We often measure strength by how much we can hold—how many burdens we can carry, how many responsibilities we can juggle, or how much pain we can endure without breaking. Society celebrates endurance and persistence, but rarely does it honour the quiet, transformative strength that comes from releasing.
True strength is not about holding on to everything. It is about knowing when to loosen our grip.
Letting go does not mean giving up. It means recognizing the natural flow of life and choosing not to fight against it. It is the wisdom to trust that the universe has its own rhythm—one that carries us exactly where we need to be.
Carrying too much—whether it’s expectations, past wounds, toxic relationships, or even self-imposed pressure—eventually weighs down the spirit. The soul longs for freedom, but the mind often clings in fear of loss or uncertainty. Strength is not in clinging but in surrendering.
When we release, we create space. Space for healing. Space for clarity. Space for new opportunities that align with our path. By surrendering, we allow the universe to take over where our human limitations end. This is not weakness; it is alignment with something greater than ourselves.
The strongest souls are not those who bear the heaviest loads but those who learn to release them with grace.
So ask yourself today: What am I still holding that no longer serves me? And
Your Body Is Not Betraying You , It’s Speaking to You
Every ache, every discomfort, and every lingering pain in your body is not random. It’s not even a betrayal. Instead, it is a whisper sometimes a cry from your soul. Our physical body and our soul are not separate; they are deeply intertwined. Every sensation we experience carries a meaning, a coded message waiting to be heard, seen, and understood.
We often approach illness as an enemy to fight, as though our bodies have turned against us. But what if illness is not punishment or betrayal but guidance? What if the body is the most honest messenger we have pointing us toward what is unseen, unspoken, and unacknowledged within us?
When you feel pain, it’s not just tissue or nerve endings. It’s also the weight of emotions stored, memories unhealed, and truths left unsaid. When your body slows you down with sickness, it might be your soul’s way of saying: “Pause. Listen. Something within you needs care, love, and light.”
Illness becomes the language through which the soul communicates. For some, it may manifest as chronic fatigue that calls attention to boundaries never set. For others, digestive issues may reflect the inability to fully “digest” life’s experiences. For many, pain is a reflection of old wounds and unresolved grief seeking acknowledgement.
Healing, then, is not only about treating the symptoms but listening to the message. Instead of silencing discomfort with quick fixes, we can learn to sit with it, to ask: What is this sensation teaching me? What part of me has been unseen or unheard?
Your body is not your enemy. It is your greatest ally in the journey of becoming whole. Illness can serve as a doorway to deeper awareness, leading you back to the parts of yourself that you’ve overlooked the emotions you buried, the truths you avoided, the inner child you silenced.
To embrace this perspective is to move from fear to compassion, from resistance to acceptance. And in that space, true healing begins.
Ode to my heart
Oh, my heart,
You have carried the heaviest burdens in silence.
You beat faithfully even when sorrow weighed you down,
even when betrayal tried to shatter your rhythm.
You have held love so vast
it overflowed into the lives of my daughters,
wrapping them in safety,
reminding them that they were cherished
even when I felt unseen myself.
You have endured the sting of words,
the ache of rejection,
the emptiness of being blamed for not being enough
when in truth, you gave more than enough.
You gave everything.
Oh, my heart,
You were never cold,
even when others mistook your strength for hardness.
You stayed soft,
even when it hurt to stay open.
You are not just a vessel of survival —
you are the temple of love,
the fire of resilience,
the place where spirit and body meet in sacred rhythm.
My heart,
I honour you now.
For every beat that carried me through the storms.
For every tear you allowed me to shed.
For every time you whispered, keep going.
I promise to listen to you more,
to honour your wisdom,
to let you rest in peace when weary,
and to let you soar when joy calls.
Oh, my heart,
you are my compass,
my courage,
my home.
The Many Faces of Uncertainty
We often imagine uncertainty as a single, looming shadow, as though it were one vast fog obscuring the road ahead. But uncertainty is not monolithic. It is more like a shifting landscape, sometimes a dense forest, sometimes an open sky, sometimes an ocean with tides that carry us in directions we can not predict. To understand uncertainty is to see that it wears many faces, each one inviting us into a different relationship with the unknown.
At times, uncertainty feels like risk. This is the river we stand before, knowing there are stones beneath the surface but unable to see which will hold our weight. We are aware of the possibilities, yet the crossing requires a leap of faith. This is the uncertainty of new beginnings of moving, choosing, and loving, where the waters remind us that control is never absolute.
