships.
Your nervous system.
Your day-to-day life.
You can’t say you want peace
but keep placing yourself in spaces that drain you.
You can’t talk about healing
while avoiding rest, boundaries, or truth.
Spirituality isn’t separate from life.
It’s in how you live.
How you show up.
Even in the mess.
Even when you’re still figuring it out.
I realized they weren’t ugly or negative—
just history.
Just things I picked up trying to survive
or make sense of what didn’t make sense at the time.
The more I dug, the more context I found.
It didn’t excuse everything—
but it explained a lot.
Why I react the way I do.
Why I shut down.
Why certain things trigger me when they shouldn’t.
It wasn’t about blame—
it was about finally seeing the full picture.
And once I did, I stopped picking myself apart.
I stopped trying to fix everything.
I started moving with more awareness.
Not perfect—
but clearer.
And that alone gave me room to breathe—
and a lot more compassion for myself.
because I go “above and beyond” in my thought processes for ideas he sees as small.
But I told him straight up:
I’m not an overthinker.
I’m a deep thinker.
And I have to be—this is my life.
I’ve seen what happens when I don’t go deep.
When I brush things off.
Miss the patterns.
Ignore the signs.
Say “it’s not that deep”
and end up stuck in something I could’ve avoided.
Not thinking deeply cost me.
It kept me in draining spaces.
Let the wrong people in.
Had me operating uncomfortably on autopilot—
moving from low self-worth without even realizing it.
I suffered because I didn’t ask the hard questions.
Didn’t sit with myself long enough to really get myself.
So if thinking deeply is what keeps me grounded—
what helps me choose better,
what protects my peace—
then so be it.
I’ll gladly “overthink” my way into saving my own life.
I know that’s how a lot of people move—
running themselves into the ground to prove they deserve more.
But I can’t do that.
Not anymore.
I’ve already been through that—
and because of it,
I had to go through that exhausting healing phase.
And honestly,
I’m just now making it out alive.
I had to unlearn so much just to realize:
I don’t have to suffer to get somewhere.
Now I move different.
I don’t see rest as slacking.
I don’t see slowness as falling behind.
I’m still learning how to honor my pace and protect my peace—
but I know one thing for sure:
I’m not burning out for anything.
That belief that you have to suffer to succeed?
It might work for some.
But I’m not subscribing to that version of success anymore.
It’s just not for me.
And none of it came from the world.
Not validation.
Not opportunity.
Not permission.
I kept searching outside myself—
hoping something or someone would hand me the answer.
A map. A green light.
A version of life that finally fit.
But all I found was noise, rules, and boxes I didn’t belong in.
Clarity came when I tuned in.
When I stopped outsourcing my worth, my voice, my direction.
Everything I’m doing now—
everything I’m building—
didn’t come from someone else’s blueprint.
It came from me saying: fuck the world, fuck y’all.
I outsourced myself to a system that didn’t give a damn about me.
They couldn’t—because it was fuck me too.
And with that logic? Bet.
I’ll do shit my way.
I don’t need the world to tell me it’ll work out—
because when I did it their way, it didn’t.
It made me miserable.
I’m not asking anymore.
I’m not waiting anymore.
I know who I am.
I know whose I am.
And I’m building from that.
I used to think they were just random—
especially the weird ones that made no sense on the surface.
People always said,
“If you remember a dream, it’s sending you a message,”
but I didn’t buy that at first.
Until life shook me—
and my dreams got loud.
They didn’t make sense logically,
but they lingered.
They clung.
And I couldn’t ignore that.
Out of curiosity, I started digging into the symbolism.
And when I did?
It blew my mind.
They mirrored everything I was going through—
not just emotionally,
but spiritually.
Even things I hadn’t admitted to myself.
It all made sense once I understood:
dreams come from the subconscious.
They reflect what we overlook, suppress, or feel too deeply to face head-on.
If I hadn’t leaned in,
I’d still be stuck in rooms I was never meant to stay in.
Now I pay attention.
Even when it’s strange.
Especially when it’s strange.
Even when it doesn’t make sense right away.
Because more often than not,
my dreams speak in symbols
that don’t reveal themselves all at once—
but once they do,
you can’t unsee it.
where freedom feels tied to money,
and even rest, food, and time have a price—
we forget that peace is free.
