“Rule your mind, or it will rule you.” ~Buddha

I used to be trapped in a cycle of overthinking, replaying past mistakes, worrying about the future, and mentally holding onto every thought, just as I physically held onto old clothes, books, and my child’s outgrown toys.

The fear of letting go—whether of physical items or persistent thoughts—felt overwhelming. But I didn’t realize that this habit of mental hoarding was keeping me stuck in place.

The Anxiety of Letting Go—My Last Day of School

One of my earliest experiences with mental hoarding happened on my last day of school in 1996 before my tenth-grade board exams. When my class teacher wished us “All the very best, children, for your board exams,” I suddenly realized—it was my last day in school. This thought had never crossed my mind before, and it hit me hard.

I’d spent over a decade there—eleven or twelve years—growing up, laughing, learning, crying, sharing tiffins, and living through every moment with my friends. The idea that I would never return to that life left me feeling overwhelmed with anxiety and sadness.

On that day, when I returned home, I couldn’t eat lunch, nor could I sleep well. I clutched my pillow tightly, as if I could stop time from moving forward. I kept replaying all the moments, all the memories. The playground where I ran and played, the tap I used to drink water from, the desk where I sat every single day, the blackboard where I nervously wrote answers. But what truly gutted me was I would never see some of my friends again.

Back then, there was no Facebook or Instagram to keep in touch. If you missed a day at school, you had to ask someone in person what happened, what they did over the weekend, and what their summer vacation was like. School was the only way to stay connected. I felt like I was losing a part of myself.

I missed my evening’s Taekwondo practice. I didn’t even have the energy for dinner. I just went to bed, but my mind was restless, spinning.

The next morning, I woke up at 3 a.m. I didn’t know why, but I felt like I needed to run. So, I dragged myself to the stadium where I used to train. I ran with all my strength, threw punches and kicks into the air, and let out loud screams with each movement.

Sweat drenched my body, but I didn’t feel tired. Instead, I felt the tension leaving my body. As I sat on the ground, watching the first rays of the sunrise, I realized that time does not stop for anyone. Every ending is a new beginning.

This was the first time I truly understood the power of movement and mindfulness in releasing emotional baggage. I had been hoarding memories, but by physically engaging with my emotions—through running, punching, and embracing the new day—I let go of the stiffness in my mind.

This was my first lesson at the age of fifteen: that sometimes, the hardest goodbyes bring the lightest hearts.

Unanswered Questions—Learning to Let Go

In 2002, I faced another instance of mental hoarding, but this time it was about unanswered questions and emotional attachment.

There was a girl from my school days who had been more than a friend. After school, we lost touch—there were no mobile phones or social media back then. For five to six years, I never considered pursuing anyone else, always wondering what she would think if I did. Her presence lingered in my mind, keeping me from moving forward.

Finally, in 2002, after seven long years, I went to the school where she was working as a teacher. There was a function happening that day, and amidst the crowd, I gathered the courage to propose to her.

Tears filled her eyes as if she had been waiting for that moment, but she neither said yes nor no. Instead, she spoke three lines, turned away, and left. I stood there, unable to move, as if my feet were rooted to the ground. It felt like a part of me had been left behind.

For days, I couldn’t concentrate on my studies. My mind replayed those three lines over and over, searching for answers that weren’t there.

One day, while battling my thoughts, I was hitting a tennis ball against a wall, lost in frustration. In anger, I hit it too hard, and it rebounded faster than I expected. I jumped high to catch it, but when I landed, I felt a sharp pain—a hairline fracture in my right foot. The doctor put my leg in a cast, and for forty-five days, I was confined to my home.

During that time, I had no choice but to sit still. With nothing else to do, I turned my focus entirely to studying for my CA-Inter exam. As I immersed myself in my studies, I noticed something—the memories of that day no longer haunted me. Without realizing it, I had stopped searching for answers. I appeared for my exam soon after my cast was removed and passed successfully.

At the age of twenty-two or twenty-three, I learned a profound lesson: Some questions don’t have answers, and the more we chase them, the more they consume us. The key is to stop searching for meaning in every unanswered moment and move forward.

The Power of Letting Go

A turning point came during my corporate nine-to-five job. I felt like a bird in a cage, desperate to fly but held back by uncertainty. I wanted to quit and start my own business, but I spent two years mentally hoarding fears.

What if I fail? What about my financial responsibilities to my wife and three-year-old son? The constant loop of overthinking paralyzed me. I finally broke free in September 2012, when I quit my job and became a sub-broker in the stock market. Letting go of fear was liberating. I no longer had to be answerable to anyone, and I had the freedom I had always dreamed of.

This experience taught me that, just like physical clutter, mental clutter keeps us stuck.

Another powerful realization came to me in 2020 when my son insisted on buying a 55″ smart TV. I had been holding onto my old CRT TV, the very first thing I bought with my income back in January 2006. It wasn’t just an appliance—it was a symbol of my early struggles and achievements.

I remembered how I had gone to Shimla for work in a friend’s car and excitedly purchased it on the way. Though outdated, it still worked, and I clung to it, not because of its utility, but because of the memories attached to it. Letting go felt like erasing a part of my journey.

But in November 2020, I finally gave it away to someone in need and welcomed the new TV. It was only then that I realized that unless you make space—whether in your home or your mind—new things, new opportunities, and new ways of thinking cannot enter. This lesson extended beyond possessions; it applied to thoughts, regrets, and self-imposed limitations.

Regret is a Waste of Time—Lessons from Professional Life

I started investing and trading in 2009. Back then, I bought stocks that were trading in two figures and sold them after holding them for a few days or months at a 5-10% profit. A decade later, some of those stocks were trading in four figures, and the thought of what I could have gained was painful. The regret of “What if I had held onto them?” haunted me.

But then, I reflected and realized that every decision I made—both buying and selling—was mine, based on the conditions at the time. Just as some stocks grew tremendously, others that once traded in four figures lost their value completely. I have clients who call me daily, expressing regret about missed opportunities. They saw a stock at a lower level, hesitated to buy, and later saw it jump by 25% or more. The cycle of regret is endless.

