The Grace of Beginning Anew: Self-Healing Sundays EP22

Every heart knows the pull of a new beginning.
Whether it comes with the first sunrise of a new year, a new moon, a festival, or simply a quiet morning when you whisper, “I’m ready to begin again.”

Renewal is not bound by time. It happens whenever the soul decides to turn a page.

We often enter this season with pressure — to do more, become more, achieve more. But perhaps this time, renewal isn’t about striving. Perhaps it’s about softening — about carrying forward what is good and releasing what no longer needs to come with you.

Across the world’s wisdom traditions, the invitation to begin again is woven into every faith:

• Christianity: “Be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” — Romans 12:2
• Islam: “Indeed, Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves.” — Quran 13:11
• Buddhism: Each breath, each moment, is a chance to start anew — no past mistake can define the next step.
• Hinduism: The cycles of rebirth teach that nothing is final; every ending is a doorway to new life.
• Judaism: Teshuvah — the sacred act of returning — allows for constant renewal of spirit and purpose.
• Sikhism: Renewal begins with remembrance — remembering who you are in truth and light.
• Indigenous Teachings: The Earth herself begins again with each sunrise — a reminder that all of life is renewal in motion.

You don’t have to reinvent yourself this season — you only have to remember yourself.
Take the lessons, the kindness, the victories, and the love that shaped you last year — and bring them forward. Leave behind what was heavy.

The lesson is this: Renewal is not about becoming someone new; it’s about returning to the wholeness that has always been within you.

You do not have to rush into the future. Walk gently — you are already becoming.

Your Practice for Today

Find a quiet moment to reflect. Write down three things from the past year you want to carry forward — not goals, but truths:
“I am stronger than I thought.”
“I am learning to love myself as I am.”
“I can begin again.”

Then, light a candle, take a breath, and say softly:

“I bless the path behind me, and I bless the one before me.”

That is enough.
You are enough.
And your becoming has already begun.

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The Healing Power of Presence: Self-Healing Sundays EP19

We are surrounded by noise — messages, notifications, expectations, thoughts that never stop turning. We plan tomorrow while replaying yesterday, yet somehow miss the only place life truly happens: right now.

Presence is the language of the soul. It’s what allows you to feel the warmth of sunlight, the softness of breath, the depth of another’s eyes. It’s what brings you back from the mind’s chaos into the heart’s calm.

To be present is to return — to yourself, to this moment, to the sacredness that exists in the ordinary.

Across traditions, presence is the gateway to peace:

• Christianity: “Behold, I am with you always.” — Matthew 28:20 — a reminder that presence is divine companionship.
• Buddhism: Mindfulness (sati) is the path to awakening — the art of fully inhabiting the now.
• Islam: “And He is with you wherever you are.” — Quran 57:4 — the divine presence exists in every moment.
• Hinduism: “When the mind dwells in the present, there is no sorrow.” — The Bhagavad Gita 6:27
• Taoism: “Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?” — Lao Tzu — clarity arises from still presence.
• Indigenous Wisdom: Every step upon the earth is sacred when walked with awareness.

Presence doesn’t demand perfection. It only asks for attention.
When we show up fully — for a conversation, for a meal, for ourselves — life begins to feel less like something we’re managing, and more like something we’re meeting.

The lesson is this: Presence is not what you give to a moment — it’s what you receive from it. It is the medicine of now.

When you are truly here, peace no longer needs to be searched for — it is found.

Your Practice for Today

Pause and look around you.
Name out loud or in your heart three things that are real and alive in this moment — the sound of your breath, the color of light, the rhythm of your pulse.

Breathe, and say softly:

“I am here. This moment is enough.”

Return to this truth throughout your day. Presence is not an effort — it’s a homecoming.

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The Role of Archetypes: Jung’s Approach to Inferiority and the Collective Psyche Poem

This poem is inspired by my blog post ‘The Role of Archetypes: Jung’s Approach to Inferiority and the Collective Psyche’. You can find the full post here:

Lesson 134: The Role of Archetypes: Jung’s Approach to Inferiority and the Collective Psyche

We all carry places
where we feel small—
a quiet shrinking in the chest,
a whisper of not enough.

