Category: Blog

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Even in the middle of everything,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

I still have something to be grateful for.

Tonight feels heavy, but honest.

I’m driving, letting the road stretch out in front of me like it knows something I don’t yet. The air is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder. I look around and see the shadows of tall trees, steady and rooted, doing what they’ve always done—standing, breathing, giving. It’s wild to think they’ve been here this whole time, offering oxygen without asking for anything back. And here I am, trying to catch my own breath.

My chest has been tight lately. Not just physically, but emotionally—like something inside me is trying to expand but doesn’t quite have the space to. Maybe it’s anxiety. Maybe it’s everything at once. The strange part is that even being outside, even being surrounded by something as grounding as nature, doesn’t fully settle it. That’s when it hit me; maybe it’s not about where I am physically. Maybe it’s deeper than that.

Maybe my roots just aren’t planted where I can thrive.

And as unsettling as that feels, there’s also something powerful in it. Because I’m not a tree. I’m not stuck. I don’t need permission to move, to shift, to choose differently. My roots aren’t locked in place. I can replant myself. I can find better soil, better light, better space to grow.

That realization doesn’t make things instantly easier, but it gives me something solid to hold onto– choice.

I’ve been trying so hard to be there for others, even when I’m stretched thin. Showing up, giving, pouring into people I may never fully know. And tonight, I realized something quietly important: even in the middle of everything, I still have something to be grateful for. The people who listen. The ones who stay. The ones who see me, even when I feel scattered.

Feelings are complicated. Ego, fear, misunderstanding—they build walls between us so easily. I think most people mean well, but life gets layered. Stress, responsibilities, silent struggles—we all carry things that aren’t visible. And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling safe to just be open. So we guard ourselves. We assume. We protect.

But the truth is, we don’t really know what anyone else is carrying.

I’ve been thinking about who I used to be—balancing so much, still finding time for connection, for family, for love. And now life looks different. Heavier in some ways. More responsibility. More pressure. More people depending on me. It’s not as simple anymore, and I think a lot of us are quietly adjusting to that reality.

We take things personally so quickly now. Maybe because we’re already overwhelmed. Maybe because we’re all a little tired of holding everything together.

But what if we softened, just a little?

What if we chose to be a community instead of just individuals protecting our own corners?

Because the truth is, some of us are so used to being strong that we forget what it feels like to be supported. We perform strength. We survive. And sometimes, it feels like the only person we really have… is ourselves.

Tonight, I’m sitting with that truth.

Not in a defeated way—but in a way that reminds me: if I have me, I still have something real. Something steady. Something that can choose again tomorrow.

And maybe that’s where I start.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, We live in a world where availability is often mistaken for…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

connection.

It’s one of those rainy days—the kind that drifts in and out, soft and steady, then disappears as quickly as it came. I’m at the gym, headphones in, thinking about how few people actually have access to my energy these days. And honestly… that’s a gift. Sometimes, it’s okay for no one to have that access at all.

We live in a world where availability is often mistaken for connection. People assume that saying yes, answering calls, or showing up automatically builds something meaningful. But connection isn’t about convenience—it’s about alignment. Ease doesn’t guarantee respect, and comfort doesn’t replace integrity.

Access is a privilege, not a given. And just because someone has been present before doesn’t mean they should always be allowed in. When experiences stop feeling light, enjoyable, or mutually respectful… that’s when boundaries matter. Not as a punishment, but as a compass. A way to honor yourself.

So here’s the practice: show up when it feels aligned. Step back when it doesn’t. No overthinking, no guilt, no endless explanations. Your time, energy, and attention are yours to choose. And when you respond with that level of clarity, even small interactions carry meaning. They carry intention.

This is why I operate the way I do. I prioritize my energy, my peace, my values. Because at the end of the day, life isn’t about reacting to every impulse or accommodating every expectation. It’s about choosing yourself. About showing up for what truly matters, and letting the rest fall into its natural place.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Healing, I’ve realized…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

is messy.

There’s a truth about life that people don’t like to say out loud.

Sometimes, you are a victim.

Not in a way that defines you forever, and not in a way that strips you of your power—but in a way that simply acknowledges reality. Life will, at some point, happen to you. Through loss. Through betrayal. Through timing that doesn’t make sense. Through people who never intended to love you the way you loved them.

And those moments… they soften you. They leave marks. They create a kind of healing that isn’t a one-time event, but something you learn to carry and manage over time.

Today, I found myself reflecting on something small—almost silly.

A water dispenser.

It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t life-changing in the way people usually measure things. I just wanted cold water without ice. Something simple. Something practical. Something that felt like stability.

