Who would have thought that?

I read a lot of articles, and many of them go something like this:

“ChatGPT told me my partner is cheating on me…”

“ChatGPT told me to lose weight…”

“ChatGPT told me to quit my job…”

“ChatGPT told me to break up with my partner…”

“ChatGPT ruined my life…”

And the list goes on.

Disclaimer: I'm speaking purely from a non-judgmental place about how people choose to seek support, not about the wider impacts of AI.

Where it begins: The Judgment of How We Seek Support

What I keep noticing is the blame game.

On one side, people talk about how much AI tools have helped them. On the other hand, people shame others for using them at all.

But all of this is filtered through your perspective. Through your own personal bias. Through a lens of what each of us believes is right, wrong, healthy, unhealthy, wise, reckless, acceptable, or embarrassing.

Is the glass half full or half empty?

Whether someone turns to a therapist, a mother, a best friend, Google, or AI, the need underneath it is often the same.

They are trying to process something.

They are trying to process their emotions, their doubt, fear, confusion, and maybe even uncertainty. This is what I would call “research.” And that is going to happen regardless of the person, platform, or place they choose to do it through.

Some people put everything on social media.

Some people go straight to Google.

Some people ask ChatGPT.

Others sit alone in their own heads, which, in my opinion, can be even more dangerous.

And some people can’t afford therapy.

So, before anyone rushes to judge the method, maybe we need to get more curious about the need. Because support systems are often built to help us process and validate what we are feeling.

Therapists help us explore our emotions and offer guidance.

Parents, not always validating, but often still there to support.

Friends can listen.

And ChatGPT is designed to respond in a way that acknowledges what you are feeling, even if it doesn’t challenge you in the way a human, professional, or emotionally aware partner might.

That is how the system works.

Yes, we can question it, critique it and want it to improve.

But I think what matters most is that we meet people with more compassion around how they access support, and where they choose to find it.

I have seen so many versions of the “I read my boyfriend’s ChatGPT about me, and broke up with him” storytelling.

But maybe, for a moment, we can consider that if someone is turning to “a robot,” there’s likely a reason.

There is a deeper reason.

Maybe they don’t feel emotionally supported in the relationship.

Maybe therapy is financially out of reach (which it is for most, unless there is a pro bono option!).

Maybe they are trying to work through something they don’t feel safe enough to say out loud.

Maybe they are looking for language to use before they have a conversation.

And maybe these systems do not just reflect our questions back to us, but also our deepest insecurities, too.

The Real Issue: Emotional Intelligence and Communication

This is where I think the deeper conversation actually lives.

This is not about the use of AI. This is about emotional intelligence and communication skills we seem to be lacking around each other.

When someone has to go elsewhere to process what they are feeling, what does that say about the spaces they are in?

What does it say about the safety of their relationships?

What does it say about their ability, or inability, to communicate honestly?

What does it say about the way we listen, respond, dismiss, shame, avoid, or shut each other down?

What I see is not just a dependence on tools. I see a world full of people who do not know how to communicate clearly, hold emotional complexity, ask better questions, sit with discomfort, or respond with curiosity instead of defensiveness!!!

I see surface-level exploration where depth is needed.

I see reactions where reflection is needed.

And I see people searching for answers when what they really need is a safe place to have a fuller conversation!

Everything breaks down when a lack of emotional intelligence turns into poor communication.

And then, poor communication turns into disconnection. Disconnection then sends people looking elsewhere for support, comfort, or permission.

That is the part I think we need to pay attention to!

Because the problem is not that people are using AI. The problem is that many people do not feel heard, emotionally safe, or supported by the people around them.

I said what I said!

This is a communication issue.
This is a relationship issue.
This is an emotional intelligence issue.
This is simply the truth.

We need to better understand why we believe what we believe. Why we react the way we react. And, why people feel safer with a screen than a person.

And finally, why validation from a machine sometimes feels more reachable than vulnerability with a human being.

That is the conversation I think is worth having!

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The Biggest Issue: A lack of Community

We do not gain communication skills when we lack community.

We need connection. We need to be around other people. The more we interact with people, the more we learn how to be vulnerable with each other.

The truth is, we do not actually have much of a community anymore. We have the idea of community, but people are not truly connecting, talking or supporting. We are living in isolation.

We are so disconnected that we do not understand each other.

This is part of why we turn to a screen, because it feels safe.

We live in a world where we are not accessing people enough to understand how another person processes their feelings. We need a challenge. We need community to disrupt our fear. We need other people to express themselves in ways that feel raw and unmasked.

I am not talking about an online community here. While this can be a great place to access quick validation and resonance, and it absolutely has value, that is not what I mean.

We need a more grassroots approach, where people come together in real life, share how an experience changed them, and talk about how they got through it.

This is why I wrote I Thought I Was Meant to Be a Therapist, because I believe creating space in community is where real conversations and real safety happen.

This is also why I wrote For the Men Who Were Never Allowed to Feel, because when men do not feel heard, understood, or safe to express themselves, they go elsewhere for support.

We need to understand the problems more deeply, so we can show up, challenge with care, and offer compassion and solutions.

This is why having a coffee with your neighbour creates a real-life experience or something similar to that.

This is why volunteering in your kids’ classroom helps you understand how children respond and interact, and how we can offer correction and compassion where it is needed.

This is why you stay late at work to be with your co-workers and talk about the passions you share, because it creates excitement.

Community can also be in your partnership.

When you and your significant other are going through something, and you are willing to go deep with each other, you learn from one another! You begin to understand how your person processes feelings, fear, overwhelm, and uncertainty.

These are the experiences that help us learn and how we can educate ourselves. This is what community truly looks like.

If you’re realising this is something you’re missing, or something you want to grow in, this is already the work I do outside of Substack! So hey, I thought some of you may also benefit from my help here, too. ☺️

For 20 years, I've been helping people find clarity in who they are, putting words to their feelings and gaining perspective along the way.

This work is about more than surface-level advice. I don’t do surface-level, clearly. 😂
It’s real conversation, real awareness, and real-life integration.

For me, it has always been about understanding who we are at our core, and learning how to use that self-knowledge to show up more fully in our lives, our work, and our relationships. And understanding that our perspectives need to be challenged if change is to take place.

If this feels aligned for you, come sit with me for an Identity & Integration Session where we build a clear picture of who you are and how to move forward with that awareness with a plan.

💜 xo, Ash

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Like water boiling, only the burner had never shut off. It started a fire and burned the whole damn house down.

Only the house was our relationship. And everything broke before we could rebuild.

Where do I even begin?

Summer 2023 to late summer 2024, when I was estranged from my family, was the most difficult, soul-crushing, lonely, and sad time in my entire life. It was also the year my soul realigned, my body softened, and my peace was restored.

Without getting into the nitty-gritty details, a lot had been building in me.

Unfortunately, my partner was also thrown into the crossfire without a hope in hell of making it out alive. His support through it all kept me going. I wouldn’t have got through this period of my life without him.

I had been feeling so much pressure, so much anxiety, riddled with panic attacks, and carrying this constant feeling that I had no voice. I was scared all the time. I just couldn’t speak.

I was holding on to a lot.

Resentment from my family that was never mine to carry.

Anger that was never meant for me, but somehow I absorbed it.

Feeling forced to choose between family members during the holidays.

Carrying constant guilt and never feeling like I was enough. No matter how much time I gave, no matter how many texts I sent, nothing ever seemed to be enough.

There was a storm brewing, and when it finally hit home, it hit hard.

At that time, our relationship felt deeply unhealthy, and I was unraveling inside of it, and so were they.

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An entire year disconnected

An entire year went by during which we did not speak to each other.

For context, they live on the next street over from me. And for that entire year, I would not walk by their house, drive by their house, or go near there at all, even if I saw them in town. And, they felt the same about me.

This disconnect hurt everyone in its path.

