Today, my oldest daughter told me something that stayed with me.
She said she remembers me saying mean things to them.
For a moment, I found myself looking back at those years through a different lens.
Because I remember things differently.
I remember trying to be honest. I remember saying what I believed was the truth, sometimes without softening it enough. Perhaps my words were harsh at times. Perhaps my frustration came through more strongly than my love did. I can accept that.
But what made me sad wasn’t really hearing that my daughter remembered me as mean.
What hurt was wondering how much of her perception of me had been shaped by what she was hearing and experiencing around me.
There were things I didn’t know.
There were conversations I wasn’t part of.
There were secrets between a father and his children, “Don’t tell Mama.”
And when a child is repeatedly placed in that kind of space, something happens. They begin to carry information, loyalties and perceptions that they are too young to understand. They may start seeing one parent through the eyes of the other.
I don’t want to rewrite my children’s memories. Their feelings are theirs, and I respect them.
If I hurt them with my words, I want to have the courage to acknowledge that and I have done that.
But I also wish there had been space for them to know the whole woman behind those words, not just the mother who was sometimes angry, frustrated, strict or blunt, but the mother who was carrying her own pain, trying to hold a family together, and loving them in the only ways she knew at that time.
Perhaps this is one of the hardest things about healing.
You begin to discover that everyone remembers the same house differently.
One person remembers the arguments.
Another remembers the silence.
Someone remembers being protected.
Someone else remembers feeling controlled.
And a mother may remember all the things she was trying to hold together while everyone else was simply trying to survive their own version of the story.
I don’t want to defend myself anymore.
I don’t want to convince my children that their memories are wrong.
I only want them, as adults, to eventually have enough space to look back and ask:
What was really happening to all of us?
Because perhaps I wasn’t always the mother I wanted to be.
But I also wasn’t the mother I may have been made out to be.
And there is a difference.
Today, I am learning that healing isn’t about proving who was right.
It is about allowing the truth to become bigger than the versions of it that we carried for years.
And maybe, someday, my children and I can sit together—not to decide whose memory is correct, but to understand each other’s memories with compassion.
Because sometimes the truth isn’t found in one person’s story.
Sometimes it lives somewhere between all of them.
When Being Always There Becomes Being Taken for Granted
A mother is always there.
Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, quietly. She is there through the ordinary days, the difficult days, the arguments, the disappointments, the celebrations, the illnesses, the growing pains, and all the little moments in between.
Irrespective of how the children behave, what they say, or what they do, a mother often remains there.
And perhaps that is where a strange chemistry develops between a mother and her children.
A father, especially one who travels frequently or is around only on weekends, can sometimes become a different kind of presence. His time may feel more limited, more special, perhaps even more noticeable. The children may look forward to that time because it is not as constant.
But a mother?
She is simply there.
And sometimes, I wonder if that is why children can unknowingly take their mothers for granted.
I say this from my own lived experience.
There were times when I felt that my children assumed I would always be there. That no matter what happened, I would manage, adjust, forgive, understand, show up and keep going.
Perhaps they didn’t mean to hurt me.
Perhaps they were simply secure in the belief that their mother would never leave.
But there is a difference between feeling secure in someone’s love and becoming so accustomed to it that you stop noticing what it costs that person to keep giving.
As a mother, we don’t always talk about the exhaustion behind our availability.
We don’t talk about the sacrifices we quietly made.
We don’t always say, “I needed you too.”
And then, one day, something happens and we realise that perhaps we have been taken for granted.
That realisation hurts.
Not because we expect our children to repay us for being their mother. Motherhood is not an investment expecting returns.
But we do hope to be seen.
Seen not just as the mother who will always handle everything, but as a woman who has feelings, needs, vulnerabilities and a heart that can also become tired.
Maybe this is another lesson I am learning with age:
Being someone’s constant does not mean you should become invisible.
And perhaps our children need to grow into understanding that the person who was always there was not there because she didn’t have a life of her own.
She was there because she loved them.
Maybe one day they will understand that behind the mother who seemed endlessly strong was a woman who also needed to be held, heard, appreciated and cared for.
And until then, perhaps I need to remind myself that being taken for granted does not make my love less valuable.