And when I finally got back on my feet—when I had my own place again, when I was rebuilding life for myself and my children—I bought one. I remember reading all the reviews, choosing carefully, spending about $200, and feeling… proud.

Proud that I could provide something small but meaningful. Proud that life was coming back together. Proud that we had something that made everyday life just a little easier.

Cold water when we wanted it. Hot water for tea or noodles. A tiny convenience that quietly said, we’re okay again.

And then one day, I came home, and it was destroyed.

In that moment, I told myself it was just a material thing. Replaceable. Not important.

But the truth is—it hurt.

Not because of what it was, but because of what it represented.

It was something I had finally given to myself… taken away almost immediately. And behind that moment wasn’t just damage to an object—it was the realization that I had poured into someone who was never pouring into me. That I had been patient, understanding, open… while standing in front of someone who was taking, and taking, and taking—already knowing my cup was empty.

That wasn’t love. That wasn’t misunderstanding.

That was me, being on the receiving end of something that was never genuine to begin with.

And that’s the kind of experience that changes you.

It teaches you that you can’t keep giving from an empty cup. It teaches you that it’s not your job to fill someone else’s. It teaches you that if you can do the work to heal, so can they—and if they choose not to, that is not yours to carry.

So today, as I looked around at my space—at the small pieces of my life slowly coming back together—I didn’t feel sadness.

I felt something lighter.

Hope.

Not the loud, unrealistic kind. But the quiet kind that shows up after you’ve been through enough to know that nothing comes easy—and yet you’re still willing to try again.

Because healing isn’t about pretending things didn’t hurt. It’s about letting them hurt… and not letting them harden you into someone you’re not.

The world will teach you to close off. To be less vulnerable. Less trusting. Less open.

But I’ve learned that moving forward isn’t about becoming colder—it’s about becoming wiser.

Listening to what people show you in real time. Not laughing off what doesn’t feel right. Not ignoring what your spirit is trying to protect you from.

And choosing, every day, to take the longer road—the one with fewer people, fewer shortcuts, fewer illusions.

Because the truth is, I don’t need a large circle. I don’t need support that comes with conditions, rules, or the cost of my peace.

I just need what’s real.

Even if it’s small. Even if it’s quiet. Even if it’s just me, rebuilding—piece by piece.

Healing, I’ve realized, is messy.

When your life has been in the hands of people who didn’t handle it with care, it can feel like they’ve splashed paint, dirt, and damage all over something that was once clean.

And cleaning that up… takes time.

Some stains don’t fully come out. Some scratches don’t disappear.

But that doesn’t mean your life can’t still be beautiful.

It just means you learn how to see yourself beyond the damage.

To stop staring at every mark. To stop defining yourself by what happened. To build something new, even with what remains.

Because yes—sometimes we are victims of moments, of people, of circumstances.

But we don’t have to become victims of ourselves.

We don’t have to stay stuck there.

We can feel the hurt. We can feel the anger. We can admit the disappointment of not being chosen, not being loved the way we deserved.

And still… choose to love again. Choose ourselves again.

That’s the real work.

And maybe one day—just one day—I’ll buy another water dispenser.

Not to replace what was lost. Not to prove anything.

But because I’m ready.

Ready to see it for what it is again: Something simple. Something useful. Something that brings ease into my life.

And when I look at it, I won’t feel that sting anymore.

I won’t think about what happened. I won’t replay the loss.

I’ll just fill my cup—literally and figuratively—and know that this time, I didn’t abandon myself to give to someone who couldn’t hold me with care.

And that will be enough.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, When an artist creates something,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

it doesn’t get taken back once it’s released. It exists.

Last night, I had a dream that woke me around 3 a.m. I couldn’t fall back asleep. Instead, I was hit with a deep, immobilizing pain—one that settled into my chest and refused to leave. I’ve heard that dreams only last a couple of minutes, maybe seconds even, yet they can feel like an eternity. This one did.

In the dream, I was preparing to attend my father’s wake. My father passed away on July 13th of last year, and even now, the grief still arrives unannounced. I remember seeing him on the day of his wake and again at his funeral. He looked peaceful—truly at rest. That image has never left me.

My dad lived life entirely on his own terms. He was big on self-love and self-care, yet he also held very old-school beliefs. Some of those beliefs felt contradictory to me, especially as a woman. He didn’t like the idea of women receiving support in certain ways from men, particularly when it came to chores or responsibilities. In his eyes, help from a man should be voluntary—something given freely, never demanded—because otherwise it could feel emasculating.

