Thea's Truths & Thresholds

Tag: love

  • Beyond False Humility: Naming the Pattern Is Not Shaming

    Beyond False Humility: Naming the Pattern Is Not Shaming

    This is the second reflection in a series on the practice of discernment and the reclamation of self-trust.

    • Part 1: Discernment, Again – The orientation: Learning to stand with the triggered self and refusing the spiritual bypass of “just letting go.”
    • Part 2: Beyond False Humility: Naming the Pattern is Not Shaming – The identity: Moving from a Victim Identity to a Healing Identity by naming the patterns that violate the Sacred Hearth.
    • Part 3: (Upcoming) The Thin Slice: How Discernment Becomes Reflex – The mechanics: How self-loyalty becomes an automatic orientation through the Core Value Bank.

    I’ve been sitting with what happened after I named Rohitash—the wellness blogger-journalist.

    That old jitter’s been creeping in again—the one that whispers, Are you being too loud? Too harsh? Failing at some “holiness” you left behind decades ago? In the Philippines, where we’re steeped in this specific brand of Catholic humility, we’re taught that “good” means staying quiet. That naming harm makes you the one causing disharmony.

    But this “false humility”? It’s just another way to betray myself. To abandon who I’ve become just to please the ghost of who I was told to be.

    What’s hit me hardest in all this—in a good way—is that I found my clarity before I had a guide for it. I’d already felt the misalignment, already walked away from him without waiting for anyone’s okay—then I came across Dr. Steven Stosny’s Living & Loving After Betrayal.

    Reading his book was like looking at a photo of a place I’d already been. He talks about the “Adult Brain,” moving from “Core Hurt” to “Core Value,” that “Thin Slice” of choice between trigger and reaction. I knew those places because I’d just found my way through them. I didn’t read it to learn how to heal—I read it and saw my own healing staring back at me.

    There’s such quiet power in that—knowing my growth didn’t come from following a rulebook—it came from finally listening to myself. From trusting what I knew deep down.

    Now, if I were to keep that growth to myself, if I were to pretend I’m still just “struggling” when I’m actually succeeding—that would be self-silencing. It would twist kababaang-loob (true humility) into something it’s not—shrinking myself so I don’t rattle people who mix up “authority” with “integrity.”

    Real kababaang-loob is inner strength. It doesn’t need to shout—but it also doesn’t need to lie about how tall it stands.

    *****

    Naming Rohitash wasn’t about shaming him. It was public discernment. It was me saying: Oh, I see the pattern here.

    The line wasn’t just crossed when he misinterpreted my words—it was the entitlement behind it all. He walked into my private space uninvited, rearranged the metaphorical furniture, then left a piece of his own work I never asked for. No courtesy, no permission—he just acted like he’d earned the right to be there.

    When I called it out, his response was like a masterclass in performative compliance—or spiritual narcissism, take your pick.

    He parroted my own words back to me—trying to make me feel “seen” so I’d lower my guard. He complimented my “calm presence” and “thoughtful naming”—like patting a lion on the head while it’s trying to protect its den. Then he signed off with “With Respectful Heart”—the ultimate palusot (excuse), wrapping entitlement in sacred-sounding language to cover up the fact he’d already squatted in my space with a self-promotional link.

    He knew he’d been caught. He just refused to humble himself enough to admit it or say sorry. He offered the “respectful heart” of a brand—not the honest kababaang-loob of a real person.

    *****

    I saw it clearly: this wasn’t a one-time mistake. It was a habit—a strategy to turn every interaction into a door for his own gain.

    *****

    Let me be straight: what he does on his own site is his business. What he does on mine is a violation of my “Sacred Hearth.” My space isn’t a marketplace, and I’m not a “milking cow” for someone else’s ego-driven lead generation.

    On the surface, it looked like he was acknowledging my boundary—maybe even apologizing without saying the words. But in my body? I felt the friction. It was a palusot through and through. An attempt to keep his “Sanctuary of Peace” image shiny while ignoring he’d already digital-squatted in my home. I didn’t approve his last comment—I don’t owe anyone a platform for their “polite” entitlement. My sacred space isn’t a funnel for a Marketing Bot, no matter how many flower emojis they use.

    By refusing to approve his ‘polite’ comment, I wasn’t being harsh; I was just being a faithful steward of my own house.

    *****

    In an earlier post, No One Puts Baby in the Corner: Discernment & Boundaries in Blogging Spaces, I spoke about the logistics: the link, the lack of permission, the blocked access. But here? I want to talk about how hollow words feel in your bones.

    Even as he echoed my language about “adult discernment” in that unapproved reply, my body knew something was off. It was the same empty frequency I felt from people like Neale Donald Walsch or Carolyn Myss decades ago. The sound of an ego trying to “nice” its way back into a room it was told to leave.

    By recognizing that “messenger who is not the message”—the same pattern I saw in those bigger names—I could shift from “personal hurt” to “conduct analysis.” If I can name the shadows in international figures, I can name the one in my own backyard, too.

    *****

    This is exactly what Dr. Steven Stosny means by moving from a Victim Identity to a Healing Identity.

    A Victim Identity focuses on the offender. It waits for them to change, to apologize, to “get it” before it can find peace. If I’d kept his behavior secret, or tried to “manage” it quietly behind the scenes with false humility—I’d still be tied to him. Still a victim of his uninvited “furniture rearranging,” waiting for him to realize and acknowledge he was wrong.

    A Healing Identity takes power back by focusing on one’s environment. It doesn’t ask the offender for permission to feel steady—it just changes the space one is in.

    Naming the behavior—and yes, the person—was how I cleaned out my house.

    By saying his name and calling out the “Marketing Bot” pattern, I wasn’t just “managing” the discomfort of an uninvited guest. I was putting a lock on the door.

    Naming is what healers do when they say: This goes against my values. And because I see it clearly, I don’t have to engage with it anymore. I’m not waiting for people like Rohitash to live the peace they preach. I’m just living my own truth, in my own rhythm.

    The work isn’t about him changing—it’s about me no longer making space for manipulation.

    Not every door deserves to stay open. Some thresholds are sealed to protect what’s sacred.

    That unapproved performative comment was the final palusot. A man whose “About” page says he “embodies wellness in every word”—yet acts like a digital squatter, riding on my authenticity to plant his own flag.

    When someone claims to be a “Sanctuary of Peace” but behaves like a Marketing Bot—the gap creates what I call “somatic dissonance” for anyone who’s paying attention.

