Category: Healing

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

Dear Diary, Today, I feel gratitude.

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

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

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, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, When you run empty…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

it’s ugly.

I’m not in a rush;
not to arrive, not to reach a final destination.
Every time we think we’ve found “the end,” life proves us wrong.
The world is full of surprises,
and humanity, with all its beauty and chaos, is inescapable:
the good and the bad,
the structure and the instability,
the security and the insecurities,
the light and the crimes that shadow it all.

Tonight I realize something powerful:
I don’t want to control anyone,
and I refuse to be controlled.
I want to release.
I ask the gods, the greater good, and the holy spirits
to shield me from anything that might chain me;
any person, any spirit.
I deserve to fly free.

The weight I’ve carried feels like anchors
dragging behind a massive ship.
But I’m ready to rise.
I want to float.
I want to fly.
I want to climb higher and higher
until the pain that once held me fades into the clouds.

I’ve never felt that I wasn’t enough.
Instead, I’ve often felt others weren’t ready to meet me
in the depth of love I offered.
I poured and poured
even from an empty cup
and still, it was never enough.
Because there is no such thing as “enough.”

When someone asks, “How much is enough?”
I can only say: it doesn’t exist.
Life isn’t about measuring love or effort;
it’s about pouring into yourself
and into those who truly receive it,
so that your well never runs dry.

Because when you run empty,
it’s ugly.
It’s lonely.
It’s the worst feeling in the world.

So I choose freedom.
I choose to stay full.
I choose to set myself free.

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

Dear Diary, Value is not always about expense…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

it is about the care and intention.

Today was a really lovely day. I am finally winding down, not in a candlelit skincare kind of way, but with something far more indulgent: a Supreme Doritos taco. It has been ages since I have had one, and I am not sure when my love for tacos faded. These days I am more of a noodle and pasta person, but tonight the craving won.

I spent the afternoon with Kira, shopping at Daiso for extra school supplies and a few things to feed my own love of reading, writing, and continuous learning. We found her the softest pajama set with sparkly butterflies and a matching sleep mask. She knew exactly what she wanted. Not a headband, but a sleep mask. I love that about her, the clarity of knowing what fits you.

Our final mission was shoes. She tried on silver, black, and pink pairs in the same size, but none felt right. And that is the thing about fit: it is rarely just about size. Whether it is shoes, friendships, or relationships, sometimes you try to make something work because you love it, but it simply is not your fit. Comfort, texture, and the way it makes you feel all matter. Eventually we found the perfect pair: black with pearls on a soft memory foam and a subtle shine, ready for every season and even matching her coat.

I could not help thinking about how shoes mirror our own growth. Over time I have raised my own standards. The price tag is not everything, but it reflects how much I am willing to invest in quality and in myself. About a month ago I picked up a pair of heels and some Birkenstocks, and I wear them constantly. Value is not always about expense; it is about the care and intention you bring to what you choose.

The best pair of shoes, like the best relationships, deserve investment—emotional, physical, even financial. Money matters, but never more than the comfort and confidence a true fit provides.

Now I am home, ready to slip off my shoes, shower, pamper my skin, and rest my bare feet. The perfect ending to a day that fit just right.

Tomorrow is another day, and I am looking forward to bringing my best foot forward. I may be moving through changes and different chapters of my life. I do not always announce my struggles or my wins, but there will always be signs—whether in moments of quiet detachment, unexpected distance, small celebrations, tears of joy, or even the soft grieving of a lifestyle that no longer fits the person I am becoming.

Cheers in advance to the next perfect fit.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Healing, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, As certain things in my life begin to align…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

I realize how simple my heart’s desires truly are.

I’m sitting here tonight, in the quiet stillness after the sun has slipped below the horizon. The sky not too long ago was painted in streaks of lavender, rose-gold, and deep orange, the kind of breathtaking gradient that makes me pause every single time. Sunsets have always been my favorite. The way the light melts into the sky feels like a reminder that endings can be just as beautiful as beginnings.

As I sit here, I feel a wave of gratitude washing over me. These past months… really, the past two years have felt heavy, slow, and sometimes unbearably still. Lazy, in a way, though not in the sense of doing nothing, but more like a long stretch of waiting, healing, and piecing myself back together. Now, as certain things in my life begin to align, I realize how simple my heart’s desires truly are: to be happy, to be at peace, to keep discovering little joys that make my soul light up and my eyes glisten.

