If I Let Go, Does That Mean It Didn't Matter?

One of the hardest parts of healing is that sometimes it feels like we are being asked to “make peace” with something that never should have happened. Or that we need to “just move on” so that others can feel more comfortable.

And a lot of times, deep down, we really do want to move on.

But many people carry an unspoken fear; I know I did:

"If I stop hurting over it, am I saying it was okay?"

"If I let go of my anger, am I letting them off the hook?"

"If I move forward, does that mean what happened to me didn't matter?"

I don't think that's what healing asks of us at all.

I think healing asks us to separate two things that often get tangled together:

The significance of what happened, and the amount of suffering we continue carrying because of it.

Something can matter deeply and yet no longer have control over your life.

Painful things can can leave a scar and no longer be an open wound.

An awful situation can shape you without necessarily defining who you are.

I think many of us learned to hold our pain as a form of evidence.

It reminded us that what happened was real, that it hurt, and that it mattered.

Maybe some of us kept holding onto the pain because it was also hope that someone would notice we were hurting.

So when the pain begins to soften, it can feel unsettling, almost like we're letting go of the proof.

But your suffering was never the proof.

The fact that it happened is the proof.

The impact it had on your life is the proof.

The person you had to become in order to survive it is the proof.

You do not owe anyone continued suffering in order to validate your experience.

There is also a difference between remembering and carrying:

I can remember that I broke my arm as a child.

I don't need to keep the cast on forever to prove it happened.

The cast served a purpose at the time.

At some point, carrying it becomes its own burden.

The same is often true emotionally.

The anger, hypervigilance, grief, self-protection, and constant searching for answers may have been necessary at one point. They may have helped you survive.

But eventually we are faced with a different question:

"Do I still need this in order to honor what happened?"

Sometimes the answer is yes.

Sometimes the answer is no.

And when the answer becomes no, letting go is not an act of dismissal.

It is an act of trust:

• Trust that what happened matters, even when you're no longer carrying it every day.

• Trust that your story remains true, even when your nervous system begins to relax.

• Trust that you can remember without reliving.

• Trust that your life is allowed to become bigger than the thing that hurt you.

Because “healing” isn't about erasing the past, about forgiving and forgetting, or even about moving on.

I think it’s holding enough space for yourself and your pain, that you feel safe to let the rest of your life exist alongside it.

And in time, I think that’s what helps the pain start to fade. You realize that you can hold that space for yourself, even if it ever felt like no one else could.

What part of your pain are you carrying because it still serves you, and what part are you carrying because you're afraid that setting it down would mean it never mattered in the first place?

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If this is something you're wrestling with right now, you're not alone.

These are exactly the kinds of conversations we explore in our weekly Women's Circle. It's a quiet space to slow down, reflect, ask questions, and be in community with other women navigating their own healing journeys.

We meet Tuesday evenings at 7:00 PM CST on Zoom. You're welcome to join with your camera on or off, participate as much or as little as you'd like, and simply come as you are.

If you'd like to join us this week, you can learn more and register here: Women’s Circle

I'd love to have you there.

-Ashana.

The Problem With Calling Little Girls “Mature”

The women everyone relies on are often falling apart quietly.

People called me mature for years.

What they didn’t see was that I was taught to emotionally abandon myself to keep the world comfortable.

When people called me mature, they weren’t seeing my internal processing. They didn’t know how I was handling things, or perceiving them, or storing them away for future use. They saw me getting things done, and they saw me doing them pretty well. Correctly. Efficiently.

But they didn’t see me internalizing the belief that things had to go smoothly or be perfect in order for the world to keep turning.

They didn’t feel my heart racing constantly, or notice that every night when I washed my face or brushed my teeth, I still felt like I was racing the clock.

Evenings felt like another chore to get through, before I had to wake up and do it all over again the next day. Even when I laid down, my back hurt so bad it took my breath away. It took several minutes to relax my body enough to fall asleep.

There was no wind down, no sacred routine. There was just surviving, from the moment I became conscious to the moment I slipped into unsettled dreams.

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Racing the clock meant that I was always trying to get to the next task. Nothing was ever done well enough for me to take a step back and see a job well done. I just had to keep moving so that the world didn’t get away from me.

As a child, I wasn’t often allowed to just sit and rest. My dad would ask, “Did you get your chores done?” and then he would check them, criticizing as he went. There was always more I could do. More ways I could be better.

So I learned to play outside and make myself scarce.

Being “mature” cost me the ability to face life with wonder and awe. I instead learned to view each situation as a problem to tackle. There was nothing mysterious about the world except the solution I had to find. Everything fit into neat boxes of black and white, leaving little room for shades of grey.

I became rigid, much like the people in my past who had hurt me so badly. The exact thing I rebelled against.

Being mature also cost me the ability to be held and nurtured. When you become the woman who can handle anything, you start to project into the world that you don’t need anything… or anyone. And when you form that personality as a child, it’s really easy to get left behind.

People always know you’re the one they can turn to, but no one really looks back to check on you, to make sure you’re okay too.

(The people who did look back- those were precious people. A lot of times, those moments kept me going.)

I always hung out with older kids and adults, so I got exposed to things I probably shouldn’t have. But secretly, I longed to do the same things my peers were doing. I had become such a “chores before play” kind of person that my personality slowly fit more with people older than me.

I became hyper vigilant of the world because I constantly had to scan for the next danger or the next problem to solve. All the while, I looked around and noticed people being happy and confident, and I wondered what they had that I didn’t.

They looked loved.

They looked well taken care of. They looked unbothered, washed, ironed, made up, and happy. They looked like the world wasn’t a series of mishaps waiting to attack them. They seemed to deserve happiness far more than I did, because obviously that’s what they were receiving.

I felt difficult to love because my experience with love often felt extreme. Either people sang my praises and felt grateful for all I did for them, or criticism appeared the moment I showed weakness or imperfection.

At least, that’s how it felt to me.

If I kept providing, they kept loving me.

While I was being mature and competent, I was quietly carrying the belief that no one could handle things as well as me.
So I had to be the mature one. If I didn’t do it, nothing would get done.

And because of that, I called in relationships that mirrored the same dynamic. Partnerships where I ended up mothering, placating, and taking on more than my share of the emotional labor.