Over time, I have trained myself to stop overthinking past trades. Now, I focus only on my present trades, whether I make a profit or a loss. If an opportunity presents itself today, I act without hesitation instead of dwelling on missed chances.

This experience taught me an important lesson: If we cannot change our past decisions, there is no use in regretting them. Instead, we should focus on what we can do now.

The Biggest Lesson—Accepting Life’s Impermanence

The biggest lesson I learned came from an unexpected place, one that I never imagined would leave such an impact. In the northern part of India, especially in Punjab, where I live, there is a festival called Basant Panchami, celebrated with much joy and enthusiasm. It usually falls in January, and one of the key traditions is flying kites.

In 2018, the festival was on January 22nd, and the day before, I went to the market with my younger brother to buy kites and strings. We were both passionate about flying kites since childhood, and that day, we were thrilled, full of laughter and excitement. We spent the morning playing music, dancing, and flying kites together, just like we had done for years.

But what I didn’t know, what I could never have predicted, was that day would be the last time I would experience this with my younger brother. In June 2018, my brother left this world, and that was the moment I fully grasped the weight of what I had lost.

From that day until the Basant festival in 2025, I kept the nineteen kites we had bought that day, unable to fly them, because they reminded me of him. It felt like if I flew those kites, I’d somehow be letting go of the only piece left of him. Each year, as the spring festival came around, I would hold on to those kites tightly, preserving the memory of the day we spent together.

But this year, something changed. At the 2025’s Basant festival, I finally let go. I flew those nineteen kites. As they soared in the sky, I realized that we had bought those kites to celebrate, to enjoy life, and my brother would have wanted me to do the same.

Holding on to them, keeping them safe, was just a way of avoiding the truth: life moves on, and sometimes, the more tightly you hold on to something, the more you lose in the process. It reminded me that, like the sand slipping from your hand when you grip it too tightly, life too must be lived with openness and acceptance.

That realization hit me hard: life is like a moving train. We are all passengers on that train, and eventually, each passenger leaves when their station arrives, while others continue their journey. Every living thing on this Earth will vanish one day. Holding on to the past, to memories, to the “what ifs,” only weighs us down.

I had been hoarding my thoughts and emotions for so long, thinking I could preserve them and keep them safe. But this lesson—through the act of finally flying those kites—helped me realize how destructive overthinking can be.

It was time to stop hoarding my memories and emotions. Life is constantly moving forward, and holding on too tightly to what’s gone only prevents me from enjoying the present.

I learned that it’s okay to let go, to free myself from overthinking, and to embrace what is happening now. Just like the kites in the sky, my brother’s memory will always be with me, but I have to live my life fully, without fear of letting go.

The lesson I learned is simple yet profound: stop hoarding your thoughts, free yourself from overthinking, and allow yourself to truly live. Life moves forward, and so must we.

Final Thoughts

Freedom from mental clutter is possible. Once I let go of the thoughts that no longer served me, I made space for clarity, courage, and growth. And just like my career shift, I realized the only way to truly move forward is to stop hoarding and start living.

About Mann Singh

Mann Singh is a versatile author and entrepreneur passionate about storytelling that inspires, heals, and captivates. He writes across genres—from romance and marriage drama to crime thrillers and psychological mysteries. His published works include Together But Alone, A Murder Without a Body, and Deception’s Endgame on Kindle. When not writing, he explores mindful living and shares life lessons drawn from personal transformation, resilience, and emotional insight. Visit his Amazon page here.

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“You should be angry. You must not be bitter. Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. It doesn’t do anything to the object of its displeasure. So use that anger. You write it. You paint it. You dance it. You march it. You vote it. You do everything about it. You talk it. Never stop talking it.” ~Maya Angelou

My mother left when I was five. Dad told me that for a little while I stopped talking, which is hard to imagine because now I never shut up.

Apparently, I disappeared into myself. The doctors called it selective mutism. Two years later, my father’s second wife, Trish, would try to hug me, but I froze, arms pinned to my side, rigid against her affection.

When I was older and I asked Dad what happened, he said he and Mom had been having problems, so she went on a bird-watching cruise to the Seychelles. During a stopover, she met a rugged, bearded, successful world wildlife photographer in the lobby of an African hotel. Frank and Patricia fell in love and immediately left their spouses and kids.

In time, my mother became a talented photographer in her own right. She and Frank traveled continents to capture award-winning photos of animals for National Geographic and the like. Together, they published beautiful coffee table books.

In 2004, both Patricia and Frank died within a month of each other. Frank from cancer, Patricia in a fiery car crash. My sister told me state troopers found a blood-stained snapshot of all five kids inside Patricia’s wallet. The picture was of my three brothers she’d had with my father and my sister and me, who she adopted as babies from two different moms, years after she got her tubes tied.

“Girls,” she told my father. “I need two girls.”

Years ago, I looked up Patricia’s obituary online. I found one attached to a blog written by a fan. At the end of a glowing description of her renowned career was a mention of Frank and that she was “mother to three boys.”

No mention of me or my sister. Whoever wrote the obituary decided we didn’t exist, or maybe they never knew we existed. My sister, who’d stayed in touch with Patricia, seemed okay with the omission. She insisted the picture in Patricia’s wallet proved she thought about us.

“And your comment on the blog was mean,” she told me.

“With all due respect,” I wrote in the blog comments, “Patricia left her five kids” (I’m her youngest daughter) “to go sow her wildlife photographer oats. So yes, she was a talented photographer, but she wasn’t a mother.”

In one picture I found of Patricia and Frank online after they died, Frank had his arm around her in front of a small white tent in Africa.

She was leaning her head against his shoulder, smiling and content. Her face was plump and ruddy and naturally beautiful. Her short, dark, curly hair was windblown, and she was wearing a tan photo vest, khaki shorts, and chunky hiking boots.

In her former life, Patricia was a full-fledged Audrey Hepburn type. An upper-middle-class, small-town New Jersey suburbanite with cinch-waisted elegant dresses, black heels, and pearls. In one Polaroid, my mother smiled for the camera as she carried a paper-footed crown roast to the perfect holiday table set for her husband and five kids.