    My body felt that friction long before my mind could name the manipulation. My body knew the truth before my brain could look up a chapter and verse. It was that familiar hollow spot where integrity should have been.

    And that is the biggest growth of all: I don’t need to justify walking away. I don’t need to soften what I see clearly. I don’t need a book to tell me that my “resounding No” is the holiest thing I’ve ever said.

    When the light shifts and the door appears—sovereignty isn’t escape. It’s coming home.

    This is what true integrity looks like: the strength to see clearly, name honestly, and walk away without apology or false humility.

    In the next reflection, I’ll dive deeper into Dr. Stosny’s ideas—how discernment is intuitive more than intentional, what that “thin slice” between trigger and response really looks like, and how to tell the difference between boundaries you can bend and those you never should.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙 theasjournal25@gmail.com

  • Discernment, Again: When to Let Go, When to Step Back, and When to Stop Entirely

    Discernment, Again: When to Let Go, When to Step Back, and When to Stop Entirely

    I’ve written before about not sweating the small stuff. About discernment. About boundaries, triggers, and knowing when to lean in and when to walk away.

    And here I am, writing about them all over again.

    Not because I’ve run out of ideas—but because this is what my life revolves around now. Discernment isn’t a class I aced and moved on from. It’s a practice I keep coming back to, again and again, because life just keeps throwing new stuff my way.

    Triggers don’t vanish. Healing doesn’t wrap up neatly with a bow. What does change is how I show up when things pop off.

    When the Body Speaks First After A Trigger

    There will always be something—or someone—that sets me off.

    That doesn’t mean I’m backsliding. It doesn’t mean I’ve failed at healing. It just means I’m human, with a nervous system built from years of history, experience, and doing whatever I needed to survive.

    When a trigger hits, I don’t jump straight into deciding whether it’s “small stuff” or not anymore. That call comes later.

    First, I turn inward.

    I notice the chaos in my system. I listen to whichever part of me has come to the surface—sometimes it’s the part that’s felt betrayed, sometimes the hyper-vigilant one, sometimes a younger version shaped by how things used to be. I give her room to breathe. I let her say what she needs to say. I ground myself, take deep breaths, go for a walk, stretch it out, write it down. I stay right there with myself until I feel centered again.

    Only then do I figure out what to do next.

    Because trying to discern anything while my nervous system’s firing on all cylinders isn’t really discernment—it’s just reacting, or shoving stuff down and calling it maturity.

    Being triggered doesn’t automatically mean something matters deeply. But it also doesn’t mean it should be brushed off.

    That difference is everything.

    Refusing the Bypass — The Trap of “Just Letting Go”

    We live in a world that mixes up letting go with being healed.

    “Just let it go.”
    “Choose peace.”
    “Don’t give it energy.”
    “Be the bigger person.”
    “If you’re still affected, you haven’t healed.”

    This kind of advice can sound soothing, but for those of us with trauma histories, it often ends up being another way to gaslight ourselves. It asks us to ignore what we feel rather than listen to it. It makes sensitivity seem like weakness, and setting boundaries like we’re just being difficult.

    This “bypass culture” treats discomfort like we’re doing something wrong—instead of seeing it as information.

    Discernment asks a different question entirely: What do I actually need here? Do I need to care for myself around this? Let it go? Or create some distance?

    Letting go can be wise. But it can also be premature.

    There’s a huge difference between releasing something because it really is small—and letting it slide because we’ve been taught to make ourselves smaller.

    The Limits of Self-Help

    I’ve also noticed how some self-help practices—even those that sound kind and caring—can quietly hurt us all over again.

    There’s this practice I keep seeing shared. It suggests saying something like, “I forgive the part of me that’s still attached to the person who hurt me.” I get why it exists. The idea is to shift our focus away from the person who caused the harm and back to ourselves—to take our power back instead of getting stuck in blame.

    That intention is understandable.

    But in practice? It can cross a line without anyone meaning it to.

    In trauma-informed work, the word “forgive” can make it sound like we did something wrong. Like the part of us that’s still hurting, still holding on, still feeling the impact is somehow behind the times, or mistaken, or needs to be fixed. Without trying to, it can move the focus from what was done to us—onto us for still being affected.

    It’s polite, well-meaning… but it can border on victim-blaming or shaming ourselves.

    Being attached to someone who mattered—even someone who hurt us—isn’t a failure. Being affected by harm isn’t a moral flaw. Our nervous system doesn’t need to be forgiven for responding to what’s real.

    In my own life, I’ve learned that what actually helps isn’t pardoning that part of me—it’s standing right beside her. Acknowledging that she’s reacting to something that truly happened. That what was done was wrong. And that while I can’t control the person who hurt me or undo the past, I can choose—when I’m ready, no rush—to find my way back to feeling steady again. No pressure, no self-judgment, no skipping over what I need.

    This way, I honor the hurt I felt. I name what happened clearly. And instead of fixating on the person who caused it—something I can’t change and have no control over—I take my power back by moving forward only when I’m ready. Without bypass.

    Sometimes the most healing response to the triggered self isn’t “I forgive you,” but “I see you. I’m here. You make sense.”

    The Inquiry — The Choice of Alignment

    Once I’m feeling steady, then I ask myself the hard questions:

    • Is this about what I prefer or about what I value?
    • Would staying involved means I have to override myself?
    • Is this a one-time slip-up or part of a pattern?
    • Will stepping back help me feel calm—or will it leave me feeling like I betrayed myself?

    Small stuff can be let go without losing respect for myself. But when something goes against my values? That’s a whole different story.

    Sometimes discernment means letting things roll off my back.
    Sometimes it means drawing a line.
    Sometimes it means stepping away completely.

    And sometimes, like when I came across a wellness figure whose work had all the same manipulative patterns I’ve known before, I just cut ties right then and there. No debating it. No needing to justify myself. No explanation required.

    I don’t choose battles anymore. I choose what lines up with who I am. I choose alignment.

    The New Axis — Living Without Vigilance

    Over time, discernment stopped feeling like work. It just became how I move through the world.

    It’s like digestion—I don’t think about it all the time, I just let my body do its thing. Healing’s like that now, too. I don’t monitor it constantly anymore.

    Healing just happens as a side effect of how I live: with clear values, boundaries I actually enforce, and choosing spaces where I don’t have to be on high alert all the time.

    I act when action is needed. I stop when my part is done.

    No more chasing explanations. No more replaying things in my head. No more trying to make people understand me.