At the time, it didn’t make sense to me. Growing up, it wasn’t framed as a lesson; it felt more like scolding. But now, I can see it differently. I can respect it, even if it’s not something we’re explicitly taught. Sometimes, we don’t learn through instruction—we learn through belief systems, behaviors, and the way people live their lives.

As I’m recollecting this, I’m driving southbound on I-5, heading to Super Walmart to buy tension rods and curtains for a living space. A small act of décor, maybe—but also a symbol of where I am in life. I’ve had the measurements since Friday, but I hadn’t made the trip yet. Lately, I feel like I’m entering a “crafty era”—wanting to create, to personalize, to stand out, stand in, stand up. Anything but remain stagnant.

I’ve spent a lot of time focusing on my physical and mental health, and that work is still ongoing. Journaling. Meditation. Working out. Healing is not linear—it’s a work in progress, and honestly, a work of art. When you give yourself permission to speak about your experiences, something shifts. Pain softens. Understanding grows. I encourage everyone to do this, even when it’s uncomfortable.

In the dream, the details were blurry. Was it my father’s wake or his funeral? I’m not sure. What I do remember is that we were preparing him—getting him dressed, ready for the service. And during that process, I was going through my own struggles. I felt lost, unheard, unseen.

It’s strange how visible pain can be—and how little people want to acknowledge it. Sometimes others can see the sadness in your eyes and choose not to care. Pain isn’t aesthetically pleasing. It can feel inconvenient, even annoying, to those who think you “have it all.” They wonder: How can someone so optimistic, so self-loving, so materially supported still feel sad? Why would you need more love?

What many don’t understand is that even the people closest to you aren’t always supporting you in the ways that truly matter. Sometimes what looks like generosity is actually ego. Sometimes gestures are made because they look good, not because they’re sincere. There is quiet suffering in many homes, families, and relationships—especially in romantic ones where codependency slowly replaces connection. Life eventually shakes those dynamics loose, often for the greater good.

In the dream, I felt like a child again—lost, grieving someone irreplaceable. It reminded me that the people who mean the most to us aren’t always physically present, yet when they do appear, it feels like no time has passed at all.

Then my phone rang.

It was my dad.

He was calling to remind me of things, just like he always did. He was patient with me—always. He never laid a hand on me. Discipline was never harsh or shaming. Instead, he would say, “Just make your mom happy. Listen to her. She needs understanding and support.” He reminded me not to take things personally, that my mom had health struggles, and that compassion mattered more than pride. He said the same for all of my siblings.

And the thing is—he was always right.

He never had to say much. He knew I understood. I’m incredibly grateful for the bond we had, for the way he guided without force.

In the dream, we talked about his passing—about preparing for it. And then it hit me.

I was on the phone with my father… talking about his own funeral.

I asked him, “Dad… how are you calling me?”

How could he be on the phone if he was gone?

How could he be calling me about his own death—when he was supposed to be dead?

And that’s when I woke up.

With grief. With love. With questions that don’t need answers—only space.

When I realized what was happening, something inside me snapped awake. For a moment, I felt like a little girl again—small, vulnerable, searching. That feeling alone was enough to pull me out of the dream. I woke up thinking, maybe this was all a trick, maybe my dad was still alive and just a phone call away.

But he wasn’t.

Waking up meant waking up to the truth—that my father is gone, and that everything I had just experienced lived only in sleep. And yet, it didn’t feel meaningless. It felt like concern. Like presence. Like he knew exactly where I am in life right now and wanted to remind me of something important.

I don’t think he was telling me anything new. I think he was reminding me—once again—not to take things personally. To stay focused. To trust that I’ll be okay. To know that he’s watching over me in ways I may not always understand, but in ways that matter. Not just a reminder, but a request. A quiet one.

To live without hate.
Without resentment.
Without vengeance.

At this age, I don’t have the time or the energy to invest in what people think of me, what they assume about my intentions, or the conclusions they draw about my choices. I genuinely don’t care. You either like me or you don’t—and life goes on regardless.

When an artist creates something—a song, a book, a painting—it doesn’t get taken back once it’s released. It exists. It breathes on its own. And there has never been a piece of beautiful art that didn’t face judgment simply for being seen. I’m finally embracing that about myself. Not everything I do will be perfect, and I don’t want it to be.

Maybe that’s why I don’t want to go viral. I just want a safe place to express myself—when I’m ready, how I choose—without fear. Without worrying about how I eat, how I speak, the words I use, or how I respond to disrespect, intimidation, or people digging through my life searching for flaws. While they’re busy mining for faults, I’m busy trying to change my circumstances.