At the same time, I was locked away inside a tomb of self-defeat. No one could really reach me.

And that hurt my heart.

I wanted to be easy to love, like everyone else.

Most of the praise I received from adults was for my composure, my ability to perform, my willingness to help them and make their lives easier instead of harder. So I learned not to do the things that seemed to make life harder for other people.

I learned not to be messy with my creativity. I stopped having much creativity at all outside of writing.

I learned not to be loud with my emotions or burdensome with my problems.

I learned not to make myself too visible in the house and to take up as little space as possible.

As a child, I loved writing stories and reading books. I loved imaginary worlds. I loved role-playing games, creating songs, nature, clouds, animals, and bugs.

But I became so busy trying to be perfect and mature that I no longer had time for those things.

Even the books I read became darker and darker until eventually I stopped reading fiction altogether. If I read, it was self-help books. I turned myself into one long self-improvement project.

I stopped knowing how to play.

When my children would ask me to play with them, my chest would grow tight. My body suddenly felt restricted and uncomfortable, almost like I was being strangled. I didn’t understand it then, but now I do.

My nervous system had forgotten that life was allowed to feel open, creative, or free.

When I was wandering around not knowing how to function, I became susceptible to fads and shiny things. Pinterest versions of selfhood. Decorating my home. Paleo and keto dieting. Weight lifting. Bible journaling. Being a trophy wife.

I tried each one on and genuinely enjoyed parts of the process.

But eventually it turned into self-help books upon self-help books: how to regulate better, how to be a calm parent, how to be a better wife.

Those things were all more projects. Like patching windows and fixing hinges on a house that was already condemned underneath.

Because the self beneath all of it still didn’t feel worthy of happiness.

I would over-caffeinate to keep up with life, function at high speed and high capacity, and then emotionally collapse after conflict or disconnection in my relationships. I had decision anxiety so badly that I would leave full carts of groceries in stores and drive home.

From the outside, I probably looked unstable, difficult to understand, or hard to get close to.

But underneath it all, I was exhausted from constantly managing myself.

I kept playing the dutiful role: caretaker, therapist, errand runner, host.

Because I believed that if I stopped being useful, people wouldn’t want me around anymore.

And eventually, my personality became drinking.

Not because I wanted destruction, but because it was one of the only times I stopped performing.

When I stopped drinking, I realized the get-togethers weren’t actually fulfilling me anymore. We were repeating the same stories, living the same routines, trying to convince ourselves we were still alive inside them.

That was when I realized I was going to crash and burn if I didn’t figure out what the real problem was.

Because the problem was never going to be solved by becoming more perfect.

It led to a life of extremes: perfection and burnout, or perfection and partying to blow off steam.

And once I stopped hosting, once I stopped constantly offering myself up as the glue holding everything together, I started noticing the distance in my relationships.

The conversations became more tense. The invitations slowed down.

But then I realized something even harder:

I wasn’t reaching out deeply either.

Most of my relationships struggled to move beyond the surface because I didn’t feel safe letting people truly know me. I was always helping, offering solutions, managing discomfort. What I thought was care probably felt like judgment sometimes.

The hardest truth to admit was that I didn’t feel safe letting anyone in because I believed any moment of imperfection might become the moment someone stopped loving me.

And eventually, I had to confront another painful realization:

I also viewed other people through the lens of usefulness.

If they could not provide something emotionally, intellectually, or practically, my respect for them quietly lowered and I kept them at a greater distance.

I think we often don’t realize how much of our personalities are shaped by our upbringing, and how much of that can actually soften or fade when we finally address the unmet needs underneath them.

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Healing did not feel peaceful at first.

It felt awful.

It felt like wandering around my house picking things up and putting them back down because I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. It felt like sitting in unbearable shame and embarrassment without trying to outrun it through performance.

I was angry a lot.

I cried until I thought I couldn’t cry anymore.

I had to learn how to love myself enough that I no longer needed to constantly earn love from other people.

And that felt lonely.

But slowly, things started changing.

My chest now aches when I see something really sad or really beautiful. It surprises me every time, because before, I felt almost nothing. My chest was always too tight.

Walking in nature helped.

Hiking. Kayaking. Moving alongside something that exists unapologetically.

Nature doesn’t ask permission to exist beautifully.

It just does.

And maybe we can too.

Now, I feel most like myself during genuine moments of connection, whether with myself or with others. Music, art, movement, emotions: these are all things I can now stop and actually feel instead of avoiding or performing through.

When emotions come through, I know I’m doing something right.

Because I’m finally trusting myself enough to allow them.

Now I let myself take time before answering difficult things. I sit with creative projects and music playing in the background. I cry when crying is what wants to come through.

I no longer rush to fill silences by offering more of myself.

I let people ask for help before I offer it.

I let myself change my mind.

And if I start spiraling over a decision, I remind myself that I can always return and choose differently later.

But maybe the biggest shift of all has been this:

I let people misunderstand me.

I no longer jump to explain myself or manage everyone’s perception of me.

I let situations exist without trying to control them.

A lot of high-functioning women are emotionally abandoning themselves all day long and calling it maturity because that’s what people called it when they made the world more comfortable for everyone else.

But we are here to take up space too.

You deserve to be comfortable too.

Maybe that’s why so many high-functioning women feel exhausted all the time.

Not because they’re weak.

Because they’ve spent years performing strength while quietly abandoning themselves underneath it.

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So many women learned to survive by becoming useful, composed, and endlessly capable.

But eventually, survival starts to feel lonely.

Every Tuesday, I gather with women who are learning how to soften, reconnect with themselves, and stop carrying the world alone.

If that’s where you are too, you’re welcome to join us.

With love,

—Ashana

Why Closure Feels So Hard After Narcissistic Abuse

There’s this exhausting mental loop that happens after a relationship with a narcissist.

You keep replaying conversations in your head.
You go over certain moments again and again.
You try to piece everything together so it finally makes sense.

But no matter how many times you run through it, something still feels… unfinished. Like you’re this close to closure, but you just can’t quite reach it.

That’s the part no one really talks about.

In Season 1, Episode 36 of The Reclamation Room, I’m sitting with this exact struggle: why closure feels so painfully out of reach after narcissistic abuse, and what’s really going on underneath that endless mental loop.