But what if the smallness
was not a flaw—
but a beginning?

We start our lives
tiny, trembling, dependent,
and from that soft beginning
we learn to rise.

The very place you feel weakest
is the soil where courage
learns to bloom.

So look inward—
into the dark rooms of the psyche,
where the parts you disown
curl like forgotten children
waiting to be seen.

The pieces you call “inferior”
are not stains to scrub away—
they are shadows holding truth,
tenderness, memory,
and the map back to yourself.

You are human—
and still unfolding.

Inferiority can warp itself
into masks—
the loudness of superiority,
the silence of self-rejection.
But if you listen closely,
it is simply an invitation
to evolve.

To say:
This hurts.
This scares me.
This part of me wants to grow.

Some rise by serving others,
finding purpose beyond themselves.
Some rise by meeting the hidden parts within
and turning toward them
with compassion.

There is no wrong doorway
into your own becoming.

So sit with the places
where you feel less than.
Let them speak.
Let them show you
what still longs for light.

And then rise—
not in perfection,
but in understanding.

You were meant
to shape yourself
from the inside out—
courage in one hand,
shadow in the other—
walking toward wholeness.

And when you finally step
through the doorway your fear once guarded,
you will see this truth:

Your “less than” was never a verdict—
it was a lantern.
Your shadow was never your enemy—
it was your guide.

And the smallness you once feared?
It was simply the narrowing
before the opening—
the inhale
before the becoming.

You do not grow away from yourself.
You grow into yourself.
And what you meet there
is not weakness—
but the beginning
of your strength.

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What We Wish For: A Reflection on Universal Aspirations Poem

This poem is inspired by my blog post ‘What We Wish For: A Reflection on Universal Aspirations Poem’. You can find the full post here:

Lesson 131: What We Wish For: A Reflection on Universal Aspirations

We are different in our stories—
in the losses we’ve carried,
in the dreams we’ve dared,
in the quiet battles no one else has seen.
Yet beneath the noise of living,
our hearts whisper the same soft things.

We wish for happiness—
not the kind that shouts,
but the kind that lets us rest inside ourselves,
unclenched, unhurried, whole.

We wish for health—
for bodies that don’t ache to be heard,
for minds that do not tremble in the dark,
for breath that comes easy
to us and to those we love.

We wish for enough—
enough steadiness to sleep without fear,
enough freedom to stop counting the days,
enough ease to simply be.

We wish for love—
for arms that feel like home,
for friendships that don’t flinch,
for people who stay
when life grows heavy.

We wish for peace—
a calm that doesn’t depend on circumstance,
a quiet that lives beneath the storms,
a world where safety isn’t a privilege
but a birthright.

We wish for success—
not applause or fame,
but the steady pride of becoming
the person we once hoped we’d be.

We wish for wisdom—
to understand ourselves,
to choose well,
to walk gently through the years ahead.

We wish for freedom—
to live honestly,
to speak clearly,
to follow the life within us
instead of the roles handed to us.

We wish to matter—
to leave fingerprints of goodness,
to soften someone’s world
just by being in it.

We wish to grow—
to heal what hurt,
to step out of the shadows we inherited,
to be someone
our younger self would run toward.

And beneath it all,
we wish for purpose—
a reason, a meaning,
a direction that steadies the soul.

These wishes…
they live in every culture,
every tongue,
every trembling human heart.

So when the world feels divided,
remember this truth:

We dream the same dreams.
We wish the same wishes.
We are far more alike than we are apart.

And in honoring these shared desires—
for peace, for love, for a life that feels like ours—
we honor the quiet thread
that binds all of humanity together.

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The Light of Hope: Self-Healing Sundays EP16

There are moments when life feels dim — when the weight of loss, fatigue, or uncertainty presses so heavily that even faith feels far away. Yet within the human spirit lives a tiny, stubborn light that refuses to go out. That light is hope.