Constantly.

Sometimes that means moving forward.
Sometimes it means stepping back just enough to learn how to move further ahead.
Sometimes it means staying exactly where I am and taking life one day at a time.

Every decision I make is shaped by many factors—timing, responsibility, intuition, survival. I truly believe I make the best decisions I can with what I know in the moment I’m in. Some decisions require seconds. Others take a lifetime. I don’t rush choices unless I’m forced to make them.

And I’ve learned this about myself: I avoid decisions until I must make them—for my own good. That means being selfish with how I choose myself. Being selfish with how I protect my peace. Being selfish with how I win in life.

Because if I win, my kids win.

I cannot stay anywhere that makes me feel belittled, degraded, or dehumanized. I refuse to exist in spaces where I’m treated like an inconvenience or a problem—because I’m not. I’m human. I’m grieving. I’m learning. I’ve hit rock bottom more than once, and I’ve climbed back every single time.

So I will always put my best foot forward. I will choose people who choose me. And if I know, deep down, that you don’t—that there’s always someone better, or that I’m somehow unworthy in your eyes—I’m okay with that.

My song will still play.
My art will still be displayed.
My words will only grow more poetic.

Just because you can’t appreciate me doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate myself.

I’ve never lived for validation. I live to experience—to savor each bite, each sound, each sight, each breath. The five senses… and maybe even a sixth. I live for what makes me feel alive, not for jealousy, animosity, or the need to control anyone else’s fate.

My struggles matter—because they affect my children. So I choose them carefully. I choose paths where they aren’t subjected to more than necessary. And wherever that safety exists, that’s where I’m going.

I’m only moving toward better places—
even when it doesn’t look like it.

Maybe the dream wasn’t meant to confuse me or pull me backward into grief. Maybe it was meant to remind me that love doesn’t disappear just because someone does. That guidance doesn’t end with death. That the voice I heard wasn’t about fear or loss, but reassurance. A reminder to keep living honestly, gently, and unapologetically. To keep choosing growth over bitterness, peace over pride, and self-respect over explanation. I’m still becoming. Still healing. Still moving forward—sometimes slowly, sometimes imperfectly—but always with intention. And if my father is watching, I think he’d be proud not because I have everything figured out, but because I keep going. Because I choose love. Because I refuse to harden. And because, no matter where I am or how it looks, I’m walking toward a life that feels true.

P.S. Dad, thank you for everything, thank you for watching over me and protecting me and your granddaughters. Love you.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, When I finally reach the other side,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

I imagine it will feel like a breath of fresh air.

It feels like there’s a collision happening inside me—somewhere between the luteal phase and the menstrual phase. That space is where my emotions hit the hardest. I start thinking deeply, feeling things intensely, almost all at once. And every time I tell my story, I’m reminded of how blessed I am when the person listening is understanding and empathetic.


It’s always the people who know nothing about me who assume my life is perfect… until they hear the truth. Then they slowly realize how strong I’ve had to be, how much I’ve endured—as someone who looks so fragile, elegant, happy, and independent on the outside.

This year feels like a stepping stone.
Though honestly, I don’t know how many stepping stones a person is supposed to need. Usually one should be enough—you step, cross over, and reach the other side.
But I’m still making my way through mine. And when I finally reach the other side, I imagine it will feel like a breath of fresh air.

When I’m moving through chaos with music playing and surrounded by family, friends, and love—and then I have a moment to myself alone—that’s when everything settles in. Recently, I felt like I was gifted something special. And I hold these gifts close because they don’t feed my sadness; they lift me. They remind me to rise.

I’ve had to remind myself that I’m still young. I’m not tired of life. I’m not tired of living or being excited about life. I’m just tired of the strange things that happen.
And acknowledging that—accepting that life comes in phases—helps me breathe.
When you’re going through it, sometimes the only option is to go through it. But you always, ALWAYS – have to come out of it stronger and better.

Right now, my mood is calm.
Sometimes these thoughts come to me while I’m driving.
A wave moves across my chest—like a slow, emotional rollercoaster—and I catch my reflection. I look beautiful tonight. My hair is lightly tousled, my lashes are done, and I’ve been taking care of myself—making sure I look good, feel good, smell good every day.

I’m just having a quiet moment.
Just thinking.
Just trying not to become someone who forgets herself in the middle of staying strong.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Meditation, Parenthood

Dear Diary, Right now, the bass is humming through my car,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

vibrating through my chest.