My son, who was deeply connected to my parents, was suddenly thrust into the middle, and not by choice.

He was 10 at the time, and he loved his grandparents. He had a great relationship with them, and still does.

Even though my parents and I were not speaking, my son was always able to see them.

This was not my son’s fight. It was ours.

The first big holiday that came and went was Christmas.

It was the hardest Christmas I had ever lived through. I cried so much. It hurts to even relive it while typing this because there was so much pain.

So much sadness, anger, guilt, and loss.

But while it was one of the most difficult things I have ever lived through, it was also one of the most freeing Christmases I had ever experienced.

And I needed that lived experience.

It was silent. There was no pressure. No expectations. Nothing.

I just existed for once.

On Christmas Eve, it was snowing. We had a beautiful outdoor fire, made hot chocolate, played in the snow, listened to tunes, and everything felt calm.

That night, we watched a movie in our pajamas and went to bed.

Christmas Day was different.

I was a complete and utter wreck. So many thoughts were running through my head. Normally, my son and I would wake up and run over to my parents’ house to do Christmas there.

But the quiet was unsettling that morning, and I felt a heartache I had never known before. The kind of heartache where you cry so deeply your chest physically hurts.

And I remember thinking, Why? Why is this happening?

I could not understand why they did not reach out. Why was I always the one who had to fix things?

Unless you break a cycle, the cycle continues

Days went by. No messages from my parents. Then weeks. Still no break in the silence.

I kept living, but there was a deep void in me.

The thing is, my mom and I had an enmeshment relationship.

I did not have the language for it at the time. I just knew something felt heavy, confusing, and hard to separate.

So my therapist recommended that I read Mother Hunger: How Adult Daughters Can Understand and Heal from Lost Nurturance, Protection, and Guidance.

Through that book, I learned more about how mothers and daughters can become emotionally enmeshed, and I started to understand that what I was experiencing was not just closeness.

We had become emotionally dependent on each other. We did not know how to operate without one another, and at some point, that closeness turned controlling, toxic, intrusive, and unhealthy. For both of us.

Our relationship started to break when I began enforcing boundaries.

Our identities were blurred. We were not operating as two separate people. In many ways, we had become tangled up in each other.

The truth is, my parents loved me so much that it became the demise of our relationship.

Like any parent, we want the best for our child.

But when people are carrying unresolved trauma, the lines can blur. They replay their own pain through the people closest to them, and sometimes that spills into the parent-child relationship before it’s ever realized.

And, by then, it’s too late.

Healing through a heavy heart

The Yoga Reteat

In February 2024, I decided to go to a yoga retreat in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, by myself.

I wanted an escape. A place where I could heal my broken heart and sew my soul back together.

For years, I had wanted to take a solo trip. One that would help me connect more deeply with myself and cultivate a sense of belonging with others. Then I stumbled across a beautiful opportunity online: Beyond Yoga Retreat.

Since I was estranged, I was craving a place where I could belong. Not fit in, but truly belong.

This experience invited me to permit myself to just be. To feel the energy of the earth. To soften into the moment. To remember that we are still connected, even in the seasons where we feel alone.

The nature, the ocean, the cultural richness, and the pure bliss that awakened in my heart on that trip filled me in a way I have never forgotten.

It reminded me that even in our darkest, most vulnerable moments, we are still whole.

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The Mountain Escape

Then, that June, I took my first trip to British Columbia, and I cried.

I cried because I was happy. Because I was sad. Because something in me had died, and something in me was being born again.

True evolution begins when you realize there is no room left for old habits, old patterns, or old versions of yourself. Sometimes, elimination is the path.

Elimination looks like finally listening to the deep nudge within you that has been asking you to grow. Even when you resist it, your soul knows the truth. The answers are always there, whether you choose to accept them or not.

In a season of radical change, loss is inevitable. Losing is part of winning, even when it does not feel like it in the moment.

Growth asks something of us. It asks us to let parts of ourselves die so that something stronger, wiser, and more deeply rooted can bloom in its place.

I let the old version of me go.

And someone new was born.

My soul reset in the mountains, and I do not know how to explain it any other way.

Forgiveness over fear

During that year of estrangement, I began healing my co-dependency. And in her own way, my mom did too. We were both actively working to break the entanglement of our relationship, even if it looked different for each of us.

Eventually, I decided to break the silence and reach out.

I still wonder if they ever would have reached out first. Or how long we would have gone without speaking if I had not been the one to do it.

But being who I am, someone who leans toward growth and emotional honesty, I finally reached out, and they welcomed me with arms wide open.

I said all the things, and more, but in the most aware, direct, and thoughtful way I knew how, shaped by everything I had learned during that year of estrangement.

I was no longer scared. I was no longer afraid. I felt a deep release.

I had outgrown the version of the relationship that was breaking me, and us.

The reset relationship

Our relationship died.

What came after was something entirely different.

This new relationship was born from one of the most heartbreaking seasons of my life. It was a reset, rooted in voice, compassion, love, appreciation, and no longer in dependency.

There will always be healing to do, but we have moved mountains to get to where we are now.

Healing did not erase what happened. The pain did not disappear, but it no longer runs our relationship.

You always love your parents, but you do not need to carry what was never yours to bear.

And while the estrangement was the hardest part of my life, it taught me so much about myself, about boundaries, about healthy relationships, and about learning to emotionally exist without needing my parents in the same way.

So that year did more than reset our relationship. It gave birth to a new one.

We did not go back to what we were. We built a new foundation.

Why I chose forgiveness

If you are navigating, or have navigated, a deeply difficult season like this, there can be resolve.

But that resolve often begins within yourself, in your willingness to heal, in the time you allow it to take, and in how long you choose to stay seated in what is hurting you.

I chose differently.

Because for me, pain lives in the body.

Forgiveness became the key because I did not want to keep carrying it within me.

The body holds our lived experiences. And without release, they build. They settle into us. They stay until they begin to wear us down from the inside out.

So I chose forgiveness.

One where my mom goes to Reiki.
One where my dad works on his communication.
One where my partner is accepted.
One where we respect each other.

And one where we value the time we have, however long or short it may be.

xo, Ash

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love pretty mugs, coffee, and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee (and my pretty mugs!), the plants, and the cozy time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

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My past haunts me most days.

Not in the literal sense, but as a reserved yearning for something that no longer exists.

I get caught in loops sometimes, replaying moments and days that are gone. Deep in the archives. I don’t want to go back, but my mind remembers a version of life that once felt familiar, even if it was not peaceful.

It is a strange trap our minds set.

I have lived so many different versions of myself, and I know you probably have too. Some months feel cyclical, like waves of reminiscence rolling in without warning.

One day you are fully present, the next you are lost in memory or projecting yourself into a future that has not arrived.

And somewhere between the past and the future, the present moment gets lost.

When you live in that constant loop, you forget the purpose of now. You struggle to appreciate it because it is not a memory yet. Only once a moment is gone do you realize it was meaningful.

We are always making memories we will one day long for, even while we are living them.

Then, sometimes the calm slips, and the chaos reminds me it still exists. On the harder days, this feeling has a voice.

It sounds like this…

The maniac takes hold, and boredom claws at me,

Anxiety and anger churn beneath the surface.

The mundane gnaws at my sanity,

Repetition crawls under my skin,

A hollow lack of excitement pulses through my veins, devouring me from within.

I grasp at spontaneity but feel imprisoned,

Trapped, like a genie in a bottle, suffocating.

If I could grant just one wish, it would be freedom,

Freedom from the disgust, the anguish,

The dark void that swallows everything whole.

I drink the poison of my past,

slowly dissolving into memory.

Why do we chase euphoria in the shadows?

I long to escape this time loop, this suffocating capsule.

Yes, a manic, a beautiful chaos of light and dark,

Where one breath is madness, the next, gratitude.