Your Brain Just Wants Resolution.

Your mind is wired to make sense of things. When something doesn’t add up, it doesn’t just shrug and move on; it keeps searching for order.

In these relationships, you’re dealing with words that never matched actions, affection mixed with harm, and a reality that kept shifting. Of course your brain keeps trying to organize it all into something coherent.

You’re not overthinking. You’re not being dramatic. You’re trying to orient yourself in a relationship that was fundamentally disorienting.

Why Closure Keeps Slipping Away

There’s usually a quiet hope that if you could just understand what happened, you could finally let it go.

So you go back.

You analyze.

You replay.

You search for the version of the story that finally clicks.

But the clarity you’re craving keeps sliding through your fingers.

The hard truth is: the relationship was built on inconsistency. There was never a stable foundation to begin with. So trying to find solid closure in something that was never solid… is incredibly difficult.

What Actually Creates Closure?

True closure isn’t just about time passing. It comes from truth. From a shared recognition of what actually happened.

In narcissistic dynamics, that shared reality rarely (if ever) exists. You can’t get closure from someone who refuses to live in the same reality as you. Your mind keeps working overtime, trying to close a loop that was never allowed to have a clear ending.

The Shift That Starts to Change Things

At some point, the healing turns in a different direction.

Instead of waiting for them to explain, to see it, or to give you the “right” ending… the focus gently shifts toward you.

Understanding your own experience.

Naming what was real for you.

Letting that be enough.

That’s when things start to settle in your body and nervous system.

Listen to the Full Episode

If you’ve been stuck in this loop, this episode was made for you.

I go deeper into why your mind keeps circling back, what makes closure feel so unfinished, and how real healing can begin, even without their version of the truth.

👉Listen to Episode 36 of The Reclamation Room ← Click here to listen on your favorite platform.

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You might sit with these… slowly… no pressure to answer all of them:

• Where am I still trying to get clarity from someone who never gave me a stable reality?

• What part of me believes I need their version of the story in order to move forward?

• When I replay things in my mind… what am I actually hoping to find?

• What feels unfinished right now… and can I name it in my own words, without needing theirs?

• What shifts, even slightly, when I allow my experience to be valid… without explanation?

You don’t have to force yourself to stop thinking about it.
Sometimes the shift begins when you understand why your mind keeps going back there. 🤍

If you don’t want to sit with this alone…
I host a weekly women’s circle on Tuesdays at 7pm.
It’s a space to land, be real, and reconnect with yourself in real time.

→ join here.

From Ruin to Renaissance: A healing artist’s story of survival + revival

Some stories aren’t meant to be rushed.

They ask to be sat with… felt… witnessed in real time.

In Season 1, Episode 37 of The Reclamation Room, I sit down with Stephanie Jackson for a conversation that moves through the quiet, disorienting layers of narcissistic abuse, betrayal, and what it actually looks like to find your way back to yourself… slowly, honestly, in your own time.

This isn’t a neat or polished story.
It’s a real one.

When Life Becomes Overwhelming All at Once

Stephanie’s life was already shaped by creativity, a path rooted in expression and trust, even when it came with uncertainty.

Then everything started to hit her at once… a shifting economy, the transition into motherhood, and a relationship that initially felt grounding, supportive, even steady.

Over time, that steadiness changed. it wasn’t super dramatic, and it wasn’t always easy to name, but it was big enough to feel it… enough to sense that something was off before there were words for it.

The Subtle Shift You Can’t Quite Explain

This is where the conversation lingers, in that space where things are not clearly wrong, but they are no longer right either.

Support becomes inconsistent, communication loses clarity, and the emotional weight builds in ways that are difficult to trace back to a single moment.

And the questions start to surface…
Am I overreacting?
Did that actually happen the way I felt it?
Why does this feel so off?

She doesn’t rush past that part in this episode.
We actually sit in it.

Because that’s usually where people are the longest.

The Moment You Can No Longer Look Away

There’s a moment where your body is just… done.

Not dramatic.
Just clear.

Everything catches up at once and you realize something has to shift.

You can hear that moment in her story.
That place where it stops being about figuring it out perfectly and starts being about telling the truth to yourself.

Creating as a Way Back to Yourself

What stayed consistent for her through all of it was her art.

A way of holding experience, of processing what does not easily make sense, of giving form to something that might otherwise stay internal.

Stephanie shares how her story begins to move through her work, how what she has lived through becomes something she can engage with differently, something she can shape and understand in her own time.

There is honesty in that process, and within that honesty, something begins to stabilize again.

Why This Episode Might Resonate

We didn’t try to make this conversation inspirational.

We let it be honest.

And I think that’s why it lands.

If you’ve ever felt confused in a relationship…
if you’ve ever questioned your own reality…
if you’ve ever known something was off but stayed in the loop of trying to explain it away…

this one will probably feel familiar.

A Moment to Sit With

If this brought anything up for you, you don’t have to rush to fix it or figure it out.

Just notice.

Where have you felt that slow shift?
What have you been trying to make sense of that doesn’t actually feel clear?
What does your body already know that you’ve been talking yourself out of?

Listen to the Full Episode ←Click here to listen on your favorite platform.

Stephanie Jackson joins us in The Reclamation Room for a conversation that unfolds with honesty, depth, and presence… the kind that stays with you after it ends.

Season 1, Episode 37 is available now.

Take your time with it.

Is the trauma bond an addiction?

There’s a certain aspect of the trauma bond that doesn’t feel very “talked about.”

We hear about the fighting the most: “When it’s good, it’s good. But when it’s bad, it’s really bad.”.

We definitely go in circles contemplating the betrayal. (If you know, you know.)

Surprisingly, even the apology get decent air time: we often remember what they did to convince us to try again.

The part I’m talking about, the part that stays with us even when we don’t talk about it, is the waiting.

That stretch of time where your body feels like it’s leaning forward, bracing into something that hasn’t happened yet. Where your mind keeps checking for a text, a sign, a softening, a shift in the air, a word that signifies surrender. This is the time when part of you already knows this hurts (and tried like hell to avoid it), but another part of you still feels pulled into it.. like if you give it everythign you’ve got, it might finally bring relief this time. That frantic feeling becomes so familiar, yet it stings every time.