I am fighting tears right now. I’m just hoping I can make it to my destination without breaking down. I needed to get in my car, breathe, and clear my head for a moment. Everything is technically under control… yet sometimes it feels like I’m not. It’s so easy to forget how much support I truly have around me, and how not everyone will understand me. Being misunderstood is such a heavy feeling—that’s why I try my best not to judge others. I know how deeply it stings when someone assumes the worst about you.

Tonight is one of those dark nights where it feels like time is folding backwards. The sky is heavy, and so is my heart. My gas light has been on for a while now. I keep checking it but I still haven’t stopped to fill up. For some reason, I just don’t want to. It reminds me of how I force myself to eat just enough to get by but never enough to actually feel full—only doing the bare minimum to survive.

But even in this moment, I know what my limits are. And that’s the message I want to leave behind at the end of this blog:
Learn your limits. Respect them. And when you run low, refill yourself before life forces you to shut down.

Because sometimes that tiny bit of fuel you’re running on is all you have left. And once you hit empty, you have no choice but to get back up, go again, refill your tank, and rebuild yourself. It’s okay to run low. It’s okay to admit it’s hard. It’s okay to say, “This is the best I can do today.”

This is all part of being misunderstood—people don’t see the exhaustion, the overstimulation, the stress, the lack of strength… or even the lack of funds that make it hard to keep up with life. They don’t see the private battles. They just make assumptions.

My heart feels so heavy tonight. Maybe it’s because I finally feel ready to speak on my losses this year. I’ve lost people. I’ve lost habits—some good, some bad. I’ve lost pieces of myself in ways I never expected. But somewhere inside all of this, I know a more beautiful version of me is trying to emerge. I’m hoping this year ends with a lighter heart, more structure, more stability, and the closure I need on the things and people who no longer serve me.

I want to grow. I want to feel free. I want to stop feeling like I can’t fill up my tank or nourish myself fully. Sometimes I eat myself into a food coma just so I can sleep deeply, just so I can escape. Food is comfort, but it could be so much more fulfilling if I wasn’t running from my emotions.

Life can be better. The ride can be smoother. The rims can shine brighter. The sun can hit differently. But I have to actually want it. And sometimes I do… sometimes I don’t. But the moment you truly want something, nothing will get in your way. And I’m trying—really trying—to find that awakening again. To fill myself up. To fill my heart. To restore what’s been drained.

Earlier, I posted a TikTok with a sound that kept repeating, “love me,” like a soft, harmonized acapella. It was soothing and overwhelming all at once. It brought tears to my eyes because it reminded me of when my father passed away. I remember live streaming that night, trying to cope in the only way I knew how. Losing someone who loved you your entire life leaves a wound that never fully closes.

My dad’s love wasn’t perfect, but it was perfect for me. And maybe that’s why I grew up wanting so little from everyone. I accepted the bare minimum because I never wanted to drain people—I wanted them to save some love for themselves. My dad did that. And I learned from it.

But I also realized I cannot control how people view me. They will think what they want. They will conclude what they want. They will decide whether I’m worthy of their time, their space, their energy. And I’ve learned to be okay with that. The ones who truly want to know me will try. The ones who want to misunderstand me will twist the smallest things into entire narratives. And yes, that hurts—but everything that hasn’t killed me has made me stronger.

So here I am, fighting tears, learning the harsh truth that life doesn’t get easier—you just get better at fighting through the pain. Especially when the people closest to you choose to misunderstand you on purpose, creating stories in their minds and stamping you with labels you never deserved.

What keeps me grounded is knowing this:
If they can be that wrong about me, I can be just as wrong about them. And somehow, that’s the strange beauty of life.

Right now, the bass is humming through my car, vibrating through my chest. My heart is jumpy, tight, almost wringing itself out. It’s an epiphany mixed with sadness, mixed with clarity—a rush of pain that somehow hurts in a way that feels cleansing, even though I know it isn’t good for me. Instead of fighting it, I’m letting it wash over me.

I’m wearing a hoodie, driving my Mercedes, grateful for the tint on my windows. It gives me just enough privacy to break down quietly. Tinted windows aren’t just for hiding from enemies or prying eyes—sometimes they’re protection from the world. Protection from the people who don’t deserve to see you at all.

People can search for me online, can watch me from afar—I won’t hide my life. But they don’t get access to me. The tint is symbolic. They might catch a glimpse of me for a split second, but that’s all they get now. No more forced greetings, no more eye contact, no more pretending. Just distance. Just indifference.

Life has taught me that if I love myself enough, there will always be enough love inside me to give—carefully, intentionally, and to the right people.