I was two months old when my parents adopted me. I never once resented my birth mom for giving me up (I found her in 2016, and we’re close).

When I was old enough to understand how hard it must be for a woman to give up a child, I felt sorry for my birth mother. I knew women who gave up their baby did it out of love and desperation. And that it probably ripped their heart out forever. I knew long before I knew anything about my birth mom that giving me away wasn’t personal.

It was selfless.

But mothers who roam the globe with a lover, who give birth to three boys, get their tubes tied, and then adopt two girls to complete the set don’t leave their children for selfless reasons.

They leave because motherhood was a mistake. Because domesticity felt like prison.

“The ugly ducklings” Patricia once told my father about me and my middle brother. Mike stuttered and, like me, wore thick glasses.

When I was older, I’d drag information out of my dad about Patricia.  He never wanted us to know Mike and I were her least favorites. That we weren’t perfect enough.

During my sophomore year in college, I sent my mother a short letter. “I never understood why you left the family. Please help me understand.” Then I told her what was going on in my life.

“It was your father’s lifestyle,” she wrote back. “The drinking and fancy parties and spending too much money. It wasn’t you. We were fighting all the time. It wasn’t about you kids.”

Except that when you leave your kids, it is about the kids.

That was our only contact until my late twenties during my youngest brother Chris’s wedding. Patricia smiled awkwardly as we walked toward each other in the hotel reception hall.

We stood in front of each other but didn’t hug. She smiled, looked nervous, and told me, “Look how beautiful you are!” For the next few hours, we chatted about the wedding, my job, and my husband, who sat next to me.

Frank sat between us at our table. Polite but protective. Privately, I was furious at how nonchalant my once-mother seemed. Of course there was too much to unpack, and a wedding wasn’t the place. But Patricia acted like we’d simply lost touch.

A few years ago, when my husband and I were talking about that day, he told me that at some point I whispered to Frank, “Tell Patricia I want nothing to do with her.” I couldn’t stand the façade for one more second. So I went silent.

I don’t remember saying that. But I’m sure I did. Because if my mother had wanted to be in my life, when she got my letter during college, she would have said so.

In 1998, when I became a mom, the resentment for Patricia I’d managed to mostly bury resurfaced with a vengeance.

I was horrified that a mother would leave her children. I felt a maternal protectiveness with my own daughter so visceral and overwhelming that rage bubbled up for my own mother.

I pictured my five-year-old daughter coming home from kindergarten. Getting off the bus and running to hug her dad. I pictured her giggling and holding her vinyl Blue’s Clues lunch box. My husband handing her gummy snacks and a juice box in the kitchen. I pictured him scooping her up and sitting her on the couch next to him. My daughter’s happy feet swinging.

“Where’s Mommy?” she asks as she sips her juice box and her blueberry eyes sparkle.

“Honey, Daddy needs to tell you something. Mommy is um, gone, and she’s not coming back. It’s not your fault, honey, really, it isn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. But Mommy is, well, Mommy is confused even though she really, really loves you.”

Years ago, I decided that I can’t do with my mother what therapists and clergy suggest when someone hurts us.

“Work to forgive. It’s not about saying what they did was okay. It’s about letting go of anger and resentment. When you do, you’ll feel better. Stop giving over your power to bitterness.”

But the abandoned five-year-old child in me refuses to forgive my mother. I could, but I won’t. Not because I’m consumed with anger. I’m not. Because forgiving, however that looks (journaling, prayers, letters to Patricia I never send), feels disingenuous.

“I forgive you” feels like a lie.

Over the years my hurt and anger toward my mother have shifted. Not to forgiveness exactly, but to a new understanding that only ambitious woman-turned-mothers understand.

Because I was that mother.

After I had my daughter, I left the workforce as a career professional, ambitious but constantly told daily during my pregnancy, “Once you see that baby, nothing, I mean nothing else will matter.”

Three months after maternity leave, I went back to work part time. Six months later, I left for good.

I’d been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and was racked with chronic body aches and brain fog. My babysitter and I were at odds, but mostly I left because I “should” be at home. My husband never pressured me. I pressured me. Judgmental parents didn’t help.

During my mother’s era (the 1950s), after women graduated college, they got married and had kids. They never talked about their own needs. There were no mom group confessionals. Ambition and having an identity crisis weren’t things. Taboo.

Women sucked up their angst and exhaustion with coffee and uppers, with martinis and Valium (“Mommy’s little helper”). Smile. Nod. Suffer.

It wasn’t until the nineties that books came out about motherhood and ambivalence. About loving your kid but hating x, y, z. Suddenly the floodgates opened, and mothers got raw and honest. (Remember the book The Three Martini Playdate?)

I struggled with being grateful but bored at home. With craving an identity outside of motherhood. Of course I loved my daughter. I went through surgery and months of infertility procedures to get her.

My child was everything to me, but not everything for me. When I became a parent, gradually, a tiny part of me understood why my mother left.

And in that, accepting my mixed bag of emotions softened my pain and rage.

Unlike my mother, I’d had a thriving career and my own identity for over twenty years. But Patricia went from college to marriage to motherhood. She’d skipped over herself and who, it turned out, she wanted to be. Unburdened by domesticity, free to roam the world.

I realized that if my mother had stayed, she would have resented her kids and the life she felt called to embrace. Her resentment might have been more damaging than the abandonment.  

Still, forgiveness isn’t always the answer. Saying “I forgive you” has to feel sincere. It has to come from a place of genuine release. A willingness to see the harm and accept its wrongness, then fully let it go. Into the ethers, washed from our heart and psyche.

My vision of my mother is less villain now and more a woman who should never have given in to society’s pressure to have kids. As soon as she got married, she pushed my dad to start a family, even after he told her over and over they weren’t ready financially.

It’s ironic that after she died, she left a chunk of money to Planned Parenthood. She knew. Motherhood isn’t for everyone.

