Gratitude for my awareness.
Time has really been healing me.
Not in the loud, cinematic way people expect—but quietly, consistently, and honestly. With time, I’ve learned that self-love doesn’t just teach you how to care for yourself. It teaches you how to listen to yourself.
We often talk about the mind and the heart as if they’re the only decision-makers. The mind tries to reason. The heart feels deeply. And sometimes, they’re not aligned. One wants clarity, the other wants connection. One knows the truth, the other hopes it will change.
But what we forget is that the body holds both.
The body is powerful. The body is intuitive. And unlike the mind, which can rationalize, or the heart, which can romanticize, the body does not lie. The body knows when something isn’t safe. It knows when someone is harmful—not just emotionally, but to your peace, your hygiene, your nervous system, your well-being.
At some point, the body shuts down what the mind and heart were willing to tolerate.
That realization was an epiphany for me.
I’ve learned that attachment doesn’t mean alignment. You can be attached to something that is wrong for you. You can want something that is slowly draining you. And that doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.
What matters is awareness.
Sometimes we need time for feelings to die naturally. Sometimes we need to sit in discomfort long enough for disgust to replace longing. Sometimes we need to see patterns repeat until the lesson finally lands—not intellectually, but somatically.
And that’s where healing actually happens.
I’ve noticed that when I truly set boundaries—when I’m no longer available, no longer explaining, no longer negotiating—something interesting happens. The dynamic changes. Ego gets bruised. Access is lost. And often, the people who once tried to come back no longer feel aligned with who I’ve become.
Not because I hardened. But because I healed.
Healing doesn’t mean you never cared. It means you no longer abandon yourself to be chosen.
I’ve also learned that when people treat others poorly, it is not a reflection of the other person’s worth or value. It is a reflection of their choices—their capacity for respect, mindfulness, and care. Everyone has a choice. And when someone repeatedly chooses carelessness, that choice speaks for itself.
Time has taught me patience—not with others, but with the process.
Because change takes time. Detachment takes time. Clarity takes time.
Even when you fight it. Even when you’re nonchalant. Even when you stay too long.
Eventually, something inside you reaches its limit.
If the heart won’t stop, and the mind won’t intervene, the body will.
And that is not failure—that is protection.
Today, I feel gratitude. Gratitude for my awareness. Gratitude for my nervous system. Gratitude for my body, my mind, and my heart finally working together instead of against each other.
I trust myself now. I trust time. I trust that everything heals—sometimes gently, sometimes painfully—but always purposefully.
And I look forward to continuing to live, learn, and choose myself—again and again.
Yours… truly,
Amy Douangmany
Dear Diary, 