Category: Blog

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

Dear Diary, I spent years building this golden pyramid…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

in the middle of my own emotional Egypt.

Sometimes… when I slow down enough to really feel, I realize how blurry my vision can get—not just my physical sight, but the way I see life, people, my place in the world. It’s like trying to peer through fog while your heart is pounding out of your chest, and you don’t even know why. All day, there’s been this tightness in my chest, like something invisible is pressing down on me.

What is eating me alive? What am I missing?

It feels like I’ve slipped into a sudden freefall. A steep drop. One day I was soaring, the next—crashing. And yet, somewhere in the middle of the storm, I still see her—me—this one-woman show, this Cleopatra of modern chaos. I laugh quietly to myself. Yes, that’s me… Cleopatra, British in grace, divine in survival. Royal, even if my throne feels like it’s made of sand today.

I spent years building this golden pyramid in the middle of my own emotional Egypt—layer by layer, pain by pain, triumph by triumph. I really did that. I am her. And of course, I had my cats beside me, always. Not all are here anymore, but I carry them with me still.

And now… it just feels like my pyramid is crumbling. Like every polished stone I laid down is being torn apart by winds I can’t control.

Why does it feel like the foundation I gave everything to is failing me now?

I close my eyes and picture myself drifting—lost at sea. Not drowning, not dead, just… floating. Alone on a small boat, bobbing in the middle of nowhere. The kind of lost that doesn’t come with panic, just this hollow ache.

I’m trying so hard to stay afloat. I’ve been trained to weather storms, but no one really talks about the aftermath. The quiet damages that show up later, in you, in your space, in your peace.

The truth is, even the safest places in life—your home, your friendships, your mind—can be breached. Can be trespassed. And maybe, just maybe, my little boat has a leak. A small one, but isn’t that always how it starts? Tiny cracks you don’t notice until you’re knee-deep in water, trying to fix it with tired hands.

Where’s the leak coming from? Why can’t I find it? And if I do, will I even have the strength to repair it?

Sometimes, it’s the people closest to you. The ones you thought were anchors… turn out to be the holes in the hull. You share your plans, your progress, your heart—and they watch. Some genuinely care. Others? They watch because they want to see you fall. Closer. Slower. Harder.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How people want to humble you. Not out of love, but envy. Or maybe it’s their own pain they’re projecting.

I had to pause just now—this kind man asked me to take pictures of him and a young boy—maybe his son, maybe grandson, I couldn’t tell. Funny how life does that… how it keeps things undefined. Still, the way he looked at that boy, the care in his eyes as he taught him to swim—it was pure. He wanted to capture the moment. Not for Instagram. For memory.

And I thought… that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Not being perfect. Not having it all figured out. Just being there when it matters. Loving someone enough to show up again and again—even if it’s messy. Even if there’s a history. Even if the tides are rough.

Expecting loyalty from people—real, lasting loyalty—it’s almost impossible. People are human. They’re flawed, they’re fickle. They change their minds, they wander. They want to feel, explore, escape. And maybe… maybe we’ve misunderstood loyalty. Maybe what I crave isn’t someone who stays just for the sake of staying, but someone who shows up when it counts. Who sees me, supports me—beyond intimacy, beyond obligation.

Maybe that’s the loyalty I’m really longing for.

I keep dreaming about the day I wake up and don’t feel this tightness in my chest. A day that starts without anxiety, without dread, without wondering if I’m too much or not enough. A day where I don’t feel like a burden or like I’m trespassing in someone else’s peace.

There will be seasons where I’m not soft. Where I’m confused, where I’m guarded. But I remind myself, over and over again:

Nothing is permanent.

The only constant is change—and thank God for that.

So I welcome change now. I’m manifesting new keys—literal and symbolic. Keys to open new doors: of safety, of stability, of privacy. For me. For my children. For the life we deserve.

And honestly? Sometimes I’m stunned I’ve made it this far. Because all I’ve really been doing is breathing. Breathing and fighting. And still breathing.

But oh—how I long for the days when things shift. When it’s not just survival, but living. When I see people living out loud—luxury, love, trips, late-night dances, hand-holding on balconies—I don’t envy them.

Because I know life is seasonal. Those couples? They’ll have storms too. And if they never do… then their greatest challenge will be how they handle the storm when it finally hits.

And that, I’ve learned, is the true test.

—
Until tomorrow,
Me

(the queen, the sailor, the builder of pyramids made of hope)

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Call it Stockholm syndrome,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

maybe.

