Category: Healing

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, 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, Healing, narcissist, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I see a life full of light and love and purpose—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

if I keep going.

This past week felt like I was caught in the eye of a storm—chaotic, overwhelming, and nonstop. My plate wasn’t just full; it was overflowing. And somehow, in the middle of pouring into everyone else, I forgot to feed myself—literally and figuratively. I found myself running on nothing. Not even fumes. The cup I was trying to pour from? It wasn’t just empty—it was bone dry. Not a mist, not a drop, not even a trace of H2O.

Over the weekend, my body finally waved the white flag. I hit a wall—fatigue so intense it physically stopped me from helping in a moment I knew mattered. That shook me. It was my wake-up call. A message from my soul saying, “You can’t keep going like this.”

Why do we believe we need to suffer to prove our strength? Why do we think showing up for everyone else at the cost of ourselves is noble? It’s not. I’m learning that honoring my needs and nurturing my well-being isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. Because the love I give, the support I offer, the light I try to be… none of that can exist if I’m running on empty.

When you’re not well, you’re not happy. That’s the truth. And yes, I’ve been taking steps—my vitamins, my iron, being patient with myself—but I’ve also been silently rushing. Not on the outside, but internally, it’s like my spirit is racing at 100 mph. And the thing is, when you’re speeding for so long at a steady pace, you don’t even realize how fast you’re going… until you crash.

I don’t want to crash anymore. I don’t want to live in a loop of burnout and recovery. I want peace. I want balance. And I’m learning—truly learning—that healing is not linear. It doesn’t respond to deadlines. It doesn’t answer to urgency. It requires surrender.

Lately, I’ve felt like time is either flying or frozen. Things feel like they’re happening way too fast and yet, not fast enough. But I get it now—that’s just the illusion stress creates. It disconnects us from the moment and steals the joy that could’ve existed in the now.

Sleep doesn’t even feel like rest anymore. Even when I get enough hours, I wake up just as tired. Because my mind is still holding tension, still running scenarios, still trying to control the uncontrollable. I haven’t been letting go… but I need to.

Because no matter how heavy life gets, it’s never the end. I’ve been through enough storms to know that somehow, some way, I always make it through. It might not look perfect. It might not be pretty. But I survive. I rise. And now, more than ever, I’m learning to just take it day by day, hour by hour.

To live in the now.
To breathe through the chaos.
To rest without guilt.

Because I believe in my future. I see a life full of light and love and purpose—if I keep going. If I don’t give up. If I stay rooted in my “why.” And my why will always be my children. I want them to see me stable. At peace. Thriving. Not stressed and stretched thin.

They remind me often, in their own way, that I’m strong. That I find a way, always. And even when it’s not perfect—it’s enough. And maybe that’s what life really is: not about getting it all right, but simply choosing not to give up.

I refuse to let pride or ego tell me I don’t belong, or that this is the end of my story. Because it’s not. My life is just beginning. And I’ll begin again as many times as I need to—until I get it right.

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, Healing, parenting, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Life isn’t always going to be pretty

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

— but it’s mine, and I’m going to live it authentically.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, reflecting on how dramatically my life has shifted. It feels like closing certain doors, leaving some chapters behind, is gradually lifting me up to new heights. And with that elevation comes a sense of security, a stability that I can feel deep in my bones. It’s as though the warmth of the sun, beginning to break through the clouds, is mirroring the change in me. I feel ready to bloom, to expand with the coming season, and to embrace whatever lies ahead.

I used to find my laughter in scrolling through TikTok, mindlessly passing time, but now, it comes from moments with my family—my children, yes, but also my extended family. The stories we share, the memories that we have built together, seem to pick up right where we left off. It feels like we’ve just stepped back into a conversation we paused years ago. The connections are real, and they resonate so deeply within me. There’s a warmth in that, a comfort that I’ve been waiting for.

And you know, maybe that’s the lesson I’ve been learning: to not isolate myself too much. To not get lost in the idea of being hyper-independent. Sure, there are pros and cons to everything, but people are meant to be in community with one another. Yes, boundaries are important—clear, firm boundaries that define what we will and won’t tolerate—but at the end of the day, life is short. It’s too short not to live it fully, to live it authentically.

I feel overwhelmed with gratitude for the support I’ve received this year. I’m not where I thought I’d be, but I’m where I need to be, and that’s enough. Some might think I’ve been defeated, and maybe at times, it felt like I was, but that’s not the truth. The truth is, I’ve lived and learned, and through it all, I’ve stayed true to myself. I’ve played the hand life dealt me, and I’m still playing it. Maybe the decisions I’ve made in the past don’t seem like the best ones now, but in those moments, with everything I was carrying—my health, my mental state, the weight of being a mother to children, to multiple children—those choices made sense. It was survival. It was the best I could do at the time.