Then there is ambiguity, the mist on the mountain path. Here, even the trail itself disappears. We are not only unsure of the outcome but also of the very terrain we walk upon. Illness, crisis, and deep change, these moments dissolve the maps we once trusted. Ambiguity asks us not for answers but for presence: to breathe, to pause, to feel our way through the fog one step at a time.
Another form is complexity, the great forest of interwoven roots and branches. In such places, no single path is obvious because everything touches everything else. Climate, relationships, societies, these webs remind us that life’s uncertainty is not chaos but depth, a richness beyond what a single mind can fully trace. The forest humbles us into reverence for the whole.
And finally, uncertainty can arrive as possibility, the open horizon of the sea at dawn. Here, the unknown is not threatening but generative. Artists, seekers, and dreamers set sail on these waters, where no map exists, only the wind and the call of imagination. This is the uncertainty that births innovation, creativity, and new ways of being.
When we collapse all forms of uncertainty into fear, we miss its subtleties, its gifts. But when we ask, what kind of uncertainty is this? we begin to see more clearly. Sometimes it is the river, sometimes the mist, sometimes the forest, sometimes the sea. And in that recognition, uncertainty softens. It becomes not a void to fear but a horizon to lean into, a reminder that life is not defined by what is certain but by how we journey through what is not.
Ode to My Eyes
Oh, my eyes,
You have been the quiet witnesses of my journey.
You have seen the storms of betrayal,
the weight of rejection,
and the sharp edges of words that tried to break me.
You have also seen my daughters’ faces,
their laughter, their innocence,
and the beauty of souls untainted by society’s harsh gaze.
Through you, I have watched them grow,
and through you, I remind them — and myself —
that true beauty lives deeper than skin.
My eyes,
You have reflected back in mirrors,
sometimes with judgment, sometimes with shame,
shrinking under the comparisons
of a world that prized appearance over essence.
Yet you never stopped seeking the light.
Even in my darkest nights,
you searched for hope,
and you found it.
You are not just windows to my soul,
you are guardians of truth.
You hold my pain, yes,
but you also hold my strength,
my resilience,
my unwavering love.
Oh, my eyes,
I honour you.
I thank you for seeing what needed to be seen,
for crying the tears I could no longer hold inside,
for softening now as I look at myself with kindness.
You remind me every day
that beauty is not in being looked at,
but in how we choose to see.
A Letter to My Body
Dear Body,
I see you. I know I haven’t always treated you with the tenderness you deserve. Growing up, no one told me about good touch, bad touch, or even the simple changes you would go through. You felt like a mystery, and I didn’t always know how to honour you. As I grew older, the world around me placed such heavy expectations on you, on how you should look, on how you should please, on how you should exist for others. Sometimes, I believed them. Sometimes, I forgot that you are not an object for display, but the home of my spirit.
When I got married, the pressure on you only grew. People said things that pierced me deeply, that you should be maintained, that you should serve like a prostitute for a husband, that love was measured through your appearance. It sounded more like lust than love-making. Those words hurt us both. They made me feel ashamed of you, as though you were never enough. I hated carrying that shame, but it was too heavy to ignore. Eventually, it sank into you, and you carried the weight in the form of illness and extra pounds. You held my pain, even when I could not name it.
And then there was him, my husband, who blamed me for not being available, even though we both knew I was always there. His rejection made me look at you with suspicion, as though you were somehow lacking. But you were never lacking. You were always faithful, always present, always carrying me through.
Body, I want you to know that I am sorry for the times I treated you like an enemy. I am sorry for shrinking in front of mirrors, for measuring you against standards that were never ours to begin with. I am sorry for ignoring your whispers when you asked for rest, for compassion, for care.
But I also want you to know that I am grateful. You gave me three beautiful daughters, you held me upright in storms, you carried me through shame and heartbreak. You endured trauma, cultural pressure, and judgment, yet you kept me alive. You are not an object. You are my sanctuary, my strength, my witness, and my faithful companion.
From today, I promise to treat you with love. To rest when you ask. To nourish you with care. To move you with joy. To stand in front of the mirror with softer eyes and whisper words of gratitude. I want to remember that you are not separate from my mind and heart—you are me. And I choose to honour you, not just for how you look, but for all that you carry.
