Writing

When life feels like a waiting room 

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There are seasons in life where it feels impossible to fully arrive in the present moment.

You wake up tired before the day even begins. Your mind is constantly somewhere else: n the future, trying to solve problems that haven’t happened yet, or in the past, replaying everything that changed.

You keep moving because you have to. You answer the emails. Make the appointments. Care for the people who need you. Hold everything together as best you can.

But inside, there is often a quiet feeling of: “I’ll start living again once this is over.”

Once the diagnosis becomes clearer. Once the stress settles down. Once the financial pressure eases. Once the kids are okay. Once you stop feeling so overwhelmed. Once you feel safe again. Until then, life can begin to feel like a waiting room.

Not fully living. Not fully resting. Just… enduring.

So many people move through difficult seasons this way. Caregiving. Burnout. Chronic stress. Major life changes. Relationship shifts. Uncertainty about the future. The slow unraveling of a version of life you thought would look different.

And the hard part is that from the outside, you may still appear functional.

You still show up. You still handle responsibilities. You still smile when needed. But internally, your spirit can begin to feel suspended somewhere between survival and hope.

There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying too much for too long.

Not just physically, but emotionally. Being the strong one. Being the stable one. Being the one who keeps adapting. The one who keeps saying, “It’s okay,” even when your nervous system feels stretched thin. Over time, people can become disconnected from themselves without even realizing it.

You stop asking yourself what you need. You stop imagining joy. You stop dreaming beyond the current crisis because it feels safer not to hope too much. Life becomes reduced to getting through the next day, the next week, the next difficult conversation.

But even in these uncertain seasons, your life is still happening. Not later. Not once everything is fixed.

Now.

The sunlight coming through the window still counts. The quiet cup of coffee before everyone wakes up still counts. The music that softens something inside you for a moment still counts. These moments are not insignificant. They are reminders that your soul has not disappeared beneath the weight of what you are carrying.

One of the gentlest shifts we can make during hard seasons is learning to stop treating ourselves as temporary visitors in our own lives.

You do not have to wait until everything is healed to reconnect with yourself. You are allowed to rest before you earn it. You are allowed to create even while things are uncertain. You are allowed to experience moments of beauty in the middle of unfinished chapters.

There is no prize for abandoning yourself during difficult times.

And perhaps that is the deeper lesson these seasons quietly teach us: That life is not only found in the moments where everything feels resolved and peaceful. Sometimes life is also found in resilience. In tenderness. In learning how to remain soft-hearted while moving through uncertainty.

Healing does not always arrive as a dramatic breakthrough. Sometimes it arrives quietly. In the moment you finally exhale fully. In the evening you laugh without forcing it. In the realization that you deserve care too. In choosing to sit outside for five extra minutes and watch the sky change colors instead of rushing back into survival mode.

Little by little, life begins to return. Not because the circumstances suddenly became perfect, but because you slowly stopped postponing your own presence within them.

If you are walking through one of those heavy, uncertain seasons right now, know this: You are not behind. You are not failing because things feel hard. And you do not have to wait for life to become perfect before allowing yourself to truly live it again.

Even here, there is still beauty.

Even here, there is still meaning.

Even here, you are still becoming.

If this resonates with you, please consider subscribing for more writing like this. Or joining our Free Skool Community.

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Self and Grief

Five days ago my husband almost died. He had a complication from a surgery to extend his quality of life, after being diagnosed with  stage 3 liver disease. I have been with him on the journey to a liver transplant, and it’s been quite the epic. Based how quickly the medical team in our city transferred him to the transplant hub 4 hours away, tells me all I need to know about that. 

But this essay isn’t about him, really. It’s about how I lost myself through all this. It was only a short time ago that he was diagnosed, and in just a few months, I became an empty husk of my former self. Granted, before he got sick, I was already feeing like I was being hollowed out from the microaggressions I had toward myself. The times that I said yes, when I meant no. Times that I kept silent when I should have used my voice. Slowly shrinking to “keep the peace” in an increasingly inhospitable realm. 