It’s so important that you know: that pull isn’t just emotional. It’s neurological.

Understanding that can change the way you hold yourself in this process, and in your healing after.

The “Wanting” System in Your Brain

Deep in the middle of your brain is a pathway called the mesolimbic system. In simple terms, it’s the part of you that says:

This matters. Go toward this. Remember this. Try again.

People often call it the “pleasure system,” but that’s not completely right. It’s more like the anticipation system. The craving system. The maybe this time system.

It lights up most strongly, not when something feels good, but when something feels possible.

And like we explored earlier, that’s exactly where the FELT sense of trauma bonds live.

Why Trauma Bonds Feel So Hard to Leave

A trauma bond isn’t built on steady love or consistent safety. It’s built on unpredictability.

Warmth, then cold. Connection, then distance. Hope, then loss.

Your nervous system never quite knows what’s coming next. And that “not-knowing” is exactly what makes the mesolimbic pathway fire harder.

This is the same brain loop that shows up in things like gambling or doomscrolling. Not because the outcome is good, but because it’s uncertain.

Your brain keeps leaning in, thinking:

Maybe this time it will be different.

So when someone in your life becomes the source of both the pain and the relief, your system will often start to wire them in as the “answer,” even when they’re also the wound.

So if you find yourself feeling weak for repeating the same cycles.. Just know this process is actually your biology, doing its best to stay in tune with your nervous-system that learned how to survive.

The “Relief Hook”

Trauma bonds don’t usually form in calm seasons of life. They tend to form when you’re already overwhelmed, lonely, grieving, or trying to find solid ground inside yourself.

So when a person shows up and offers:

• Intensity

• Attention

• Validation

• Connection

• A sense of being chosen

Your brain doesn’t just register them as a person.

It can register them as relief.

And once something becomes “the thing that makes this pain go away,” the mesolimbic system will keep pointing you back toward it, even when it starts to cost you. (This also explains a lot about certain patterns of codependency, but that’s another post in itself.)

Why Logic Isn’t Enough

This sense of relief that sinks its hooks into your nervous system is why so many people in trauma bonds say things like:

I know this isn’t good for me, but I still feel pulled.

Because the part of you that understands isn’t the same part of you that’s activated.

The mesolimbic pathway doesn’t respond to reasoning. It responds to patterns of reward and relief. It responds to what your body has learned equals safety, connection, or a break from the ache.

So healing here isn’t as simple as “seeing the truth.”

It’s the steps that come after that: teaching your nervous system new places to find relief.

The Loop, Gently Named

Most trauma bonds follow a rhythm:

1. Tension or distance

2. Craving or longing

3. Reunion, apology, or closeness

4. Relief

5. Repeat

Your brain starts to associate the person with the relief, even though the relief only exists because the pain came first.

That’s the loop, in a nutshell. But noticing it doesn’t have to mean shaming yourself.

Noticing it means you’re finally seeing the pattern your body has been living through, and waking up from that might take time.

What Healing Actually Aims For

Healing a trauma bond isn’t about ripping the attachment out of yourself like a band aid.

It actually asks you to slowly, patiently, teach your system that:

• Safety doesn’t have to come in spikes and ultimatums

• Connection doesn’t have to be earned through pain or apology

• Relief doesn’t have to be tied to someone else’s behavior

This is the part where things like steady routines, grounded relationships, creative expression, and body-based practices matter WAY more than most people realize.

These things give your mesolimbic system something new to light up for:

Not intensity, like before.

But meaning. Action that reflects your values.

A Different Kind of “Pull”

Over time, the goal isn’t to “feel nothing.”

It’s to start feeling better with, or drawn toward:

• What feels steady (instead of dramatic)

• What feels safe (instead of shocking)

• What feels nourishing (instead of consuming)

That shift can’t happen overnight, because brain patterning takes time. A shift like this happens through repetition. It asks for small, lived experiences that show your body a new kind of reward that it can FEEL.

If You’re In This Right Now

If you’re in the middle of a trauma bond, and part of you feels ashamed that you still care, still miss, still want… I want to say this clearly:

There is nothing wrong with you.

Your nervous system learned a pathway to relief in a season where it needed something to hold onto.

The work that I offer here isn’t rooted in judging that part of you.

It’s rooted in finding a path that you can walk, even gently, back home.

If this resonates, this is the kind of space I hold inside my work: not fixing you, not pushing you. Just helping you understand what your system has been trying to survive, and what it might need now, to feel safe enough to let go.

You don’t have to do this in a “hot and cold” world forever.

There are softer ways to live inside your own life, and you are allowed to find them.

How I Came to See This Differently

From the beginning, I’ve looked at trauma bonds as more than just psychology, even though the repeating themes are always there: beliefs, stories, attachment, self-worth. Yes, those pieces matter. Like.. a lot.

But in my work in porn and sex addiction recovery, I notice something else happening beneath the words my clients are using.

I sit with women who have done years of therapy. Often outpatient programs. Weekly support groups. Self-help books. Podcasts. All the “right” things. These women definitely aren’t uneducated about their situation.

They can explain their partner’s patterns, name their own triggers, map the cycle almost perfectly.

And still, their bodies stay in the same loop.

They share that they would leave a session or a conversation feeling clear, grounded, even strong… and then one text, one shift in tone, one moment of closeness or distance pulls them right back into that familiar spiral of hope, fear, relief, and ache.

So I ask a different question:

What if this isn’t just something you need to understand better… but something your nervous system has learned?

Seeing the Brain in the Bond

In my work, the mesolimbic pathway isn’t an abstract concept. It shows up as a missing puzzle piece in the room.

I see the same patterns I learned about in addiction work showing up in relationships built on inconsistency and emotional intensity.

This isn’t because these women are “addicted” to their partners, but because their systems have learned to associate this person with relief from pain.

That changes everything about how hard it is to walk away.

What I’ve Watched Happen in Real Time

I’ve watched clients who felt like nothing worked for them begin to soften when we stopped only talking about what they should do and started working with what their bodies were actually doing.

I’ve watched their faces light up when they learned how to create small, steady moments of safety that didn’t depend on their partner’s behavior.

I’ve heard their voices change in real time, when they found ways to feel grounded that didn’t come from waiting for a message, an apology, or a promise.