    Clarity cuts down on overthinking. Discernment keeps me from getting tangled up in stuff I don’t need to be in. And trusting myself means I don’t have to convince anyone of anything.

    This is what stability feels like to me now—not that nothing challenging ever happens, but that I don’t carry more than I need to.

    A Note on Self-Help Culture—and a Rare Exception

    Most mainstream self-help struggles with this kind of nuance. It usually cares more about being positive than being precise, more about forgiveness than self-respect, more about how things look than how they feel in our body.

    That’s why a book I found recently—Living & Loving after Betrayal by Steven Stosny—stood out so much.

    It didn’t tell me anything I’d never heard before. But it didn’t mess with discernment either.

    Stosny doesn’t rush forgiveness. He doesn’t make one feel bad for not letting go yet. He puts self-respect, values, and being true to oneself ahead of making things right with someone else or looking “good.” He sees resentment as useful information, not a problem to fix—and healing as how we orient our life, not a finish line we cross.

    In a sea of pressure to “transcend” everything, his work just quietly says something I needed to hear: Taking back one’s self-respect isn’t bitterness. Being clear about what one needs isn’t resistance.

    That alignment mattered to me.

    The Sovereignty of the Page

    I write about all this not to teach anyone, or convince them of something, or fix their stuff.

    I write because it helps me make sense of things. It ties all the pieces together. It turns what I’ve lived through into something coherent.

    If something I share resonates with someone else, I trust it’ll find them when they need it. If it only matters to me? That’s okay too—the work is still done.

    This isn’t about being heard. It’s about being me.

    Returning, Again

    Triggers will come. I’ll practice discernment again. Healing will continue—quietly, naturally—because I’ve built my life to support it.

    I don’t carry everything anymore.
    I don’t explain everything anymore.
    I don’t stay where I know I need to leave.

    This isn’t the end of the story. It’s just how I find my way now.

    And I’ll keep finding it—again and again.

    In my next entry, I want to dive deeper into naming these patterns—and why owning our growth often means ditching the heavy cloak of false humility we’ve been taught to wear.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙 theasjournal25@gmail.com

  • My Ritual Practices for Healing Deep Wounds

    My Ritual Practices for Healing Deep Wounds

    The first day of the year is not just a threshold; it is also an invitation to practice.

    In my earlier reflection, I spoke of choosing compassion over bypassing—honoring wounds rather than dismissing them as “small stuff.” This companion piece offers the practices and techniques I have used, and will continue to use, to help heal and integrate the deeper wounds that surfaced: betrayal, love bombing, financial exploitation, and even maternal deception.

    These practices are not prescriptions. They are lived ceremonies and reflections that help me reclaim sovereignty and soften toward the parts of myself that still carry scars.

    Ceremonial Exercises

    I mark Dec. 27–Jan. 1 as a ceremonial arc. I light a candle, name the intrusion, the trigger, and the revelation, then extinguish it as a symbol of release. Before extinguishing, I write each heavy feeling on a small piece of paper and burn it with the candle flame — letting the smoke carry away what no longer serves me.

    I speak aloud: “I forgive the betrayed part of me. She was trusting, uninformed, and open. She gave me discernment.” I follow this with: “I honor the wise part of me who now sees clearly. She holds the map for my way forward.”

    I send the old roles (rescuer, self-doubter, validation seeker) off with their one-way tickets to Pluto. I laugh as I exile them, and I leave a small “welcome mat” for their healthier replacements — the advocate, the self-truster, the meaning-maker — to take root in my life.

    I create a small altar with items that represent safety and strength to me — a smooth stone, a sprig of local foliage, and a photo of Mother Mary, from whom I have received a mother’s unconditional love. (You may choose someone else who has shown you genuine care.) I tend to it each day of the arc as a reminder of my foundation.

    Journaling Practices

    I write dialogues with the betrayed self. I ask her what she needs now, and I respond with compassion. Sometimes I draw her, too — giving visual form to her pain and her resilience.

    Each time irritation arises, I journal: “This is not small stuff. This is a doorway to integration.” I then add: “What part of me is calling for attention here? What does it need to feel safe?”

    I track moments when I spot performative behavior and choose not to engage. I celebrate each as proof of growth, and I note what cues helped me recognize it — tone of voice, empty flattery, requests that feel out of alignment.

    I write a letter to my future self, dated one year from now, describing what I hope she has learned about trust, boundaries, and self-compassion. I seal it to open when the next New Year arrives.

    Boundary Rehearsals

    I practice short, sovereign responses: “I don’t resonate with this. I choose not to engage.” I also prepare variations for different contexts — from firm but polite to clear and direct for when boundaries are being pushed.

    I visualize myself in boundary-poor environments, then rehearse my shields (humor, discernment, silence). I practice physically grounding myself in these visualizations — planting my feet, taking a deep breath, or placing a hand over my heart.

    I use symbolic gestures (closing a book, walking through a doorway) to mark my exit from misaligned energy. I’ve also added wearing a specific piece of jewelry, like black tourmaline, or carrying a small token as a tangible reminder of my boundaries when I’m out in the world.

    I wish I had a trusted friend nearby with whom I could role-play. In the absence, I speak aloud to an empty room, practicing how to say “no” to requests that feel draining or how to address someone who is crossing my lines.

    Integration Mindset

    I affirm: “Boundary violations and betrayal echoes are not small stuff. They deserve compassion.” I repeat this aloud each morning when I wake and each night before I sleep.

    I remind myself: healing isn’t linear. Each resurfacing is another layer of integration, not failure. I keep a small “growth log” noting when old wounds surface and what I did to care for myself — seeing the pattern of how I’m handling things differently each time.

    I anchor in the truth: I cannot control others’ conduct, their readers’ or followers’ cozying up, or anyone else’s behavior. I can only control my response — and that is enough. I add: “My response is powerful. It shapes my world and protects my peace.”

    I practice “radical acceptance” — acknowledging that while I cannot change what happened to me, I can change how I relate to those experiences and how they influence my life moving forward.

    Expanded Insight

    I recognize that triggers often connect to deeper layers: betrayal, financial exploitation, rejection and abandonment, maternal deception and manipulation. I see how these experiences wired me to look for safety in certain ways — and how I can rewire those patterns with care.

    I see that my reaction is about protecting my sense of safety and trust, not just irritation at one person. It is a sign that my inner system is working to keep me whole.