Anticipatory Grief

I only recently discovered there was a word for the feeling I have been carrying these last several months- Anticipatory Grief. The stage of grief before the actual grief event happens, where you expect the tragedy and prepare for it. This grief comes in waves of hope and tragedy. Highs and lows that can vacillate so wildly within seconds, if feels like a perpetual food processor. One second you are hopeful for an outcome that doesn’t result in the unspeakable. The next, you are in the depths of despair, preparing for your existence without them. As time has worn on and my patience worn thin, it has been increasingly difficult to wrap my head around the possibility that this wasn’t “the end”. 

Winning or Losing

Around the new year, an author that I deeply respect who has a skool community I am a member of, posed a question regarding resolutions for the coming year. While I have never been one to do resolutions, my response was telling. I shared to the thread that I did not want to lose myself, and instead wanted to stay dedicated to the projects I had started long before diagnosis, no matter the outcome.

I had that thought before we came within a paper thin margin of life or death. I didn’t want to lose myself in the process of loving and supporting someone else. I remain steadfast in that goal right now, as I write these words. My own Soul Death is not worth the price. 

How often do we shrink ourselves to love others? How often do we shame ourselves for living fully in our authenticity, so that others can be more comfortable? How often are we conditioned to hide the parts of ourselves that make us unique, brilliant, and strong? It is a genuine tragedy to the psyche. We hide, quiet, and even destroy the pieces that are the best parts of us, and for what? 

Current State

As of this writing, my husband is on the path to gaining strength and stamina back, to ensure a successful transplant. I have resolved to keep my spine straight through whatever comes in the future for us. By doing that, I can be my whole self- the compassionate, kind, strong caretaker/mother/daughter/friend/wife that is my nature. One who will not shrink to fit the expectations of others, but instead will be the authentic, imperfect version I am and am becoming. 

I owe it to myself, my children, and those around me. I owe it to my own inner child too. She worked very hard to keep me safe, to get me here. I owe it to her to be brave and make her proud of who we became. 

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What Kind of World Do We Want?

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I have been trying for weeks to assemble my thoughts into something worthy of writing here, in this space. I have found it difficult for so many reasons. My imposter syndrome has often gotten the better of me, by forcing my brain to think that I had nothing of value to share, that I am not enough. However, my heart is at a breaking point, beyond anything I thought possible before, and I’d like to share this with you today. This will be a departure from my typical writing, so please forgive me for derailing from the usual track. That track just doesn’t feel as important as it was before.

For those of you who are newer to the blog, I have lived in the Southwestern United States for about half my life. The other half, has been spent in the Twin Cities, Minnesota. My house is near downtown Minneapolis. To say that I am scared for my family- my husband and kids- would be an understatement. But I am so proud of my community. Regardless of political affiliation or views, I deeply believe that we can all agree that what is happening at the hands of the US government is not ok. It’s not normal, moral, just, legal in most cases, or humane. They are attacking us. Minneapolis is no exception. They are conducting raids, violent suppression, and worse, all over the country as I type these words.

I have been digging deep into my fragile psyche to find some spiritual balm for the hurt, and I seem to be coming up empty. There is no salve that will quiet this burning inside my chest. I am so angry and deeply saddened by the tragedies that are unfolding this very minute across the country. Families torn apart, communities rallying together to protect their vulnerable neighbors, citizens being gunned down in front of onlookers, the federal government vilifying the helpers. It is a world I have never known in my lifetime. Many of us have not experienced this. 

As Americans, we are generally safe from this type of tyranny. I acknowledge this privilege. I am equally aware that many of my neighbors and community members have not had that luxury. Many of my classmates growing up were refugees from Cambodia and Laos, of the Hmong ethnic group, where they fled their homelands to relocate in the frozen state of Minnesota. Many of our neighbors are from various African countries: Somalia, Rwanda, Ethiopia, Nigeria- who again fled war and famine, to be welcomed by the true melting pot of Minnesota. This area of the nation was settled first by the Native Peoples: Dakota (Sioux) & Anishinaabe (Chippewa, Ojibwe), and then by French fur trappers, as well as immigrants from Scandinavia- the same that called Canada home. 

Minnesota is a melting pot, where all the people bring their heritage and their ingredients, to take care of the larger community. It has not always been peaceful, nor has it always been just. It has been complicated, messy, and ever-changing. We have seen the damage to humanity when lives are snuffed out too soon. When the light of our collective conscience has been dimmed. 