Hope is not denial. It is not pretending everything is fine. Hope is the soul’s way of saying, there is more than this moment. It is the small candle that burns in the dark, the whisper that says, keep walking — dawn is on its way.

Across traditions, hope is seen as divine fire — a light given to guide us when the road is unclear:

• Christianity: “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” — Hebrews 11:1
• Islam: “Despair not of the mercy of Allah; indeed, Allah forgives all sins.” — Quran 39:53
• Judaism: “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.” — Psalm 126:5
• Hinduism: Hope (āśā) is the quiet trust that every soul moves toward light, no matter how long the night.
• Buddhism: In every ending, a new beginning waits; impermanence itself is hope.
• Sikhism: “Where there is hope, there is peace.” — Guru Granth Sahib, Ang 80

Hope does not always roar. Sometimes it flickers faintly, unseen — yet it is enough. Enough to rise one more morning, to believe one more time, to keep the heart open when everything in us wants to close.

The lesson is this: Hope is not the absence of struggle — it is the presence of spirit. It is the quiet knowing that life always finds a way forward.

Even the smallest flame can light a thousand others — hold on to yours.

Your Practice for Today

Find a small light source — a candle, a lamp, the sunrise through your window. Sit before it for a few minutes and breathe.
With each breath, repeat softly:

“Even now, there is light. Even now, I am guided.”

Let that light remind you: hope lives not in the outcome, but in the courage to keep believing.

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The Power of Gratitude And How it Can Change Your Life Poem

This poem is inspired by my blog post ‘The Power of Gratitude And How it Can Change Your Life‘. You can find the full post here:

Lesson 59: The Power of Gratitude And How it Can Change Your Life

In a world that whispers, “Want more, chase fast,”
We forget the blessings already amassed.
We search for tomorrow, for what might appear,
Yet miss the small wonders already here.

Gratitude isn’t just words we say,
It’s a lens, a light, a mindful way.
It shifts our gaze from lack to enough,
Softening the edges when life feels tough.

It brightens the mind, it steadies the soul,
It mends the heart, it makes us whole.
With thanks, our worries begin to release,
Replacing the chaos with calm and peace.

It deepens love, it strengthens ties,
It opens our hearts, it clears our eyes.
A smile, a note, a kind embrace—
Gratitude lingers, it leaves its trace.

It heals the body, it quiets the night, It helps us see meaning where pain had control. Through trials and storms, its roots hold strong,
Teaching us we’ve had strength all along.

So pause today, take a moment to see
The countless gifts surrounding thee.
For life grows richer, softer, true,
When gratitude lives each day in you.

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I Was Never Gone Poem

What made me, me, back then?
A laugh that turned heads,
a body alive with energy,
dreams stitched in tomorrow,
innocence stitched with hope.

My family gave enough,
not everything in the world,
but love,
and that was plenty.
I was radiant,
unstoppable,
full of life.

And then—
darkness came.
Ugly people with ugly hands
pulled at the edges of my light.
Lessons, they called them.
But those lessons stole years.
Peace shattered,
curiosity buried,
playfulness lost to survival.

I cried until my soul grew sore,
I carried my hunger for happiness, in ways that never fed me,
and let hate, anger, resentment
cling to my bones
as if they were mine to keep.
I dissociated—
here, but not here.
Alive, but not laughing.

But today—
I feel it in my body.
The body keeps the score,
and my body says:
enough.
My throat aches with truth,
my chest cracks open,
my tears finally know
what they’re crying for.

It was never about them.
It was always about me.
The girl I thought I’d lost—
she was never gone.
She was waiting
behind the dark curtain of years,
holding her laugh, her dreams,
her glow,
until I was ready to come back.

Now I see her.
Thin or not,
whole or not, free or not, happy or not, certain or not
she is me.
Radiant, powerful, unstoppable.
Beautiful because I exist.
Curious because I breathe.
Alive because I choose.

I was never my trauma.
I was never my mistakes.
I was never the darkness.
I am light.
I am laughter.
I am free.

Years may have been stolen,
but not me.
Never me.
I am still here.
And I am not leaving myself again.

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