Another day of inconsistent bliss,

Another chance to choose,

Who will you be today?

And yet, even inside that chaos, there is awareness. The observer in my mind is reminding me that I am not trapped in those cycles anymore.

I can get stuck there sometimes, wondering if I have lived the same moments over and over. Different people, different places, different ages, but the emotional pattern feels familiar.

Like a tape deck on repeat. The predictability of it all used to drive me a little crazy.

But life is meant to be cyclical.

Predictable, even. Familiar in its rhythms.

When I look back at old photos, I remember thinking those were the happiest times. But if I am honest, I also remember feeling sadness back then too.

Maybe we are not just reminiscing.

Maybe we are grieving the silent deaths of who we used to be.

I move through identity shifts like I change my socks, constantly becoming someone new. But one thing has started to remain steady.

I come home to myself more often now.

And that feels like a blessing.

An invitation to pause and ask, gently and honestly,

Who do I want to be now?

xo, Ash

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love pretty mugs, coffee, and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee (and my pretty mugs!), the plants, and the cozy time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

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You see the wins all the time.
The excited announcements.
The “I quit my job, and everything worked out” posts.

But, what you don’t see as often are the mistakes.

The overspending. The fear.
The months where you think you’re doing well…until you actually look at your numbers.

I’ve made a lot of business mistakes.

Some small ones.

Some really expensive ones.

But they taught me more than any course, mentor, or strategy ever could.

Your lived experiences will always teach you the most.

So I wanted to share a few of the things entrepreneurship taught me the hard way.

From someone who has lived through it.

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Wanting Control

For years, I worked long hours building other people’s businesses.

I built design departments.
I helped companies grow.
I hired talented teams.

And while I loved the work, something in me kept whispering:

You’re meant to build something of your own.

By 2015, that whisper got loud enough that I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I wanted control over my time.
My work and my future.

But more than anything, I wanted to help people build businesses they actually loved.

The truth is, my business didn’t start all at once.

Technically, it began in 2008 when an employer asked if they could contract me for a project. In order to issue a purchase order, I needed a business number.

At the time, I had no idea what that meant.

So I researched it, figured it out, and set one up.

For years after that, I worked full-time roles while freelancing in the evenings.

Long hours and long nights building my dreams.

Looking back now, that was the beginning of everything.

The Investment

Before I fully stepped into running my business full-time, I became obsessed with learning.

I hired coaches.
Joined communities.
Took courses.
Signed up for conferences.

By mid-2018, I had invested over $20k in professional development.

Some of those investments were incredibly valuable.

Others…not so much.

The Money Mistake

When I officially launched my business, my first month looked promising.

I had brought in $4,500.

Which felt like a huge win.

Until I looked at my expenses.

I had hired people too quickly.
Rented an office I didn’t need that was 45 minutes away from my home (so add gas money!)
And, bought equipment I barely used.

By the end of the month…

I was $2,500 in the red. In debt.

As a creative person, I hate spreadsheets!

But ignoring the numbers doesn’t make them disappear.

At the time, I was a single mom.

I owned a house.
I had responsibilities.
And truthfully, there was no financial safety net waiting behind me.

I was the safety net.

So my business had to work.

And slowly, through trial and error, it did.

Reflective Lessons

Over the years, entrepreneurship has taught me a few things, and here they are:

1. Passion matters, but it isn’t enough. You also need discipline.

2. Money management matters, even if you hate numbers. Hire an accountant!

3. Marketing works best when it sounds like a human being, not a strategy.

4. Simplicity wins. Most of the bells and whistles you think you need…you don’t.

5. You cannot do everything yourself forever. Ask for help!

6. And learning to say no might be one of the most valuable skills a business owner develops.

None of these lessons came from books.

They came from making mistakes.

Fast forward to the Present

When I look back now, the early mistakes don’t bother me.

They built the foundation for everything that came after.

And, the truth is that no one starts a business knowing exactly what they’re doing.

We all figure it out as we go.

Sometimes the hard way.

But if you’re willing to learn from the mistakes instead of hiding behind them, they become something so valuable.

Not just for you. But for the version of you that comes next.

The CEO version.

And if you’re curious about the work that grew out of those lessons over the past 20 years, you can explore my website here: yourdesignerash.com.

Maybe something there will help spark that same fire in your own heart. ☺️

xo, Ash

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the cozy time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

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Outside opinions have a way of making us question things that are actually working just fine.

My partner and I do not sleep in the same bed.

We have been together for four years, and we have always slept separately.

We each have our own space, our own routines, and our own things.

I’m upstairs. He’s downstairs.

What People Assume

And I already know what some people think when they hear that.

I could never sleep without my person.
You’re basically roommates.
How are you even intimate?
Your relationship must not be healthy.
There’s no way that lasts.

But what’s interesting is that before this relationship, I did do things the way people expected.

I shared the bed.
I followed the routine.
I tried to make myself fit into what a “normal” relationship was supposed to look like.

And I was exhausted.

I have spent years sleeping beside people and barely sleeping at all.

They liked the TV on. I didn’t.
They wanted to scroll on their phone. I wanted to read.
They wanted to cuddle all night. I wanted space.
I need a fan. They needed silence.

At some point, I realized I was compromising one of the most important parts of my well-being just to meet an expectation I never actually agreed with.

So I made a decision. 🙏🏼

I would never again sacrifice my sleep, my peace, or my need for space just to make my relationship look acceptable to other people.

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When your sleep is disrupted long enough, it affects everything. Your mood. Your nervous system. Your patience. Your health. Your ability to show up as your best self.

So why is it considered strange to protect it?

What I’ve never understood is why sharing a bed became one of the standards people use to measure love.

Since when did loving someone mean you had to sleep beside them every night?

You can deeply love your person and still need solitude.
You can be committed and still need uninterrupted rest.
You can be intimate, connected, playful, affectionate, and devoted without forcing yourselves into the same nighttime routine.

Our relationship does not suffer because we sleep separately.

It works because we respect each other enough to stop forcing conformity where it does not belong for us.

At night, my partner tucks me in with my pup, gives me a kiss, and heads to his room. In the morning, I wake him up, we hug, we kiss, and then I start my routine with the dogs and the day ahead.

What Makes This Work

What actually makes this work is intention.

We don’t rely on default habits to create intimacy. We put effort into our relationship throughout the day. We connect on purpose. We make time for each other consciously, instead of assuming physical closeness at night automatically equals emotional closeness overall.

Because honestly, sleeping beside someone while resenting them for snoring, sweating, scrolling, stealing the covers, or waking you up all night does not exactly create romance.

It creates irritation.

It creates depletion.

It creates two tired people pretending that discomfort is somehow more loving than honesty.

So we chose something different.

We looked at the norms people handout about what a healthy relationship is supposed to be, and we asked a better question:

What do we both need?

When my partner moved in, I was clear about what I needed.

I did not want to return to compromising my sleep, my space, or my peace just to fit a relationship model that never worked for me.

What began as something I asked for became something we both came to value.

That is not failure.
That is emotional intelligence.
That is communication.
That is care.

I have always needed space at the end of the day to come back to myself. I need quiet. I need room to debrief my energy. I need an environment that feels like mine for a couple of hours before sleep.

And yes, it may also matter that both my partner and I are only children. 😂 We both do well with independence. We both value alone time. We both understand that space does not threaten connection. In many ways, it strengthens it.

The Hardest Part Is Other People

The biggest challenge with a relationship like this is rarely the relationship itself.

It’s other people.

It’s the projections.
The assumptions.
The opinions from people who are not living your life, sleeping in your body, or carrying your needs.

But I am not interested in faking a version of partnership that looks right from the outside while feeling wrong on the inside.

Just because you do not sleep in the same bed does not mean you do not love each other. It does not mean your relationship is unhealthy. It does not mean intimacy is gone.

Sometimes it means the opposite.