And for the first time in a long time, I’m learning to let that love circle back to me.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Parenthood, Self Reflection, Uncategorized

Dear Diary, Growing up, I never thought I’d have to protect myself –

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

from people who once claimed to love me.

The sky is unusually bright this morning—pastel, almost powdery, even though today turned out to be another rainy day. Just two days ago, the forecast showed nothing but sunshine. I guess even the weatherman can’t predict everything until the last minute. A part of me was disappointed when I originally saw no rain, because rain always feels cleansing, like the world pressing the reset button. But life has a funny way of giving you what you need exactly when you weren’t expecting it. So now here it is: a bright, gloomy-blue sky filled with soft white clouds, and somehow it’s still beautiful.

The clock hit 8 AM, and the girls were already off to school. Morning chaos always comes with its own soundtrack—cars rushing down the wet street, engines humming, the distant honk of someone in a hurry, and windshield wipers swishing back and forth. During drop-off, I gave my motherly reminders the way I always do: Have a great day. Stay warm. Try your best. I’m proud of you. I try to validate their efforts, big and small, because I want to give them the kind of emotional support my family gives me every day. Love comes in so many forms for us—often through food, gentle conversations, small acts of care—not just “I love you,” but the actions that prove it.

Today feels like a good day to tackle a few things so that tomorrow can be lighter, and the weekend can be peaceful. I don’t plan for weekends the way I used to. I’ve been toning things down and practicing being more frugal, not out of restriction but out of respect for my own financial security. People online don’t talk enough about how important it is to be financially mindful. When you know where your money goes, life becomes less unpredictable. You make room not only for what you need, but sometimes for what you want.

I had a bad dream last night—one that woke me up several times. When I did a small dream analysis this morning, it hit me how much I’ve been undermined as a mother, and honestly, as an individual. It hurts to realize so late how often others have tried to control the relationship I have with my own children. I’m hoping for more freedom soon—the freedom to parent the way I know is best, the freedom to build a healthy emotional dynamic, and the freedom from interference. It’s exhausting to constantly be told how to raise, share, and care for the children I’ve always prioritized without crossing anyone else’s boundaries.

I don’t see myself as a victim, but I am finally acknowledging that the system, the circumstances, and the games being played are unbalanced. Like a Libra’s scale—never settling, always shifting. And speaking of zodiacs, Gemini energy is often misunderstood. Geminis mirror people, showing them who they truly are, and when people get a taste of their own behavior reflected back, suddenly they claim to be the victim. Maybe that’s why Geminis hide their wounds so well—we don’t like identifying as victims, even when everything points to the fact that we are.

Every time I feel myself drifting toward that victim narrative, the part of me committed to growth pulls me back. I remind myself not to internalize anyone’s projections. I don’t want to walk around wounded or bitter, even though the truth runs deeper behind my smile. Instead, I’ve learned to use these imbalances as fuel to strengthen myself. But no one talks about how creating boundaries comes with consequences. Saying “no,” calling out behavior, not tolerating disrespect—those things are healthy, but the backlash isn’t always easy. It’s like taking iron supplements when you’re anemic—the solution helps, but the side effects can still be uncomfortable.

Life is full of laws and rules that are supposed to protect us, yet people break them every day. Some do it out of entitlement, others out of carelessness. Laws only work for people who respect them, and not everyone does. Sometimes, we don’t realize we’re being harmed until the damage has already settled in. Just like how we don’t always realize we’ve become victims until we look back and see the whole picture.

This morning’s dream reminded me of that. It was built from fear, anxiety, and knowing that I can’t always stop bad things from happening—even if I try my hardest. Growing up, I never thought I’d have to protect myself from people who once claimed to love me. Love is such a double-edged sword. Beautiful, but sharp enough to wound. There’s such a thin line between love and hate, and I’ve walked that line far too often.

I tell people on my livestreams all the time: love yourself first. Because if your heart—your cup—is empty, you can’t pour anything meaningful into someone else. And some people with empty cups don’t even know what love is, because they’ve never given it to themselves. You can’t teach love to someone who’s immune to it. They want it, but they can’t receive it. It’s like giving caffeine to someone who can’t feel its effects.

I’m at a point in life where I don’t want to be entangled with people who drain me or pull me into their misery. Some people are so unhappy that they try to drag others into that darkness, and I’m not doing that anymore. I’m grateful that I’m still here, still resilient, still creating boundaries even when the consequences feel heavy.

Last night, I talked to the girls about how food is part of our family’s love language. Not just simple “I love you” phrases, but cooking together, eating together, sharing moments. Prepping ingredients, washing vegetables, stirring pots, monitoring the heat, cleaning as you go—every little step becomes an offering of love. A home-cooked meal holds value you can’t put a price on. You really get to know someone when you share food with them, especially meals made with intention. Even gathering groceries, choosing ingredients, planning a dinner—it all means something.