Forgiveness is nuanced, yet it’s been taught throughout the ages as magical in its transformative powers. “Forgive, let go, and you’ll be free.” And more often than not, that’s true.

But for me, I owe it to my five-year-old self not to completely forgive my mother. Gentle non-forgiveness is what I call it.

Most of my destructive bitterness is gone. But if I’m honest, some anger still sits in me. Because I want it there. Protective. Righteous. But no longer seething. Anger wrapped in necessary truth. That my mother was selfish. That my mother did real damage.

I guess holding on to some anger feels like I’m choosing to be an advocate for my five-year-old self. But mostly I think it’s to avoid the harder emotions of pain and rejection. And because letting go of all my anger feels fake.

For me, being authentic sometimes means accepting that not all anger fades. And that it’s okay. (In fact, allowing anger instead of repressing it can actually be beneficial for our health, according to psychologist Jade Wu, so long as we don’t act aggressively.)

In the wake of my mother abandoning our family, she left behind five broken kids, all of whom bear emotional scars. Scars that showed up in devastating ways. Addiction, cruelty, despair, loneliness, low self-esteem, hoarding, attachment issues.

I know ultimately my mother needed to be free. That staying would have done more harm than good. But children aren’t puppies to surrender when caregiving gets too hard.

There were dire consequences to my mother leaving to find happiness. Irreparable damage. I saw it. I felt it. Trust destroyed. And because of that, I can never fully forgive.

“I pray you heal from things no one ever apologized for.” ~Nakeia Homer

About Laura G. Owens

Laura G. Owens is a Florida-based writer obsessed with human behavior. Hr focus is social commentary and personal essays with stark honesty. She has fifteen years of experience writing about mind and body natural health.  Blog: Human Nature   Huffington Post 

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One of the laws of physics I learned in high school was the Second Law of Thermodynamics.

Officially, it says, “The level of disorder in the universe is steadily increasing. Systems tend to move from ordered behavior to more random behavior.“

In simpler terms, it says this: Left on their own, systems tend toward disorder.

That’s why a cup of coffee left on the counter cools over time, not the other way around. It’s why sandcastles crumble, buildings decay, and 52 playing cards thrown on the floor don’t become a stacked deck on their own. Everything, in the absence of outside energy, moves from order to chaos.

This law is always at work—in nature, in science—and in our homes and lives.

I was thinking about this fact recently as I finished writing the manuscript of my next book. The words were typed on my computer, of course. But over the months of researching and writing, I collected a large number of notes and pieces of paper—loose sheets of handwritten outlines, printed pages to edit, notecards, lists, folders of relevant projects, even a stack of books I referenced often. Over time, I placed more and more of them on a shelf near my desk.

As the writing continued, the pile slowly grew. One stack turned into two, and two stacks turned into three. Piles of notecards got higher and higher. Papers intermingled. Things got buried. The mess expanded, more and more, until eventually the entire shelf was overtaken with notes for the book.

The mess didn’t improve with time—it only worsened. The system tended toward disorder, not order. And it stayed that way, until just last week, when the book was completed and I finally took the time and effort to clean it up fully.

Because here’s the thing about messes: They don’t clean themselves. They require attention.

When my kids were younger, Kim and I had a mantra that we would use often. Especially after meals or light snacks in the evening, if someone left their plate on the counter near the sink, I’d say, “You know that plate’s not going to clean itself. Somebody in this family is going to have to do it. It might as well be you since you’re the one who dirtied it.”

I wish I could say the mantra was 100% effective—but we all know better than that.

Regardless, there is an important truth hidden in that reality that we would be wise to remind ourselves of—even beyond our teenage years.

Messes don’t clean themselves. The universe moves naturally toward disorder, not order.

This is important to see and apply accordingly in our homes. Messes only grow as clutter attracts more and more clutter.

• The mail you left on the counter will only pile up higher—until you make the effort to sort it.
• The dishes in your sink will remain dirty—until you make the effort to clean them.
• The clothes in your closet will take up more and more space—until you make the effort to discard some.
• The boxes of stuff in your basement will remain there—until you take the time to sort them.
• The garage will remain too full to park in—until you get out there and declutter the stuff.

And maybe, some of us need to stop reading right here, and go make the change to bring about the order in our home that we’ve been wanting.

But this principle doesn’t stop at our possessions. Messes don’t clean themselves. The universe only moves toward order when energy is applied:

If we’re living paycheck to paycheck, avoiding the numbers won’t change the math. Our attention and energy is required to fix it.

If our lifestyle is unhealthy, doing the same thing over and over won’t bring change. Our attention and energy is required to change it.

If we don’t like the direction of our life, attention and energy will be required to start moving in a different direction.

If there is a strained relationship in our life, ignoring the hard work won’t solve it. Attention, energy—and probably humility—will be required.

We can spend a lot of time waiting for the right moment, the perfect motivation, or the ideal set of circumstances. But messes rarely resolve themselves as we wait. They grow. And the longer we delay, the more energy it takes to clean them up.

So maybe today is a good day to ask: What mess in my life is waiting for my attention?

And what small step can I take before the sun sets to begin cleaning it up?

“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.” ~Albert Einstein

For a long time, I lived under the illusion that I was solving the problems standing between me and my desires.

Whether it was love, success, or the kind of life I dreamed of, I believed I was taking the necessary steps to create what I wanted. But what I was really doing (without realizing it) was keeping those things forever at arm’s length.

I was trying to create something from the same conditioning I’d adopted to navigate a difficult childhood, and all it did was reinforce the self-concept I’d walked away with (low self-worth and feeling “unreal” and inferior) and create more circumstances that reflected that self-concept back to me.

This happened across the board.

Early on in my business, I’d pour everything into creating an offer—a course, a program, something I deeply believed in.

I’d work tirelessly, build a sales page, send out an email, and if the response wasn’t immediate, if people didn’t sign up right away, I wouldn’t send another email (or ten) or look at the data and refine accordingly.

Instead, I would assume that something was wrong with me. That I needed to be better, work harder, explain myself more, train more, throw it all away, and start over.