I recently met someone.
I don’t know much about her yet — how could I?
We only just met.

But there’s something about her…
Her vision. Her aura. The way she carries herself with confidence, grace, and unwavering self-worth.
She invests in herself — not just financially, but spiritually, emotionally, energetically.
I’ve never encountered a woman who pours into herself so intentionally. It’s mesmerizing.

The breeze is soft today.
I’m outside, soaking up the sun, watching palm leaves dance in the wind.
It feels like something is coming.
Or maybe it’s something leaving.

Lately, I’ve been growing attached to that feeling — the unraveling.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How we become loyal to our pain.
Call it Stockholm syndrome, maybe.
We cling to what hurt us the most, start to love it even.
But the truth is, trauma hoards our energy. And we keep feeding it.

This woman I met — she told me something.
As she described it, I realized I’d been doing it too, slowly, consistently:
Detachment.

Not coldness. Not avoidance.
True detachment — the kind that honors what is, without clinging to what was.
And finally, I feel it:
I am learning to accept.
Not as a form of denial.
Not as an excuse.
But as a quiet, courageous choice to keep going anyway.

Even if I have to stand alone —
We will keep going.
And we won’t stop.

This isn’t just a monologue.
This is a dialogue —
Between me,
And the woman I’ve just met.
The one staring back at me from the mirror.

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

Dear Diary, The greater the desire, the greater the disappointment—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

especially when it’s rooted in fantasy, not foundation.

And here I am… back in the hot tub. Letting the warm water massage my calves, my legs, my thoughts. I’m just here, in cambo, reflecting.

There are so many things a person might want in this life. And for me, one of them — one I’ve always held close — was the hope of having a son. Sometimes I find myself watching other parents with their boys, quietly, maybe even a little curiously.

And then, the reality sets back in. We’re born with nothing. Just breath and the hope for time. Over time, we build skills, talents, memories, understanding, a sense of direction. We gain access to what we need: air, water, food, shelter, clothing. The essentials. But then we’re sold more — the appearance, the titles, the “dream job,” the lifestyle. We start investing in things, in images, in wants.

But at some point, a line has to be drawn: what we need vs. what we want. And the moment you truly accept that difference, everything shifts. Wants are just that — things you don’t need. When you invest too deeply in the wrong things, disappointment becomes a cycle. A habit. Because expectations grow in places they were never meant to.

The greater the desire, the greater the disappointment especially when it’s rooted in fantasy, not foundation.

Today, though… today was peaceful. Productive. I sat in stillness, listened to music, wrote my thoughts out across multiple diary posts. I did what I love most: people-watching. Observing life unfold around me. Watching kids be kids. Watching them love their parents. It’s beautiful to witness dependency in its purest form. Unconditional and trusting.

Independence? It’s loud. Overwhelming. It’s sold as freedom, but often it just turns you into a resource for others: your plants, your pets, your kids, your partner. And if those relationships aren’t balanced or healthy… that role can break you. Slowly. Quietly.

But today, I’m reclaiming my time. Just for me. I’ve created some space to thrive, to reflect, to isolate when needed — and I do well in solitude. I thrive in it. There’s safety there. Knowing that I exist not for others, but for my own goodness.

And that… that’s enough.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I’ve fallen in love…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

with psychology and I’ll stand on that.

I’m laid out in a two-piece bikini, soaking in the sun. Not to brag—but okay, maybe a little—I’ve been putting in the work, and my gluteus maximus is finally editing itself into the version I always envisioned. It’s wild how much of a difference movement alone can make. Just moving intentionally, persistently shifts everything. The way it sits. The way it feels. The way it changes. And change is everything. Without change, nothing grows. Nothing heals. Nothing improves. I didn’t realize how crucial that was until now. Life is about changing. Constantly.

The sun is beaming, and I’m in my thoughts—deep. I feel like I’m in my luteal stage. You know, that strange, awkward, mystical transition where you start to feel like an ogre. Not in a self-deprecating way, but in that Princess Fiona kind of way. Beautiful in strength, yet different from what the world usually deems beautiful. It’s funny how womanhood transforms you… How aging, growing, and unlearning makes you redefine what beauty even is.

I’ve been struggling to find the words to describe what I feel lately. There’s this deep intensity, like a wave that comes in quietly but drowns everything in its path. I guess I’ve been coming to terms with a hard truth: people carry silent resentment and animosity over decisions I made for myself. Decisions that made sense at the time. That stings. It’s not even about needing people to understand—but realizing they don’t want to, that’s different.