At the end of the day, love isn’t loud. It isn’t flashy. It isn’t always spoken. Love is shown in the way we support each other, validate each other, sit quietly with each other, and offer a hand when the load is heavy. Love is the rain that comes unexpectedly. Love is the morning street noise. Love is the bright sky on a gloomy day. Love is the meal you share with someone who knows your heart.

And love is the reason I keep rebuilding myself, over and over again.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Ariyah, Blog, Parenthood

Dear Diary, The quiet at her resting place…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

always brings a mix of peace and heartache.

It’s 1:48 PM, and I’m driving, still processing the day. The weather is absolutely beautiful, a soft contrast to yesterday’s chill when it was windy and lightly sprinkling.

Yesterday, Sunday, October 26, I made my way to my beloved daughter’s gravesite. As I stood there looking at her headstone, it felt like both so much time and no time at all had passed. Nine years. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes. The quiet at her resting place always brings a mix of peace and heartache. It’s where I feel closest to her, but it also reminds me how much I miss her.

On Monday, October 27, today, the day of her ninth year passing, I met up with my friend for lunch at Tasty Pot around noon. We laughed, caught up, and talked about all the little dramas that seem to follow women no matter our age, how stable we are, or how busy life gets. There’s always something, some story, some emotion, some lesson.

But when she asked me what I’ve been up to, my mind froze. The only thing I could think of was visiting my daughter’s grave. Saying that out loud felt heavy. When I looked up, I noticed her pause, her eyes softened, and I could see the sadness in her expression. I asked if she was okay, and she just nodded. It was a quiet moment of understanding between friends.

Despite the emotional weight, I’m so thankful for her. She truly is my best friend, one of those rare, genuine people who are just there for you without needing to fix anything. Friendships like that are hard to find, and I don’t take them for granted.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the people who have stood by me, and even the ones I’ve had to distance myself from. Some may not understand, but any space I’ve created has always come from a place of love, love for them and love for my children. Every decision I make is rooted in protection and peace.

The world feels heavy right now. Between politics, changing laws, and the way society seems to be shifting, it’s hard not to feel uneasy. Crimes feel different, resources are thinning, and people’s rights are being challenged more than ever. I think about the families struggling to get by, the seniors who have no next phase to look forward to, and the children whose parents are just trying to make ends meet.

I’m grateful for the love and support that surround me, but I’ve also learned that even love can sometimes be enabling. It can hold you back from realizing your own strength. Still, I’m thankful for every helping hand, every listening ear, and every moment where I get to set down the weight I carry, even for a little while.

As I get older, I realize how much harder it is to be truly heard. People assume that by now we should “know better,” but the truth is, no one has it all figured out. We’re all just doing the best we can, learning, falling, and growing along the way. Change, even the kind that hurts, can sometimes be what fixes the broken parts of our lives and our world.

So I hold on to faith that those with influence and power are making decisions for the greater good, that somehow all of this shifting and struggling will lead us toward something better.

Today, Monday, October 27, I find myself just reflecting on visiting her gravesite yesterday. I hope things get better. I hope the world becomes a little softer. And I hope that one day we can all feel safe, secure, and at peace again.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, The path is not always clear…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D


but I am on it.

Lately, I have been feeling extremely overwhelmed, yet I am still holding on, holding on to hope, to dreams, to goals, to peace, to security, to stability. I am holding on to the reward that comes from being patient, resilient, kind, giving, and forgiving. In this vast world of billions of people, there are moments when I feel profoundly alone.

Part of me feels like something is missing, though I cannot quite put the pieces together. I long for distance, for individuality, where I do not rely on anyone and no one relies on me. Where for once it is truly about me and the battles I fight are only for me.

Life becomes entangled when others depend on us for love, emotional support, financial support, and guidance. In those moments, decisions are rarely ours alone. I realize now that I have not often been able to make things about me in a way that is truly mine.

I crave experiences that feel deeply personal, traveling, seeing the world through my own eyes, romanticizing my life and the idea of love in a way that is intimate and authentic. It may take years, especially as a mother of young children, whose needs shape every day. But I hope that as they grow, they encounter kindness, integrity, and love in abundance. I hope their journeys are lighter than mine has felt lately.

