These days, I’ve learned that feeling doesn’t mean drowning.

I go home — my safe place, my refuge.
I move my body — sometimes to exercise, sometimes to create, sometimes just to cry (yes, even if it’s in public — I’ve accepted my destiny as someone’s future “story time” TikTok).
I eat spicy food when I need a reset — maybe it’s not therapy, but it works.
I chant, laugh with my husband (or at his silly mischief), and let music hold me when words can’t.

Feeling my emotions tells me more about myself than suppressing them ever did.
It’s like an internal compass pointing to what matters, what hurts, and what’s still unhealed.

But here’s something I’ve learned along the way: sometimes what we think we’re feeling isn’t what it seems.
Emotions can be like a 9-layer kueh stack on top one another.
I once thought I was furious — but beneath that rage was disappointment and sadness.
Other times, I’ve raged so long it eventually turned into depression.

Emotions evolve. They morph, overlap, disguise themselves.
They’re like signals blinking in the dark — pointing us to deeper things waiting to be understood.
There’s always more beneath the surface, more to unpack than we first realise.

I used to think emotions were distractions or signs of weakness.
Now I know they’re messengers — sometimes confusing, sometimes dramatic, but always honest.
When I stop to listen, I find clarity.

Clarity about what deserves my energy.
Clarity about what I can finally let go of.

And truthfully, I wouldn’t have made it here alone.
Therapy, my community, my husband — all vital.
My Buddhist practice and Sensei Ikeda’s writings — grounding.

I used to think I could fix everything on my own.
But that only turned me into a well-dressed mess — like putting a bandage on a wound caused by cancer.

Healing isn’t a solo project. It’s a village effort. (Read this over and over again)