The shift isn’t always dramatic; a lot of times it’s gradual, something they notice looking back.

In real time, we would notice: maybe they stopped spiraling as hard during difficult moments. Or they paused before reaching out to frantically repair. They started to notice the craving without immediately obeying it.

And over time, they would say that the “pull” started losing some of its grip.

Why This Changes the Healing Conversation

When you look at trauma bonds through this lens, the question stops being:

Why can’t I just let go?

And starts becoming:

What has my body learned equals safety, and what would help it learn something new?

That shift alone can bring a lot of self-compassion into a place that’s often filled with self-judgment.

If You’ve Tried “Everything”

If you’ve been in therapy, programs, groups, or courses and still feel like you end up in the same emotional place, I want you to hear this:

It doesn’t mean you’re failing at healing!

It may mean that no one has really helped your nervous system find a new experience of safety yet. That’s a much slower work, often a softer and more nuanced work. And in my experience, it’s the work that actually lasts and feels good.

If you’re here because you’re tired of understanding your patterns but still living inside them, this is the heart of what I hold space for.

I don’t offer a quick fix or a magic formula.

But I do bring a different kind of attention to the part of you that’s been reaching for relief all along.

You don’t have to be at war with that part anymore, if you don’t want to.

You can learn how to offer it something steadier to lean on.

If this speaks to the place you’re in, this is the kind of work I hold inside my programs and 1:1 spaces. We focus on helping your nervous system find safety that doesn’t depend on someone else’s patterns.

You’re welcome to join my weekly women’s circle, where we meet to discuss topics like this one, and share (or just listen) in community with others who get it.

If you’d like to chat further and walk away with a bit more clarity or a next step, you can book a free Threshold Session with me 1:1.

Either way, I’m glad you’re here, and I hope you find something here that feels steady. <3

-Ashana

Why Genetics Are Not Destiny (And Why That Matters for Healing)

(The Challenges of Interpreting Adoption and Twin Studies in Human Behavior)

This piece started as a school assignment.

I was asked to look at adoption and twin studies in one of my psychology classes, which meant revisiting the familiar nature versus nurture conversation. At first, I felt a little disconnected from it. I’ve seen this debate come up again and again, and it often gets flattened into simple conclusions that don’t really match what I see when I work with real people.

But the longer I sat with it, the more this assignment felt like an opportunity to notice something bigger. It wasn’t the research itself that felt off. It was the way genetic findings are often talked about, especially in healing and mental health spaces. The way we explain these ideas matters, because people don’t just hear information. They build beliefs about themselves from it.

When “it’s genetic” starts to feel limiting

In my work, I hear people explain their struggles through genetics all the time. Anxiety runs in the family. Sensitivity is inherited. Relationship patterns are just how they’re wired. Sometimes this explanation brings relief, especially for people who have spent years blaming themselves. But just as often, it carries a sense of resignation.

There is a shift that happens when someone starts to believe that their inner world is fixed by biology alone. They may stop wondering what could change. They may stop listening to their own experience. Hope becomes cautious, even if no one says that out loud.

That is where I tend to slow the conversation down.

Because genetics do play a role in human behavior, but genetics are not the whole story, and they’re not a life sentence.

What adoption and twin studies are actually meant to do

Adoption and twin studies are used to look at how genetics and environment both influence behavior. Identical twins share almost all of their genes, while fraternal twins share about half. When identical twins show similar traits, especially when raised in different homes, researchers often point to genetics as part of the explanation.

That information is useful. It helped psychology move away from the idea that environment alone explains everything. But the conclusions of these studies are often stretched further than they should be.

These studies talk about patterns across groups of people, not about individual lives. They do not tell us what is fixed about one person, or what someone will struggle with forever. They look at averages, not lived experience.

That distinction is easy to miss outside of academic settings, but it matters a lot when these ideas are applied to real people.

What these studies can’t really capture

Adoption and twin studies can’t measure emotional safety. They can’t measure what it feels like to grow up on edge, or how a child learns to stay alert in order to belong. They can’t measure the impact of inconsistent caregiving, chronic stress, or early relational wounds.

Even twins raised apart are still raised within environments that shape them deeply. Culture, family dynamics, financial stress, and emotional support all influence how genetic tendencies show up over time.

One idea that helped ground this for me came from behavioral geneticist Eric Turkheimer, who explains that genes always work within environments. Genetics don’t operate on their own. They are shaped by what someone lives through, especially early on.

Why this matters for healing

If genetics were destiny, healing would have clear limits. Growth would only go so far. But that is not what we see in real life, and it is not what research on the brain supports.

Brains change in response to experience. Nervous systems adapt when safety becomes available. Patterns that once helped someone survive can soften when the conditions that required them are no longer present.

This is why the way we talk about genetics matters. When people understand their patterns as responses to what they lived through, rather than flaws they were born with, something shifts: shame eases. Curiosity comes back online and change starts to feel possible again.

That doesn’t mean we should ignore biology.. it means it might not be helpful to view biology as a verdict.

Holding genetics with more care

What feels most accurate to me is this: genetics can influence sensitivity, temperament, and vulnerability, but environment and relationship shape how those tendencies unfold. Genes may set certain starting points, but they do not decide the whole path.

Two people can carry similar genetic risks and live very different lives depending on the support, safety, and meaning they experience along the way. That doesn’t weaken science; it makes it more honest and applicable for humans.

When we turn genetics into destiny, we lose nuance. When we allow space for both biology and lived experience, we end up with an understanding that actually matches what we see in human development.

Coming back to where this began

So yes, this reflection came from a school assignment about adoption and twin studies. But it led me back to something I already believe deeply:

People are not problems to be solved or data points to be explained away. They are shaped by timing, relationships, and experience, alongside biology. When we remember that, we stop asking what is wrong with someone and start asking what shaped them, and what might help now.

That shift matters: not just in theory, but in practice, especially for anyone working in healing, education, or caregiving.

References

Turkheimer, E. (2000). Three laws of behavior genetics and what they mean. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 9(5), 160–164. https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-8721.00084

Finding Strength in Stumbles: Can Mistakes Spark Emotional Growth?

What lies beneath the surface when you face your mistakes head-on?