What I wasn’t seeing was the most basic thing every successful entrepreneur knows: sales take time, and people need multiple touch points before they buy.

I couldn’t see that. So I’d abandon ship too soon, leaving money on the table and keeping myself stuck in a cycle of proving, perfecting, and starting from scratch. This lasted YEARS.

The very same pattern shaped my love life in my twenties.

I wanted deep, healthy, genuine love more than anything, but…

I gravitated toward men who were emotionally unavailable and mirrored the same early-life relationships that affirmed my low self-worth.

And when a relationship was killing me, when they didn’t commit or were inconsistent, withholding, or dismissive, I didn’t think, “Hmmm, maybe they aren’t the right fit for the deep, healthy, genuine love I want, and it’s time to let this go and look for what I want.”

Instead, I thought, it must be me.

I was sure if I was better—more lovable, cooler, thinner, more normal, less broken, more aligned with their wants, beliefs, and perspectives—things would change.

But they didn’t. And I’d leave these relationships with a reinforced sense that I was not enough, and the problem was me, not the kind of men I was picking. Which kept me attracted to men who reflected that back to me.

It was an unconscious feedback loop.

The same thing happened with one of my biggest life decisions—moving to Tuscany.

For years, I knew I wanted this life. I pictured myself in the Italian countryside, building a life that felt expansive, rich, and connected to nature. But I kept telling myself I wasn’t ready. That I hadn’t accomplished enough. That I’d allow myself this when I was somehow “good enough” to deserve doing what I knew I wanted to do.

But this time I interrupted my pattern.

I asked myself, “What if I stop trying to make myself good enough for what’s already in my heart and just take the steps to make it happen?”

I’ve been living on this Tuscan hilltop for two and a half years.

That moment showed me something big:

The conditioning that tells you to keep fixing yourself, that tells you anything that’s not working the way you want it to boils down to a deficit in YOU, stems from deep childhood wounding and is the very thing keeping your desires out of reach.

The problem isn’t you. When you think you’re the problem, you focus on fixing yourself, which robs you of your power to address the real issue and create the life, love, friendships, business, and bank account you’re already worthy of.

Back then I wasn’t really finding the right business strategy—I was trying to make myself good enough and hoping my business would do that for me. It didn’t.

I wasn’t really creating healthy relationships—I was trying to be chosen by men who were incapable of real intimacy. Never lasted more than a couple of years.

I wasn’t really building the life I wanted—I was trying to become the kind of person I believed was “worthy” of it.

None of this actually moved me forward. It was just a feedback loop that kept me stuck in the same cycle.

But when I started separating my present desires from my emotional baggage and past distortions of how to get from A to B, everything changed. Life started happening instead of me waiting to be given permission for it to happen. You know what I mean?

If you find yourself spiraling inside your own feedback loop, I invite you to ask yourself:

• Am I treating every setback as proof of my inadequacy instead of seeing it as data and feedback that lets me know what I need to adjust to get to where I want to be?
• Am I trying to be “better” for people who are fundamentally incapable of giving me what I want?
• Am I waiting to feel “good enough” before I allow myself to take the steps that would get me there?

Because the problem was never you. And the moment you stop trying to fix yourself for what you want—and start taking the steps to claim it—you’ll finally see just how much was always available to you.

About Mel Wilder

Melanie’s a coach whose work dismantles the hidden conditioning that keeps women stuck, helping them build thriving businesses that are as aligned as they are successful. Drawing from decades of personal and professional exploration, she’s developed a transformative approach that applies principles of personal healing and self-discovery to the journey of entrepreneurship. Visit her at thebodycure.net.

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“Life doesn’t allow for us to go back and fix what we have done wrong in the past, but it does allow for us to live each day better than our last.” ~Unknown

It’s funny how from one day to the next your entire world, the core of your belief systems, and the way you live life just change. It’s even funnier how sometimes you don’t even notice it happening until it already has. One day you wake up and realize you are brand new, your old self has been lost, and your new self has been found.

Let me take you back to when it all changed for me…

I lived in the typical box of a straight-A, hardworking, overachieving, need-to-be-it-all/do-it-all kid. From someone who grew up with scarcity as a looming cloud haunting me through each and every decision, the foundation of my mindset, specifically regarding “success,” was built on outward achievements. Almost as if checking off boxes outside of me would somehow magically bring me a sense of inner peace.

When I was in first grade, I got my first 100 on a test instead of 102 with extra credit. To most people, especially children, this is still a perfectly acceptable grade. (And it’s only first grade—who cares, right?)

I did. I cared so much, too much. I had a complete meltdown, beating myself up over not being good enough/smart enough, all because of one single extra credit question. I felt as though I needed to punish myself for not being perfect, so clearly, I was a little bit ambitious, to say the least. With two accepting and supportive parents, this high-strung striving for greatness was fully self-inflicted.

Within me lived a desperate need to work hard now so that I could enjoy later. I embraced the idea of not enjoying life until xyz had been completed in both the most impactful and most irrelevant life decisions.

When you are so deeply immersed in a cycle of unachievable reward systems, when do you ever have a moment to truly enjoy life? By constantly striving for an unattainable life in the future, I learned that there will always be something more you could be doing, and this can prevent you from living a full life in the present. Doing in the now forever trumps the pleasures of later.

With these beliefs strongly in place, I was on the road to overworking at a job I didn’t align with for the sole purpose of enjoying a few moments here and there on days off actually doing what I liked—what made me feel alive. And unfortunately, this is the expected lifestyle of many people nowadays.

It was mine for a period of time, and this mindset stuck with me for years… until it all changed, of course.

During this whirlwind of unhealthy looping behaviors, life outside of me was still existing. Waves were flowing, cycles were ending, the sun was rising, and my grandma was deteriorating with Alzheimer’s disease.

This is the moment that set in motion the unlearning of my past beliefs and the implementation of my current values. Her disease was the divine trigger that initiated the switch from me doing life to living life.

To take you through my grandparents’ journey, bring to mind those “movie loves” that you think can only exist in the realm of make-believe. The love that you can feel just from watching from afar. My grandparents were the expression of that. Young love—regardless of age.