Sometimes it means you know each other well enough to honor what each person actually needs.

You can sleep beside someone every night and still feel lonely.
You can share a bed and be deeply disconnected.
You can follow every social norm and still be unhappy.

A healthy relationship is not built on appearances.

It is built on self-awareness, communication, respect, and the willingness to keep choosing each other in ways that are true for both people.

And sometimes, that choice looks like two separate beds and two very well-rested humans. 😌

I wanted to share this because even when something feels right for you, outside opinions can still make you question it. I have had moments of insecurity, and I have also had people project their own definition of a healthy relationship onto mine.

So maybe the better question is this:
What does a healthy relationship actually look like to you?

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If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the cozy time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

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More reflections you may enjoy

If you enjoy reflections like this, these pieces may resonate with you as well:

Do you remember when you were little, and you could sit on the floor for hours with your toys, building entire worlds out of nothing?

Your dolls had conversations.
Your stuffed animals had personalities.
Your Lego creations were cities, spaceships, futures.

You didn’t just play.
You rehearsed the possibilities. 😌

Somewhere inside those tiny storylines was a belief that you could become anything. Or anyone!

And then something shifted.

The toys disappear first.

They get donated, stored, passed down, or replaced with things considered more appropriate for growing up.

Imagination becomes something we’ve outgrown instead of something we build on.

And we start learning new scripts.

Be practical.
Be realistic.
Be responsible.
Figure it all out.

Adulthood gets defined by milestones instead of wonder.

Marriage. Career. House. Stability.

All proof that you are no longer living in Neverland.

I remember feeling this pressure in my early twenties. Like I had to trade personality for structure. Like creativity and imagination were luxuries I couldn’t afford if I wanted to be taken seriously.

So I packed that part of me away. 🥺

What I didn’t realize at the time was that I wasn’t just giving up toys.

I was giving up access to the version of myself that knew how to dream without permission.

Now, in my forties, something changed.

I bought them all back.

The Spice Girls dolls.
Disney castles.
Lego sets.
Tiny houses.
Soft blankets.
Little things that feel like comfort instead of clutter.

Not because I need the objects.

Because I needed what they represent.

My home is filled with pieces of a childhood I once thought I had to leave behind to grow up. And the strangest part is realizing that I appreciate them more now than I ever did when they were first mine.

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So what if imagination was never meant to be replaced by wisdom?

What if it was meant to grow alongside it?

We talk so much about emotional intelligence, healing, self-awareness, and personal growth. But the child version of us already knew something we forgot.

How to be fully present.
How to create joy from nothing.
How to believe without evidence.

We were fearless because we weren’t measuring ourselves against expectations yet.

We simply were. ✨

Now I sit in my office surrounded by plants, framed words, cozy corners, tiny pieces of creativity everywhere. And it feels alive. It feels like hope. It feels like a hug from a version of me that never stopped waiting for my return.

Sometimes I think about a very specific memory.

Being ten years old.
Riding in the car with my parents.
Going to Costco.
Coming home with a Spice Girls doll.

That feeling wasn’t about the doll.

It was about possibility.

Anticipation.

Being seen.

Joy without conditions.

And the most comforting realization is this:

You can access that feeling again.

Not by recreating your childhood exactly, but by allowing yourself to want things again. To play again. To care about what lights you up, even if it doesn’t look productive or impressive or grown-up.

So let me ask you this:

What did you love before the world told you what mattered?

What object, toy, song, place, or memory still holds a thread back to who you were before you learned to edit yourself?

And is it really the thing you miss?

Or the feeling you had when you held it?

Because that feeling is not gone.

It’s just waiting for your permission.

xo, Ash

More reflections you may enjoy

If you enjoy reflections like this, these pieces may resonate with you as well:

With International Women’s Day approaching, my partner Brandon () and I were having a conversation about something that made us pause and reflect.

This isn’t about whether women should be celebrated.

Of course they should. Always.

Women have historically fought long and hard for visibility, opportunity, and recognition in spaces where those things were not always given. The feminist movement exists for very real reasons, and those reasons deserve acknowledgement.

We are not disputing this.

When we talk about women, we’re also talking about a diverse experience of womanhood that includes cisgender and transgender women, as well as gender-diverse individuals who have historically faced similar barriers.

But our conversation naturally drifted toward something deeper.

What does true equality actually look like?

And more importantly… how do we get there?

Sometimes, when we create events that celebrate one group in isolation, even with the best intentions, it can unintentionally create another kind of separation. The celebration itself isn’t the issue.

Progress simply rarely happens in segregation.

Real change tends to happen when people learn with each other, not just about each other.

For example, when conversations about women in business only happen in rooms filled exclusively with women, something important may be missing: the opportunity for allies to listen, understand, and participate in that change.

Which further exacerbates the challenge of men understanding women.

Because equality doesn’t grow through separation.
It grows through awareness, education, and shared responsibility.

The same idea appears in many movements. In the LGBTQ+ community, allies play a critical role in shifting culture. Without allies learning, supporting, and advocating, progress would move much more slowly.

The same principle can apply anywhere.

When men are included in conversations about the challenges women face in leadership, entrepreneurship, or the workplace, they gain something powerful: awareness.

And awareness often leads to action.

It allows people in positions of influence to recognize blind spots they may never have noticed before. It also allows collaboration to happen in ways that are more balanced and supportive.

Because the reality is this:

Women bring incredible strengths to the table.
Men bring strengths too.
And when those strengths are respected and shared, the outcome is far more powerful than competition.

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True equality doesn’t come from shifting the spotlight from one group to another.

It comes from learning how to stand in the light together. 🫶🏻

So maybe the future of these conversations isn’t about celebrating less.

Maybe it’s about celebrating more people at the table.

More voices.
More understanding.
More collaboration.

Because progress rarely happens when we divide the room.

It happens when we invite more people into it.

xo, Ash

Further Reflections

If this topic resonated with you, you might also enjoy these reflections:

I Thought I Was Meant to Be a Therapist

A reflection on creating spaces where people feel safe to express who they are.

Read

What Four Decades Will Teach You

How different eras of life shape our understanding of people and the world around us.

Read

I Am Proud of You (Yes, You!)

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can offer someone is encouragement.

Read

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the cozy time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

☕️ Buy Me A Coffee!

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I am a big believer in encouragement above all else.

I’ve always believed that when we have hope, things feel a little more manageable.

And sometimes, we’re not always able to give that to ourselves.

Maybe it’s been a long week for you.
Maybe the year hasn’t started off the best.
Maybe you’ve felt like you haven’t been able to catch a break for years.

So I wanted to share something with you, even though I don’t know you personally…

I am so proud of you

Celebrating yourself can feel like greeting a distant friend.
Rarely seen, and when they do appear, the moments are brief.

Being proud was a feeling you handed off to others,
as if holding it for yourself felt selfish.

But as the days passed,
you began making changes that once felt out of reach.

You stayed honest.
You stayed focused.
You realigned.

And finally, a pause.

A recalibration begins,
and in that moment, you are humbled.

Pride washes over you like a warm summer sunset,
and the peace you have been waiting for finally arrives.

You stand there, arms wide open,
embracing the deep relief of beginning again.

What you once longed for others to give you,
you have now given to yourself.

I am proud of you.

So proud we made it through, once again.

And so if today, you needed to hear this…

Because we don’t always hear those words.
Maybe you wished you had heard them more as a child,
or from your partner,
your boss,
or your family.

But today, from one stranger to another,
I am proud of you. 🫶🏼

xo, Ash

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the cozy time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

☕️ Buy Me A Coffee!

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I think that desire came from feeling misunderstood at times. When you feel things deeply as a child, you start to realize something important.

That awareness stayed with me.

I’ve always wanted to give back in some way — to offer time, encouragement, creativity, or simply hope to people who might feel alone in the world.