    I extend compassion to the part of me that still carries the scar, instead of berating myself for “not getting over it.” I remind myself that scars are not just marks of pain — they are proof that I survived and continue to heal.

    I understand that my ability to feel deeply and care fiercely is the same part of me that was hurt. Instead of closing off, I’m learning to direct that warmth and openness toward myself first, then toward those who have earned it.

    *****

    Beginning the year with compassion means refusing to bypass the echoes of betrayal, manipulation, or dismissal. It means honoring the scarred parts of myself with ceremony, humor, and sovereignty. It also means celebrating the strength that has carried me through and the wisdom that continues to emerge from these experiences.

    *****

    If any of these practices resonate with you, may they serve as gentle companions on your own healing arc. May you find that in tending to your wounds with care, you discover a wellspring of resilience you didn’t know you held.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • When You’re the Afterthought: Family Estrangement, Public Stories, and Finding Our People in the Philippines

    When You’re the Afterthought: Family Estrangement, Public Stories, and Finding Our People in the Philippines

    I came across the article about David Beckham leaving his son, Brooklyn, out of his 2025 year-end recap post, only to share throwback photos of him hours later. When Brooklyn was left out of his father’s recap, only added later, it reminded me of what it feels like to be remembered as an afterthought because that’s how his message came across to me. Maybe even for optics. If he wanted to honor all his kids, he would have included Brooklyn from the start.

    This hit close to home because I know what it feels like to be the one who gets left out or remembered only as an afterthought—if I would even be remembered or included. For years, “echa pwera (to be excluded)” was a recurring theme in my life with my family of origin.

    *****

    I know I’m not the only one navigating this. Looking at public figures helps me remember and reassures me I’m not alone.

    I cheered on when Prince Harry and Meghan Markle stepped away from the royal family because of deep-seated issues—racism, lack of support for their mental health, and pressure to maintain an image over their well-being. They chose to prioritize their own family and healing, even when it meant letting go of traditional ties.

    Here in the Philippines, we saw the same with celebrity Sarah Geronimo. She didn’t invite her mother to her wedding, and while some criticized her, many more supported her choice. It was a big moment because it showed our culture is slowly starting to understand that “family first” doesn’t mean staying in harmful, abusive, and traumatizing situations.

    And as for me, I didn’t decide to step back from my birth family on a whim. I started distancing myself from my siblings when I was in my mid-40s, and from my mother a few years later. I’m now in my 60s. My father passed away several years ago. After our parents’ separation, my siblings and I had been estranged from him, too, for a long time—his choice, not mine.

    I was the one who spoke up about things that needed to change. The truth teller. The cycle breaker who tried to break harmful patterns that had been going on all throughout my childhood and adult life, even for generations. It wasn’t easy, especially in a culture where “utang na loob (debt of gratitude)” is often used to pressure us into staying quiet or putting up with things we shouldn’t. But I knew I couldn’t keep sacrificing my own mental and emotional health.

    *****

    No one chooses to walk away from their family without a good reason. It’s a decision that usually comes after years of trying to make things work.

    *****

    I know there are others here in the Philippines who are going through the same thing, or something similar. Maybe you’re the one who had to set boundaries, or perhaps you’re the one who was pushed away. Either way, it can feel incredibly lonely.

    Healing takes time, and it helps to know we’re not the only one on this path. Our well-being matters, and our journey is valid—whatever that looks like for us.

    I find it encouraging to come across recent articles that signal a cultural shift in the Philippines — a willingness to speak more openly about the once-taboo topic of family estrangement and the choice to go no contact:

    Why More Filipino Millenials Are Walking Away From Family Obligations: When family duty becomes too heavy

    Looking for respondents for research on Filipino adult children estranged from their parents

    Calling for participants for a research study that aims to explore and understand family estrangement experiences among Filipino adults

    Filipino & estranged from your family? Especially this [holiday] season?

    Addressing Toxic Behaviors in Filipino Families | #YourMindOurMovement

    *****

    I’m glad not only to see the topic being discussed more openly, but also to see resources becoming accessible for those navigating such a difficult path. When I was contemplating this decision decades ago, there were hardly any materials to turn to.

    A few years back, I considered starting a support group. For now, my focus is on my own journey. Still, I want to offer a space for connection if you feel the need — a place to share reflections or simply be heard.

    I write under a pseudonym to protect my privacy, and I take confidentiality seriously. If you are or you know someone navigating family estrangement or struggling to set healthy boundaries, and you’d like to talk to someone who understands the cultural context we’re in—you may email me at theasjournal25@gmail.com  

    There’s no pressure to share more than you’re comfortable with. You may also share your reflections in the comment section below—whatever feels right and safe to you.

    Even if we’ve been treated as afterthoughts or misjudged for prioritizing our mental health and well-being, we can choose to center our own healing.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • The Gift of Not Belonging: My New Year Threshold

    The Gift of Not Belonging: My New Year Threshold

    As we step into the first light of a new year, many of us reflect on where we’ve been—and where we think we should be. For me, that reflection has long centered on a single question: Where do I belong?

    But after six decades of searching, I’ve learned that the answer wasn’t about finding a place or group to fit into—it was about recognizing that my “misalignment” with the world around me isn’t a flaw. It’s a gift.

    *****

    Last night, the fireworks outside mirrored the clarity within — sovereignty illuminated at the year’s edge.

    From the very beginning, the first message I received from the world was rejection. My birth parents—and eventually siblings and other relations—turned away because of the color of my skin, my gender, and how I looked as a newborn.

    I was ridiculed. “Negrita of the mountain!” “Igorota!” (a female member of a northern tribe in the Philippines) were constantly hurled in my direction. Silence was the only response I knew.

    The message was clear: you are wrong, you are not welcome. That wound became the silent script beneath everything, shaping my decisions and my endless search for belonging.

    I pursued it everywhere: within my family of origin, in friendships, in community organizations, and even in the vision of a home by the sea or in the countryside. Enchanted by romantic verses, rustic dreams, folklore, and the modern cottagecore vibe, I thought happiness and fulfillment could be found in withdrawing to a charming bahay kubo (nipa hut) where everything would ultimately “come together” and “fall into place.” Yet the search acted as a diversion, leading me into misguided decisions influenced more by longing than by reality.

    This misalignment feels particularly sharp in the Philippines, where cultural values are rooted in kapwa (shared identity) and collectivism. Community, family, and harmony often take priority over individual needs—and speaking up, asserting my views, or setting firm boundaries earned me labels I heard again and again: mataray, difficult, too strong-willed, too much, uncooperative.

