A Path Called Me

Tag: love yourself

  • A Love Letter

    Dear Love,

    Where are you?

    I used to wonder that so often.
    Are you in my mother’s warm embrace?
    In the neighbor’s kind “Good morning”?
    Are you hidden in the soft light of a new day, or in the joyful smile of my daughter?


    Does the green grass carry you?

    Or perhaps you’re in the face of a stranger I passed in the park? 

    I searched for you everywhere.
    So many of us do—looking for love in people, in places, in fleeting moments.

    For me, life has always been about you.
    Because life without love? It felt like it lacked meaning.

    I searched for you in people first.
    And I did find you—within my family, my friends, and in the most beautiful form of all: the love I feel for my daughter.

    Then, I found you in places.
    In the lake where I grew up.
    In the city where I studied.
    In the place I now call home.

    And then, I began to find you in nature.

    In the rhythm of ocean waves.

    In the majesty of the mountains.

    In poppy-filled meadows.

    In the pear tree in my grandparents’ yard.

    I discovered you in the little things, too:
    In the taste of my mom’s brownies.

    In a squirrel’s darting across the park.

    And in countless other tiny, beautiful moments.

    But even though I saw you everywhere, something still felt incomplete.
    There was always a small ache. A sense that something essential was missing.

    Until one day, I looked into the mirror—into my own eyes—and finally saw what I’d been overlooking all along.

    You were there.
    You had been waiting.

    I had never thought to look for love within myself.
    Never paused to offer love to myself.

    And that changed everything.
    Because the most valuable love, the most healing, the most lasting—was the one I gave to me.

    So now I know:
    You are not just out there, scattered in the world.
    You are also right here, inside me.
    Always have been.
    Always will be.

    With all my heart,
    Me

  • Pain

    Pain accompanies our life from day one. We are born and we cry—I would call that emotional pain, confusion pain. We don’t know what’s going on. It seems like everyone is afraid to feel pain. Physical or emotional.

    We avoid emotional pain and end up hurting ourselves physically so that our attention shifts. Because it’s easier to deal with physical pain than emotional pain. So we drink too much, we eat too much, we take drugs, we blame others for our misery. We punch things until there’s blood on our fists. We exercise until our body gives out. We work too much, we study too much.

    Honestly, I could go on and on with ways people hurt themselves. By doing this, we are trying to escape. We’re scared to face what really hurts. And there’s a lot to face, if I’m being honest. Not everyone will do that— not in their entire life.

    Why? Because we would have to confront the truth. The truth about what happened—the things we’d rather forget. The truth about what we did. Our mistakes. The people we hurt. The lies we told. The truths we’re ashamed to admit.

    That’s a lot of responsibility. And who wants that? Who consciously chooses pain in a world where pleasure and happiness are advertised everywhere you look?

    It’s easier to have fun. It’s easier to keep ourselves busy. It’s easier to talk about others. It’s easier to see everything else—just not the pain inside.

    Some people do this their whole life. Some find the courage to look inside. And yes, it hurts. It hurts so much I can’t even describe it. A drilling tooth or broken bone is nothing compared to this pain.

    But when you start healing small pieces of your soul—of your being—it slowly dissolves. It gets better.

    I’ve faced a lot of my pain. Crawling in it. Crying for hours. Begging, “When will this end?” And I still experience it from time to time, because we can’t heal all at once. Some wounds are deeper, and we have to be ready to feel them.

    The good part? God will never give us more than we can handle. So when something comes up and the pain rises again, deep down I know—it’s time.

    That doesn’t mean I’m not angry. I am. And I ask God: Why? Every time I go through it, I have a conversation with God. I say everything—how angry I am, how unfair life feels, how He can allow this, how I’m supposed to live with all these truths I now see. I speak without a filter.

    And then, I say thank you. Because I know this pain gives me freedom. It gives me a beautiful understanding of my being, of my life. And then—I see more. I feel more.

    Because when pain leaves, it makes space for love, joy, happiness—and most importantly—gratitude.
    Gratitude that I’m here. That I can experience life on this planet. That God made me so perfectly imperfect.

    We’re taught to search for the good, for happy moments. But life is not only about joy. It’s both.
    Good and bad.
    Happy and sad.
    Success and failure.