It only means that sometimes, the people who have received the most of us don’t realise the magnitude of what we gave.
I can love my children deeply and still acknowledge that it hurt.
Both can be true.
Because a mother’s love may be unconditional.
But a mother’s heart is still human.
Maybe There Is No Perfect Timing
We often talk about perfect timing.
We wait for the right moment to say what we feel, to make that phone call, to express our love, to take that decision, to begin something new. We tell ourselves, “I’ll do it when the time is right.”
But lately, I have begun to wonder, what if there is no perfect timing?
What if whatever happens, happens exactly as it is meant to for that particular moment?
Sometimes we meet someone when we are not ready. Sometimes an opportunity comes when our life is messy. Sometimes a goodbye happens before we have said everything we wanted to say. And sometimes we keep waiting for the right moment, only to realise that the moment has quietly passed.
Life doesn’t always give us a second chance.
We postpone conversations because we think there will be another day. We hold back affection because we assume people already know how we feel. We delay dreams because we are waiting for circumstances to become perfect.
But circumstances rarely become perfect.
There will always be something- fear, uncertainty, responsibilities, finances, timing, expectations, or simply life itself.
Maybe the lesson is not to wait for the perfect moment. Maybe the moment we are living is the perfect moment for whatever is happening in our life right now.
The difficult moments teach us something. The unexpected moments change our direction. The beautiful moments remind us to be grateful. Even the moments we wish had never happened become part of the person we eventually become.
So perhaps, instead of asking, “Is this the right time?” we should sometimes ask, “What can I do with this moment?”
Say the words.
Make the call.
Hug the person.
Apologise if you need to.
Tell someone you love them.
Start the thing you have been postponing.
Take the trip.
Laugh without worrying about tomorrow.
And if something is sitting quietly in your heart, don’t always assume there will be a better time to say it.
Because tomorrow is only a possibility.
This moment is real.
I am learning that living in the moment doesn’t mean being careless about the future. It means not sacrificing the present while constantly preparing for a future that may not look the way we imagined.
Perhaps there is no such thing as perfect timing.
Perhaps there is only this moment—and what we choose to do with it.
So next time your heart tells you to say something, do something, love someone, begin again or simply enjoy where you are…
Don’t wait too long.
Live it. Say it. Feel it.
Because sometimes, the moment we keep waiting for is the moment we are already living.
The Feeling of Lack
Sometimes, the greatest lack in life is not the absence of something. It is the inability to see what is already present.
We keep looking at what is missing, the money we don’t have, the relationship we wish were different, the security we haven’t found, the future we cannot predict. And somewhere in that constant looking ahead, we forget to pause and acknowledge what we have today.
Perhaps this is one of the fundamental struggles of being human: future insecurity quietly steals present gratitude.
We worry about what will happen tomorrow, whether we will have enough, whether someone will stay, whether life will work out, whether we will be financially secure, emotionally safe, or physically capable of handling what comes next.
And these fears are not always irrational. Some insecurities are very real. Life can change. People can leave. Circumstances can shift. Financial stability can disappear. We cannot pretend that everything will always be okay.
But when our mind lives permanently in the future, even the blessings of today begin to feel insignificant.
We may have a roof over our head, food on the table, people who care about us, the ability to wake up another morning, memories that make us smile, and the freedom to make certain choices—and yet our mind keeps saying, “But what if I don’t have this tomorrow?”
So we fail to experience what we have because we are already grieving what we might lose.
Maybe gratitude is not about convincing ourselves that everything is perfect.
Maybe gratitude is simply learning to say:
“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but today, I have this.”
I have this moment.
I have this breath.
I have this person.
I have this home.
I have this opportunity.
I have myself.
The feeling of lack can become a habit if we constantly measure our lives against an imagined future. And the more we focus on what is missing, the more invisible what is present becomes.
Perhaps the real work is not to stop planning for the future. It is to stop living emotionally in a future that hasn’t happened yet.
Prepare, yes.
Be responsible, yes.
Think about tomorrow, yes.
But don’t sacrifice today to protect yourself from every possible tomorrow.
