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 Akira, Amy Douangmany, Malynah, Maylana, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, May the beauty of this day…

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

and every day moving forward…

Once you move through your thirties and into your forties, something shifts. Your energy changes. Your attention turns inward. Life begins to quietly ask you to start again, only this time with more intention. Friendships take more effort to maintain. Conversations feel heavier. And you find yourself relearning things you thought you had already mastered. It is not a step backward. It feels more like rediscovery.

There are things in life that I cherish deeply, and I hold them close. They feed me in quiet but lasting ways. Being a mother means my mind rarely rests. Even when the house is calm, my thoughts keep moving. I worry about my children’s safety, their emotions, their futures, and their little hearts. Sometimes the people we love the most are the ones who unknowingly teach us the hardest lessons.

Still, I find peace in small moments. I may not have a lot of time for myself, but I try to honor what I do get. In those pockets of stillness, I pause. I breathe. I remember who I am. I remind myself that I am my own best investment. I matter too. And that truth is something I have had to learn over time.

Tonight feels peaceful. I am surrounded by the ones I love. The kids are close by. Music hums in the background. Their laughter floats around the room like warm air. Their joy anchors me. I feel like I am drifting through a gentle season of my life, one that I am learning to embrace with softness.

Today was refreshing. We went to the lake and it was my first time on a boat. The view was breathtaking. The sun shimmered on the water as if tiny crystals were scattered across its surface. The sky was open and calm with soft clouds painting the edges. The temperature stayed in the low eighties and the breeze felt cool and playful, brushing gently against our skin.

We packed a few coolers filled with cold drinks and had plenty of snacks, including wings and fresh fruit. Everyone took turns at the wheel, learning how to steer and feeling the thrill of the ride. Although I did not drive this time, I loved watching each of the girls take their turn. Their excitement was contagious.

The boat moved smoothly but with power. When it picked up speed, it sent wide waves behind us. The water folded and fanned out in beautiful shapes. The engine rumbled softly and created ripples that reached the shoreline and sent a few ducks paddling in different directions. I watched them scatter and then regroup, unbothered, as if nothing had happened.

The lake itself held quiet challenges. Submerged branches and hidden trees made it feel like a secret world beneath the surface. Steering around them was a bit of a puzzle, but the kind that keeps you present. I saw a deer drinking at the edge of the lake, its reflection clear in the still water. Farther out, I noticed small boats floating along. One had a clothesline stretched across it with laundry hanging in the sun. Shirts and blankets swayed gently in the breeze. It made me wonder if people live out there, choosing peace over noise.

Being in nature like that puts everything into perspective. You begin to feel how big the world is, and how much of it is still waiting for you to experience. There are people I have never met, places I have never seen, and ways of life I have never imagined. The lake reminded me of that.

The lesson I carry with me tonight is simple. Even when the water appears calm and clear, there are always things beneath the surface. Things you cannot see but may bump into. Obstacles and surprises. This is true in life too. You will not always be able to avoid what comes your way, but you can learn how to move through it. With grace. With softness. With strength.

Maybe that is what life is meant to be. A collection of feelings. Surprise. Fear. Peace. Joy. Heartbreak. Healing. All of it. The more you allow yourself to feel, the more you will grow. And the more stories you will carry with you. And maybe, just maybe, the more open your heart becomes.

So I’m choosing to allow myself to feel deeply and fully. To let the wind rush through my hair and the water sprinkle my skin. May the beauty of this day and every day moving forward remind me to stay present.

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, Meditation, Parenthood

Dear Dad,

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

You’re still here with us, and I’m so grateful for that.


Every moment, every breath, every quiet glance or shared laugh. But I know in my heart that we may not have a lot of time left, and that’s what’s been breaking me.

I don’t know how to say everything I’m feeling out loud, but I need you to know this: even though life has never been perfect, you’ve always been the best dad to me. I see the ways you’ve tried to give me your best, the ways you’ve showed up in the only way you knew how and I’ve always felt that love. I carry it with me.

You’ve always been a fighter, Dad. You already beat cancer once, and watching you fight again… even now… reminds me just how strong you are. But I also know that not every battle is meant to be won. And even in this, your strength is undeniable.

It hurts so much to watch this. My heart feels heavy all the time. I feel helpless. Sometimes I shut down or pull away because I don’t know how to carry all these emotions at once. But it’s not because I don’t care, it’s because I care too much.

I admire how you’ve lived your life with purpose and independence. Whether it was your peaceful morning walks, your coffee routine, or keeping your friendships strong. Those small things were always so big to me. In a world that often feels disconnected, you managed to stay grounded. That’s something I’ve always looked up to.

There’s still time, and I’m trying to treasure it. I want to be present with you as much as I can. I don’t know how to prepare for what’s coming, but I do know that I love you. So deeply. So endlessly.

And I hope somehow you can feel that without needing me to say it perfectly.

With all my heart,
Your daughter

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

Posted in Amy Douangmany, Blog, Healing

Dear Diary, Honestly, I feel good.

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

Not just physically good, but soul-deep good.

Today marks almost 24 hours of stillness. No running around. No forcing myself to be anywhere or with anyone. Just me. And honestly, I feel good. Not just physically good, but soul-deep good. I’ve been discontained, distant, and quietly reserved. This little pause has let my mind breathe and stretch and unfold in ways I didn’t even know it needed to.

I’ve come to realize I’m done trying to make sense of things that aren’t meant to be understood. People do things that seem careless, inconsistent, or even cruel, and for the longest time I tried to decipher it. Translate it. Give it meaning. But what if it never had any? What if their actions weren’t rooted in anything intentional, thoughtful, or kind? What if my need to understand was just wishful thinking dressed up as empathy?