I am proud of the community. I am proud of Minnesota. I am proud of the resistance I’ve seen from all corners of the US. I sincerely hope that we do not lose it, lose the momentum, to building a better place for us all. Our systems are broken. It’s so clear to see. It is up to us to fight for the world we want to inhabit. For what all our ancestors fought for throughout the ages. What do we want to leave our descendants? Do we want to leave them a world where people who disagree can be harmed with impunity? Do we want to leave them a planet choked with poisonous air and water? Where do we draw the line? Where do we go from here?

I will leave this rambling message with one final question: When is enough, enough?

Thank you for reading.

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The Magic of Storytelling — And the Women Who Carried Our Cultures on Their Tongues

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Since the beginning of time, humans have shared stories long before we shared written language. We carved them into cave walls, whispered them into the night, and passed them through the generations like treasure. But if you look closely at the history of storytelling — really look — you’ll notice something powerful:

Women have been the ones holding the threads.

Across continents, cultures, and centuries, women have been the keepers of memory, the carriers of truth, the weavers of identity. And the magic of storytelling isn’t just about entertainment. It’s about survival, belonging, and happiness. It’s about stitching ourselves into the world.

Today, we’re going to explore the magic of storytelling through a feminine lens — not as a nostalgia piece, but as a reminder of the power that lives in our voices right now.

Storytelling Is the Oldest Form of Healing

Before we had therapists, self-help books, or mindfulness apps, we had stories.

Stories are how humans make sense of chaos. They help us stitch meaning into moments that feel senseless. They give shape to grief, language to joy, and rhythm to the in-between spaces of being human.

When people are overwhelmed, they instinctively reach for stories:

  • A favorite childhood movie
  • A comforting myth
  • A spiritual teaching
  • A joke or memory
  • A prayer they learned from their grandmother

Stories calm the nervous system because they offer structure. A beginning. A middle. An end. A path through the unknown.

And this is where women historically stepped in as guides.

Women as the Carriers of Culture

In almost every ancestral culture, you’ll find the same pattern:

Women held the oral traditions.

They told the stories that taught:

  • values
  • community expectations
  • spiritual beliefs
  • the rituals of birth, love, and death
  • the lessons embedded in nature and seasons

They passed them along while braiding hair, cooking meals, grinding herbs, nursing babies, or sitting together under stars. The transmission was woven into everyday life. Not formal. Not ceremonial. Simply present.

Across the world:

  • In West African traditions, griots and griottes preserved history through song and story.
  • Indigenous grandmothers across the Americas shared creation stories and survival wisdom.
  • In Celtic cultures, women kept the lineage stories alive during times of war and displacement.
  • In Asian traditions, mothers and aunties used folktales as moral maps for children.
  • In Jewish families, women safeguarded cultural and spiritual continuity through the stories told in the home.

Everywhere we look, women ensured that culture didn’t end when times were hard.

They kept language alive when colonizers tried to erase it.

They held genealogies when written records were destroyed.

They carried spiritual traditions when practicing them openly was forbidden.

They were the living libraries.

Storytelling Is How Women Have Built Happiness, Too

It’s easy to forget this now, in an age where everything is fast, digital, and disposable. But happiness has never been a product, it’s always been a practice.

Storytelling is one of the oldest happiness practices we have.

When women gathered, they didn’t just share stories of heroes or gods. They shared:

  • how they survived heartbreak
  • how they cooked when food was scarce
  • how they found joy during hardship
  • how they soothed a crying child
  • how they learned to trust themselves again
  • how they found magic in the mundane

These weren’t just stories. They were maps of resilience.

And we still need them, maybe more than ever.

Why Storytelling Feels Magical

Storytelling activates imagination, memory, and intuition all at once. It opens the heart space. It reminds us that we are more than our to-do lists, more than our anxieties, more than our survival mode.

When you share a story — even a small one — something alchemical happens:

  1. A part of you becomes known.
  2. A part of someone else becomes understood.
  3. Connection forms where isolation used to be.

This is what magic actually is:

  • A shift in energy.
  • A softening.
  • A remembering.

This is why women’s circles, community gatherings, and spiritual spaces have always included stories. It’s how humans root into each other.

Your Story Is Part of This Lineage

You may not sit around a fire or gather the village like your ancestors did. But every story you tell, on social media, to your child, to yourself in the quiet moments, adds to the collective tapestry.