The past few years, I have not met enough people who make life easier in the ways I desire. Not because they have not tried, but because my standards are high. High standards make people look at you differently. Some do not like it. Some quietly or loudly resent it. Yet in the respect they hold, there is acknowledgment of my clarity, my precision, and my drive toward the results I envision. I will continue forward relentlessly until my last breath.

My personal growth is ongoing. I see areas I want to refine, my bluntness, my harsh honesty, and my unfiltered truth that may feel disrespectful to others. But those who take the time to understand will see that my intentions are always rooted in authenticity and care. Life is about mindsets. Even in struggle, in obstacles, in moments of uncertainty, we are worthy, capable, and deserving. Roadblocks do not diminish value; they challenge us to grow.

I have learned that sharing plans and struggles often opens the door to judgment rather than understanding. People rarely credit effort or see the rationale. But I am accountable to myself. There is only one me, and I trust my growth, my manifestation, and the daily steps I take forward, whether recognized or unseen by others.

Good things are coming, not only for me but for those who align with this energy. The path is not always clear, but I am on it, unwavering. When I arrive, I hope to see all the lessons, the growth, and the journey reflected in the beauty of the life I have courageously built. I am on my way, and I hope to see you there too.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Meditation, Parenthood, Self Reflection, Uncategorized

Dear Diary, It’s a strange thing…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

dressing for a funeral.

Today started before the day even began.
Restless. Heavy-hearted. Awake at 3:00 a.m., not from an alarm clock but from this soul-deep pull, the kind that reminds you something big is ahead. I managed two hours of sleep, then back up at 5:00, sluggish, but wired in a quiet panic, watching the minutes drag across the clock face like shadows stretching across an empty room. There’s a specific kind of dread that creeps in when you know you’re waking up to see someone you love lying still, not in rest, but in eternal peace.

It’s a strange thing, dressing for a funeral. You’re picking out clothes not just for a day, but for a memory that will burn into your skin. It’s the last moment you’ll see your father. The last goodbye you don’t get to say with your voice.

When I stepped into the room where he lay, I was bracing myself for heartbreak, and it came. But not all at once. There was something strangely comforting in seeing him this time. He looked better. Peaceful. As if the pain that I somehow felt echoing through me the day he passed had finally left his body. And maybe that’s why I felt it so intensely then, because he didn’t have to carry it anymore, so it spilled into me.

My sisters and I stood together. And as much as this day was about loss, it was also about love. We idolized our father’s good traits, not because we’re blind to the rest, but because we’ve made peace with the truth that we all come into this life flawed. We’re all still learning. And it’s those imperfections that humanize us, make us real, make us family. The chanting of the monks, low and steady, sacred and melodic, filled the air. Suddenly, time didn’t feel real. It felt like transition. Life to death. Pain to peace. Breath to stillness. Stillness to rebirth.

There was a moment I couldn’t breathe. A tightness in my chest that wasn’t anxiety or nerves. It was heartbreak. And not the kind that comes from broken romance. This was a grief heartbreak. The kind you feel when a parent leaves. When a child never gets to grow. When a pet goes silent. When people you once loved become memories.

And yet, through the heartbreak, something new is blooming.

I watched my family, the ones who’ve been through every chapter with me, and I realized something. Grief feels different when you experience it beside people you love. It doesn’t hurt less, but it heals in pieces. And it hurts in pieces. It’s a strange paradox. It helps, but it hurts. And it hurts, but it helps.

There was something I heard the other day that stopped me in my tracks. It was like someone took all my unspoken thoughts and emotions and gave them a voice. Everything they said matched what I was going through, word for word. It felt like the universe pulled back the curtain and showed me that I’m not breaking. I’m becoming. They talked about isolation not being punishment but preparation, about outgrowing versions of yourself and leaving behind what no longer fits. And I just knew… I’m in that space right now. Life reminded me that heartbreak isn’t just from love lost, but from soul shifts, from becoming someone new. That this version of me emerging is sacred, powerful, and necessary.

I’ve always wanted a big family. Not just in number, but in soul and connection. In branches and roots. And I realized today, I am building that family. It doesn’t have to be blood. Loyalty, love, and understanding make someone family. We are chosen. We are bound by intention. And maybe, just maybe, this grief is reminding me that I am still growing that tree. That the branches are still reaching out, trying to connect to others who need the same thing.

Grieving feels like playing a video game where the levels get harder as you go. Even when you gain experience, it doesn’t get easier. But maybe it’s not about difficulty. Maybe it’s about shifting how we see it. Maybe we stop trying to win and start allowing ourselves to feel it all.

Because today, I saw my father again, for the last. And for the first time, I felt like maybe he’s okay now. And maybe, even through the pain, I will be too.