And tomorrow, something very special is happening. 🥹

Creating Space

Tomorrow I’m hosting my very first Create Space workshop.

Create Space is a program I created for youth within schools and nonprofit organizations. The goal is simple: to give young people creative outlets to express emotions through art, reflection, and conversation.

It’s hard to explain just how close this initiative is to my heart.

Giving has always felt natural to me.

There’s something incredibly powerful about teaching, sharing ideas, and creating environments where people feel safe to explore who they are. Especially for those who are still figuring out where they’re going in life.

And if I’m honest, I know that feeling very well.

So, my first workshop is called New Growth.

We’ll be painting terracotta planter pots, planting succulents, flowers, and working through a few reflective journal prompts together. On the surface, it might look like a simple art activity.

But the intention behind it is much deeper.

The planting is symbolic.

It’s about growth — not just the plant, but the person holding it.

The workshop I am hosting will be with Grade 12 students, and that year of life carries so many emotions. Questions about identity, the future, friendships, belonging… it’s a time when everything can feel both exciting and overwhelming.

I remember that season vividly.

When I was in Grade 9-12, I often felt isolated.

There were so many thoughts and feelings swirling around inside me, and I didn’t always know where to put them.

Looking back now, I realize that so many young people are experiencing those same emotions.

And if I could go back and speak to that younger version of myself, I would want someone to tell her that she wasn’t alone.

This feeling isn’t only isolated to young people; it’s all people. All humans!

That’s really where Create Space was born.

From the understanding that sometimes what people need most is simply a place to pause, reflect, create, and feel seen.

For a long time, I thought that maybe I should have become a therapist. Perhaps the path I was meant to take was one of formal counseling or psychology.

But over the years, I’ve realized something important.

There are many ways to support and uplift others.

My path just happens to look a little different.

The Idea That Changed Everything

For me, it’s about creating environments where creativity, reflection, and community come together. But more than anything, it’s about the one-on-one conversations that naturally happen in those spaces, where someone finally feels safe enough to open up.

It’s about offering my time, materials, energy, and ideas to initiatives that allow people to connect with themselves in meaningful ways.

And if there is one thing I want you to take away from this story, it’s this:

If you feel a fire inside you, an idea, a calling, a nudge that keeps returning, don’t ignore it.

Don’t extinguish it.

That feeling is often the beginning of something so magical.

Sometimes the ideas that sit in our hearts the longest are the ones meant to grow into something bigger than we ever imagined.

Let them breathe.

Let them move into new environments.

Let them become something that touches other lives.

Because the world needs more of that right now, it needs more of your heart.

More inspiration.
More guidance.
More creativity.
More love.

And sometimes, all it takes to begin is creating a little space. 🫶🏼

xo, Ash

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the quiet time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

☕️ Buy Me A Coffee!

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The Teens

Things felt light. Dreamlike.

Days where we simply existed, walking the same hallways over and over as if they were the entire world.

Feelings exploded daily, everything swelling to the surface like a hot air balloon with nowhere to land.

We were the freest versions of ourselves we had ever known, and didn’t even realize it.

I was the most creative, imaginative version of myself I have ever been.
Unfiltered. Unafraid. Untouched by the expectations that would come later.

But we were also aching to be older.

We yearned for adulthood, believing that once we got there, someone would finally take us seriously.
That just for a moment, we would be heard.

We didn’t know then that being heard would come at the cost of learning how to speak over the noise of the world.

The 20s

My 20s were a blur of doing.

Trying to be seen.
Trying to be chosen.
Trying to build stability so I could finally feel safe.

We didn’t feel like we had space to discover who we really were, so we did what we thought we were supposed to do.

Get married.
Have a child.
Build a home.

I held everything together, even when I had no idea who I was inside of it all.

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The 30’s

My 30s were me living out the life I didn’t get to live in my 20s.

Rebellion in tiny, slow-motion waves.

Learning how to take up space.
Learning how to leave when something hurt.
Learning how to choose myself without apologizing for it.

We became louder, softer, stronger, more honest, more ourselves all at the same time.

But I will not romanticize my 30s.

They were messy.
Beautiful, yes. Necessary, absolutely. But messy.
The era of wearing trauma like a blanket.

My 30s were the decade of unlearning.

Unlearning who we were taught to be.
Unlearning roles we performed to keep the peace.
Unlearning the idea that love meant self-abandonment.

They were also the decade of multiple heartbreaks.

Not the kind that show up as dramatic endings, but the silent ones, where we slowly lose versions of ourselves that never really belonged to us in the first place.

Grief doesn’t always look like loss of people. Although that did happen.
Sometimes it also looks like loss of identities.

The 40s

And now, 40. Lost but not forgotten.

Forty, for me, is not about becoming someone new.

It is about returning to what has always been true:

• I create from depth, like I did in art class.
• I love with intention, like when I was 15 and first in love.
• I lead with empathy, like the girl who filled grade 9 journals with feelings.
• I speak from my heart, not obligation.
• I don’t follow the crowd, I am the crowd.
• I am no longer performing my life. I am living it.

This chapter is not about proving anything.

It is about peace that does not need permission.
Joy that does not require justification.
Presence that does not ask to be earned.

It is about finally being fully here with myself.

Not the version you built to survive.
Not the version you performed to belong.
But the one that was always waiting underneath.

This is the 40s era.

And for the first time, I am not trying to become.

I am remembering.
And this era feels like home.

xo, Ash

What era are you currently in right now?
Are you learning, unlearning, or somewhere in between?

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription.

It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the quiet time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

☕️ Buy Me a Coffee

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If you have ever loved someone who takes time to open up, this is what it might feel like from the inside for them.

I’ve been afraid of intimacy for most of my life.

Not physical intimacy, but the kind where someone sees you — really sees you.

The kind that asks you to be raw and exposed in ways that feel almost unbearable. For a long time, that terrified me. Because opening up meant I would get deeply hurt.

When people talk about intimacy, it often gets reduced to the physical. But for me and many of us, intimacy has always meant something deep and more dangerous. It’s emotional closeness, spiritual connection, and the moment when you let someone hold parts of you that you’ve kept hidden.

It’s not that we hide or are dishonestly guarded. It is that trust, is something that unfolds slowly. Protection is not the absence of authenticity. Sometimes it is what allows authenticity to exist at all.

I think what makes the connection feel so intense for me is that I have always seen people as equal at their core.

Not equal in achievements or personality or life paths, but equal in their humanity. I don’t focus on the external vehicle someone moves through the world in. I don’t compare their roles, their image, their accomplishments. I instinctively look for who they are underneath all of that.

Their soul. The part of them that exists when everything superficial falls away.

And maybe that’s why connection has always scared me a little.

Because if I can see people that deeply, I sometimes wonder how deeply they can see me.

Sometimes I feel like I am meeting people soul to soul while they are still meeting me person to person. Not because they are incapable of depth, but because I can be closed off at first. I hold things close to myself until enough time has passed for me to know whether someone feels safe.

It’s not that I didn’t want a connection, but because being truly seen felt overwhelming. Like stepping into open air without knowing if there would be ground beneath me.

So I stayed just far enough away to feel safe. Close, but not fully known.

We throw around words like narcissism and manipulation so casually now, almost like buzzwords. But when you’ve actually lived through relationships shaped by those traits, your nervous system remembers.

It makes sense that the connection feels risky. That hesitation isn’t weakness. It’s protection.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with what it means to feel safe enough in my own body to stay open with my partner, even when it scares me.

Especially when it scares me.

Because if you’ve ever been with someone who didn’t hold you the way you needed to be held, you understand the instinct to pull back. To ration your vulnerability. To keep certain doors locked.

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But something shifts when you start gently confronting your past instead of outrunning it. When you chip away at the insecurities and the moments that made you feel inadequate. When you finally say the things out loud that you were afraid to even admit to yourself.