With love and tenderness,
Me
Scarcity Mindset: The Ancient Story Our Minds Still Tell
For much of human history, life was uncertain. Our ancestors lived through harsh seasons, unpredictable harvests, and the constant possibility of losing what they had. To survive, they learned to store, protect, and hold on to resources tightly. That instinct kept them alive.
Today, most of us don’t face the same daily threats to survival, yet the old story still lives in our nervous system. It shows up in what we call the scarcity mindset—the quiet fear of not having enough. It’s the reason we sometimes hoard things we don’t need, work ourselves to exhaustion in search of security, or feel uneasy when others succeed, as if their gain leaves us with less.
Scarcity narrows our vision. When we believe resources are limited—whether that’s money, time, or love—we tend to cling, compete, and worry. It’s as though our mind zooms in only on what’s missing, leaving us blind to what is already present. While this reaction once served as protection, today it can keep us from experiencing peace, generosity, and trust.
The shift begins with awareness. When we catch ourselves gripped by “not enough,” we can pause and remember: this fear is ancient, but not always true. Gratitude opens the heart. Sharing reminds us that abundance is often found in relationships, not possessions. Trusting life, even in small steps, teaches the nervous system that we are safer than we think.
Scarcity mindset is not a flaw—it is a survival echo. But we are more than our instincts. By honoring the past while choosing differently in the present, we begin to loosen our grip and discover that real security comes not from hoarding, but from connection, compassion, and the freedom to let go.
What feels like Home
Home is not just walls or a place; home is the embrace of my parents, the safety of knowing they were my roots. Home is the laughter and warmth of family, the place where I first learnt love and belonging.
Home is, in my amazing, beautiful girls, in their voices, their hugs, and the way they carry parts of me within them. With them, I feel both anchor and purpose. They remind me that love can be reborn and that my body gave life to something sacred.
But most of all, I am learning that home is where the heart is, not in fixed destinations, but within me. My sacred body is my true home, where I carry my stories, my scars, my resilience, and my love. Wherever I go, I carry home within.
Sunitta-Saira. Jethnani
When Strength is Misunderstood
I have always carried a deep respect for individual differences. I never wanted to impose my way of thinking or living on those I love. Yet, despite this, I often found myself misunderstood. My family sometimes saw me as opinionated, bossy, or strong-headed. Those words have weighed heavily on me, not because I saw myself that way, but because they painted a picture far from my intention.
The truth is, I am an organized and disciplined person. Structure gives me peace, and responsibility feels natural to me. But my discipline has never been about controlling others, and my opinions were never meant to belittle anyone. Still, what was in my heart did not always match what others chose to see.
This has made me reflect on a universal truth: we rarely see each other exactly as we are. We filter people’s actions through our own perceptions, wounds, and expectations. What looks like confidence to one might look like arrogance to another. What feels like love to one might feel like control to someone else.
The more I sit with this, the more I realize that the only thing I can truly honor is my own intention. If I know my heart is clear, I do not need to shrink to fit into someone else’s misunderstanding of me. Strength will sometimes be misread. Discipline will sometimes be resented. But that does not mean I must stop being who I am.
Perhaps the real lesson is that love is not only about accepting others’ differences—it is also about learning to stand firm in our own truth, even when it is not fully understood.
A Letter to Myself – Reclaiming My Agency
I see the pain you carried when you were left waiting, waiting for love, waiting for touch, waiting for your husband to notice and choose you. I know how heavy it felt to be met with rejection, to feel invisible in the very place where you longed to be seen the most.
But today, I want you to know this truth: you were never the problem. Your desire for intimacy, for closeness, for affection was never too much. It was human, it was natural, and it was beautiful. His emotional and physical unavailability was not a mirror of your worth. It was a reflection of his own limitations, his inability to show up.
You did not lack agency because you were weak. You lacked agency because the space you were in did not allow you to use your voice without fear of rejection. But now, you are learning that your body, your emotions, and your needs are sacred. They deserve to be heard, respected, and cherished.
From this day forward, you do not need to wait for someone else to validate your worth. Your agency lies in your choices, your choice to say yes, your choice to say no, your choice to claim what feels good and what feels right for you.
You are not defined by rejection. You are defined by your resilience, your truth, and your ability to keep loving, even after the pain.
With compassion and strength,
SELF LOVE AND SOUL HEALING 