It doesn’t cost a thing.
Not a dollar.
Not a penny.
You don’t have to earn it.
You don’t have to chase it.
Most of the time, it’s just buried—
under noise, ego, pressure, or survival mode.
But it’s there.
It’s always been there.
Peace is free.
You just have to choose it.
Whenever you’re ready.
Some things just are—undefined, shifting, in-between.
And that doesn’t make them any less real.
There’s purpose in ambiguity.
It’s the space between certainty—
uncomfortable for some,
but full of freedom.
We’re taught to name everything to make it easier to understand.
But sometimes, naming it limits it.
Sometimes, meaning gets lost in the definition.
Whether it’s a feeling, a connection, a part of yourself,
or the phase you’re in—
it’s okay to let it be what it is.
You’ll feel it more clearly
when you stop trying to pin it down.
Not just some deep, spiritual thing—
but something you need to get through life.
Because if you don’t know how to sit with yourself,
you’ll keep repeating the same patterns.
You’ll keep blaming what’s outside of you
and never realize how much power you actually hold.
Life will come at you regardless.
People will project.
Situations will test you.
And if you don’t know how to check in with yourself—
to ask where it’s really coming from,
what it’s showing you,
what you need—
you’ll get lost in it.
Introspection isn’t just for healing.
It’s how you stay aware, grounded, and clear
in a world that constantly tries to pull you out of yourself.
I had to learn that the hard way.
I always saw myself as the “good girl”—
someone who moves with care, tries her best, and would never.
But I could.
I have.
Not on purpose, but it still happened.
And that forced me to face a hard truth:
I’m not exempt from causing pain just because I didn’t mean to.
I’ve seen this in others too.
We assume if someone isn’t “toxic” or “bad,” they must be safe.
But kind, well-intentioned people can cause harm.
We all can.
Sometimes the “good” person doesn’t even realize what they’re capable of.
They can’t accept they caused harm—so they fall into shame, defensiveness, or victimhood.
Sometimes they project.
Sometimes they think being a good person is enough—so they stop reflecting altogether.
And sometimes we see so much good in someone that we overlook or excuse how they’re hurting us—just because they’re not a “bad” person or didn’t mean to.
When you believe in someone’s heart,
it can blind you to their harm.
We all know we’re not perfect—
but most people don’t realize how that truth actually plays out.
Harm doesn’t always come from bad intentions.
It comes from being unaware, unaccountable,
or too attached to the idea that “I’m one of the good ones,”
or “they’re one of the good ones.”
And when that image shatters—your own or someone else’s—
it gives you one hell of a reality check.
Sure, I’ve gained insight—some things make sense now that didn’t before.
But when I sit with it all—my beliefs, my choices, the lessons—
I always land in the same place:
I still don’t know.
Not in an insecure way. Just… honestly.
I’m not pretending to have it figured out.
I move through life with what makes sense to me,
and that’s what I live by.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
And who knows—
I might look back on this list in a few years and see it completely differently.
I might gain new insight.
I might change my mind.
Or I might crash out, spiral, or hit a season where I realize—
that nothing even fucking matters.
Oh well.
You just never really know.
And that’s fine. I made peace with it a long time ago.
Certainty sounds nice, but nothing is a guarantee.
I just need to keep moving—
with intention,
with awareness,
and trust in myself & my creator.
Change doesn’t start outside—it starts inside.
For a long time, I believed that changing my surroundings would change my life.
So I tried it all: new routines, new environments, new versions of myself.
But no matter what I did, the same patterns kept repeating.
The same restlessness.
The same fears.
The same ache for something more.
Nothing shifted—because I was still carrying the same pain.
The same story.
The same habits of thought and emotion that were shaping the world around me in the first place.
Eventually, I stopped trying to fix my life by rearranging it.
Instead, I asked a different question:
Who’s the person behind all this effort to change?
What is she running from?
What is she still holding onto that no longer fits?
That’s when things actually began to move.
Not because I discovered some perfect plan—
but because I finally got honest.
I stopped performing change and started listening to the part of me that wanted it.
Not to fix her.
Not to shame her.