Earlier today, I found myself staring at my satin sets from Victoria’s Secret. Gorgeous hues: sage green, baby pink, pure white. $100 a pop, not counting taxes or the silent “bag fee” of being a woman who requires softness as part of her survival. It reminded me of how people romanticize rest without honoring what it takes to earn it. Satin and softness aren’t luxuries—they’re part of the restoration.

I grabbed my phone, my duffel bag; stuffed and stretched with all things “girl maintenance” and thought about a TikTok trend: Why do women show up to the gym like we’re moving in? But maybe that’s the point. Some of us are. We come prepared to stay. Not just for the reps, but for the recovery. For the release.

Let’s unpack the bag, shall we? Beats Studio3s, Powerbeats Pros, a caboodle full of tiny essentials: eyebrow pencil, Vaseline, aloe lip tints, floss, travel toothbrush. My wallet lives in there, too—cash, sentimental jewelry, the little things I won’t risk leaving in a locker. Not because I don’t trust people… okay, maybe a little. But mostly because I don’t trust myself to lock it.

Still, shoutout to the women at my gym. Saints, really. I’ve left full Goyard bags, Dior lip oils, cash peeking out—and not a thing’s ever been touched. Either I’m blessed or extremely lucky.

I pack for life: pre-workout, 3–5 clean pairs of socks, a separate pouch for the dirty ones, sandals for the sauna and jacuzzi. I don’t swim much, and haven’t built the tolerance but I’m pushing myself. Outdoor laps? That’s my next challenge. Because that’s what this chapter is about: doing the uncomfortable until it isn’t anymore.

Comfort comes after the chaos. Discipline turns into habit. And suddenly, the thing that scared you becomes second nature. That’s what I’m chasing: peace earned, not borrowed.

Lately, my emotions are wide-ranging. I can’t always tell what I want out of a situation or what the lesson even is. But I’m not rushing the clarity. I have a whole lifetime to learn.

These past few nights, I’ve been waking up around 4 or 5 a.m., parched and restless. It’s like the universe is whispering to me in a language I haven’t yet learned. Warning? Preparation? I don’t know. But I feel it coming.

And the internet. God, I love and hate it. So full of noise. Everyone looking, scrolling, reaching for answers they could maybe just live through instead. Sometimes I think life is meant to be experienced, not researched. Maybe we’ve become too dependent on knowing what to expect.

Here’s the truth: you can have everything. Pretty privilege. Opportunities. Access. And yet… still feel empty when, for the first time, you want something you can’t have. That kind of craving? It humbles you. It builds walls. It teaches you the risk of vulnerability. And sometimes, you’re just too bruised to try again.

Some endings are so final, they don’t leave space for friendship. Especially when feelings are involved. You can’t rebuild from certain ashes.

Next month, I turn another year wiser. Riper. I’ve done so much work—healing, studying human behavior, learning why people become who they are. I’ve fallen in love with psychology, and I’ll stand on that. It’s the only subject that makes sense of all the senseless things people do.

And sometimes, when you’ve been falling for so long, you forget you’re even falling. Imagine a balloon—weightless, drifting, pulled by winds it can’t control. That’s how I feel. Airborne, untethered, but still intact.

And maybe that’s okay.

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

Dear Diary, I remember someone once asked me,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

“What are your fears?”

With everything good in life, there’s always a cost. Every beautiful thing we chase comes with a sacrifice. And as we grow older, the weight of responsibility doesn’t lighten—it deepens. There are seasons in life when we’re less independent—our youth, before we’ve found our footing… and later, in age, when fragility and time slow us down. In between is our prime—when we have the energy, the drive, and the ability to care for ourselves. But even in our prime, life demands more than it gives sometimes.

I remember someone once asked me, “What are your fears?” At the time, I didn’t realize that it was a probing question. It was a question designed to get beneath the surface. It wasn’t just about curiosity; it was about vulnerability. Maybe someone, somewhere, wanted to know what could be used against me. But I answered honestly.

I said I feared losing myself. Forgetting who I am, falling away from the things that bring me joy, and drifting from the passions that light me up. That answer still rings true. I realize now that our passions, the things we fiercely protect, are often our softest points. And when we make them visible, they become vulnerable to the world. It’s scary to love something so much that its absence could undo you.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself if I’ve been holding on too tight. Maybe I’ve been too disciplined, too rigid, trying so hard to do everything right; to heal, to grow, to protect my peace. But too much of anything can become a burden, even passion, even the desire for clarity and boundaries. Sometimes we wear our strength so openly, it becomes our weakness.