And that’s what I want people to understand: not every life is filled with sunshine and rainbows. Not everyone is living a life of ease, and that’s okay. We all face our battles, our struggles, our moments of darkness. And in that space, I hope we can all hold space for each other, without judgment. Yes, I am human, and I deserve to be treated as such. I won’t tolerate harassment, manipulation, or anyone trying to take advantage of me. I will stand firm in my boundaries, but I also won’t let that stop me from sharing my truth. I won’t hide who I am, what I’ve been through, or what I’ve learned.

I stay in my lane, not inviting animosity or hate, but I do invite connection, understanding, and support. Whether through my live streams, my creativity, or my writing, I want to express myself fully. I want to be real, and I want people to join me in this journey. Life isn’t always going to be pretty, but it’s mine, and I’m going to live it authentically. There will be highs where I feel on top of the world, flourishing, thriving, and living my best life. And there will be lows, too, when I’m struggling to make sense of the darkness. But through it all, I believe we can learn from one another. We can grow together, and that’s what matters.

I am so grateful for every sunrise, for every new day. The sun always shines, no matter how much we see it or how much we appreciate it. It’s always there, offering warmth, offering light. And yet, I’ve learned that too much of anything can be overwhelming, just as too much focus on either the good or the bad in my life will only give you a partial view. My life is a wave—an ebb and flow of everything. It’s deep, never shallow. And I hope we can all take that lesson with us, embracing the fullness of each moment, no matter where we are in our journey.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I just realized something

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

—really realized it this time.

You can’t help who you love. You can give someone the entire world, pour every ounce of light into them, and it still won’t be enough to save them. You can be their structure, their stability, their home. But at the end of the day, people have to save themselves. And I think that’s where I’ve been getting it wrong for so long—trying to be the net when I should have just let them fall.

It’s not my job to intercept someone’s karma.

I think about it like this: none of us are football players. Even if we were, we’d all retire eventually. We’re not meant to spend our whole lives catching things that were never ours to hold. And at this point in my life, I’m done trying to be the quarterback, running headfirst into someone else’s storm. You want to take the long route? Fine. You want to learn the hard way? That’s your lesson to learn. I can’t drag people to their own healing. I can’t protect people from the consequences of their own choices.

And I won’t.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to walk away. I’m at a crossroads with this, because there’s such a huge difference between helping someone through a tough season and trying to save them from themselves. At some point, we all have to take the reins, decide what road we’re going to take, and own the steps we choose. And some of us, no matter how much guidance we’re given, still take the longest, hardest road—because maybe we needed a little more time to grieve. Maybe we needed more space to mourn the versions of ourselves that had to die along the way.

I know how that feels. I’ve been there. I’ve lived that chapter. And maybe that’s why my heart is still so pure, why I still try, even when I know better.

But no more intercepting. No more trying to be the savior. No more stepping in front of fate that doesn’t belong to me. From here on out, I choose me. And I’ll keep choosing me, over and over again, because I deserve to. And I’ll be good to the people who stand beside me as I do. That’s all I can promise. I’m not asking anyone to save me—I’ve never needed that. All I ask is that I remain resilient. That I keep going.

It’s funny. I saw this picture of an anglerfish the other day, this terrifying little thing with jagged teeth and its own built-in light. It went viral online because it looks like something straight out of a nightmare. But the more I looked at it, the more I saw myself.

Because when you pan out, that scary, resilient little thing isn’t as monstrous as it seems. It’s actually pretty small—just a tiny fish in an endless, dark ocean. And yet, it carries its own light. It survives.

And maybe that’s what life is.

You keep going. You get through the tunnels. You find your way in the dark. And sometimes, you do it alone.

Sure, you can be surrounded by love, by support, by people who want the best for you—but at the end of the day, it’s on you to make it. No one’s going to carry you to your purpose. No one’s going to shine your light for you. And maybe your glow won’t light up the whole ocean. Maybe it won’t be appreciated. Maybe people won’t even notice the fight it took just to survive.

Because people don’t really care about the struggle.

They don’t care about the nights that nearly broke you, the weight you’ve carried, the way your hands shook as you held yourself together. They’re too wrapped up in their own pride, their own egos, their own need for control. People see what they want to see. And most of the time, they don’t want to see you at all.

But I see me. And that’s enough.

I’m not lost. I’m not wandering aimlessly like Dory, who forgets her destination and purpose. I know exactly who I am. I am that anglerfish—small but steady, terrifyingly resilient, carrying my own light through the darkest depths.

I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not shrinking. I’m not apologizing for my choices or my survival. If you walked in during a chapter you didn’t understand and decided to judge me for it, that’s on you. But don’t mistake my survival for a sin. Don’t mistake my resilience for something ugly.

I did what I had to do to protect myself and my children. And I’ll never regret that.

One day, my voice will be heard—not just through TikTok lives, not just through captions or comments, but through my consistency. Through my tenacity. Through my very existence.

And until that day comes, I will keep going.

Just that.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Travel

Dear Diary, I am on my way

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

to a place that I cannot yet name

—a destination unknown but unfolding with every step I take. So, for now, let’s call this my chapter. This is my new beginning, my fresh journey, the next volume in the story of my life. And as long as I continue turning the pages, the story doesn’t end.