But to understand her.
She wasn’t asking for more just to have more.
She was asking to feel safe.
To feel seen.
To feel whole.
That’s where reality creation truly begins:
Not with manifestation. Not with strategy.
But with honesty. With presence. With a willingness to meet yourself where you actually are.
It means finally turning toward the parts of you you’ve ignored, avoided, or forgotten—
the ones that never had space,
the ones you silenced to survive,
the ones that didn’t fit the version of you the world made room for.
It’s not about reinventing yourself from scratch.
It’s about remembering what’s already there—
and choosing to bring it forward.
Not just noticing it,
but claiming it.
Living from it.
Letting it lead.
Because real growth doesn’t always look like adding more.
Sometimes, it means peeling back everything that isn’t truly you—
and realizing that who you are beneath the masks
is more than enough to build a life around.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not peaceful.
It hurts—in ways I didn’t expect.
Not just in my thoughts, but in my body.
It drained me.
Shook me.
Brought up things I thought I’d buried for good.
Some days I felt numb.
Other days, everything hit at once—
grief, rage, shame.
Not just over what happened,
but over the fact that I was still affected.
There were times I resented the process altogether.
But I learned that healing isn’t clean or linear—
it’s messy, raw, and uncomfortable.
The only way through was to stop fighting it.
To sit in the discomfort.
Let the pain speak.
And somehow, in the middle of that,
learn to be gentle with myself.
Not to feel good—
but to feel safe.
That’s when real healing began.
Not in my mind—
but in my body.
In the way I stayed with myself,
instead of trying to escape.
The silence. The isolation.
I thought it meant I was missing out—
on life, on connection, on everything.
I craved more: more people, more memories, more “living.”
But what I didn’t see then
was that loneliness was protecting me.
It gave me space.
It gave me clarity.
It gave me a mirror.
In that stillness, I found strength in my own presence.
I stopped chasing noise
and started hearing myself.
That’s where my self-worth began.
That’s where I started to really love who I was.
When I stopped seeing solitude as punishment,
I tuned in—
and I bloomed.
It was not understanding life at all.
I was taught who to be,
what to believe,
how to behave—
not through options, but expectations.
Be good. Be obedient. Don’t ask questions.
Follow the steps. Stay in line.
But I’ve always had a restless spirit.
Even without better options, I questioned everything.
Why does it have to be this way?
Why does no one seem to have real answers?
I did what I was “supposed” to do,
but I didn’t feel guided—I felt conditioned.
Work. Survive. Repeat.
And no matter how hard I tried,
it still felt like I was losing a game I didn’t even believe in.
Eventually, I realized:
life isn’t fixed.
There’s a default path we’re born into—
and then there’s the sovereign path.
The one you carve for yourself.
No map. No guarantees.
Just a knowing that there has to be more than this.
Choosing that path hasn’t been easy—
but it’s the first time I’ve felt like I’m truly living.
Not a life handed to me—
but one I’m creating, piece by piece.
You might build something that looks like success—
money, attention, aesthetics.
But beneath it? There’s a fracture.
Because if you don’t know yourself,
you’re not really living your life—
you’re just performing in someone else’s script.
Eventually, the noise fades.
The distractions slow down.
And what’s left is you—
and everything you’ve been avoiding.
That moment is heavy.
Because once you see the misalignment,
you can’t unsee it.
If you look away,
you’ll start trying to drown it out—
scrolling, overworking, performing.
Doing anything to avoid feeling the gap.
That’s how people burn out in lives built for approval instead of peace.
Knowing yourself isn’t a luxury.
It’s survival.
It’s clarity.
It’s the only way to build a life that actually fits your soul.
And the longer you avoid that truth,
the louder the ache becomes.
We live in a diverse world.
Different people.
Different cultures.
Different lives.
Humanity is vast, layered, and complex.
So why would the Creator of everything
only show up in one form?
One path? One story?
It doesn’t make sense to me.
If God is the source of all,
then connection to that source should be just as expansive
as the world it created.
People feel that connection in different ways—
through prayer, silence, music, grief, joy, nature…
or even through nothing at all.
And all of it can be real.
All of it can be holy.
Because the divine doesn’t limit itself—
people do.