He was a man with three jobs, and she was a working woman taking on the rather heavy load of raising two children. They put their current time on the line for a better future for their kids—the ones they had and the ones that lived inside themselves.

Before a time when I existed, they lived out the mindset I once so heavily believed in. My grandparents worked hard, that blue-collar-hard, so that when the time came and life had settled down, they could finally enjoy the life they had been waiting for.

As the work had ended, it was as if life had begun. With the well-earned money, these lovebirds traveled the world and were eager to see it all. And that was the plan—work hard now, play hard later… until later was met with sickness and, therefore, was never lived.

My grandfather was a fit man watching his own body betray him as cancer entered and his hope left. And somehow this, as I observed, had been less painful than watching the woman he had created a life with forget who he was.

My grandmother went from a lively, active woman to a child needing to be fed, dressed, and bathed. With my grandfather battling his own health issues and trying to take care of my mentally lost grandmother, it was as if none of it mattered. The money, the time, the hard-work—just like that, gone.

Watching the regret, pain, and heartbreak weigh so deeply on the ones I loved, a shift, more like a full-body revolution, began to swirl within me. Nothing is more uprooting than seeing someone who has lived an entire life from start to finish have regrets of not living sooner.

This pivotal moment shook me to my core; it woke me up in both a startling and subtle way. The regret looming in the air served as a reminder that life is meant to be lived today.

I was forced into the understanding that I can’t, nor do I want, to save my life for later. To enjoy after, to live and to feel in the future. Because what if my “later” ends up like theirs? Unfinished and lost, remaining only in their dreams, not in their realities.

With these heavy understandings, slowly, my approach to life began reflecting this lesson. The lesson that later may never come, that life doesn’t wait for you.

So, here I am today. Writing to you from Italy as a girl who packed up her life and left one day. As a girl with dreams to feel, experience, create, and truly live.

My plans of making lots of money, going to school, and creating a career that wouldn’t fulfill my heart and soul died. The experience of seeing the world, making big and brave decisions, and laughing my way through heartbreak and massive transitions—that is being alive. I feel alive. This life that was once so trapped in a box, a box that wasn’t for me, that made me small—it is gone now.

Today, I live freely and fully not only for me but also for them. For my teachers that came to me in the form of grandparents, for the souls that made me realize and recognize my own. Even though they are no longer here, I am living this life for them.

Life takes turns we can’t anticipate, turns that live outside our realm of fathom. We don’t know where we will be, who we will be with, and what we’ll be doing there. But what we do know is that we need to be there for it, wholly and fully, with our hearts and souls.

Later might not look the way you expect—it might not be there at all. So take the chances, even if you’re scared. Play in the rain to feel alive, sing at the top of your lungs, and dance like nobody’s watching. Because there is nothing like living in the now. It is all we have.

About Gabriella Barone

Gabriella is an intuitive being, always looking to connect with the world around her. As a holistic life coach, she uses various approaches such as yoga, Reiki, inner child healing, etc., to connect/uncover. She is a student and teacher of life, always looking to learn and unlearn. With a unique perspective on life, she is here to share her beliefs and spark something new within each of you. guidancewithgab.substack.com.

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“When you can’t look on the bright side, I will sit with you in the dark.” ~Unknown

There are moments in life when pain feels consuming—when it lingers, reshapes us, and forces us to confront parts of ourselves we’ve long avoided. Recently, I found myself in one of those moments.

I was overwhelmed, unraveling, and isolating, trying to make sense of emotions that felt heavy. In that space, I wrote this message to a close friend—someone who has stood by me through my highs and lows, yet someone I now realize I haven’t always shown up for in the way they deserved.

This is more than just a letter. It’s an acknowledgment of the weight we carry, the way we heal, and the importance of holding space for those we love.

It’s a reminder that pain doesn’t need to be rushed, that healing isn’t about fixing but about remembering we were never broken to begin with. And most importantly, it’s a promise—to my friend, to myself, and to anyone who has ever felt unseen—that we are never truly alone.

Here’s my message…

You know, these past few days, all I’ve done is sleep, think, cry, and listen to music. I haven’t left the house unless it’s for work, and even then, I feel like I’m just going through the motions.

I’ve been letting myself feel everything—choosing to sit with it—even though it’s terrifying. It feels deep and raw, and sometimes it pulls me into places so heavy, I wonder if I’ll ever find my way out. But strangely, in all of that darkness, it feels like something within me is shedding and peeling away. It’s painful, but at the same time, it’s healing. It’s the kind of pain that comes with growth, even when it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

I know this probably sounds heavy, maybe even overwhelming, but something triggered this—something connected to an old, deeply rooted wound for me—and it’s forced me to sit with emotions I’ve been carrying for a long time. The impact I’ve had, it’s hard to explain, even to myself, but I feel like something has shifted—in life and within me.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize: Pain doesn’t need to be rushed. Healing doesn’t need to be rushed.

Sometimes, we just need to let ourselves be in our feelings, even when it’s messy and hard. And what I’ve learned is that we can hold space for our sadness without letting it define us. By sitting with it and not running away, we give it a chance to teach us something about who we are, where we’ve been, and where we’re headed.

I know sitting in it for too long isn’t healthy. But there’s a power in honoring your emotions, in giving yourself permission to feel what you feel without judgment. It’s an act of love and compassion toward yourself, a reminder that your pain is valid, your journey is valid, and you are valid.

Without diving into the whole story just yet—which I promise I’ll share with you when the time feels right—I want you to know that I see you. I appreciate your patience with me through all of this, and I need you to know how much love I have for you.

I know it hasn’t been easy for you. For a while now, there have been so many moments that have felt overwhelming, and many wounds have reopened and been re-triggered.

If I could go back, I would’ve shown up differently in every single moment you trusted me with your feelings. I would’ve made sure you never felt shame for feeling the way you did. Instead of trying to fix it, I would’ve sat with you in the discomfort and reminded you that your emotions are not a burden and that you are worthy of love even in your hardest moments.