I’m learning that peace doesn’t come from perfection. It comes from being seen and heard. From someone showing, not just saying, that they notice me, that they understand me. It’s in patience, even when things feel frustrating or complicated. It’s in knowing that if a hard decision ever had to be made, the choice would be to put me first, to put *us* first, to put the children first… never the opposite. That kind of love feels like a soft place to land.

And still, through it all, I hold close the blessings I already have. My health may not be perfect, but it is steady enough to carry me. I can stand firmly, both on my two feet and on the life I am building. I can still see the colors of the sky, hear the laughter of my children, and choose every single day between what is good for me and what is not. These are gifts I remind myself never to overlook.

Because each day, life quietly gives us that choice: to look at others with compassion, to try to see them in the best light even when they don’t stand in it themselves… or to let bitterness cloud our vision. I remind myself that often people reflect what they hold inside; if they cannot see goodness in others, it’s usually because they struggle to see it in themselves.

So tonight, under the memory of the sunset’s glow, I feel content. I look forward to each new day, even the uncertain ones. For the first time in a long time, I truly feel that things are unfolding in the right direction. And above all, my heart is full of gratitude.

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.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Healing, Meditation, Parenthood

Dear Diary, Lately, I’ve been…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

sitting with this uncomfortable truth:

Setting boundaries sometimes makes you look like the villain in someone else’s story. I never thought protecting my peace would be the thing people questioned most about me.

But here I am, balancing court dates, figuring out what healing looks like as a mother, keeping up with phone calls that are half static and half emotional landmines, all while trying to remember who I am under the noise. Some nights I drive just to feel the quiet, watching the Bay lights flicker like they’re whispering reminders that I’m still here, still soft, still strong, still surviving.

And yet, there’s this voice, sometimes external, sometimes my own, that asks, “What if you’re the problem?” But I know now, that voice isn’t truth. It’s trauma. It’s people upset that I’m no longer as accessible. I don’t always answer every call. I ask more questions. I don’t always say yes. That doesn’t make me cruel. That makes me healing.

I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to be honest. To be present. To be safe — for my children, and for the version of me that got so used to being last on the list. The one who finally realized her softness doesn’t mean she has to shatter to prove it.

And if that makes people uncomfortable, so be it. I’m still learning how to be okay with being misunderstood.

But I know what I’m building. It’s rooted in peace. And peace doesn’t always look polite.

Love,
A

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

Dear Diary, People don’t know if this is my final rock bottom…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

and they won’t.

Tonight, I cried. Not because I’m weak. Not because I’ve given up. But because I’ve carried so much — silently — and I still show up with love in my hands.

It’s strange, how I can be surrounded by people yet feel like I have no safe person. No one I can fully collapse into without guarding parts of myself. I’ve learned I have to be limited — measured — in how much I share, how deeply I trust, how loudly I hurt. Not because I want to hide, but because I’ve had to protect the very parts of me that make me real.

Still, I choose to believe there’s purpose in this path. That my patience and my perseverance aren’t being wasted. That even when no one sees the full weight of what I carry — God does. And maybe that’s why I’ve been gifted this quiet resilience. This sacred ability to hold space for others even when I have no space being held for me.

I don’t move through life trying to prove I’m better than anyone. I just want to be good. To live gently. To love without conditions. To influence without forcing. And I think I have — because I’m starting to see people reflect back the values I’ve modeled: consistency, softness, non-transactional love, showing up without demanding anything in return.

It’s honoring… but also bittersweet.

I’ve given without titles. Loved without needing to be announced. Held others through their struggles while never unloading my own. And even though I’ve struggled — silently, sleeplessly, sick, and stretched thin — I’m still standing.

I am the source of my own survival.
And I’m not using that source unless I absolutely have to.
That restraint? That quiet? That’s my power.

People don’t know if this is my final rock bottom — and they won’t. Because I’ve learned that mystery is a form of protection. People are curious how I keep going. How I still have faith. How I haven’t collapsed under the weight. And the truth is: I just keep moving. I take the risk of silence, the risk of patience, the risk of trusting the slow work. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’m unsure. Even when it hurts.

Because I know good things are coming.
Because I know being a good person does pay off — even if it’s delayed.

I know this process is long. I know it’s slow. I know it’s not easy. But it’s mine. And I’m proud of myself for how I’ve carried it.

Thank you, God, for keeping me grounded. For keeping my voice steady when my heart is heavy. For reminding me that I don’t need to chase, perform, or prove. I just need to trust — that everything I’ve given in love, in patience, in silence — is being returned in ways I can’t yet see.

I have faith.
And I will always have faith.

—
Love,
Amy