Not without care.
Not without presence, honesty, or the willingness to protect what’s sacred.
I’m a lover girl.
I love deeply, fully, with everything I have.
But that love has cost me—
my peace, my voice, my sense of self.
I’ve learned that love needs more than emotion.
It needs honor.
Responsibility.
Stability.
Reciprocation.
Safety.
Authenticity.
Love can open you—
but without those foundations, it can also unravel you.
We think love is the answer to everything—
and in many ways, it is.
But it’s also a responsibility.
A daily practice.
A choice.
Because real love doesn’t die—
but it can turn into resentment, confusion, or pain
when it’s not nurtured with care.
Not just the lack of resources—
but the belief that there’s never enough.
Not enough time.
Not enough money.
Not enough love, beauty, safety, or worth.
That belief breeds fear, greed, competition, control.
People fight for scraps because they’ve been convinced
that’s all there is.
Scarcity turns survival into a mindset.
It becomes the lens through which people see everything—
success, relationships, even self-worth.
And when you're stuck in that lens,
nothing ever feels secure.
Even when you "have," you're afraid to lose.
Even when you "win," it still feels like it’s not enough.
Scarcity keeps people desperate, distracted, dependent—
too tired to imagine something different.
But here’s the truth:
The world is not truly scarce.
There is abundance—
in nature, in love, in creativity, in possibility.
What’s lacking isn’t supply—
it’s access.
It’s belief.
It’s trust.
Until we heal the illusion of scarcity,
we’ll keep repeating cycles that harm.
Not what you say you want—
but what you’re willing to settle for.
Who you chase.
Who you wait for.
Who you give endless chances to,
even when they’ve shown they’re not ready to hold you.
I had to ask myself hard questions:
Why did I stay in dynamics that drained me?
Why did I call it love
when it was really just attachment, habit, or fear of being alone?
Sometimes it wasn’t about them at all—
it was about me.
What I thought I deserved.
What I felt I had to prove.
What I was scared to walk away from.
It’s not easy to admit—
but it’s true:
The love you accept tells you more about your relationship with yourself
than it does about anyone else.
I don’t chase connection just to feel connected.
I don’t mind company, but I’ve learned to be intentional with it.
Out of every ten people you let into your life,
maybe one is actually meant to be there.
Not always forever,
not always for some deep spiritual reason—
but there’s usually alignment behind the ones who stick.
I used to be around someone who believed
the more people you talk to, the better.
More contacts. More conversation. More everything.
But to me, most of it felt like noise—
just energy with no direction.
The best connections in my life happened naturally.
No force. No chasing.
And when I tried to force them?
I ended up drained, disappointed, or played.
Especially when people sensed my softness—
my openness, my light.
Some took advantage of that.
Now I move different.
I don’t chase.
I let it unfold.
And I pay attention to how people make me feel,
not just who they appear to be.
Because it’s not about how many people you know—
it’s about how many are solid.
The rest? Just background noise.
Before the world told you who to be.
Before you adjusted to survive.
Before you traded your voice for approval—
you had your own rhythm.
Your own truth.
Your own way of moving through the world.
In a world that profits off your confusion,
you have to remember that.
Because if you don’t own yourself—
your mind, your choices, your energy—
someone else will.
Systems will.
People will.
Trends will.
That’s why knowing yourself matters.
Not for image.
Not for control.
But because everything in your life starts from there.
From you.
Sovereignty isn’t loud.
It’s quiet.
Steady.
Rooted.
And once you recognize it,
you stop living on autopilot—
and start living on your own terms.
or what I call my Divine Creator or Divine Consciousness—
I had to step away from all the mainstream language.
I needed words that felt personal, real, and mine.
At first, I leaned on my Creator to carry me.
Because honestly, life is too big to handle alone.
But over time, I realized something else—
that I needed to build that same level of faith, trust,
and devotion within myself, too.
That’s where co-creation really begins.
It’s not just about being carried—
it’s about walking with.
Showing up with something real in your hands, too.
I wanted to give God a version of me
that reflected love, strength, and presence—
not just dependence or low self-worth.
God carried me through those versions, yes.
But also toward my growth.
And that growth?
It isn’t something that can just be given.