Because one day, we may look back and realise that while we were so busy worrying about whether life would give us enough, we forgot to be grateful for the life that was already giving us something.
Maybe abundance begins there not when we have everything we want, but when we finally learn to recognise what we already have.
Was It Love, or Was It Need?
For years, I never questioned the difference between love and need.
Perhaps because they coexist so quietly that, at times, you don’t even know which one is speaking.
I thought I stayed because I loved. I kept adjusting because I cared. I kept hoping because I believed that somewhere underneath everything, there was love.
Years passed.
And somewhere along the way, I began to realize that love and need had become so intertwined that I could no longer tell them apart.
Maybe I needed the relationship to work because I had invested so much of my life into it. Maybe I needed to feel wanted, respected, acknowledged. Maybe I needed to believe that everything I had endured had a meaning and that, eventually, things would become different.
And perhaps that need made me hold on to what I called love.
Looking back now, I wonder how many years we spend believing in something simply because accepting the truth would mean accepting that we may have misunderstood our own lives.
There is another difficult question too:
Was I loved, or was I needed?
Because being needed can sometimes feel like being loved.
Someone may need your presence, your care, your support, your sacrifices, your ability to keep things together. And when you are needed, you can convince yourself that you are loved.
Until one day, you realize that being needed and being cherished are not the same thing.
Love should not make you constantly question your worth.
Love should not require you to disappear slowly so that someone else can remain comfortable.
And love should not leave you wondering for years whether you mattered.
I don’t say this with anger anymore.
I say it with the clarity that comes when you have lived long enough to look back without trying to rewrite the past.
Maybe I did love.
Maybe I also needed.
Maybe both were true.
And maybe that is what made it so difficult to see the truth for so many years.
But perhaps healing is exactly this, slowly separating love from need, attachment from belonging, sacrifice from self-abandonment.
And finally understanding that love is not simply about how much we can endure for someone.
Sometimes, love is also knowing when we have endured enough.
And sometimes the greatest act of love we can finally give ourselves is the courage to see the truth.
He Didn’t Hate Me — He Just Didn’t Love Me Enough to Care
For years, I carried a belief that he hated me.
I thought the way I was treated, the things I went through, and the years of emotional and financial uncertainty were because he wanted to hurt me. I kept asking myself, How could someone who once shared a life with me be so indifferent to what happens to me?
But somewhere along my healing journey, I have come to a different realisation.
Maybe he didn’t hate me. Maybe the truth was harder to accept, he simply never loved me enough to care.
Not enough to worry about what would happen to me after everything fell apart. Not enough to think about how I would rebuild my life in my fifties. Not enough to wonder whether I would have the financial security to start again. Not enough to respect the years we had shared or the vulnerability of the person standing on the other side of the relationship.
And perhaps that is why it hurt so deeply. Because hatred still means you matter. It means there is emotion, attachment, even a connection of some kind.
Indifference is different.
Realising this has changed something inside me. I no longer need to explain his actions through hatred. I don’t need to believe that every painful thing was deliberately done to punish me.
Maybe he just didn’t have the love, care, responsibility, or respect that I needed and deserved from a partner. And that is painful to acknowledge, but strangely, it is also freeing.
Because I spent years asking, “Why did he do this to me?”
Now I am beginning to ask a different question:
“Why did I keep believing that his lack of love had to determine my worth?”
I cannot change how he loved me.
I cannot change the years that have passed.
I cannot change the circumstances in which I had to begin again.
But I can choose what I do with the life I have left.
Starting over at 57 was never what I imagined. But perhaps starting over is not about rebuilding the life I lost.
Perhaps it is about finally building a life that does not depend on someone else choosing to love, care for, or respect me. And maybe that is where my healing truly begins.
We Are Not Always on Our Way
The reality of life is that we are often in our way of life, not simply on our way through it.
We grow up believing that life is a journey with a destination. We are told to keep moving, to let go, to move on. But sometimes, “move on” feels almost impossible, not because we are weak, stubborn, or unwilling, but because life is not always a straight road.
We live. We experience. We love. We lose. We make mistakes. We carry memories. We change. And somewhere along the way, certain moments become part of who we are.
So perhaps moving on was never meant to mean leaving everything behind.