When you share truthfully, you:

  • validate someone else’s experience
  • preserve something worth remembering
  • create a moment of belonging
  • contribute to culture in real time

Your voice matters because your story is part of a continuum that stretches backward through generations of women and forward into the future.

You carry the wisdom of those who came before you.

And someone- someday- will carry pieces of your story, too.

A Gentle Invitation

As you move through this week, notice the stories you tell:

  • About your life
  • About your spiritual journey
  • About your worth
  • About your possibilities

Are they stories you want to keep?

Are they stories that nourish you?

Are they stories that reflect the woman you’re becoming?

If not, you have the power — like every woman before you — to change the narrative.

Because storytelling is not just how we remember.

It’s how we rewrite.

How we reclaim.

How we rise.

And that… is magic.

If this post resonated with you, please consider joining us at Mystic Harmony Circle, a soulful Skool community built for slow reflection, reclaiming, and aligning with yourself.

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When Grief Becomes a Mirror

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Finding Yourself in the Aftermath of a Difficult Year

There are years that feel like a slow unraveling – threads pulled loose one by one until you’re no longer sure where the original pattern even began. Maybe this past year was one of those years for you. A year that asked too much. A year that took too much. A year that left you standing in the quiet aftermath, wondering how to stitch yourself together again.

Grief has a way of stripping everything down to the bone. It silences the noise, dissolves the masks, and leaves us alone with ourselves, our truth, our questions, our unmet needs, our unspoken longings. It’s uncomfortable, raw, sometimes brutally honest. But within that discomfort lives something sacred: an invitation back to authenticity.

Where Grief Meets Introspection

When life shakes us, the first instinct is often to reach for something familiar: routine, responsibility, distraction. But eventually, there comes a stillness we can’t outrun. In that stillness, we meet ourselves again.

Introspection during grief doesn’t look like tidy journaling prompts or beautifully structured epiphanies. It’s more like:

  • Sitting quietly with the ache in your chest
  • Realizing the things you used to tolerate no longer feel tolerable
  • Noticing which relationships held you, and which ones disappeared
  • Feeling exhausted by pretend versions of yourself
  • Wanting less noise, fewer expectations, and more truth

Grief changes our inner landscape. It shifts priorities, clears illusions, and sharpens our understanding of what matters. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way, but in tiny, everyday moments – choosing rest over obligation, honesty over performance, slowness over survival mode.

Authenticity Often Begins in the Ruins

It’s strange, but grief can make us more real than anything else ever could.

When the old ways of being fall apart, it becomes harder to hide behind “I’m fine.” Something in us whispers:

Be who you actually are.

Say what you actually feel.

Stop carrying what is not yours.

Authenticity isn’t about perfection. It’s about alignment. And grief, for all its heaviness, is a powerful realignment. It clears away the unnecessary and asks us to show up barefaced, imperfect, and entirely human.

You might find yourself:

  • Speaking with more honesty
  • Setting boundaries you once avoided
  • Prioritizing joy in small, quiet ways
  • Letting go of roles that drained you
  • Reclaiming parts of yourself you forgot

That internal shift is not weakness. It’s transformation.

Moving Forward With Tender Courage

If you’re reading this and nodding quietly, please know: nothing is wrong with you. You aren’t “behind.” You aren’t failing. You’re simply in a brave season of becoming.

Healing isn’t linear. Some days you’ll make tea, breathe deeply, and feel grounded. Other days you’ll stare at the laundry and wonder why everything suddenly feels heavy. Both are part of the journey. Both count.

Be gentle with the version of you that is trying to rise while still carrying the weight of what you’ve lost.

There Is Magic in Returning to Yourself

As painful as this year may have been, it’s also offering you something: a path back to your inner wisdom. A chance to hear your own voice again. A doorway into a life that feels more aligned, more intentional, and more you.

This is the quiet magic that grief leaves in its wake—not joy exactly, but truth. Not certainty, but clarity. Not perfection, but presence.

If you’re moving through this intersection of grief, introspection, and authenticity… take it slowly. Let yourself feel. Let yourself soften. Let yourself rebuild in your own time and in your own way.

And if you want a place to explore these moments more deeply, with others who are walking their own healing path, you’re warmly invited to join us inside Mystic Harmony Circle—a gentle community for connection, grounding, and rediscovering your inner voice.

You don’t have to navigate this season alone.

You deserve support, spaciousness, and a soft place to land.

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