It has to be reclaimed.
And when you do, it deepens the bond.
That goes for any type of relationship.
Because at some point, it’s not just about being loved—
it’s about becoming someone who can love,
show up,
and carry too.
You have your own path—
your own timing, your own rhythm.
And for all you know,
there may not even be a blueprint for where you’re headed.
You might be the first.
The one carving it out.
The one showing others what’s possible.
So if your journey doesn’t look familiar,
it doesn’t mean you’re behind—
it might mean you’re the trailblazer.
Not just in theory—
in real life, they’re tangled together.
What you believe shows up in how you move.
What you ignore shows up in your body.
The things you try to heal spiritually
still have to be dealt with physically—
through choices, habits, environments.
It’s not just about energy or mindset.
It’s about your money.
Your relationships.
Your nervous system.
Your day-to-day life.
You can’t say you want peace
but keep placing yourself in spaces that drain you.
You can’t talk about healing
while avoiding rest, boundaries, or truth.
Spirituality isn’t separate from life.
It’s in how you live.
How you show up.
Even in the mess.
Even when you’re still figuring it out.
I realized they weren’t ugly or negative—
just history.
Just things I picked up trying to survive
or make sense of what didn’t make sense at the time.
The more I dug, the more context I found.
It didn’t excuse everything—
but it explained a lot.
Why I react the way I do.
Why I shut down.
Why certain things trigger me when they shouldn’t.
It wasn’t about blame—
it was about finally seeing the full picture.
And once I did, I stopped picking myself apart.
I stopped trying to fix everything.
I started moving with more awareness.
Not perfect—
but clearer.
And that alone gave me room to breathe—
and a lot more compassion for myself.
because I go “above and beyond” in my thought processes for ideas he sees as small.
But I told him straight up:
I’m not an overthinker.
I’m a deep thinker.
And I have to be—this is my life.
I’ve seen what happens when I don’t go deep.
When I brush things off.
Miss the patterns.
Ignore the signs.
Say “it’s not that deep”
and end up stuck in something I could’ve avoided.
Not thinking deeply cost me.
It kept me in draining spaces.
Let the wrong people in.
Had me operating uncomfortably on autopilot—
moving from low self-worth without even realizing it.
I suffered because I didn’t ask the hard questions.
Didn’t sit with myself long enough to really get myself.
So if thinking deeply is what keeps me grounded—
what helps me choose better,
what protects my peace—
then so be it.
I’ll gladly “overthink” my way into saving my own life.
I know that’s how a lot of people move—
running themselves into the ground to prove they deserve more.
But I can’t do that.
Not anymore.
I’ve already been through that—
and because of it,
I had to go through that exhausting healing phase.
And honestly,
I’m just now making it out alive.
I had to unlearn so much just to realize:
I don’t have to suffer to get somewhere.
Now I move different.
I don’t see rest as slacking.
I don’t see slowness as falling behind.
I’m still learning how to honor my pace and protect my peace—
but I know one thing for sure:
I’m not burning out for anything.
That belief that you have to suffer to succeed?
It might work for some.
But I’m not subscribing to that version of success anymore.
It’s just not for me.
And none of it came from the world.
Not validation.
Not opportunity.
Not permission.
I kept searching outside myself—
hoping something or someone would hand me the answer.
A map. A green light.
A version of life that finally fit.
But all I found was noise, rules, and boxes I didn’t belong in.
Clarity came when I tuned in.
When I stopped outsourcing my worth, my voice, my direction.
Everything I’m doing now—
everything I’m building—
didn’t come from someone else’s blueprint.
It came from me saying: fuck the world, fuck y’all.
I outsourced myself to a system that didn’t give a damn about me.
They couldn’t—because it was fuck me too.
And with that logic? Bet.
I’ll do shit my way.
I don’t need the world to tell me it’ll work out—
because when I did it their way, it didn’t.
It made me miserable.
I’m not asking anymore.
I’m not waiting anymore.
I know who I am.
I know whose I am.
And I’m building from that.
I used to think they were just random—
especially the weird ones that made no sense on the surface.
People always said,
“If you remember a dream, it’s sending you a message,”
but I didn’t buy that at first.