    And in both, we find depth. We find meaning. We find ourselves.

  • Emotions

    Emotions are our internal compass. They let us know that something important is happening within us—a sign that deserves attention. We feel anger when things don’t go as planned. We feel joy when we’re with someone we love. These feelings are part of what makes us human.

    When I was a child, I often heard, “Stop crying,” when I was sad, or “Don’t be so angry,” when I was upset. Even when I was laughing with joy, I was told to quiet down. Over time, I learned not to feel—or at least, not to show it. I buried my emotions, hiding parts of myself to avoid judgment.

    Later in life, my relationships reflected those early lessons. I found myself in situations where I was told that my feelings were “too much” or “not real.” I was manipulated into believing my emotions were wrong, that my instincts couldn’t be trusted. I began judging myself more harshly than anyone else ever could. I thought I was a failure, that I didn’t know how to live. So, I became a perfectionist—on the outside, strong and confident; on the inside, lost and afraid.

    I didn’t trust myself, because I had been taught not to. I let others tell me who I should be—how to raise my child, what career to pursue, even what to eat. Looking back, it feels like I was living someone else’s life. And in truth, I was.

    But things began to change when I started to reconnect with my emotions—all of them. I began to allow myself to feel anger, frustration, sadness, joy, and happiness. Even when a voice inside tried to shut it down—“Why are you happy when your life is such a mess?”—I kept going.

    Now, I feel everything. Sometimes I understand why, and sometimes I don’t. And honestly, I’ve made peace with not always knowing. The meaning comes eventually. I’ve learned to let my emotions exist without judgment, and I’m learning how to manage them—especially when they show up at unexpected times.

    From everything I’ve had to learn to make my life better, this has been the hardest. But also the most powerful. It’s a lifelong practice—just like taking care of my body with workouts. Some days are strong, some are slow, but all of them are worth the effort. Especially when it comes to things—and people—we care about.

    My wish for myself is to become a master of emotional resilience. But even if I don’t reach that goal completely, I will still celebrate how far I’ve come. Because this work—this healing—is already changing my life.

  • Trust

    Who—and what—do we trust?

    I used to believe people wouldn’t hurt me. I believed their words. I trusted their actions. I thought if I was kind, honest, and open-hearted, the world would meet me with the same. But life doesn’t always work like that.

    We’re born open. Curious. Trusting. Then life happens. People hurt us—sometimes by accident, sometimes through carelessness—and that trust begins to crack.

    As kids, we trust blindly. We follow the lead of adults and older friends, assuming they know better. But at some point, we get hurt. We feel let down, betrayed. And we begin to question not just others, but ourselves.

    That happened to me. I started questioning my worth. Wondering what I’d done wrong. And eventually, I found myself questioning everything. Was this what life was supposed to be? A constant fight to feel safe, seen, and whole?

    I knew I didn’t want to live like that anymore.

    When you finally start asking deeper questions, the answers come. Not always gently. Sometimes through pain. But they come. And for me, the truth was this: I am responsible for my life.

    That truth changed everything. It gave me a new beginning—a second chance.

    I began learning how to trust myself.

    Yes, I’ve made mistakes. I’ve let myself down. Chosen comfort over truth. Chosen people over peace. But I kept watching. I kept asking:

    Was that decision rooted in self-respect—or fear?
    Was I being true to myself—or just trying to be accepted?
    Was it love—or my ego?

    Over time, choice by choice, I started building a life that felt real. Not perfect. Not always easy. But real.

    It was hard at first.
    Hard to say no.
    Hard to speak up.
    Hard to set boundaries.
    Hard to choose myself.

    But I did. And it got easier.

    Now, I listen to myself. I speak honestly. I protect my energy. And yes—some people didn’t like that. Some drifted away.

    And that’s okay.

    Because the more I honored myself, the more I rebuilt trust—not in others, not in the world, but in me.

    That’s how trust was reborn.

    I lost faith in people. At times, I even lost faith in God. But I’ve come to understand: everything begins within.

    If I want to trust the world, I have to trust myself first.
    If I want to believe in goodness, I have to live it.
    And if I want to feel safe, I have to choose what’s right for me—even when it’s hard.

    That’s where trust starts.
    That’s how love grows.
    That’s how I came home to myself.