I’ve come to accept that with growth comes pain, and with change comes fear. The unknown will always carry uncertainty, and there will be moments where I question everything. But life was never meant to be predictable or easy. We are not meant to have all the answers at once. We are meant to live, to stumble, to learn, and to rise again.

Seasons change, and so do we. As winter fades and the promise of spring lingers on the horizon, I find comfort in knowing that warmth and beauty will return. I look forward to the blooming of flowers—their resilience speaks to me. They withstand the harshness of the elements, enduring rain, wind, and even the scorching sun. Yet, when the conditions are right, they flourish. The world stops to admire their beauty, just as it will recognize the strength within me once I, too, have weathered my storms.

I share pieces of this journey with those who support me, those who believe in me even when I struggle to believe in myself. And for that, I am humbled and grateful. These obstacles, no matter how overwhelming they may seem, are only temporary. When they pass, they will be nothing more than memories—lessons I have learned, experiences that have shaped me, but not chains that bind me.

I think about the light at the end of the tunnel, and I remind myself that it is there. No matter how dark things get, brightness always returns. After every storm, the sun shines again. And if we’re lucky, we might even catch a glimpse of a rainbow—a reminder of beauty after hardship, a symbol of hope.

Lately, I’ve been reminiscing about my beloved cat, Chase. My British Shorthair, who left paw prints on my heart that will never fade. I wish I could have had him with me longer, but just as I did not know he would come into my life, I could not control when he left. That is the nature of life—so much of it is beyond our control. But it does not mean we forget.

Those who have touched our souls never truly leave us. Their stories live on through the way we speak of them, the lessons they taught us, and the love they left behind. There’s a saying: when someone passes, they die twice—once when they take their last breath, and again when their name is no longer spoken. So I will continue to speak of those who have left the deepest imprints on my heart.

Here’s to another day—another page turned, another step forward, another chance to live, learn, and bloom.

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, Change, in all its unpredictable ways —

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

is the only constant we have.

The sun is shining a little sooner these days, lingering just a bit longer before it dips below the horizon, and I can’t help but feel like life itself is reflecting that same rhythm within me. I find that when I’m doing well, when I’m in a space of growth, my words come easier, flowing like a river that has finally been freed from the ice of winter. This journey I’m on—this deep reconnection with my spirit, this peeling back of layers to find the softer, more intuitive version of myself that has been tangled in overthinking—it’s been humbling, but also so incredibly affirming.

Maybe I didn’t even realize how much I needed this affirmation. The confirmation that I am still here, still breathing, still moving toward something greater than myself. And maybe that’s just the nature of life—these changing seasons, the ebb and flow, the warmth and the cold. If the weather never shifted, if we lived in a world of permanent summer or endless winter, we would never appreciate the contrast, never learn to seek the beauty in both the storms and the sun.

Even the wind, even the rain, even the moments that feel like destruction—they hold their own purpose. They extinguish fires that might have raged out of control. They cleanse the air, pushing sickness away, sweeping through the streets and making space for something new. Change, in all its unpredictable ways, is the only constant we have. And as long as there is change, there is proof of life. There will always be moments of light and moments of darkness, but it is how we embrace them, how we surrender to them, that will define us.

I’ve wasted days before, wasted perfectly good health by keeping myself locked away, allowing time to slip through my fingers while I let the weight of my thoughts keep me still. But now? Now, I crave the warmth of the sun on my skin. I crave the sound of birds singing, the hum of life happening all around me. I am healing, deeply, intentionally. I am showing up for myself in ways I once neglected. I am making space for joy, for the magic in the smallest of things. And I am embracing my feminine energy in a way that feels like home—soft, strong, intuitive, radiant. My home will be my sanctuary, my personal fairytale, but my spirit? My spirit is meant to roam freely, to dance with the world, to exist fully in the beauty of each moment.

This journey, I now understand, is mine alone. And anyone who walks beside me—outside of my children, my heartbeats—will do so as an honor, not an expectation. The right people will add light to this path, not take from it. They will be the ones who appreciate the sacredness of this unfolding, the ones who hold space for me as I hold space for myself.

Today, my thoughts are drifting high, nestled in the clouds where the sun kisses the sky with golden warmth. The air feels different, charged with possibility. This year started out rough—so rough that I almost lost sight of myself in the storm. But I stayed, I fought, I endured. And I am so damn proud of myself for not abandoning my own ship, for not letting fear be the thing that dictated my course.

So to anyone who feels lost in the waves, I say this: stay. Stay in your boat, no matter how unsteady it may seem. Do not be the one to sink yourself simply because you fear the unknown ahead. Let the currents of life guide you, trust that the tides are working in your favor, even when it doesn’t seem like it. Your ship will find its way. You will reach the shore. And when you do, you will step onto solid ground with the wisdom of every wave you’ve survived.

And that? That is where the magic happens.