Still, I’ve come to understand that whether I fight for what matters or walk away from it, I’ll lose parts of myself either way. So I might as well fight. I might as well keep going, even when I’m tired. Because the alternative—letting go of who I am—is not an option I can live with.

There’s a line I’ve been thinking about ever since finishing You, Season 5. Right before the fire in the basement, Joe’s wife says something that stuck with me. She talks about being complicit, about how staying silent or going along with things carries its own kind of consequence. She didn’t use the word “karma,” but the word penance. The sentiment was the same. Even in stillness, there’s a price. And silence doesn’t make us innocent.

Today, I finally let out some emotions I’ve been bottling up. I’ve been trying to find my rhythm again to balance healing with striving, peace with ambition. And while I know the journey ahead won’t be easy, I also know it will be worth it. Breaking out of old habits, stepping beyond your comfort zone—it’s painful, but it’s powerful.

To anyone walking through their own storm: it doesn’t necessarily get easier. But you get stronger. And even in the darkest tunnel, there’s light eventually. Some tunnels are longer, and the midpoint can feel endless—but if you keep moving, even a faint glow is a sign you’re close. I think I’m finally beginning to see mine.

I want to be like that anglerfish deep in the ocean, carrying its own light. I’d rather reach the surface, even if it’s just for a moment of breath and brightness, than stay in the depths with those who have settled into the dark. I would rather breathe alone at the top than suffocate in the company of people who have stopped growing.

It might take years. It might take heartbreak, tears, rebuilding, and long pauses. But I’m here for it. I welcome every emotion this journey brings. Because this isn’t just about survival, it’s about becoming someone I’m proud of. And I know now: the light I’ve been chasing lives within me. I just have to keep choosing it.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I feel the subtle tension of holding on…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

and the quiet ache of letting go.

Lately, I’ve found myself caught in a quiet whirlwind. Time has been slipping through my fingers faster than I can hold it, and no matter how much I try to slow it down, I always seem to be running behind it—chasing something I can’t quite name. The days blur, the weeks vanish, and I’m left breathless… not from the pace, but from the weight of everything I’m carrying.

There’s been so much happening all at once. Life has a way of stacking its demands like delicate teacups – each one fragile, necessary, and somehow always teetering. I spoke on my podcast earlier today about how high maintenance life really is. It sounds funny said aloud, but it’s true. To simply exist—especially as a mother – requires so much: water, nourishment, shelter, warmth, connection. Wi-Fi, for goodness’ sake. And if one piece goes missing, everything else begins to unravel.

Then there’s our health. It’s not just about surviving anymore; it’s about maintaining, nourishing, caring. You need appointments, treatments, transportation. And when you don’t have reliable transportation? Even the smallest task becomes a mountain to climb. It’s exhausting sometimes – this constant tending to the needs of life. But I do it, because I’m driven. I want more for myself. I deserve more. And deep down, I know I’m getting closer to a life that feels aligned with who I truly am.

Even my appetite has been changing in ways that surprise me. I’ve been craving simple, comforting meals; things like a messy hot dog, a classic Caesar salad, chicken salad on soft bread, creamy mac and cheese, or even just a humble cup of noodles. It’s almost childlike, the way these foods bring me joy. But it makes sense. As we grow older, even our tastes soften and shift. There’s something sacred about honoring the body you’re in, here and now, before time continues to sculpt and reshape you in ways you didn’t expect. This version of me, in this very moment, is the youngest I’ll ever be again. And that truth humbles me. It reminds me to savor things, to feel them deeply.

And so, I find myself standing in the in-between. I feel the subtle tension of holding on… and the quiet ache of letting go.

There’s a new lifestyle coming; one I’m choosing with full intention. One that asks me to commit, not just to doing better, but to being better. And yet, there’s a part of me that clings to who I’ve been. She’s been strong. She’s survived heartbreak, disappointment, isolation. She’s made something out of nothing. She adapted when life gave her less than she deserved. I love her for that. And it’s hard to say goodbye.

But the next version of me? She doesn’t need to survive anymore. She gets to thrive. Naturally, gently, with ease. She doesn’t hustle for worthiness. She doesn’t shrink herself to fit someone else’s comfort. She expands, blooms, and flourishes because that’s what she’s meant to do.