Yesterday, I experienced a profound moment of healing and growth that I feel compelled to share. I made a performance blunder at my job, and my boss, in her wisdom, pointed it out with constructive criticism that was both kind and insightful. I’m deeply passionate about my work as a coach, and I’m committed to showing up fully for the people I coach. So, when I feel like I’ve let them down, it hits hard. For years, I’ve been working to shift my perspective on mistakes, learning to see them as opportunities for growth rather than reasons to beat myself up. I’m a few years out from my former crippling perfectionism, and while it’s gotten easier, this new job (with its new environment, new people, and new curriculum) has me still finding my footing at times.

As I processed this mistake, I felt a small part of me slip into disappointment. I noticed a growing tightness in my chest, a hunching in my shoulders. Something was wrong. I sat with it, letting the sensations unfold. A sense of dread bloomed in my belly, and fear prickled at the edges of my sense of self. It was a familiar feeling, like I was bracing for someone to tell me I was fired (the grown-up version of “getting in trouble”). My dear friend, who’s far more insightful about astrology than I am, mentioned that the moon was in Pisces (watery, emotional, intuitive, sensitive) and the sun was in Leo (outward, expressive, confident). In that moment, facing my mistake, I felt it all so deeply.

As I stayed present with these emotions, my body spoke loudly: a desire to bend over and catch my breath, as if hunching to protect myself; a soul-deep urge to cry; the terror of needing to be perfect, to never make mistakes, to always have the right answers. I felt pain in my chest, pressure in my forehead, and an empty, burning sensation in my gut. So many things. Then, the tears came, heavy with sadness. I realized how painful it must have been to carry these feelings as a child, feelings I never fully connected with back then. In that moment, I experienced the weight of it, it was painful.

A fleeting thought crossed my mind: “If I tried to explain this to someone right now, they’d think I’m crazy!” That made me cry harder. Feeling these locked-away emotions so intensely can feel overwhelming, and for so many, it leads to being labeled or medicated. My heart ached for all the adults out there who might feel something’s wrong with them because their emotions demand to be felt. It’s intense, it’s painful, and it’s real. I knew this wasn’t just about my job. This was something deeper, something that had been buried for a long time.

As I sat with this, I saw that rigid part of myself, not as weakness, but as a brave attempt to stand tall against life’s storms. I’ve sometimes wondered, “Who am I to help others process these things when I’m still going through it?” But this morning, I felt a pull to write this down, to share this story. I believe moments like these are exactly why I can help others. I know there are people out there who’ve felt this too, those moments when it feels like the storm will never pass, when the fear is so raw it’s like being a small child again, terrified of what you’re feeling. It’s awful, but I made it through.

This experience taught me humbling lessons that will make me a better coach. After crying and processing, I slept for ten hours, waking with a gentle reminder to hydrate and be kind to myself. That familiar fire in my being (the passion for my work) burned brighter. I feel driven to connect with others, especially the women who are navigating moments like these, who think you’re crazy or not enough. I want to remind you: you’re not alone in the storm. Your feelings don’t make you crazy. They’re deep messages, rich with information, asking to be felt. I know it’s scary, but you can do it.

To anyone reading this: I care about you. I’m proud of you for making it through what you have. I’m so glad you exist. You are marvelous, a beautiful creation. Keep going. I can’t wait to hear what you have to share from your own journey.

We’ll be discussing things like imposter syndrome, repressed fears, and coping mechanisms (like perfectionism) tonight in our Weekly Women’s Circle. This is a weekly get-together that’s free but private, meant for women who are overcoming things like narcissistic abuse, betrayal trauma, complex trauma, self worth issues, and so much more. Consider this your invitation, if you feel it’s aligned. You can also email me at ashana@wayhomewellness.com to register for your spot!

Much love,

Ashana

Learning to Trust Your Inner Voice: A Path to Authentic Healing

Have you ever felt like someone else’s opinion about you carries more weight than your own? Maybe a therapist, a coach, or even a friend told you something about yourself, and you took it as truth without questioning it. I get it. It’s easy to slip into that mindset, especially when life has thrown you curveballs or left you feeling like you’re not enough. I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, reflecting on a friend who struggles with deep negativity and a sense that she’s too “broken” to heal. It got me wondering about how we decide who gets to define us—and how we can start reclaiming that power for ourselves.

When Others’ Opinions Feel Louder Than Yours

Sometimes, life’s challenges (especially trauma) can make us feel like other people know better than we do. If you grew up in an environment where your needs weren’t met or your voice wasn’t heard, it’s natural to start looking to others for answers. A therapist might say, “Here’s your diagnosis,” or a coach might suggest, “This is what you need to do.” And because they’re the “expert,” we often nod along, even if something inside us whispers, That doesn’t feel right.

I’ve seen this play out with a therapist who’s wildly popular. They’ve got this raw, relatable vibe: cussing in sessions, acting a little nervous to put people at ease. Clients love them for it. But here’s the thing: sometimes their advice feels off. They’ll hand out diagnoses or suggestions that I’ve heard people cling to without questioning, because they’re the authority. And when you’re feeling lost or broken, it’s tempting to let someone else take the wheel.

But what if the real path to healing starts with listening to you?

How Trauma Shapes Our Trust

Trauma has a sneaky way of making us doubt ourselves. When we’re kids, we rely on adults to guide us, to make us feel safe and seen. If that doesn’t happen, for example if we’re ignored, criticized, or hurt, it can leave us with a lingering belief that other people know better. That their voices matter more than ours. Over time, we might stop trusting our own instincts, handing over our power to anyone who seems confident or authoritative.

This can show up in therapy or coaching, where we’re vulnerable and looking for guidance. A therapist might mean well, but if their advice doesn’t align with who you are or what you value, it can leave you feeling more disconnected. My friend, for example, feels like her struggles define her. She’s convinced she’s too broken to fix, and I wonder if part of that comes from never being encouraged to trust her own inner compass. What if, instead of leaning on someone else’s diagnosis, she started tuning into what she knows about herself?

Reclaiming Your Inner Authority

The good news is you can rebuild that trust in yourself. It’s not about dismissing professionals; therapy and coaching can be incredibly powerful when done right! It’s about learning to balance their guidance with your own wisdom. Here are a few ways to start:

1. Pause and check in: When someone gives you advice or a label, take a moment to ask yourself, Does this feel true for me? Your gut often knows before your mind catches up. If something feels off, that’s worth exploring.