For years, I could write my feelings, but speaking them felt like crossing a line. Like once they were spoken, they would become too real. Too true. Too impossible to ignore.

And yet there’s a begging that asks you to be honest anyway. To let your body lower its guard. To let your voice carry what your mind has been holding alone.

Sometimes we have to ask ourselves what we’re actually listening to.

Is it pressure? Desire? Loneliness? Lust? Or is it something deeper?

A soul recognition that cuts through all the noise and stories we’ve been told about what love is supposed to look like?

I don’t believe love is a fairytale.

I don’t think it’s about spectacle or entertainment or proving something to the world. I believe in the union that exists between two people, something sacred that lives mostly in private.

And there’s a vulnerability in sharing that with anyone outside of the relationship, even in words like these.

You wonder if it will be understood.

If it will be accepted. If there is a right way or a wrong way to feel this deeply.

But over time, I’ve learned that intimacy isn’t about external validation, perfection or certainty.

It’s about the connection that lives beneath the surface, something you don’t just experience in your body, but in your soul. Something that feels unworldly, like recognizing someone before you understand why.

And that can be terrifyingly real.

xo, Ash

If this resonated with you, if you have ever loved carefully or wondered why someone else does, I am glad you are here.

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And if this piece stirred something deeper, you may also want to read my reflection “For The Men Who Were Never Allowed to Feel.” It speaks to the other side of this conversation, the inner world of those who were taught to hide what they carry.

If you’ve been here for a bit, you already know how much I love coffee and plants ☕️🌿

If my writing has supported you in any way, you can support my work with a paid subscription. It helps fund the coffee, the plants, and the quiet time it takes to keep writing and bring the book that’s been living in my heart to life.

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I was breathless as I climbed Rohr Mountain in BC.

Not the poetic kind of breathless.
The real kind. The kind where your chest tightens and your legs start questioning your life choices. 😅

At one point, I genuinely wondered if I could make it.

I consider myself relatively fit. But on that mountain, I felt inadequate. Small. Humbled.

I kept hoping the end would be near.
It wasn’t.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something:

I wasn’t climbing because I knew what the view would look like.
I was climbing because I had already decided not to turn around. 🫠

Isn’t that how life feels sometimes?

You don’t really know where you’re going.
You don’t have the full picture.
You just know you have to keep moving.

The trail was about 12 km.
Which doesn’t sound like a lot… until you’re on it.

It tested my patience.
And life has a funny way of doing that too.

Patience in our work.
Patience in our relationships.
Patience with ourselves when we don’t grow as quickly as we’d like.

As we gained elevation — around 597 metres — the temperature shifted.

I started getting cold.

Not just cold from the air, but that strange cold sweat that comes when your body is pushing past comfort.
It was uncomfortable.
I was uncomfortable.

There were little bickers along the way. Moments where I complained. Moments where I wanted to stop. Moments where I may have considered dramatically flopping to the ground and refusing to move another inch.

But I kept going. Sweat and all! 😅👇🏼

And if I’m honest, a big reason I kept going was because I wasn’t alone.

When you have someone beside you who says,

“You’ve got this.”
“Just a little further.”
“Look how far you’ve already come.”

It changes things.

Encouragement doesn’t remove the climb.
But it makes it endurable.

When we reached what felt like “the top,” I thought we were done.

We weren’t.

To reach the most extraordinary view, we had to walk another 3 km.

And I did not want to.

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I complained.
I moaned.
I wanted to kick my feet like a child.

But my partner kept encouraging me forward.

And in that moment, I realized something important:

We need people in our lives who don’t let us quit on ourselves.

Not people who drag us.
Not people who shame us.
But people who see what we’re capable of when we forget.

By the time we reached the summit, my legs were shaking.
I am not an experienced hiker. To some, this may have been easy.

To me, it felt like an enormous achievement.

I had wanted to turn around so many times.

But curiosity kept nudging me forward.

And then we sat down on the rock.

Cold.
Wind cutting through us.
My bones rattling from the chill.

And I looked up.

Endless mountains.

Trees so green and lush they didn’t look real.
A lake below that quite literally took my breath away.

For a moment, everything went quiet.

Externally and internally.

That kind of silence where your heart feels like it pauses just long enough to say,
“Oh.”

And if you’ve ever felt that kind of awe…
You know there’s nothing else like it.

It wasn’t just the view.

It was the knowing that I almost didn’t see it.
That I almost let discomfort convince me to turn around.

The climb wasn’t just physical.
It was mental. Emotional. Relational.

It reminded me that growth rarely feels glamorous in the moment.

It feels breathless.
Cold.
Uncertain.

But if you keep moving — even slowly —
and especially if you let someone walk beside you,

You might discover you were growing long before you ever saw the top.

Take a moment.
Watch the video below.

And as you do, ask yourself:

Where in your life are you tempted to turn around too soon?

What might be waiting just three kilometres further?

✨⛰️ Ash

The Magnetic Pull

There’s always been a magnetic pull inside me.
An energy that seems to call both light and shadow forward.

I have never been someone who turns away from intensity. If anything, it finds me.

People feel it, that I can hold difficult truths without flinching. That I will listen without judgment. That I will not recoil from the messy parts of being human.

And for reasons I am still learning, this has especially been true with men.

The Silence They Were Taught

So many men carry entire worlds inside them that no one has ever asked to see. Emotions are buried so deeply that even they no longer know where they begin. Stories that were cut short because they were taught that tenderness was a liability.

Somewhere along the way, men were told they cannot feel or share emotions, and it often happens at a very young age. Through friends, through family, through society.

Because gender aside, we are all just humans navigating the unknown every day.

Strength, as it has been sold to them, is often just silence dressed in armour.

When Someone Finally Sees Them

Over the years, I have found myself sitting across from men who slowly unfasten that armour piece by piece. Not because I asked them to. Not because I tried to fix them. But because something about being truly seen permits truth to surface.

They would talk about fears they had never said out loud.
About loneliness.
About pressure.
About the quiet exhaustion of pretending to be okay, or having to know how to do everything.

And I would listen, because listening has always felt like the most sacred form of love I know.

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The Cost of Being a Safe Place

But there is a quiet ache that comes with being a safe place for people who have never been allowed one.

Because sometimes, you become the only place they feel they can set things down. And if you are not careful, you start carrying what was never yours to hold.

It took me a long time to understand that compassion without boundaries can slowly erode you. That being understanding does not mean being endlessly available. That holding space for someone should never require abandoning yourself.

Vulnerability Is Not Weakness

I still believe deeply that vulnerability in men is not weakness. It is courage in its most raw and unpolished form.

It is humanity refusing to disappear.

There should never be shame in revealing emotion. But the truth is, not everyone knows how to hold it when it appears. Some women were also taught that emotion is weakness, that softness is something to suppress, that composure matters more than honesty. So when a man finally opens, he may be met with discomfort instead of understanding.

Women can also, unintentionally, contribute to the very narrative that created the silence in the first place.

And that reinforces the belief that it is safer to hide than to be seen.

It becomes a double-edged sword. Not just men holding things in, but women unsure how to receive what has been buried for so long. We can become mirrors of the same conditioning that hurt us.

What many women want, though we rarely say it this directly, is not perfection. It is presence. Emotional presence. Self-awareness. A willingness to meet us in the depths instead of standing safely on the surface.

Because how can someone truly hold you when they have never learned how to hold themselves?

Survival Is Not Strength

I have seen men who were never taught how to name their feelings, only how to outrun them. Men who were punished for crying, shamed for softness, applauded only when they performed invincibility.

That is not strength.
That is survival.

And survival is lonely.

Genders aside, every human deserves to be listened to. To be cared for. To be held in compassion without having to earn it through performance.

Navigating relationships with men has been a landscape of extremes for me. There have been deeply painful moments, and there have been profoundly honest ones. Moments that reminded me how beautiful it is when someone allows themselves to be fully seen, not as a role, not as an expectation, but as a whole person.

