This month has been a quiet teacher. Not loud or dramatic—but subtle, persistent, and surprisingly revealing. I’ve found myself sitting with emotions I usually brush past, asking questions I didn’t know I needed answers to, and noticing patterns that have been hiding in plain sight.
Here’s what surfaced:
1. My Thoughts, Feelings, and Desires Matter—to the Right People.
Growing up, I learned early on to shrink myself in subtle ways. I wasn’t competitive, not because I didn’t have drive, but because I didn’t want to disrupt the harmony. My best friend at the time would get upset if he wasn’t winning our video games, and I just wanted us to have fun together. So I let him win. Again and again. Because keeping the peace felt more important than claiming a victory.
Back then, I didn’t realize I was teaching myself a quiet lesson: that my wants didn’t matter as much as someone else’s comfort. That my joy could wait if it meant someone else wouldn’t feel disappointed.
But life has a way of introducing the right people at the right time.
Over the years, I’ve met people who genuinely care about me—not just in passing, but deeply. People who don’t just tolerate my dreams, but actively cheer them on. They don’t ask me to shrink. They ask me to expand. They remind me that my thoughts, my feelings, and my desires are valid. That they matter.
And they do. To the right people, they always will.
This realization has been both healing and empowering. I’m learning to show up fully—not just as someone who supports others, but as someone worthy of support. I’m learning that I don’t have to dim my light to make others comfortable. I can shine, and the right people will celebrate that glow.
2. I’m allowed to be happy.
This one hit hard—and if I’m honest, it’s still hard to accept.
For the past seven months, I’ve been grieving the loss of my son. It’s a grief that lives in my bones, a quiet ache that never truly leaves. And yet, in the midst of this heartbreak, life has continued to offer moments of beauty. I’ve attended a Coldplay concert in Denver, moved into a new home with my partner, watched my other son and our dogs settle in happily, and started looking forward to an upcoming family trip to Hawaii.
These moments should feel joyful. And in some ways, they do. But there’s been a shadow over them—a quiet guilt whispering that if I allow myself to enjoy life, it somehow means I’m not grieving enough. That happiness is a betrayal. That smiling, laughing, or feeling light again means I’ve moved on.
But I haven’t moved on. I never will.
I will always miss my son. I will always carry him with me. My love for him is not diminished by the presence of joy—it coexists with it. Grief and happiness are not opposites. Grief is just love with nowhere to go.
I’m learning that I’m allowed to feel both. I’m allowed to cry and laugh. To mourn and celebrate. To remember and still move forward. Happiness doesn’t erase my heartbreak—it honors the life I still have, and the love that continues to shape me.
This is the lesson I’m holding close: I’m allowed to be happy. And my son would want that for me.
3. I’m still figuring out what I need.
Some days I think I know exactly what I want. Other days, I feel like a stranger to myself. And that’s okay. Self-discovery isn’t a straight line—it’s a spiral. I keep coming back to the same questions, but with new eyes.
4. I need to be kinder to myself.
I’ve caught myself in moments of harsh self-talk, unrealistic expectations, and quiet self-doubt. This month, I’ve started practicing gentleness—with my thoughts, my pace, and my imperfections.
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