Wishful thinking can be beautiful, but it can also be dangerous. It tempts you to justify nonsense. It keeps you analyzing when you should be letting go. It makes excuses for people who never took accountability, and it leaves you explaining yourself to people who never cared to listen. And when you’re someone who values your life deeply, it’s disheartening to be misunderstood by those who don’t value anything at all… not even themselves.

But then I think about those people who are just consistent. The quiet achievers. The women who wake up and take care of business without needing applause. They’re steady. Peaceful. Unbothered. And often, they’re misunderstood or even hated for that. Because looking unbothered when you really love yourself seems to trigger something in people who haven’t found that same kind of peace.

People love to vilify what they envy. They create stories, rumors, and narratives to shape you into someone that makes them feel more comfortable about their own misery. And I’m finally realizing I don’t need to fix that. I don’t need to explain myself or break myself down just to be digested more easily.

I’ve found inspiration in places I never expected. Maybe it’s someone I’ll never meet. Maybe it’s a story from someone rich in something I don’t yet have. But the feeling I carry isn’t envy—it’s admiration. And it fuels me. I’ve been showing up for myself in real ways. Studying. Learning. Listening. This summer feels like school for the soul. And I think I’m about to graduate with honors.

Right now, my hair is still damp from the everything shower I just took. It was luxurious, long, and full of intention. Exfoliation, oils, steamy softness. It was all part of this little ceremony I’ve been having with myself lately. A ceremony of rebirth. My body feels calm. My skin is glowing. I smell like Good Girl and clean sheets. I’m letting myself heal from a fun and chaotic weekend and finding joy in simply being again.

I usually circle things back to my children. I always do. But tonight, I’m circling back to me. Just me. And it feels good. I want to love myself better. Respect myself deeper. Draw clearer boundaries. Create more space. Call in more peace.

I don’t know what’s coming next. Maybe this is hibernation. Maybe it’s the cocoon before the wings. But I know this next version of me isn’t for public display. She’s quiet. Sacred. Becoming. And she’s not coming out to play just yet.

Because the world doesn’t get to take from her this time.
She’s staying with me.

With love,
Amy

Posted in Akira, Amy Douangmany, Ariyah, Blog, Healing, Malynah, Maylana, Parenthood, Self Reflection

Dear Diary, I was pacing again today—

Posted on by Ms. Amy D

back and forth,

like I always do when I’m overthinking but trying not to look like I am. Maybe I had on my Gucci shades… or maybe they were Burberry, or Louie. Either way, they were oversized, dramatic, and doing their best to hide the storm behind my eyes.

And still, no one asked if I was okay.

But what I really wanted… was someone to walk with me.
Through the pool.
Not beside it. Not dry and distant.
But right there—with me. In the cool water, just waist-deep.
Drifting slowly, step by step,
laughing, venting, yapping about life, healing, dreams, and regrets.
Sunglasses on. Sun glinting off the water.
Children splashing nearby like background music to something real.

Just talking.
But talking with someone who sees you.
Someone whose presence is peace.
Someone you can trust enough to float beside.

Today, I got in the pool.
Finally.
It took everything.

If there were awards for quiet courage, I’d have one in every color.
Because no one really claps for the kind of bravery it takes to show up for yourself when no one else is watching.

My lash clusters? Gone—sacrificed to the chlorine gods.
But I swam anyway.
I went under.
And I didn’t panic.

And you know what’s wild?

You don’t realize how cold the water is until you’ve been in it too long.
You don’t realize how high your guard has risen until you try to put it down and it shakes your whole body.
You become numb. Conditioned to the cold.
You take so much, you forget how to receive.
You give just enough to survive, not enough to be seen.

Eventually, it chips away at you.
And you forget how to love without fear.
Not because you’re weak—because you’re tired.

But even in the cold, I remember who I am.

I have my dignity.
My authenticity.
My warmth.
My good heart—and people see that.
It reflects off them in ways they don’t always like, because it reminds them of their own shadows.
So they watch.
And they wait.

But let me be clear: they’ll be waiting forever.

I’m covered. Protected.
Not by chance, but by the good I’ve sown.
And I believe—truly—that goodness always returns.

Today, the pool felt alive.
Toddlers wobbled, teens shrieked, water splashed around us in chaotic joy.
And somewhere in the middle of it, a woman walked by—hair neon green, body sculpted like she designed it herself.
And maybe she did.
She earned that presence, and I loved that for her.
Quietly. Respectfully.

It reminded me that building your dream anything takes time.
And you don’t have to rush back after you’ve fallen—just rise eventually.

Did you know if you stay still too long, your muscles will forget how to move?
And if you cry long enough, your tears can blur your actual vision?
Pain can blind you.
Emotionally. Literally.

So move.
Even slowly.
Especially slowly.

A little bonus today—it’s her birthday.
And the birthday girl is happiest with her mama.
I know that.
She lights up in my presence, and I in hers.

The world is my stage, and I’ve stepped onto it so many times.
But nothing compares to them.
My children are my masterpiece.

Even when I’m not there, my love is.
In their giggles.
In their boldness.
In the way they know they’re adored.

No matter what the world says, I’m not missing anything.
Because I’ve already found what makes my heart full.

Yes, I’ve been with people who wore the right smile, but whose hearts were elsewhere.
And I’ve come to terms with the fact that some hearts—many, actually—still beat a little for me.
And they always will.

So if you’re still waiting,
Don’t check your ticket.
You’ll be waiting for eternity.

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.