Until life shook me—
and my dreams got loud.
They didn’t make sense logically,
but they lingered.
They clung.
And I couldn’t ignore that.
Out of curiosity, I started digging into the symbolism.
And when I did?
It blew my mind.
They mirrored everything I was going through—
not just emotionally,
but spiritually.
Even things I hadn’t admitted to myself.
It all made sense once I understood:
dreams come from the subconscious.
They reflect what we overlook, suppress, or feel too deeply to face head-on.
If I hadn’t leaned in,
I’d still be stuck in rooms I was never meant to stay in.
Now I pay attention.
Even when it’s strange.
Especially when it’s strange.
Even when it doesn’t make sense right away.
Because more often than not,
my dreams speak in symbols
that don’t reveal themselves all at once—
but once they do,
you can’t unsee it.
where freedom feels tied to money,
and even rest, food, and time have a price—
we forget that peace is free.
It doesn’t cost a thing.
Not a dollar.
Not a penny.
You don’t have to earn it.
You don’t have to chase it.
Most of the time, it’s just buried—
under noise, ego, pressure, or survival mode.
But it’s there.
It’s always been there.
Peace is free.
You just have to choose it.
Whenever you’re ready.
Some things just are—undefined, shifting, in-between.
And that doesn’t make them any less real.
There’s purpose in ambiguity.
It’s the space between certainty—
uncomfortable for some,
but full of freedom.
We’re taught to name everything to make it easier to understand.
But sometimes, naming it limits it.
Sometimes, meaning gets lost in the definition.
Whether it’s a feeling, a connection, a part of yourself,
or the phase you’re in—
it’s okay to let it be what it is.
You’ll feel it more clearly
when you stop trying to pin it down.
Not just some deep, spiritual thing—
but something you need to get through life.
Because if you don’t know how to sit with yourself,
you’ll keep repeating the same patterns.
You’ll keep blaming what’s outside of you
and never realize how much power you actually hold.
Life will come at you regardless.
People will project.
Situations will test you.
And if you don’t know how to check in with yourself—
to ask where it’s really coming from,
what it’s showing you,
what you need—
you’ll get lost in it.
Introspection isn’t just for healing.
It’s how you stay aware, grounded, and clear
in a world that constantly tries to pull you out of yourself.
I had to learn that the hard way.
I always saw myself as the “good girl”—
someone who moves with care, tries her best, and would never.
But I could.
I have.
Not on purpose, but it still happened.
And that forced me to face a hard truth:
I’m not exempt from causing pain just because I didn’t mean to.
I’ve seen this in others too.
We assume if someone isn’t “toxic” or “bad,” they must be safe.
But kind, well-intentioned people can cause harm.
We all can.
Sometimes the “good” person doesn’t even realize what they’re capable of.
They can’t accept they caused harm—so they fall into shame, defensiveness, or victimhood.
Sometimes they project.
Sometimes they think being a good person is enough—so they stop reflecting altogether.
And sometimes we see so much good in someone that we overlook or excuse how they’re hurting us—just because they’re not a “bad” person or didn’t mean to.
When you believe in someone’s heart,
it can blind you to their harm.
We all know we’re not perfect—
but most people don’t realize how that truth actually plays out.
Harm doesn’t always come from bad intentions.
It comes from being unaware, unaccountable,
or too attached to the idea that “I’m one of the good ones,”
or “they’re one of the good ones.”
And when that image shatters—your own or someone else’s—
it gives you one hell of a reality check.
Sure, I’ve gained insight—some things make sense now that didn’t before.
But when I sit with it all—my beliefs, my choices, the lessons—
I always land in the same place:
I still don’t know.
Not in an insecure way. Just… honestly.
I’m not pretending to have it figured out.
I move through life with what makes sense to me,
and that’s what I live by.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
And who knows—
I might look back on this list in a few years and see it completely differently.
I might gain new insight.
I might change my mind.
Or I might crash out, spiral, or hit a season where I realize—
that nothing even fucking matters.
Oh well.
You just never really know.
And that’s fine. I made peace with it a long time ago.
Certainty sounds nice, but nothing is a guarantee.
I just need to keep moving—
with intention,
with awareness,
and trust in myself & my creator.