So this weekend, I’ll be both celebrating and mourning. Honoring the woman who got me here, and welcoming the one who’s long been waiting to be born.

She’s ready.
And so am I.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I’m not in a rage—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

I don’t know if that’s a fault or a benefit.

The ambience I’m feeling right now is quiet, peaceful, and serene. My mind is overwhelmed—there’s so much going on. It feels like waves of emotions constantly rolling in and out of my life, much like my ongoing metro cycle—something inevitable and beyond my control. I’m just eating, giving my body the nutrition it needs to power through this phase. I can feel change happening, slowly but surely, moving in a certain direction. And here I am, just soaking it all in.

I’m not in a rage, and I don’t know if that’s a fault or a benefit. But here I am, just waiting. I can see myself eating for the rest of the evening. I started strong with breakfast and haven’t stopped since. I guess my self-care is naturally expensive, and I’m working on that. I’ve taken small steps, and I hope those steps will get me where I need to be. At the end of the day, if you die, you can’t take your money with you. And even if you could, I’d rather spend it while I’m alive than hoard it for when I’m gone. Inflation and the cost of living will continue to rise, regardless. So, it’s okay to follow that inner voice that says, “Treat yourself, Queen.” And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

I don’t know why, but the rain always puts me through a wave of emotions. I can’t quite define them or understand why they affect me the way they do. Maybe it’s just the hold nature has over me. There’s something about Mother Nature crying—let the rain be her tears, the roar and rumble of thunder her heartache. This world is so much bigger than we think. We just need to open our horizons and look past what’s right in front of us because, in the end, it has always been and will always be about the bigger picture.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Parenthood

Dear Diary, I remind myself, over and over, —

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

that I can’t fix everything.

It’s another rainy day, and with it comes that familiar weight—the kind that settles in the chest, soft but heavy, like the sky itself. The clouds stretch endlessly, thick and gray, holding back an ocean of rain we can’t even see. It’s strange to think about, how something so vast and full can hover right above us, unseen yet always there. Maybe that’s how life is too—so much exists beyond what meets the eye, above and beneath the surface, in spaces we never think to look.

I remind myself, over and over, that I can’t fix everything. I can’t save everyone. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe all I really need to do is save myself. Lately, I feel like I’ve been building walls, layering protection, finding ways to shield myself from reality. Not because I don’t care—but because I do. Because everyone is carrying something, and as much as I wish I could, I can’t carry it all for them. There’s a solution for everything, but not every solution is mine to find. The best I can do is take care of my own battles, so I’m not a burden when I want to be a source of strength.

The unknown doesn’t scare me. What matters is that I’m here, in this moment, feeling everything as it comes. I just didn’t think it would be this hard. I guess that’s what happens over time—we wear down, piece by piece, until even the strongest parts of us become fragile. It’s like an old car that’s crossed too many miles; no matter how well you take care of it, the wear and tear adds up. Repairs become inevitable. And maintenance? Maintenance is always expensive.

With love,

Amy Douangmany

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Grief doesn’t run on schedules, and love doesn’t—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

expire with time.

Today, my heart carries a mix of emotions—like waves crashing against the shore, some gentle, some relentless. It’s been a long day, but more than that, it’s been a long time. A visit to Ariyah is always long overdue, yet it never feels like the right time. Maybe because grief doesn’t run on schedules, and love doesn’t expire with time. But it always comes with a weight, a heaviness I try not to bring with me. I want to meet her with love, not sorrow. With peace, not the burdens of everything that’s happened.

The past few years have been relentless. Life hasn’t been still, and I’ve had to learn how to move with it, even when the direction felt uncertain. Coping, adapting, surviving—it all became muscle memory. But what still shakes me is the lack of kindness in this world. The way people choose selfishness over understanding, cruelty over compassion. And I think that’s why I talk about it so much. Because if I can remind just one person to be softer, to be more human, then maybe this world doesn’t have to feel so cold.

As I drove past the Capitol today, after sitting in the World Peace Garden, I saw something that made me pause. A protest, or something like it—elders standing together, holding signs, asking for nothing more than kindness. Just the word: kindness. A simple request, yet one so often denied. I wanted to stand there with them. I should have. There was something sacred in that moment, a kind of magic that whispered, You’re not alone in this fight. And for once, I believed it.