There is something sacred about sitting with another human and silently communicating:

You don’t have to be smaller here.
You don’t have to be harder here.
You don’t have to pretend here.

If You Are a Man Reading This

So if you are a man reading this, I want you to know something that perhaps no one has ever said to you plainly.

I see you.
I hear you.
Your tenderness is not a flaw.
Your depth is not a burden.
Your love is not something you have to hide.

What the world has taught you to silence may be the very thing that makes you extraordinary.

And if you are learning how to feel again after years of being told not to, that is not weakness.

That is strength in its truest form.

Quiet.
Unseen.
But incredibly powerful.

✨ Ash

Have you ever noticed how peaceful life becomes when you stop trying to be everything to everyone?

There was a time when I thought being needed meant being valued. I gave and gave and gave, believing that was what love looked like.

But somewhere along the way, I realized something uncomfortable:

Over-giving doesn’t just exhaust you. It quietly builds resentment. Not because you don’t care, but because the person you kept abandoning was you.

For years, I filled everyone else’s cup before I ever considered my own. I didn’t even notice how empty I had become.

And if I am honest, sometimes, I still do.

These days, my life feels quieter. Not lonely, just aligned. My purpose feels clearer because I am no longer scattering my energy everywhere trying to prove my worth.

If you’re new here, I’ve worked in marketing most of my life, and I still do. But the difference between then and now is everything.

Back then, I felt owned by 9-5 expectations, always performing, always producing, always answering to someone else’s urgency.

Now, in my own business, I get to choose.

Who I work with.

What I create.

What aligns with me.

And that freedom feels like oxygen.

It didn’t come easily.

There was a season of my life where everything changed, and I had to rebuild from the ground up. At the time, I just knew I felt trapped. I had ideas, dreams, a pull toward something bigger, even if I couldn’t fully name it yet. I needed space to find out who I was on my own.

What I didn’t realize was how much pain, projection, and unexpected trauma would come with that season.

When you step out of a role people are comfortable with, not everyone celebrates you. Some people resist. Some misunderstand. Some try to pull you back.

So when I say I feel content now, it means that this peace was built.

Slowly.

Quietly.

In long stretches of solitude, I learned to turn inward.

Contentment isn’t something I was given. It’s something I practiced.

I think writing can only ever show fragments of a person’s story. We never truly know the full weight someone has carried to arrive where they are. But one thing I’ve learned is this:

Life feels painfully long when you are unhappy. And incredibly short when you are finally at peace.

So build your life on your terms. Choose who gets to walk beside you.

Protect the energy you fought so hard to reclaim.

Because this life we’re living is both longer and shorter than we think.

☕️ Ash

Breath steady.

My body cultivates warmth.

Hips wide.

Heart open.

Light resting beneath my eyes.

My body weeps with release.

I meet gratitude, like an old friend.

Yoga has become a trending topic. It’s been packaged as fitness, aesthetic, and performance. Society markets movement like something to consume, something to keep up with. But movement was never meant to be a trend. It is a relationship. A quiet return to your body.

For me, it has always been a way of listening.

When I move slowly, something begins to loosen. I am not trying to release anything specific. I am simply allowing. Sometimes tears come before understanding does. Sometimes I cry without knowing why, and I have learned not to question it. My body knows what my mind has not yet found words for.

So I let it speak.

Over the past year, I’ve also been receiving energy healing through Reiki. Paired with gentle movement like yoga, it has felt as though my soul is releasing things I cannot name, things I may not even consciously remember holding. There is a quiet unraveling happening beneath the surface, a soft clearing of what has been carried for too long.

I completed my Level II Reiki training as well, not with the intention of becoming anything, but simply to understand myself more deeply. To learn the language of energy, of presence, of stillness. It has become another way of listening inward.

If you’ve ever been in a yoga practice and felt a sudden wave of emotion, a deep exhale, or an unexpected sense of relief, it is not random. It is something held within you, finally being given space to move. Some experiences live in our bodies long after the moment has passed. Through breath and gentle movement, they can soften. They leave quietly.

Peace does not always come through thinking. Sometimes it comes through surrender.

I have always gravitated toward mindful practices done alone. Spaces where I can feel without absorbing the energy of others. I used to attend public classes often, but as someone who is deeply sensitive, I realized I was carrying more than my own emotions.

Practicing independently became a way to return to myself, to release without distraction, to feel safe inside my own body.

Yoga and mindful movement have never been just exercise for me. They are a language. One of the only ways I can fully surrender to emotion without needing to explain it.

So if your body feels heavy, if something inside you feels unspoken or unnamed, know that you do not have to force understanding. You can begin with slow movement. Gentle breath. Small permission to feel.

Your body knows how to release. You only have to let it.

And, maybe healing isn’t about understanding everything we carry.

Maybe it’s simply trusting that our soul knows how to release what is unknown.

✨ Ash

If you’re a caretaker, creative, empathic leader, healer, helper, or someone who offers patience, understanding, and emotional labor, this reflection is for you.

You may be just beginning to notice the cost of that labor.

If you’ve ever caught yourself wondering:

• Am I selfish for pulling back?

• Why do I need so much space lately?

• Why does rest feel uncomfortable?

You’re in a meaningful place.

Especially if you’re like me and understand boundaries intellectually, but are now learning what safety and alignment actually feel like in your body.

That learning can be loud.

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This year began heavily.

I could feel it in my body before I could name it.

Tension.

Slowness.

A quiet sadness asking to be acknowledged.

I wished someone could sit with me in uncertainty without trying to change it.

And maybe that’s where the lesson began.

I started noticing where I had been giving beyond my capacity.

Offering care, patience, understanding, and hoping it would be met the same way.

Sometimes it was. Sometimes it wasn’t.

And that awareness changed everything.

There are seasons where your only work is tending to yourself.

That isn’t selfish. It’s wisdom.

You are the guardian of your inner world.

You get to decide when your wisdom emerges and when it stays protected.

Not all healing needs to be visible to be real.

My body reminded me that peace is not something you earn.

It’s something you protect.

When something no longer feels safe or aligned, your body will always tell you first.

And for years, it had been trying to tell me something important.

That something deep needed to end.

So now, I choose quieter days.

I choose solitude when I need it.

I choose nervous system regulation over explanation.

I’m not here to fix anyone.

I’m here to offer gentle guidance, in ways that protect my body, preserve my energy, and honor my own alignment.

I can walk alongside others without abandoning myself.

If you’re in a season where you feel tired, withdrawn, or protective of your peace, let that be okay.

Sometimes clarity doesn’t arrive loudly.

Sometimes it arrives as relief.

And that is enough.

✨ Ash

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I’ve always been someone who struggled with asking for help.

I love to give, but receiving is difficult.

Somewhere along the way, when I asked for help, it didn’t land well.

Maybe I felt dismissed.

Maybe I felt like a burden.

Maybe I just learned it was safer to handle things on my own.

So I built a kind of quiet armor.

Independence became protection.

“I’ve got it” became automatic.

But here’s what I’ve noticed.

When I don’t accept help…

• I get tired.

• I get snappy.

• I start to close in.

• I isolate.

• Everything feels heavier than it actually is.

It’s like a cloud rolls in and just stays there.

If you’re a sensitive human…

If you feel everything…

If you can read a room in seconds…

If you often know what someone is feeling before they say it…

Then asking for help can feel almost unbearable.

Because you’re used to being the one who holds.

The one who understands.

The one who absorbs.

You might even wonder…

Am I independent?

Or did I just learn that depending on someone wasn’t safe?

This is something my partner and I talk about often.

He reminds me it’s okay to ask.

He gently points out how hard it is for me to receive.

And maybe you relate to that too.

So I want to ask you something:

• What would it feel like to accept help for one day?

