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.
When the Soul Contract Is Complete
I have been thinking about soul contracts lately.
Not as a doctrine. Not as something I can prove. But as something I have come to understand through my own lived experience.
Perhaps the people who enter our lives do so for a reason.
Some come to love us.
Some come to challenge us.
Some come to mirror us.
Some come to awaken parts of us we had forgotten.
Some teach us through their presence, and some teach us through their absence.
And perhaps, in some way, we do the same for them.
I have begun to look at my relationships through this lens.
What if every significant relationship in our lives carries a lesson?
What if some relationships are not meant to last forever, but are meant to transform us?
For years, I believed that letting go meant detaching from someone or accepting that a relationship had changed.
Today, I think there is a deeper layer to letting go.
It is accepting that the purpose of a relationship may have already been fulfilled.
When the lesson has been learned
There are relationships in our lives that can feel like they were written into our story long before we understood why.
They bring joy, pain, love, disappointment, growth, confrontation, and sometimes profound awakening.
And when we are in the middle of them, we often ask:
Why is this happening to me?
Perhaps a different question is:
What is this relationship here to teach me?
That question changes everything.
It moves us from victimhood to curiosity.
From “Why did they do this to me?” to “What did this experience awaken within me?”
From “Why couldn’t this relationship be different?” to “Who have I become because of it?”
I have had relationships that have taught me about love.
Others have taught me about boundaries.
Some have taught me about self-worth.
Some have shown me what happens when we abandon ourselves while trying to hold on to someone else.
And some have taught me that love and attachment are not always the same thing.
Perhaps some contracts have an expiry date
I have wondered about this in relation to my own life.
My relationship with Ramesh changed me in ways I could never have imagined.
There was pain. There was betrayal. There was grief. There were questions I carried for years.
But there was also awakening.
I discovered parts of myself that I had buried. I returned to learning. I found my voice. I began looking inward. I started understanding my mind, my patterns, my wounds and, eventually, myself.
And then there are my relationships with my daughters.
They have taught me love in another dimension.
They have also taught me that children are not extensions of us. They have their own lives, their own journeys, their own perceptions and their own soul paths. Perhaps my role is not to hold on to them emotionally, but to love them while allowing them to walk their own paths. And perhaps that is one of the hardest forms of letting go.
Not letting go of love.
But letting go of expectations.
I am 57 now
And something inside me is changing. I find myself asking a different question:
What does my soul want now?
Not what does my family need from me?
Not what does society expect from me?
Not who needs me?
Not who will stay?
Not who will understand me?
But…
What is my soul calling me towards?
Maybe this is the time to stop defining my life through the relationships I have had and start defining it through the person I am becoming.
Maybe some soul contracts are complete. Not because they were failures. Not because the people involved were necessarily bad. Not because the love was not real. But because the lesson has been learned.
The chapter has served its purpose. And sometimes, completion is not dramatic. There may be no final conversation. No apology. No acknowledgement. No perfect closure.
Sometimes closure is simply the quiet realization within ourselves:
I understand now. I don’t need to carry this anymore.
The deepest letting go: I have spoken many times about letting go. But perhaps I am now discovering that there are layers to it.
First, we let go of the situation.
Then we let go of the anger.
Then we let go of the need for an apology.
Then we let go of the story we have told ourselves about what should have happened. And eventually, perhaps, we arrive at acceptance.
Acceptance does not mean saying that everything was okay.
It means saying:
This happened.
It changed me.
I learned from it.
And I choose not to let it define the rest of my life.
There is also self-forgiveness. Forgiving ourselves for the things we didn’t know. For the choices we made with the awareness we had at that time.
For staying too long. For trusting. For not speaking. For speaking too loudly. For losing ourselves. For trying to make relationships work.
For simply being human. And perhaps we need to extend that same freedom to others.
Not necessarily by bringing them back into our lives. But by releasing them from the emotional space they continue to occupy within us.
Maybe this is my next chapter
At 57, I don’t want my life to be about unfinished relationships. I want it to be about an unfinished calling. I want to discover what remains inside me that has not yet been expressed.
What can I create?
What can I contribute?
Whom can I help?
What can I learn?
What can I experience?
Who am I when I am no longer defined by being someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone’s daughter, someone’s friend?
Who am I simply as me?
Maybe this is what it means to begin living from the soul. Not running away from the people we have loved. Not denying the relationships that shaped us. But honouring them for what they were.
Some relationships may stay.
Some may change.
Some may become distant.
And some may simply belong to another chapter.
Perhaps that is okay. Perhaps we don’t have to keep every contract active just because it once existed.
Maybe some contracts are fulfilled.
Some lessons are complete.
Some doors have quietly closed.
And maybe, instead of standing at those doors wondering why they closed, we can finally turn around and ask:
Where does my soul want to go now?
Maybe the greatest act of letting go is not letting go of another person.