My visit with Ariyah stretched past the sun’s setting. The cemetery, wrapped in the embrace of night, became a maze, and for a moment, I felt lost—not just in direction, but in spirit. Maybe it was the fear of the unknown, or maybe it was the presence of something unseen, something beyond this world. I wanted to stay, to sit in silence a little longer, to let my heart spill into the night air. But my phone went offline, and I knew that was my sign to leave. Sometimes, the universe whispers, and sometimes, it simply takes the choice away.

Life is strange. Beautiful, unpredictable, and at times, painfully poetic. I don’t know which direction I’m going—north, south, east, or west—but does it really matter? Movement is movement. And sometimes, stillness is necessary too. We’re not meant to chase the sun every day. The darkness has its purpose, too.

I used to fear too much time alone, and maybe I still do. The past three days of solitude dug into wounds I thought had closed. Silence has a way of forcing you to listen—to pain, to exhaustion, to the echoes of everything you’ve tried to quiet. But today, I feel different. Today, I am calm. And instead of resisting, I am letting the day take me where it wants to. Because maybe that’s the lesson—to let go, to trust, and to simply exist.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, If we cherish something, it lasts—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

(longer).


Today, something happened to me. I had a rush of overwhelming emotions. I went in for my root canal, hoping to save my tooth. For at least 30 minutes, I sat through the drilling, the anesthesia, and everything that came with the procedure. But then, the doctor—told me he couldn’t save it. He was really good at what he did, and I could tell he genuinely cared. He tried everything, and I appreciated his effort. He even looked sad when he broke the news to me.

When I got in my car and started driving, I noticed the heavy gray clouds. It was sprinkling, and for some reason, that made me feel even sadder. It wasn’t just about the tooth—it was everything. It’s been a long journey, and I really wanted to save it. When I first consulted with my primary dentist, they suggested an extraction, but I believed it could be saved with a root canal. I held onto that hope. But as time went on, delays happened, circumstances changed, and maybe—just maybe—that’s why the tooth couldn’t be saved.

Then again, this tooth had been battling my wisdom tooth for years. It suffered damage that wasn’t always visible, injuries that went deeper than the surface. And that’s the thing—just because something looks fine on the outside doesn’t mean it isn’t broken. Just because something seems strong doesn’t mean it can withstand more.

And I guess that applies to me, too. I try to keep myself put together. I internalize things. I minimize the impact of what I’ve been through, pretending it doesn’t affect me. But it does. And honestly, I just wish people would be kinder. Life would be easier if we all approached each other with grace instead of matching rudeness with more rudeness. I’ve learned that when people don’t show you respect, you don’t owe it to them. You don’t have to tolerate disrespect just to be the bigger person. Because when you do, it’s almost like you’re disrespecting yourself.

Today felt like a loss. Not just because of the tooth, but because it reminded me of everything I’ve been through—how much effort I put into things, how much pain I’ve endured, how hard I fight for what I believe in. I just wanted to save it, to follow through with the root canal and crown. But now, the plan has changed. And as much as I hate it, the end result will be the same—I’ll be able to eat and live without pain. It’ll just happen through a different route: an extraction and a dental implant.

I guess that’s life. There’s always an end-of-life for certain things. Roads that used to be there disappear. Stores we used to visit close down. Nothing is permanent.

Despite everything, today had a bright spot. I had lunch with my sister. We always find humor in the chaos of life, mixing dark humor with the reality of our struggles. And as I was driving her back, I noticed she had a tote bag with her—the same one I gave her years ago. It surprised me. I still remembered it, and seeing it again felt special. My other sister, too—she still has a pair of comfortable socks I gave her over 15 years ago. They’re still in great condition.

And that’s what life is about. Taking care of what we have. If we cherish something, it lasts (longer). But even when we take care of things, they can only withstand so much. And that’s okay, too. As long as we do our best to take care of ourselves, everything else will follow suit.

I know that in this lifetime, I love and respect myself. Even when my heart and mind aren’t always in sync, I know that if you take care of something—if you truly cherish it—it may not last forever, but it will last longer than if you had never cared for it at all. It’s in the little things, the details that make life work—the small moments of understanding, the effort put into nurturing not just others but yourself.

I’m learning to take care of my heart, my soul, and my spirit. With this little life of mine, I know that struggles exist for a reason. There are lessons woven into them, even when they feel unbearable. And as much as I sometimes feel like I don’t belong—like everything is just too much—I remind myself that I don’t have to last forever. I just have to last longer than this. Long enough to reach my potential. Nothing more, nothing less.