I see now how important it is to let someone feel their feelings fully and to hold space for them without judgment or pressure. I wish I could’ve done that for you every time. But what I can do now is show you, moving forward, that not everyone will let you down. Not everyone will leave.

My love for you runs deep. I see you. I see all of you—your strength, your softness, your beauty, even in the hardest moments. And I need you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are loved. You are enough exactly as you are, and I am here for you. Always.

I invite you to keep sharing your feelings with me. I’ll hold space for you in the way you deserve and remind you every single day that you are loved and seen. You don’t have to carry anything alone, and there is no rush to being “okay.”

Take your time. Healing isn’t about fixing yourself—it’s about remembering that you were never broken to begin with. It’s okay to feel deeply—it’s a sign of your humanity, your courage, and your capacity to love. Be gentle with yourself. Compassion isn’t just something you give to others—it’s something you deserve to receive, especially from yourself.

And no matter how heavy things get in life, remember, you’re not alone, and healing is not linear.

I’m here, and I’ll keep showing up for you as you show up for yourself.

I love you.

About Mirsada Asipi

Mirsada Asipi lives in Iowa, born to refugee parents. Their silent struggles shaped her. She’s spent much of her life carrying the weight of things left unsaid—hers and theirs. Journaling became the one place she could be fully honest, a way to process pain, truth, and the tenderness in between. This message, like much of what she writes, is for anyone who’s ever felt unseen. You’re not too much. You’re not alone. You are, and have always been, worthy.

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Some people, it seems, merely drift through life. While others appear driven and focused.

Have you ever wondered why that is? Is it personality? Upbringing? Talent? Ambition?

There’s no doubt that those factors play a role in how each of us approach life.

But I think there is something more important, something available to all of us, that also motivates us to live intentional lives—and ultimately become the best version of ourselves.

That potential can be found in the size of the dream we choose to pursue.

You see, when the goals that we choose for ourselves are meaningful—when they matter deeply to our hearts and souls—they compel us and equip us to become better versions of ourselves. Therefore, getting clear on what is most important to us is an important step in self-development.

We can drift through life pursing nothing. We can take small steps to accomplish small goals. Or we can live each day with passion and ambition to accomplish something lasting.

There are two ways big dreams help us grow: 

1. They almost always require our hardest work. And because of that, we are forced to improve and develop ourselves if we are ever going to meet them.

2. But even more important, our dreams and goals motivate us and shape us. When we pursue meaningful pursuits, work is no longer drudgery. Work becomes meaningful. Discipline and sacrifice are not activities to avoid. Our goals make them desirable—because our focus is on a prize worth giving everything for.

In that way, we don’t become better versions of ourselves by accident or because someone required us to do so. That is always a recipe for disaster. We become better because the finish line is worth becoming better for.

Unfortunately, not every dream brings out the best in us.

If the biggest goals in our lives center on items that bring only fleeting or passing or temporary happiness, they may motivate us for a bit. But in the long run, our hearts and souls scream out to us that the pursuit is empty. 

Goals of accumulating money, possessions, or popularity can motivate for awhile. But often, at some point in our lives, we realize that we sold out our greatest potential for the fading trinkets of this world. When we are focused on self, comparison, leisure, or when we allow fear to dictate the size of our dreams, we end up chasing things that can never satisfy. And our development is stunted.

There’s nothing wrong with being successful in a career or becoming the best employee or boss that we can possibly become. But we sell ourselves short when our dreams stop at comfort, status, or luxury.

There are more meaningful dreams available to us:

—Raising a family that can carry your values and legacy into future generations.
—Solving problems that we see in the world.
—Loving the people around us and contributing to society in a positive way.
—Serving others, benefiting others, using our talents and gifts to help others.
—Passing on wisdom and understanding to move people forward. 
—Bringing about the greatest good in the world with the one life that we have to live.

These are the kinds of dreams that change us in the long-run. They shape our mornings, afternoons, and evenings. They shape how we spend our money and our hours. They redefine fulfillment and meaning. And in so doing, they compel us to become better versions of ourselves each day and every day.

So dream bigger dreams for your life than possessions or money or status.

The bigger the dream, the better version of ourselves we become.

And everybody benefits from that.

Note: This is a guest post by Joshua Fields Millburn of The Minimalists.

My friend Derek wanted to be a good minimalist. So after his son, Sammy, was born, he refused to buy toys for the boy, assuming he would be just as happy playing with the rocks and sticks strewn throughout their backyard.

A few years later, however, my friend started questioning his own minimalism when he saw his son erupt with joy each time he played with his friend’s toys. Sammy smiled while he constructed deformed dinosaurs with multicolored LEGO bricks. He laughed as two Ninja Turtles performed backflips and ate plastic pizza slices. And he literally jumped with joy the first time he slammed a NERF ball into its door-frame hoop.

Derek realized he had been denying Sammy in the name of minimalism—dampening his boy’s playtime with his own preference for simple living. So he did what many loving fathers might do: he logged onto Craigslist and found a big box of used toys.

When Sammy opened the box, his facial features expanded with delight. He extracted his new toys one at a time—a Walkie Talkie, an Etch A Sketch, a miniature Wright Flyer model airplane—welcoming each with gratitude.

Yet at the sight of Sammy’s glee, Derek was overtaken not by triumph, but by the consumerist mindset: If one box made him this happy, then ten boxes will surely make him ten times happier.

As Derek returned to Craigslist, an insight from his past interrupted his next transaction: This was exactly how I behaved before becoming a minimalist. Instead of enjoying the things in front of me—instead of being satisfied with my treasure—I always searched for more.

He looked over at his son and noticed that Sammy was fully present, free from the yearning that is chaperoned by consumerism. The shopper’s delirium that had always removed Derek from the joy of the moment was absent from the boy. Sammy was simply happy with the toys that were in front of him.

It occurred to Derek that the new toys didn’t make his son happy—they intensified the joy that had been there, in his heart, all along. The toys acted as an amplifier of joy, not the source of it.