Maybe it is finally letting go of the version of ourselves that needed that relationship to continue.
And perhaps that is where freedom begins.
Healing Is Dimensional
Healing is not linear.
Healing is dimensional.
Some days, you may feel strong, peaceful, and completely free from something that once hurt deeply. And then, unexpectedly, a memory, a word, or a situation may bring the pain back.
It doesn’t mean you are back at the beginning.
It means you are meeting another layer of yourself.
Healing happens in dimensions—through the mind, body, emotions, relationships, beliefs, memories, and even the parts of ourselves we once had to hide to survive.
You may heal the wound, and later discover the belief beneath it.
You may forgive someone, and later realise you still need to forgive yourself.
You may let go of the person, but still need to let go of the story you created around what happened.
That is healing.
Not going backwards.
Going deeper.
So, don’t measure your healing by how little you hurt. Measure it by how differently you respond to the hurt.
Healing isn’t about becoming the person you were before the pain.
It is about becoming someone who no longer has to carry the pain in the same way.
Be patient with yourself. Healing has layers, and every layer brings you closer to yourself.
Alone, or Lonely in a Relationship?
Lately, I have come across this question again and again, on social media, in conversations, and sometimes in the quiet conversations we have with ourselves:
Is it better to live alone, or to live in a relationship where you feel lonely, unsupported, misunderstood, or deceived?
I don’t think there is one universal answer.
Because I have experienced both.
I have lived in a relationship where I was not physically alone, yet I often felt profoundly lonely. There were moments when I longed to be heard, understood, supported, or simply acknowledged. Being with someone does not automatically mean feeling connected to them.
Sometimes, the loneliest place can be a relationship where you cannot be emotionally safe enough to be yourself.
And then there is the other side.
Today, I live alone. There is a different kind of silence here. There is no one to automatically share the little things with the good news, the difficult day, the unexpected problem, or even something as simple as having someone ask, “How was your day?”
Living alone has its own challenges.
Especially when life becomes physically difficult. When you are unwell, tired, or vulnerable, independence can suddenly feel very different. You realise that emotional freedom and human connection are two different needs. We can be perfectly capable of standing on our own feet and still wish someone were standing beside us.
And perhaps that is what I have come to understand.
The opposite of loneliness is not necessarily a relationship. It is connection.
You can be surrounded by people and still feel invisible.
You can share a home with someone and feel emotionally abandoned.
You can be single and have meaningful friendships, family, community, purpose and a deep relationship with yourself.
And you can also live alone and sometimes feel lonely.
Both realities can exist at the same time.
I don’t believe we should romanticise either choice.
Being in a relationship simply for the sake of not being alone can come at a very high emotional cost. If honesty has disappeared, if trust has been replaced by suspicion, if communication has become manipulation, or if you constantly have to shrink yourself to keep the relationship intact, then being together may not actually be giving you companionship.
At the same time, leaving a relationship does not magically remove loneliness. There may be moments of doubt, fear, sadness and longing. There may be days when you miss having someone beside you, even if you don’t miss the relationship itself.
Perhaps the real question isn’t:
“Should I be alone or should I be in a relationship?”
Perhaps the deeper question is:
“Where can I live a life in which I don’t have to abandon myself to feel that I belong?”
Because sometimes we stay in relationships because we are afraid of being alone.
And sometimes we avoid relationships because we are afraid of being hurt again.
Both decisions can come from fear.
The healthier place, perhaps, is to ask ourselves what we truly need.
Do I feel respected?
Can I be honest?
Can I express my needs without being punished for having them?
Is there mutual effort?
Is there trust?
Can I remain myself in this relationship?
And if I am alone, am I building a life that is connected, meaningful and fulfilling—or am I simply withdrawing from the world because I am afraid of being hurt?
I am still learning this myself.
Living alone has taught me independence. But it has also taught me that independence does not mean we don’t need people.
It has taught me that asking for support does not make us weak.
And perhaps most importantly, it has taught me that peace and loneliness are not the same thing.
Sometimes peace initially feels like loneliness because we are so accustomed to chaos.
Sometimes silence feels uncomfortable because we have spent years listening to someone else’s expectations.
And sometimes being alone gives us the space to finally hear the voice we had been silencing for years.
So, is it better to live alone or to live in a lonely relationship?
Maybe neither is inherently better.
What matters is the quality of the life you are living and the person you are becoming while living it.
A relationship should not be a place where you disappear.
And solitude should not become a place where you stop connecting.
Perhaps the real goal is not simply to find someone to live with.
Perhaps it is to create a life where you can be connected without losing yourself, and alone without feeling abandoned by yourself.
Because at the end of the day, the most important relationship we will ever have is the one we have with ourselves.
And sometimes, coming home to ourselves is where healing begins.
SELF LOVE AND SOUL HEALING 