    I attempted to diminish myself, to conform to the expected role of womanhood, or how women are supposed to act in Filipino society, especially if I wished to maintain my social circle—putting others before me, suppressing my views, valuing the group’s harmony over my own truth. Yet every concession made me feel empty, as though I were diminishing to fit into a place I was never intended to inhabit.

    *****

    In June 2025, a fractured ankle sealed the first lesson. Forced to stop, I stepped away from the condo governance community saga that had drained me for several years—where my efforts to advocate for transparency were dismissed as being “too pushy” or having too high standards. A perfectionist in an imperfect world.

    Offering my time and skills as an unpaid committee volunteer to improve our building’s management was misinterpreted by community members as pro‑Board. They failed and refused to see—even appreciate—that my efforts were aimed at improving our entire community’s living situation.

    That rupture was more than physical—it was ceremonial. It showed me how deeply my rescuer reflex was tied to an unmet childhood need for approval, and how much of my life had been driven by trying to prove I deserved to belong.

    *****

    It is not my job to correct pseudo-authorities or educate the unwilling. My role is to name truth and protect my space.

    *****

    In November 2025, a trip to Los Baños, Laguna, shattered the last of my illusions. I wrote about it in The Los Baños Threshold: The Mirage of the Cottage Sanctuary. Standing in a place I’d once imagined as my “cottage sanctuary,” I saw clearly how the myth of belonging had kept me from my truest self. A sudden confrontation with the divide between the myth and the reality of that idealized life shattered the illusion completely.

    I finally understood: There is nothing fundamentally wrong with me. I am simply different. An outsider.

    *****

    I am no longer the woman who doubts or backs down in the face of deflection or condescension. Sovereignty is embodied now.

    *****

    I have always identified as an extroverted introvert, but learning about the “otrovert” in Rami Kaminski’s The Gift of Not Belonging: How Outsiders Thrive in a World of Joiners, gave me language for what I’ve lived all along. Otroverts thrive not by joining, but by standing apart—creating, discerning, and contributing from the margins.

    As an otrovert, I am not a joiner, and that is not a flaw. It is a gift.

    I know labels can become cages, reducing complexity to shorthand. But for me, this framework is about sense‑making—not diagnosis. It helps me depersonalize what I’ve carried, broaden my understanding of how identity and culture intersect, and cultivate compassion for both myself and the world I navigate.

    *****

    Real healing is being seen, heard, and validated by myself. External approval is welcome and appreciated, but incidental.

    This awareness is my doorway into cronehood. I look forward to spending my sunset years not in pursuit of fleeting belonging, but in lasting peace and quiet joy. I leave behind false teachings, misaligned choices, and unhealthy patterns—rescuing, compulsiveness, martyrdom—that shaped my past decades.

    *****

    The rescuer, the self‑doubter, the validation‑seeker — all sent off with one‑way, non‑refundable tickets to Pluto.

    My new year begins here: not in escape, not in external community, but in the sanctuary of myself.

    *****

    Being different is not a flaw. It is clarity. It is sovereignty. It is me.

    And when I hear “This Is Me” from The Greatest Showman, I recognize my own declaration:

    The Greatest Showman Cast – This Is Me (Official Lyric Video)

    In future posts, I’ll explore how the rescuer’s trap, compulsiveness, and martyrdom hooks all tie back to this gift of not belonging.

    *****

    I step into the new year with gratitude for discernment, clarity, and the spiral of healing — carrying less noise and more trust.

    ~~~ Mantra Seal ~~~

    I am home.
    I am my sanctuary.
    I belong to no one but me.
    This is me. I am free.

    As we step into the new year, please allow yourself a moment to reflect:
    Where have I been shrinking to fit in?
    Have you been chasing belonging in places or groups that don’t honor who you are?
    Have cultural expectations or family norms made you feel like you’re “too much”—or not enough?

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Wishing everyone joy, health, and fresh beginnings! Happy New Year!!!

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • The Weight of the Mask: Reclaiming My Clarity

    The Weight of the Mask: Reclaiming My Clarity

    For years, I looked for guidance in spaces where “care” felt more like a stage production than a conversation. I sat in rooms where authority was worn as an appearance of compassion, used to avoid the messy work of accountability.

    I remember the sting of being told my clarity was resistance. When I named harm or asked for transparency, the response was not “I hear you.” It was calm superiority, passed off as wisdom, but used to silence.

    This is the hallmark of pseudo‑performative authority: it uses the language of healing to quiet the person who is hurting.

    I saw this pattern clearly in a so‑called “safe space” offered by a trauma recovery foundation.

    What was meant to be private and supportive became a venue for unchecked trauma dumping. When I raised my concern, the response was not accountability but deflection. I was told the team would “look into it,” even though I had written directly to the executive director’s corporate email. When I pressed further, the defense was that they had “few volunteers” and wanted to encourage survivors to speak, since they had been silenced all their lives.

    But what about those of us on the sidelines, listening and absorbing the raw dumping without protection? Emotional safety was promised, yet not ensured. And these were paying members-trauma survivors! If the excuse is “we don’t have enough volunteers,” then perhaps such spaces should not be offered at all.

    Pseudo-performative authority and spaces hide behind the language of care while neglecting responsibility for those who enter the space.

    More recently, I encountered this pattern again when I named a boundary violation in my own space. In my previous post, No One Puts Baby in the Corner: Discernment & Boundaries in Blogging Spaces, I wrote about how certain words — even polished ones — can feel hollow, how self‑promotion can masquerade as connection.

    To test my own clarity, I asked a website coach to give professional feedback on the About section I had flagged. Without knowing my story, they named the same traits I had already named: self‑promotion dressed as care, credentials stacked for show, and even claims that readers should trust the figure more than themselves. They warned how such framing risks dependency and undermines self‑trust.

    Not long after, I saw those very terms I used to describe the pattern being co‑opted to defend the behavior itself.

    I’ll admit — I was amused more than anything else. No sting, no trigger — just a quiet recognition that my words had landed, even if they were being reframed to serve someone else’s image. They wouldn’t be an echo chamber if they didn’t echo, after all! It was a strange but powerful kind of validation: the pattern I’d named was so clear it had become part of the conversation, even if the messenger was being defended against.

    In seeing my words echoed back, I was reminded that the pattern itself is larger than any one person — it shows up wherever authority hides behind calmness to avoid accountability.