Maybe it means learning to carry what happened without allowing it to decide where we go next.
There are seasons in life when moving forward feels rigid, almost like something we should be doing because everyone expects us to. But healing doesn’t always work according to timelines. Sometimes we need to pause. Sometimes we need to understand. Sometimes we need to revisit what hurt us, not to live there again, but to finally understand why it still has a hold on us.
We are not merely passing through life.
We are living it.
And when we are living it, every experience leaves something behind – a lesson, a scar, a memory, a realization, or sometimes simply a deeper understanding of ourselves.
Perhaps the real movement is not from past to future.
Perhaps it is from who we were to who we are becoming.
And maybe that is why “move on” can feel so difficult.
Because sometimes, we don’t need to move on.
We simply need to move forward, with everything we have learned, everything we have survived, and everything we are still becoming.
Memories Are Never Ending
Memories are never really ending.
They are like a lamp lit within you, sometimes glowing softly in the background, sometimes suddenly becoming brighter and bringing an entire moment back to life.
There are beautiful memories, painful memories, memories that make us smile, and others that still carry a little ache. Some memories we hold close because they remind us of love, laughter, and moments we never want to forget. Others, we wish we could simply put away.
But the mind has its own way of wandering.
Sometimes I catch myself going back to old conversations, old places, old relationships, and moments that have already passed. And then I consciously stop myself. Not because those memories don’t matter, but because I don’t want to keep living inside them.
Maybe this, too, is a part of healing.
Healing isn’t necessarily about forgetting. It may be about learning that we can remember without returning.
I don’t have to fight every memory that comes. I don’t have to analyse it, change it, or find another ending for it. I can simply acknowledge it and allow it to pass.
Some memories will always remain a part of me. They have shaped me, taught me, broken me, strengthened me, and helped me understand who I am today.
But they don’t have to define where I go next.
Perhaps healing is when the lamp within us continues to burn, but we no longer need to keep staring into its light.
We can honour what was, gently release what no longer serves us, and turn our eyes toward what is still unfolding.
Because memories may be never-ending.
But our life is still being written.
Permission Before Forgiveness
“It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.”
I’ve heard this saying many times. But through my lived experiences and my learning, I’ve come to believe that while it may be easier, it is often kinder to ask for permission.
Especially when a decision involves someone else.
There have been times when I thought I was doing something for everyone’s benefit, only to realise later that the other person didn’t see it that way. What felt like a practical decision to me may have felt hurtful, intrusive, or insensitive to someone else.
My learning has been simple: don’t assume. Ask.
We never truly know what someone else is carrying emotionally. They may already be sensitive, overwhelmed, or on edge. Something that seems small to us may touch a much deeper place in them.
This doesn’t mean we need permission to live our lives or make our own choices. It simply means that when our choices directly affect another person, consideration matters.
A little pause.
A simple question.
A moment of awareness.
Sometimes, that is all it takes to prevent unnecessary hurt.
Through my lived experience, I’ve learned that being considerate doesn’t make us weak or dependent on others. It makes us aware.
So before you act on what you believe is best for everyone, perhaps pause and ask:
“How will this affect the person involved?”
Because sometimes, forgiveness can repair what permission might have prevented.
And perhaps kindness is not always about what we do for others.
Sometimes, it is about remembering to include them in the decision.
When You Stop Defending Yourself
Sometimes, when people repeatedly blame or misunderstand us, we keep defending ourselves. We explain our intentions, our feelings, and our side of the story, hoping that if we explain it well enough, they will finally understand.
But there comes a point when we realise that we cannot explain ourselves into someone else’s understanding.
People see us through their own perceptions, experiences, beliefs, and sometimes their own wounds. And unless they choose to see us differently, no amount of defending ourselves will change their perspective.
We can clarify. We can take responsibility for what is ours. We can communicate honestly.
But we don’t have to keep proving who we are.
Sometimes, peace begins when we can say:
“I know who I am. I know what I experienced. I don’t need everyone to understand me.”
Not every misunderstanding needs a defence.
Sometimes, letting go of the need to be understood is an act of self-respect.
SELF LOVE AND SOUL HEALING 