Derek looked back at his computer and had an aha moment: Ten times the toys didn’t equate to ten times the joy. In fact, more toys might distort Sammy’s innate happiness because, much like a stereo amplifier, every sound turns into noise when the volume is cranked all the way up.

In economics, this overamplification is known as the law of diminishing marginal utility, which states that an item’s total utility increases more slowly as consumption increases, until, eventually, a point is reached at which consumption yields negative utility.

Accordingly, zero toys was a type of deprivation. That’s why the first box generated considerable utility. And yet a warehouse worth of toys would be another kind of deprivation—an overabundance that would strip away the peacefulness of playing in the present.

Instead of making another purchase, Derek shut his laptop and admired his son’s exuberance. Depriving Sammy was not a minimalist move; it was a legalist edict that had accidentally silenced his joy. But when Derek let go of his stringent regulations, the suppressor was removed and joyfulness echoed throughout their home.

***

Joshua Fields Millburn is a New York Times–bestselling author, Emmy-nominated Netflix filmmaker, podcaster, and the founder of the simple-living collective The Minimalists.

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We are not infinite gods. We are finite creatures. And because of that, all of our life resources are finite. Our days are finite. Our money is finite. Our time and attention and energy are finite.

The abundance of these resources may vary from person to person, but for all of us, they are limited.

And because of that, every “more” comes with a tradeoff. More of one thing always means less of something else.

In some areas of life, this is easier to see:

More junk food means less health.
More screen time means less time outside.
More spending means less savings.
More late nights means less enjoyable mornings.
More clutter means less calm.

But in other areas of life, we are less likely to notice or consider the full cost:

Wanting more money means less energy for more significant pursuits.
Wanting more career success means fewer family dinners.
Wanting more power means less freedom.
Wanting more status means less peace.
Wanting a bigger house means less time playing with your kids.
Wanting more comfort means less personal growth.

Because we are finite creatures, we can have more of anything. But not more of everything.

That’s why it’s important to decide—intentionally, deliberately, and thoughtfully—what we want more of.

And if we don’t choose our “more” carefully, the world will choose for us. And it rarely chooses well.

The things that matter most are often quiet. They don’t clamor for attention. They don’t shout from billboards or flash on screens. But they are what we most desire in our deepest heart: purpose, peace, love, presence, meaning, connection, contribution.

Those items are always worth choosing. And always require us to choose less of something else.

So let’s be sure to ask ourselves the most important questions:

What do we want more of in our lives?
And what are we willing to have less of so we can make room for it?

Because life is too short to chase the wrong more.

There is an important truth about life that is helpful to understand: sometimes, the things we think will make us happy actually keep us from it.

For most of my life, I believed the ‘American Dream’ was the path to a better life—a bigger house, a fuller closet, the latest gadgets, and all the things everyone else seemed to be chasing. So I chased and accumulated those things with determination, convinced they would improve my life. But looking back, I see how many of my years were spent chasing the wrong things.

It’s not easy to admit, but much of my life was wasted pursuing possessions that didn’t matter. By the time I was 33, our home was filled with stuff—furniture, clothes, toys, gadgets, and countless items we thought we needed. Each new possession came with a hidden cost: time spent cleaning, organizing, repairing, and maintaining. Our lives were quietly being consumed by the very things we thought would bring us freedom.

Then, everything changed.

We began removing the excess—over 60% of our possessions—and in doing so, discovered a life filled with greater joy, purpose, and freedom. We found more time for faith, family, friends, and making a positive impact in the world. We uncovered passions we didn’t know we had. And we realized that the pursuit of possessions had been stealing our best years.

If I could go back, I would start living simply much earlier—in my teens, in my twenties, or as a young family. Because the earlier we embrace simplicity, the sooner we experience its life-giving benefits: less debt, less clutter, more money, more intentionality, more time and presence with the people who matter most.

The truth is, the path to simplicity looks different for everyone. Some get to learn it as a child from their parents. For others, it comes later—perhaps in a season of financial strain, a move to a smaller home, or a moment of clarity about what truly matters. Some discover simplicity as they raise young children, others discover it when they downsize after their kids have moved out. Some find minimalism through a book, a blog, a documentary, a conversation with their neighbor, or a life-changing event. Others stumble into it gradually, one small step at a time.

But no matter how or when we find it, the best time to start living simply is always now.

Here’s why starting early matters:

1. Simplicity Builds Better Habits

When we start living with less early in life, we develop habits that can shape more of our future. We learn to value experiences over things, relationships over status, and purpose over possessions. These habits can become the foundation for a life of ever-increasing intentionality and fulfillment.

2. It Frees Up Resources for What Matters

The earlier we simplify, the more time, money, and energy we have to invest in what truly matters. Imagine the impact of saving more, giving more, and pursuing passions sooner rather than later.

3. It Helps Us Avoid Regret

One of my greatest regrets is not starting sooner—wasting years and money chasing things that didn’t truly matter. I wasted too much of life chasing things that didn’t matter, only to realize later that they were distractions from what did. Starting early helps us avoid that regret and live a life aligned with our values from the beginning.

4. It Prepares Us for the Unexpected

Life is unpredictable. Simplicity equips us to handle change with grace. Whether it’s a career shift, a move, an unexpected diagnosis, or even a global health crisis, living with less means we’ve found freedom to help us be better prepared to adapt and thrive.

5. It Sets an Example for Others

When we choose simplicity, we inspire those around us—our children, friends, and community. We show them that a meaningful life isn’t found in what we own but in how we live. And the earlier we can start showing that truth to our kids, the more likely they are to believe it.

The beauty of simplicity is that it’s never too late to start—no matter where you are in life. Whether you’re 20, 40, 60, or 80, the benefits are waiting for you and able to be enjoyed just as soon as you want. But the earlier we begin, the sooner we experience them and the more time we have to enjoy them.

So, where do we start?

Begin small. Declutter a drawer. Cancel a subscription. Say no to something that doesn’t align with your values. Each small step builds momentum and brings clarity.

The best time to start living simply is now. Don’t wait for the ‘right’ moment or perfect circumstances. Start today, and create a life you’ll never regret.