    The excuses fell apart, one after another. I saw effort used as avoidance and dismissals passed off as wisdom. I realized that the calm projected wasn’t peace — it was a shield to deflect responsibility.

    In processing this, I’ve learned that clarity does not need permission. It does not need to be validated by someone with a title or a following. It is not a secret gift reserved for a select few or the “enlightened.” And when our insights are seen and even borrowed, it is not a reason to engage — it is a sign that our truth has cut through the performance.

    Clarity is my birthright. It is our birthright. Yours and mine. Everyone’s. It is not exclusive to pseudo‑performative authorities. Clarity exists in the quiet spaces where we stop asking for a seat at someone else’s table and realize we have our own.

    I no longer bend myself into shapes to soothe the pride of self‑proclaimed masters. I no longer accept “care” that requires me to doubt my own eyes. I trust my own reality, unperformed and unmasked.

    • Have you experienced “care” that felt more like performance than accountability? Where?
    • How do you recognize when your clarity is being reframed as resistance?
    • What does it look like, for you, to trust your own reality unperformed and unmasked?

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • When My Clarity Doesn’t Need Permission

    When My Clarity Doesn’t Need Permission

    Something triggered me recently. It may appear trivial. It isn’t. Because more than the event itself, what matters just as much is how I responded to it — and the fact that the event itself was a boundary violation I refuse to minimize.

    In the past, when something felt off in an interaction, my instinct was to look inward first:
    Did I do something wrong? Did I miscommunicate? Should I let this go to keep the peace?
    That reflex didn’t come from humility. It came from a long history of being silenced — of learning that clarity needed to be softened, deferred, or swallowed to maintain harmony.

    This time was different.

    I noticed a disconnect between what I had written and how it was being framed in my own space. Nothing overt. Nothing dramatic. Just a subtle shift — an apparent re‑interpretation that didn’t belong to me or to the intention of the piece. A line had been crossed, and I noticed it.

    And I also found myself asking: was Rohitash deliberately misinterpreting or overriding the message of my entry? Around the same time he left his response to my comment, I read the exact same message in his other response to one of his subscribers. Was he simply operating from a default programming of promoting himself and his writing? Seeing it through this lens makes it less personal for me — but it doesn’t make what he did less wrong, more tolerable, or more acceptable.

    In the past, I might have chosen silence — not because I agreed, but because silence felt safer. Silence was how peace was preserved. Silence was how discomfort was managed, especially other people’s.

    Now, I’m no longer interested in that kind of peace.

    What I chose instead was clarity. Calm. Direct. Proportionate. Not to correct someone, but to anchor my work where it belongs — in its own frame, on its own terms. It was about not disappearing in my own house — especially when an uninvited guest rearranged the furniture without asking permission.

    This wasn’t about being right.
    It wasn’t about asserting authority over anyone else.
    It was about protecting the integrity of my own space.

    Clarity isn’t about claiming authority over anyone else’s journey. It’s about claiming authority over my own.

    That distinction matters, especially in a world still dismantling old hierarchies of external authority — thanks, but no thanks to patriarchy.

    I’m aware that there can be many benign explanations for how people engage online — differences in habits, attention, commitment, or intention. I noticed that awareness arise, and I let it pass. Regardless of intention, though, what mattered to me was simpler: something in my space felt misframed, and I chose to address that directly.

    The old fear surfaced briefly — What if this costs me approval, engagement, or connection?
    And just as quickly, it passed.
    So what?
    So be it.

    Alignment has become my organizing principle. When something aligns, it stays. When it doesn’t, it falls away — sometimes quietly, sometimes through my intervention. Either way, I no longer manage that process by shrinking myself.

    If clarity makes someone uncomfortable, that isn’t a failure of compassion. It’s simply the natural consequence of naming things honestly, without cushioning or apology.

    I’m not here to teach.
    I’m not here to convince.
    I’m here to live and write from my own center and truth — and to protect the integrity of that space when needed — or invaded and intruded.

    That, too, is part of not sweating the small stuff, which I have been looking much more deeply into and writing about: knowing which moments are trivial, and which ones matter enough to speak.

    This interaction triggered me deeply because it echoed an earlier experience in the blogging world.

    Several years ago, when I was maintaining my first blog, I contributed to a circle of writers on the theme of compassion. The blogger who invited us as guest bloggers and compiled our contributions into an e‑book had already published her piece at the start of the series.

    Yet, right before mine was scheduled to appear — right before — she re‑published hers again — as a way of an intro, framed as claiming similar views. Even if that were so, it felt like she was riding on my coattails. Surely, she could have simply mentioned her piece in passing in the intro. But to republish it? Right before my piece? Others I trusted validated that interpretation. That moment led me to withdraw from the circle.

    Later, during the pandemic, I dug deeply into my misaligned New Age beliefs and realized that the circle itself was steeped in what I no longer resonated with, and I eventually closed that first blog.

    So when Rohitash’s recent comment appeared — mirroring itself in another response to another reader, and then inserting a self‑promotional link unrelated to my piece — it hit the same nerve. It wasn’t just about one man’s ego. It was about a recurring pattern: others riding on my authenticity, unable to accept the mirror I hold, and scrambling to reassert authority.

    These moments remind me that I often find myself in this role: a mirror holder.

    My authenticity and honesty reflect back what others cannot yet accept in themselves. Very few welcome that reflection. More often, it triggers insecurities, even envy, and instead of doing the shadow work, people default to projecting or posturing.

    This isn’t just about one comment or one blogger. In the world of social media, authenticity and honesty are rare and refreshing — and, naturally, they are triggering to those with inflated egos who have not done their inner and shadow work but proudly claim and promote themselves as having done so.

    Even in the blogging world, writers who share raw emotions and deeper truths belong to the minority. Their words often stir discomfort, defensiveness, or projection in others. That rarity is both a strength and a challenge: it makes authentic voices stand out, but it also makes them more likely to face resistance.

    I have also experienced firsthand the mismatch between how famous international authors claim themselves to be authority figures while not doing the inner work themselves.

    During the earlier phases of my journey, I attended seminars and workshops by names like Neale Donald Walsch and Carolyn Myss, only to be disillusioned when I saw how far the message was detached from the messenger.

    Neale himself once said, “I am only the messenger, not the message.” That line stayed with me, and all this time it never felt right. To me, it sounded like an excuse to justify misbehaviors rather than an honest acknowledgment of being a work‑in‑progress. In Filipino, “palusot.”

