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

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

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

from people who once claimed to love me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted in Amy Douangmany, 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, 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, parenting, Uncategorized

🤕🏥🪻🏝👒 Dear Diary, Taking a step back to focus on self-care

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

seems imperative now.

At 1:22 AM, I find myself reflecting on my current state. I’m munching on some leftovers from yesterday, a stark reminder of the scarcity of food I intake, which likely explains my persistent hunger and restlessness. I’ve been struggling to sleep, resorting to forcing myself into a state of rest. Recognizing the need for a dietary boost, I contemplate stocking up on nutritional and protein shakes to support my health and hopefully restore my equilibrium.

Today, my oldest daughter’s words of encouragement resonated deeply. Her assurance that I am organized provided a soothing balm for my frayed nerves. Her perspective reminds me that my stresses are but specks in the grand scheme of things. Recent interactions with my daughter, Maylana, have revealed a protective streak within her, a testament to the depth of our bond.

I yearn for respite from this perpetual state of stress and exhaustion. Taking a step back to focus on self-care seems imperative now. My children, meanwhile, were off exploring the world at Turks & Caicos over the weekend, and my youngest is still out of state returning by the week’s end. Their tales of adventure consist of hermit crabs, snorkeling, and days and days of swimming in the clear waters on the beautiful island, collecting sea shells and watching the sunset.

Today’s interactions include a café sit-in for coffee and a shared cooking session with my oldest daughter later in the evening. Navigating the complexities of relationships weighs heavily on my mind.

Communication, patience, and mutual respect are paramount traits I strive to embody in my interactions with loved ones. Despite setbacks and frustrations, I persevere, cherishing the journey of life.