In the quiet pauses of life, when our prayers seem unanswered and our hearts grow restless, we are invited to remember three eternal companions: Sabar (Patience), Shukur (Gratitude), and Yakeen (Faith).
A simple story illustrates this truth beautifully.
Two beggars came to a door seeking bread. One was handed a loaf immediately and sent away. The other was asked to wait. As moments turned into hours, doubt filled his heart: “Why am I being denied? What fault lies within me that the other was preferred?”
Unbeknownst to him, a fresh loaf was still in the oven, being baked especially for him—something warmer, fresher, and more fulfilling than what the first beggar had received.
This is how divine wisdom unfolds. What feels like delay is often preparation. What feels like silence is often God arranging something better. His timing is never rushed, never delayed—always perfect.
To endure these waiting seasons, we are called to embody:
Sabar (Patience): the surrender that accepts God’s timing with serenity.
Shukur (Gratitude): the light that keeps us grounded in thankfulness for what already is.
Yakeen (Faith): the unshakable trust that God is always weaving goodness, even when we can not see the threads.
We do not know what tomorrow holds, but we know the One who holds tomorrow. And that alone is enough to soften the heart and quiet the soul.
As the wise saying goes:
“My heart is at ease knowing that what was meant for me will never miss me, and what misses me was never meant for me.”
When life feels uncertain, let us anchor ourselves in patience, gratitude, and faith. For in them lies the secret to inner peace and the trust that everything—every delay, every blessing, every trial—is happening for our highest good.
A Gentle Prayer:
Dear Universe. Grant me Sabar to wait with peace, Shukur to cherish every blessing, and Yakeen to trust Your wisdom in all that unfolds. Let my heart rest in the certainty that what You have written for me is always for my highest good.
Happiness is Grown, Not Found
Many of us hold onto the idea that happiness lives somewhere beyond our current reality, on the other side of a new job, a new relationship, or a fresh start. But the truth is, happiness doesn’t magically appear after change. It’s cultivated in the soil of where you already stand, with the seeds of daily effort and consistency.
It’s tempting to chase greener pastures, imagining that fulfilment waits for us elsewhere. Yet, like any garden, growth doesn’t happen by chance. It requires intention, care, and commitment. A career doesn’t blossom overnight. It thrives when you nurture your skills, show up with integrity, and keep learning. Relationships don’t deepen by default. They grow when we listen, invest time, and offer kindness. Even health and personal goals demand steady attention; neglecting them while waiting for “the right time” only delays progress.
Running away from problems might give temporary relief, but it rarely provides lasting peace. Solutions emerge not from avoidance but from the willingness to nurture change where it matters most. When you water the areas of your life that feel dry or neglected, you give them the chance to flourish.
The myth of “perfect circumstances” often keeps us stuck. We wait for the right moment, the right person, or the right conditions to finally live fully. But perfection isn’t coming. It’s something we create through the way we choose to show up, even in imperfect situations.
Happiness, then, is not a destination waiting “out there.” It’s a practice of building and shaping your present reality. Each choice to invest in what you have, each moment of consistency, and each act of care lays the foundation for the life you want.
Stop searching for a flawless life. Start shaping one. Because the joy you seek is not far away, it’s already within reach, in the way you decide to live today.
This is me. I honour this strength
Today, I honour my strengths. I acknowledge the gifts Maa has placed within me. I am complete, I am whole, I am divine.”
I have the courage to face storms in life and rise again.
I hold deep compassion and empathy for others.
I carry resilience, even when life tests me to my core.
I have the wisdom to surrender and trust divine timing.
I show dedication and sincerity in everything I commit to.
I value growth and learning, even when it feels uncomfortable.
I have the strength to let go of what no longer serves me.
I nurture others with love and guidance.
I am creative in thought and expression.
I bring discipline and organization into my work.
I hold faith that carries me through uncertainty.
I have the ability to reflect, heal, and transform pain into wisdom.
I possess the strength to choose peace over conflict.
I radiate Shakti, the power of divine feminine energy.
Divine gratitude to Maa Durga for guiding you through these nine days and for blessing me with these strengths.
You are not lost. You are being realigned
Life has a way of making us believe that discomfort is a sign of failure, rejection, or a dead end. Yet, if we look closer, discomfort is rarely a wall that blocks us. More often, it is a doorway waiting to be opened, a threshold asking us to step into a new chapter.
When everything feels shaky, when nothing seems to fit, it’s not because you’ve taken the wrong path. It’s because you’re being asked to realign with the truth of who you are becoming. Growth does not happen in the comfort zone; it happens when your soul is nudged to stretch, to shed, to evolve. That unease you feel is not punishment. It’s guidance.
Think of the moments in your life when change felt like chaos. At the time, it may have seemed like you were falling apart, but in hindsight, those very seasons often led you toward clarity, strength, and alignment with your deeper self. The trembling steps you take now are not signs of weakness but of courage. Even small, shaky movements through uncertainty bring you closer to the life that is waiting on the other side of the doorway.
So when you feel lost, pause and remember: you are not off-track. You are in transition. You are being gently, though sometimes painfully, realigned with what truly belongs to you. Trust the process. Trust yourself. And when fear whispers that you’re not ready, walk forward anyway. Doorways don’t stay open forever—this one is yours to step through.
True Strength: The Wisdom of Letting Go
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
SELF LOVE AND SOUL HEALING 