• What happens in your body when you imagine saying, “Can you help me?”

• Is there discomfort?

• Where does that discomfort come from?

Sometimes when we sit with the uncomfortable questions, we land somewhere unexpected.

Maybe you didn’t feel safe asking as a child.

Maybe you were told to “figure it out.”

Maybe you once asked and got snapped at.

Maybe you felt like a burden.

Maybe you saw someone else feel like a burden, and you decided you’d never be that.

Those are real feelings.

Valid ones.

But they don’t have to be permanent.

As I get older, I’m learning this:

It is okay to need an extra hand.

We are not meant to do everything alone.

And yet the world tells us we should.

We see highlight reels.

We juggle a thousand thoughts.

We multitask.

We carry emotional loads no one else sees.

And somehow we’re expected to “handle it.”

But when has handling life ever been easy?

So today, if you’re at your breaking point…

If you’re one coffee away from tears…

If you’re grasping at straws and pretending you’re fine…

Please ask someone for help.

It can be as small as:

“Can you sit with me?”

“Can you take this off my plate?”

“Can you help me?”

You might be surprised by how much those words can soften your day.

You are not weak for needing support.

You are human.

You can’t hate yourself into loving yourself.

I’ve been noticing how often I try to motivate my body through pressure instead of listening.

On the days my body is asking for ease, forcing movement just feels like another form of self-criticism.

Movement has been feeling really intentional to me. Instead of pushing my body or stressing it, I’ve been craving ease. Calm. Steadiness.

So instead, I turn to meditation.

It’s how I explore worlds beyond the physical one. There’s something so quiet and peaceful about entering the unconscious mind. It feels like where dreams are born. Like discovery. Like accessing parts of myself that don’t surface in day-to-day life.

I seem only to reach a serene type of energy when I go deep, somewhere in the ether of my soul.

Nothing there feels sad.

Or angry.

Or aggressive.

It feels freeing.

Encouraging.

Hopeful.

Like a place I long for but can’t force my way into.

Could I be getting a small glimpse of what exists beyond the physical?

Sometimes, in that space, imagery appears, places and people I don’t recognize. And it makes me wonder how much more exists beyond what we understand.

What matters to me isn’t what I see, but how it feels in my body when I return.

While I’m there, everything starts to rise to the surface. And then suddenly it’s a wave. A wash. A release. A cleanse.

It feels like a big wave is moving through me, and everything goes quiet. Like my body has been rinsed clean in one sweep. Like the heaviness I’ve been carrying just… evaporated.

And in that moment, I feel free from the energy that was holding me captive.

It’s then that my reflections become so clear, and I know I am not only meant to keep them to myself, I am meant to share them!

The Reflection: Longing

There will be days when you feel the deep ache of homesickness,

not for a place, but for a way of being.

Because sometimes,

Earth feels heavy… missing empathy, compassion, and love.

But where you come from, that kind of knowing is the air you breathe.

You are not lost.

You are a soul of the stars,

a starseed, gently placed here to remember and to reignite.

To remind those who’ve forgotten what this is: love.

I’ve been moving through a deep identity shift (but this is very normal for me!). Releasing what I thought should be, and learning to move with what is. And honestly, it’s been hard. Really fucking hard.

I’ve noticed I don’t want to be around people as much lately. If I’m being honest, it’s because I’ve been let down. Like many of us who’ve experienced heartbreak in some form. It isn’t a profound feeling, but it might be familiar.

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The Dream

In the dream, I was at my grandma’s house. I often refer to her as my guide, because I know she’s always with me. I imagine you have something similar. A belief, a presence, or a quiet knowing you return to when things feel strange or unsteady.

I was standing in a large, open bathroom with two barn doors that could slide wide open. As I looked toward them, they opened. Two pink slippers walked toward me. No body. Just the slippers.

I wasn’t scared. I rarely am in these dreams. I’m open to signs, and I trust them.

The slippers stopped in front of me, then turned and walked back through the open doors.

A TV turned on.

If you’re familiar with how messages come through, you know frequency often uses sound or screens. The message was simple:

“You’re doing great. Keep going.”

That was it.

It came at a time when I was struggling to release a version of myself that no longer fits. When I woke up, I kept thinking about the phases we move through and how the identities we cling to eventually end.

Reflection: Shifts + Becoming

This season is one of identity shifting.

Maybe you feel it too.
That quiet sense that something is changing, even if you can’t fully name it yet.

There are versions of myself I am actively saying goodbye to.
Not only the ones that no longer fit, but also the ones I’ve carried quietly for a long time.

Do you notice that in yourself?
The parts you’ve outgrown, but still hold with tenderness?

I keep asking, Do I still want this?
Questions bubble up, without immediate answers.

And maybe you’re sitting there too.
In the not knowing.
In the space between who you were and who you are becoming.

Right now, something feels different.

A sense of contentment.
Settled.
Stable.
Happy.
Calm.

Have you felt that shift before?
That subtle exhale in the middle of transition, not after it’s finished?

Even with the challenges, the uncertainty, and the strange thoughts that still arise, I notice I return to myself more often now.

I wonder if you feel that too.
Those moments where you come back home to yourself, even briefly.

I’ve learned to sit with discomfort. I can see how my shadows are testing me, pushing me, shaping me.

What are your shadows teaching you right now?

I don’t always give myself permission to simply be.

Maybe you struggle with that as well.
Trying hard. Sometimes too hard. Wondering if you’re doing enough.

I’ve lived many versions of myself in one body.

I think most of us have.

And I am learning that longing for who I once was doesn’t mean I’m lost.
It means I am growing.

The truth is, I am always evolving.
And maybe you are too.

There is an ease in reflection now.
An acceptance in looking at yourself and being okay with fading.

Not fading into nothing.
But fading into the next version of yourself.

More humbled.
More grateful.
More at peace.

If you’re in a season of becoming too,
You’re not alone.

If these words resonate, you’re welcome to stick around and receive new reflections when they’re ready.

We pretend to be a version of ourselves that we believe will be accepted.

We soften our edges.

We mute our honesty.

We become palatable.

But instead of pretending to be a diluted version of who we are, what if we practiced accepting ourselves more fully, and let that be what we share with the world?

Because it can be exhausting.

To show up as someone you aren’t, and to feel others connect with a version of you that doesn’t fully exist. Because being liked can feel safer, right?

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And if I can’t accept this part of myself, how could anyone else?

So we curate.

We edit.

We wear masks.

But the moment you stop performing, when you stop putting on a show for approval, something shifts. Your relationship with yourself deepens. Your relationships with others become more honest, more spacious, more real.

The people who are meant to see you will see you.

Not despite the parts you hide from yourself but because of them.

We often paint a picture to attract a connection. To be liked. To be chosen. But in doing so, we ask someone to love a “perfect” person that doesn’t actually exist. And that kind of love can never feel secure, because it isn’t rooted in truth.

The truth is, we are not meant to be liked by everyone.

We are not meant to be approved by everyone.

And that’s not a flaw.

That’s the point.

This is what makes us unique. Different. Not a copy-and-paste version of the world around us.

I’ve been told I’m “too direct.”

“Too honest.”

And they’re right. I am those things.

I stopped wearing a mask years ago, and in doing so, I found a quiet confidence in transparency. Maybe I only have a handful of truly close friends but the ones I show up for know my intentions. They know the depth of care I bring.

There’s no pretending.

No tiptoeing.

No guessing.

Often, masks aren’t obvious. They show up as a projection. We wear them to protect our insecurities, to shield the parts of us we haven’t yet learned how to hold with compassion.

But the work isn’t removing the mask for others.

It’s removing it for yourself first.

Because authenticity doesn’t require performance.

It requires permission.

We’re always learning who we are, and I don’t think that ever changes.
Sometimes the growth isn’t in becoming someone new, but in letting go of who we were never meant to be. 💜