    We all are works‑in‑progress. And when someone promotes themselves as an expert or authority, we cannot be faulted for having high expectations. When they fall short, we are then asked to extend compassion because they are “only human”? No. A resounding No!

    That mismatch — between message and messenger, between claim and conduct — is exactly why Rohitash’s misaligned writing and behaviors triggered me so deeply. It echoed the same pattern of self-proclaimed authority without the integrity to back it up.

    I know this pattern well. My writing often mirrors back what others would rather not face. And while some celebrate that reflection, many resist it. As a highly sensitive empath, I cannot simply brush aside those mismatched energies — they land in me, they demand processing. And naming them is how I honor both my truth and my sensitivity — and what helps usher in healing and integration eventually.

    Intellectually, I know what steps to take. But as with any healing and integration, it takes the body some time to catch up with what the intellect knows.

    And I am acknowledging that, holding myself with compassion, and not berating myself or making myself wrong for not being able to get over it yet. Otherwise, I am the one who is re-wounding my wounded inner child rather than soothing her and making her feel heard, validated, seen, honored, and respected.

    Yet while still midway in my process, when I saw the boundary violation, I unsubscribed immediately. Clarity doesn’t wait for permission — it acts. Later, when I read the About section, it validated my instinctual pull to withdraw. The words there explained the misalignment with precision, confirming what my body already knew.

    Curiosity had opened the door, but discernment closed it just as quickly. That is the ceremony: trusting the signal, honoring the evidence, and sealing the exit without apology.

    Clarity doesn’t ask for permission; it moves, it withdraws, it closes. And in that closure, relief and release arrive — the sovereign rhythm of living from center and truth.

    This is my truth. This is my process.

    And I share it not to dramatize, but to remind anyone reading: you are not alone.

    Your triggers, your wounds, your discernment — they are part of your clarity and process. They deserve to be honored, not bypassed — and let us not allow anyone to make us believe otherwise, especially not the so‑called self‑proclaimed authorities.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff: Redefining What Matters

    Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff: Redefining What Matters

    For a long time, the phrase “don’t sweat the small stuff” felt hollow to me. It sounded like bypassing. Dismissive. Like another way to excuse what should never have been excused. In my family, in systems that tolerated abuse, in environments that mistook generosity for obligation — those were never small. Those were patterns. Naming them was not oversensitivity; it was clarity.

    Now, in this quieter chapter, I see where the phrase actually lives. It never belonged in places where dignity was eroded or truth had to be swallowed to preserve appearances. But it does belong in how I move through relationships and daily exchanges — where discernment, not erasure, is the measure.

    Friends and Family

    With friends, I notice the difference.

    Claire, with whom I recently reconnected, is someone I can meet at depth, and she meets me there, too. When she didn’t call me back after saying she would, I felt the sting. Her later text about “peace of mind” landed tone‑deaf, and I caught myself bracing. But when we spoke again, the conversation was supportive and real. Because Claire consistently meets my clarity, I can choose to let go of her misstep. There are more substantial gifts her friendship brings, and I won’t make a big deal out of a missed call. That’s small stuff.

    With my family of origin, it was never small.

    There was a pattern of abuse and dysfunction. The time came when I no longer felt compelled to play the rescuer or victim in the drama triangle. I embraced my role as the truth‑teller, and that clarity cost me, but it was structural truth.

    *****

    Neighbors and Community

    The same with the condo community: entitlement and disrespect weren’t lapses, they were patterns. Patterns of abuse. That required fire.

    And yet, not every neighbor is the same.

    Jean has shown she can meet me at depth, even if my family estrangement story is foreign to her. Fatima, on the other hand, cannot meet me there. She is not malicious, and she cares in her own way, but her bandwidth is limited. I accept what she can offer without overextending myself. That’s discernment too.

    *****

    Cultural Terrain

    Even in cultural exchanges here in the Philippines, I’ve seen how politeness can mask avoidance. Hiya (shame), indirectness, palusot (excuses) — they surface daily. Naming them doesn’t mean it needs to be met, addressed, responded to, or even apologized for. Sometimes the truth lands in silence, sometimes in discomfort. Either way, I no longer carry the weight of how it is received.

    *****

    From One Extreme to Another

    In the corporate world, I wore the armor of title and leverage. I was often labeled mataray (feisty) or masungit (grumpy) — sharp, exacting, unbending.

    When I left that world, I overcorrected. Without positional power, I softened too much. I tried to become endlessly accommodating, mistaking self‑abandonment for humility. I lowered my voice, my expectations, my edges. At the time, I thought that was peace. Later I understood: it was erasure. Self-abandonment. Self-betrayal.

    Now I stand differently. I am no longer a boss, but I am still sovereign. I don’t need the armor, and I don’t need the overcorrection. What remains is discernment: fire for patterns, release for noise, acceptance for limits.

    The Reclaiming

    So I no longer confuse peace with silence, or anger with truth, or tolerance with wisdom.
    It keeps me from saying yes when I really mean no.
    It protects me from doing what isn’t mine to do — a reflex of my deeply ingrained rescuing pattern.
    A pattern that, thankfully, I was able to finally overcome only recently.
    My fire is ethical, not emotional.

    This is not numbness. It is grounded strength. Quiet authority. And for the first time, it feels like peace that does not ask me to shrink myself in order to exist.

    Not sweating the small stuff is a call for discernment — a practice of peace with integrity. It means I don’t shrink. I discern, and I choose.

    In the next entry, Everyday Discernment, I’ll share more examples of how this practice shows up in daily interactions — from service lapses to community exchanges — and how cultural values shape the terrain I navigate.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • Learning to Live with Limits—Mine and Theirs

    Learning to Live with Limits—Mine and Theirs

    Today, I noticed a quiet but important shift in myself.

    For years, I have kept revisiting the same chapters of my life—family, betrayal, caregiving, the condo saga, friendships that broke, systems that failed. I told those stories again and again because I needed to. I needed to release them, to make sense of them, to clear them from my body and my mind. That was what my first two blog sites were for. I don’t regret that at all. That was necessary.

    But lately, I’ve felt no enthusiasm for retelling those stories in detail anymore. Even thinking about turning them into new journal entries/blog posts feels exhausting. Not because they were insignificant—but because I no longer live inside them.

    What matters to me now is not what happened, but what those years shaped in me:

    • how my discernment changed,
    • how my boundaries evolved,
    • how my sense of self became quieter but steadier,
    • how my expectations of people became more realistic.

