For the longest time, I believed that healing meant I would feel better. More balanced. More in control. That one day, I’d wake up with clarity and energy, smiling without effort, finally “there.” But I’m learning something softer now:Wholeness doesn’t mean you’re always okay. It doesn’t mean you never feel overwhelmed, or tired, or lonely. It doesn’t mean the sadness is gone, or that the doubts have disappeared. It means you’re learning to hold those things without falling apart. That you no longer see your difficult days as failure, but as part of the rhythm of being human. Wholeness is not perfection.It’s presence.It’s honesty. It’s waking up and not pretending. It’s letting yourself cry when you need to, without apologizing. It’s feeling joy again and not questioning whether you’ve “earned” it. It’s being able to say, “I’m not okay right now” — and still knowing you’re not broken. This is the quiet truth no one tells you: even after healing, life can still be hard. You can still be triggered, still feel empty, still want …

There comes a moment — quiet and often painful — where you realize: this life I’m living doesn’t feel like mine anymore. It’s not that it’s all wrong. It’s just… not right either. You’ve done what was expected. You’ve held it all together. You’ve given, carried, adjusted, functioned. But somewhere along the way, you stopped feeling at home — not in your house, but in yourself. So now, slowly, quietly, you’re starting over. Not with loud decisions or big moves. But with gentle questions. What would it feel like to build a life that holds you — not just the roles you play or the tasks you complete, but the real, honest, messy, beautiful version of you? Not a life that looks good from the outside. Not one that makes everyone else comfortable. But one where you can breathe. Where your nervous system can exhale. Where you don’t have to shrink or stretch to fit in — because you’ve finally made space for who you really are. Maybe it begins with small boundaries. With choosing …

I used to think joy was something big. Something loud and full of color. Something obvious — like laughing until your stomach hurts, dancing without caring who’s watching, or being swept away in a perfect moment that feels like a movie. And maybe it was, once. But lately, joy looks different. Softer. Quieter. Sometimes I miss how it used to feel — wild and free and effortless. And there’s a part of me that grieves that version of myself. The one who didn’t have so many responsibilities, so many expectations, so many weights to carry. But I’m starting to see that joy isn’t gone. It’s just changed its shape. Now, it’s in a quiet morning where no one needs anything from me. It’s in a deep breath I actually notice. It’s in the way sunlight filters through the window while I do something completely ordinary — and suddenly, for a second, I feel present. Not rushing to the next thing. Just here. Joy isn’t always fireworks. Sometimes, it’s a soft glow. Sometimes it’s hiding inside …