    I see more clearly now that my life moved through extremes.

    Before my health crisis in 1998, I lived in a rigid, high-control, corporate identity. I was sharp, efficient, exacting. When that phase collapsed, I swung to the other end of the spectrum—over-accommodating, people-pleasing, rejecting anything that resembled severity or firmness. Later, after confronting my birth family’s dysfunction and abuse, which I could no longer deny while becoming my brother’s full-time caregiver during his illness, and eventually choosing no contact, I swung again—this time into hyper-boundary, high-standards, zero-tolerance territory.

    That last phase protected me. It also isolated me.

    During the condo chapter, the HOA board chairman once told me that I was, like him, “a perfectionist in an imperfect world“—and that he had already learned how to handle and adjust to that. I remember taking offense at the time. It felt dismissive, as if my struggle came from rigidity rather than from very real lapses, abuse of power, and systemic failure.

    I see that comment differently now.

    I was operating from a place where I truly believed I deserved more than what the world seemed to offer. I don’t believe I deserve crumbs. I don’t believe I should settle for less. That part of me is not wrong. And I still hold those truths to this day. But as I focused on giving myself what I believe I am worthy of, it became increasingly clear that the majority of humanity does not function at the depth, clarity, and self-responsibility that I do.

    That is where the misalignment really lies.

    So how could I expect the world to meet me at that level—not out of unwillingness, but out of actual limitation? Who then must adjust—the more advanced or the less advanced?

    This question also brings me back to my decision to disconnect from my family and, eventually, from friends. With my family, the line was clear: abuse was present. That decision stands. With friends, it was different. They were not overtly abusive—but they were also not truly present, not reciprocal, not deeply real. I didn’t leave because I thought I was better than they were. I left because I felt alone even while staying.

    Now, after the ankle injury, the resultant financial strain, and the experience of being without a stable shelter for a time, something else is happening. I’m not swinging to another extreme. I’m settling into a balance I’ve never quite held before:

    • I still have boundaries.
    • I still have standards.
    • But I no longer interpret every imperfection as a personal threat or an existential meaning event.

    I saw this recently in a small moment with a neighbor. She asked if she could return my spare unit keys. I asked her to keep them while I was away in Los Baños, where I thought my sanctuary awaited. My first reaction was a familiar sting—feeling slighted, feeling as though support was being withdrawn. I caught myself. I didn’t go down that road. I stayed neutral. And in that neutrality, something simple and human happened: she asked if we could meet up.

    That may seem minor, but it matters to me. It showed me that I no longer have to lead with vigilance or symbolic meaning. I can let people be who they are within their capacity—without lowering my dignity or dissolving myself.

    Apart from my recent reconnection with Claire, I also don’t actually have deep or real friendships at this point in my life. That’s simply the truth. Painful but real. The inner shifts I’ve been going through are very recent, so it makes sense that the outside world hasn’t caught up yet. There is always a lag between inner change and outer manifestation. I’m not reading meaning into that gap anymore. I’m just letting it be what it is.

    What I do know is this:
    I am no longer interested in being known for what I survived. I’m more interested in who I am becoming as I move into my later years—how I carry myself, how I conserve energy, how I choose realism over fantasy, and calm over intensity.

    This feels like a different kind of maturity. Quieter. Less dramatic. Less driven by proving or releasing. More shaped by discernment and proportion.

    And for now, that is enough.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙

  • A Small Sting, Quietly Integrated

    A Small Sting, Quietly Integrated

    Today offered me a quiet moment of truth — the kind that doesn’t arrive with drama or rupture, but with a subtle sting that reveals exactly where I am now.

    I reached out to Claire, someone I recently reconnected with after almost a decade. Claire is someone I trust, someone who has shown me presence and depth before. Someone I feel safe with.

    We had our differences — as all friendships and relationships do. We revisited those differences, and she had acknowledged her lapses — and I now have a better understanding and appreciation of where she’s coming from. I now know how to engage with her. I now know what she can offer and what her limitations are.

    A couple of days after our reconnection, I wasn’t asking for anything heavy. I simply named where I was: sluggish, finally exhaling after weeks of hypervigilance and distress. A soft truth. A human truth.

    Her reply didn’t meet me. Not in a harmful way, not in a careless way — just in a way that reflected her bandwidth in that moment. Light. Surface-level. A mismatch. A moment of misattunement.

    And yes, it stung.
    A small ache of not being seen in the moment when I opened a little.

    But what surprised me was what didn’t happen.

    I didn’t collapse into old patterns.
    I didn’t over-explain.
    I didn’t push her into depth she couldn’t hold right then.
    I didn’t spiral into feeling “too much” or “too sensitive.”

    Instead, I felt the sting, acknowledged it, and let it pass through me like a breeze.

    Because I finally understand something I didn’t before:

    Not every moment calls for my depth.
    Not every person can meet it.
    And that’s not a failure — it’s a fact.

    I also found myself reflecting on something I’ve done in the past — what some call “narcissistic listening,” where instead of meeting the other person’s emotional landscape, we pivot back to our own. It’s not malice; it’s habit, overwhelm, or limited bandwidth. I’ve done it. We all have. And noticing it in others now doesn’t make me superior — it simply shows me how much more attuned I’ve become to the difference between being truly met and being answered from someone’s own bubble.

    This is the beginning of a new era for me.

    An era where I discern who can hold my truth and who cannot.
    Where I no longer force emotional honesty into spaces that can’t receive it.
    Where I protect my own sensitivity by placing it where it is safe, welcome, and reciprocated.

    Claire is someone who can meet me — and that’s why I can name this gently, without weight, without blame, without fear. That’s why it feels light in my body, not heavy. That’s why it feels like strengthening, not risky.

    And the proof of this shift showed up again today, unexpectedly, in a digital space. I wasn’t getting the kind of support or attunement I needed. In the past, I would have insisted, pushed, forced the interaction into depth it couldn’t hold. I would have spiraled into frustration.

    But today, I didn’t.

    I simply stepped out of that space and moved toward resonance — toward the place where I felt met, supported, and understood.

    No drama.
    No collapse.
    Just clarity.

    This is what growth looks like now.
    Quiet.
    Embodied.
    Undeniable.

    A new era, not because I declared it, but because I can feel it in my nervous system — the exhale, the lightness, the ease.

    I am finally choosing where my depth belongs.

    If any part of this speaks to you, I invite you to share your reflections in the comment section below.

    Peace and Blessings,
    — Thea 💙