2. Notice your patterns: Trauma can make us default to pleasing others or accepting their version of us. Start noticing when you’re deferring to someone else’s opinion. Ask, Why am I giving their voice more weight than mine?

3. Start small: Trusting yourself doesn’t mean you have to have all the answers right away. Try listening to your inner voice in small decisions, like what you want for dinner or how you want to spend your Saturday. Those little moments build confidence.

4. Find support that honors you: Whether it’s a therapist, a coach, or a friend, look for people who encourage you to trust yourself. A good guide doesn’t tell you who you are.. they help you discover it.

My Approach to Coaching

In my coaching practice, I believe the most powerful work happens when we build a relationship based on trust: not just in me, but in you. I’m not here to hand you a diagnosis or tell you who you should be. My goal is to create a space where you feel safe to explore your own thoughts, feelings, and values. Together, we can uncover what makes you feel whole, what lights you up, and what steps feel authentic for your journey.

I’ve wondered if I’d be good at this kind of work, especially when it comes to setting boundaries and leaving the job at the door each night. It’s not always easy, but I’m committed to showing up fully for my clients while honoring my own limits. That balance lets me be present and real with you, without pretending to have all the answers.

You Are Your Own Best Guide

If you’re feeling stuck like my friend, or wondering if you’re “too broken” to heal, I want you to know this: you have an inner voice that’s been with you all along. It might be quiet from years of being ignored, but it’s still there, waiting for you to listen. Trauma may have taught you to look outside yourself for answers, but healing begins when you start trusting the one person who knows you best: you.

If you’re ready to start tuning into that voice, I’d love to walk alongside you. Not as an authority over you, but as a partner in uncovering your own strength and wisdom. Let’s find what feels true for you.

Ready to take the next step? Reach out for a one-on-one session, and let’s explore what’s possible when you trust yourself.

When Your Mind Goes Blank Mid-Sentence

(and you’re supposed to be the one with the answers)

I want to share something that happened during a group coaching call I was part of last night.. because even though it was just a quick moment that already passed, it’s been sitting heavy with me ever since. And I think there’s something important here. Maybe for me. Maybe for you, too.

You know that feeling everyone talks about, where they’re meditating and their mind just goes blank?? like, Eat Pray Love kinda shit?

Here’s a little story about the time I experienced that, totally against my will and out of nowhere.

Group coaching call, Friday night.

We were mid-conversation, talking about topics where I know I know my shit. Not just professionally, but personally. Lived experience kind of stuff. Like I could talk about it with my eyes closed, and I was actually so excited to share.

My boss asked a question that really got me thinking. I felt energy move through me: it was one of those “yes, this is important” kind of moments. I could see the dots starting to connect and, for me, the best way to navigate that is to start talking and let the thoughts flow. so I opened my mouth to share, started talking my way through what was coming to me, and halfway through my thought…

Blank.

Not a lost word or a mental hiccup. Like—nothing. Just stillness. Silence. Not a single thought available to grab onto. For the first time in my life, I experienced what it was like to not think anything. And to be honest, I didn’t really like it.

At first, I thought to myself, “Okay, no big deal. You’ll find your train of thought again. Just take a breath” But then I remembered:

- This is a live call.

- This is being recorded.

- These women are here to receive something from me.

- I’m not just sharing—I’m supposed to be using this moment to help teach them something, or at least give them guidance on a difficult topic.

- Omg the panic is starting to set in.

For a second, I felt that familiar pull: the old urge to push through. To perform. To pretend I had it all together. To prove I belonged in the space.

An old part of me was still operating under some outdated beliefs, like:

• You must always be clear, well spoken, and have a plan.

• You must always be helpful and useful, constantly providing something in some way.

• You must always be ready for anything, and if you don’t know the answer, you have to convince people you do. If not, you’ll be chastised or scoffed at.

So I definitely felt the heat and redness creeping up my chest and spreading across my face, once I realized what was happening. I was not going to be able to grab that thought again, and just keep speaking like nothing was wrong. It was truly gone.

Cue total breakdown, right?

But here’s what happened instead.

I paused.

I breathed.

I admitted out loud: “I’m so sorry—I completely lost my train of thought.”

And I asked for help.

The women on the call were kind. The lead coach gently reminded me of what I’d just said, and it gave me an anchor point to grab onto. I was able to come back to the topic, explore it in a new way (even if it felt like I was kind of talking out of my ass for a minute), and eventually found my footing again.

But that moment of blankness lingered. Not because it ruined the call (plot twist, it didn’t). It actually ended beautifully. But because it brought up fear in me, that I knew I needed to look at.

It made me question:

Why did that moment feel so threatening??

Why did I feel so afraid people would think I didn’t know what I was talking about??

Why did a completely human moment feel like a failure??

Here’s the answer i had to sit with:

I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I had to prove I’m safe to trust. Like if I can speak clearly, hold space well, sound smart, be helpful… then maybe I’ll be allowed to stay. Maybe I’ll belong. Maybe I’ll matter. Maybe people won’t make fun of me or reject me.

I was often placed into a “scapegoat” role as a child, too, so a lot of times I felt like I had done something horribly wrong, even when there was no way that could logically be true. But even deeper than that, I had formed this subconscious fear that being wrong meant losing all credibility and trust.

So when my words disappeared, it didn’t just feel like “oops, a brain fart.” It felt like risk. Full exposure. Like someone might say, “See? She’s not who we thought she was.” I honestly felt a panic come over me, that my boss would fire me from leading future coaching calls. (I’m being super vulnerable in this post, K?)

But the truth is:

That silence wasn’t a failure.

It was a pause.

It was my body saying: “Let’s not rush this. Let’s get present.”

And maybe that was the real medicine for me, in that moment.

It was super uncomfortable, but it gave me an opportunity to face a really deep fear that was hidden wayyy down in there.

If you’ve been there too..

Whether it was a brain fart moment, a time when your mind completely checked out, or just a time when you felt like a failure before anyone had a chance to even say anything..

Just know:

We don’t need to perform our way through every vulnerable moment.

We don’t need to have a perfectly packaged answer every time we open our mouths.

Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can offer is ourself, exactly as we are—mid-blank, mid-recovery, mid-sentence.

You haven’t failed.

You’re human.

And maybe in these moments, the pause is the point.

P.S. - If you are a woman recovering from the betrayal trauma of infidelity or facing the reality of porn addiction within your relationship, reach out - I can send you an invite to a weekly women’s call where we discuss all the intricacies surrounding this topic, and much more. It’s a wonderfully growth-oriented, honest, and safe space. Brain farts and all.

The overwhelm is too much..basically everything is too much.

Let me ask you, when things got too heavy in the past, who was there to help you?

Did someone share your burden, sit in the trenches with you, and help you see that everything would be okay?

“Yes, this thing may feel hard, but I promise you’re not alone. I’ll be here. I believe in you. You can do it. You’re doing a great job.”

When you gave it your all, did someone cheer you on and tell you how amazing your accomplishment was?

Did someone delight in your feelings of peace, empowerment, and joy? Did someone help you fold the feelings of sadness, frustration, or being let down?

Were you able to relax as a child, knowing that your needs would be met and that the world was a magical place where dreams really can come true and miracles can always happen? Were your ideas and wishes seen as valid and worthy?

Humans aren’t meant to balance so many misaligned things and excel at them all:

Did you want to be going to school and learning facts that would not help you in later years? Were your true passions supported and given room to grow, while you stood in line and made grades on tests that would earn you an ice cream or a pizza party?

Did you learn to enjoy your free time while you were doing your chores, a healthy balance of keeping a home and also living in it? Or does mess cause you to squirm, unable to sit down until the last crumb is swept up?

Were you allowed to have boundaries with your friends, choosing which toys to share and protecting the ones that were most sacred to you? Or was sharing called caring, and people pleasing sold to you as the proper way to be liked and accepted in this world?

I wonder… what happened when you made a mistake?

There are options here…

Shame
Disappointment
Lectures
Grounded
Acceptance
Comfort
Natural consequences
Encouragement

Truly a spectrum. But the real question is…How do you treat yourself when you make a mistake now?

How many things do you have to be worried about?

What would happen if I told you to count them?

If you wrote them all down right now, and someone took a look at them and said, “Wow that’s a lot..”

would it help you feel better? What about, “You deserve time to explore the things you really enjoy.”
Raise your hand if you’d laugh at that, like it was some sarcastic joke.

Now take that hand and place it over your heart.

Feel it beating.

Is it fast?

Is it slow?

I want you to take a deep breath, deeper and deeper. Into your belly.

Feel the air going in.

Feel into your head, and be aware of all that mental pressure.

Then blow it all out. Just for a second, let it all go.

Relax your muscles.

Relax them again.

Then tell your inner child: I am here. I am safe. I am enough.

🩷🩷🩷

Freedom from overwhelm really can start with something that simple. Write your worries down. Look at them. Acknowledge how much you’re carrying. Breathe. Relax. Be present with yourself. Blow it all out for a moment.

And a top tip from a former perfectionist: take one item from that list and toss it. Don’t do it. Forget about it. And see how the world keeps turning. 💓

Survival Traits Picked up in Narcissistic Households

When I think about the fact that my dad was highly narcissistic and look back on growing up in an authoritarian, abusive home, I feel guided to call it a narcissistic household because the entire home’s energy is dependent on the narcissist’s mood and energy.

From the perspective of a child growing up in this kind of home, and as a person who feels energy deeply, it feels like they are a black hole… and the black hole is a phenomenon which consumes everything around it.

It’s like this voracious appetite that keeps consuming and consuming.. it never stops.

The black hole only keeps growing, which means it needs to keep taking in more and more.

If I ever had an accomplishment, achievement, or I was proud of something, the black hole had to consume that, too. Any speck of light must be sapped out, and only submission could be left in its wake.
Any fear, resentment, sadness, or anger had to also be tempered because those were emotions that upset his mood. Those weren’t palatable to him, but he don’t want to feel them either so he just bullied them away and continued to feed on any positivity I tried to have. I think that’s why the narcissist determines the energy of the household- because people (children) who live in this home must learn to tiptoe around the black hole, avoid it completely, manipulate and lie to stay out of the wake of fury, fawn and become the pleaser…
Hence the scapegoat, the golden child, the forgotten child, etc. These kids have learned to cope and survive in ways that feel safe to their nervous system— as much as one can feel safe in this kind of environment. This is how we survive in volatile situations.

And this can change at times, too — sometimes it might be easier to run and hide, other times it might be easier to play nice and be agreeable.

Sometimes I felt like the golden child for a moment, because I was getting good grades and finishing my chores, babysitting my siblings and not getting into trouble. Sometimes it felt more like I was the forgotten child, slipping under the radar by staying in man room and reading books. Later, when I was able to formulate stronger opinions and argue my case, it was much easier for me to become the scapegoat… but none of these identities were ever actual concrete truths. They could shift and change, just as quickly as the narcissist’s mood.

That’s the central theme of it: you don’t exist as your own person. You exist relative to the narcissist. How you can meet their needs in the moment, which often feel like the tantrums of a toddler.

Whatever mood my dad was in, that’s what we would be waiting for. We would see how he acted when he got home, to know how the rest of the day was going to progress.
There were moments when my step-mom would weaponize my dad: when we would be “too much” for her that day or did things that meant big trouble, she would send us to our room and have us wait there for him to get home to deal with it. Sometimes that meant sitting on my bed for a couple of hours, then being lectured for another few hours when he got there. So of course, if he came home from a long day at work and immediately had to “deal with” children, you could guess how the rest of the day would pretty much be on eggshells.

If we had a good day with our step-mom: if we didn’t ask her too many questions, ask for too many snacks, arm interrupt her phone calls too often, then the day was pretty smooth sailing and we would just be waiting until he got home to see how it was gonna go.

Side note: “Big trouble” for my little brother meant beatings, but me and my sister mostly grew out of being hit by our pre-teen years. I remember him asking when my step-mom would yell at him, with his big innocent eyes, “Big trouble??”

If he came home and seemed pissy already, we had options, based on his actions: if he just wanted to get on his video game and work off steam that way, we knew to stay out of his way so he wouldn’t see us and be upset by something we did. If he was more “active” in his prissiness, like walking around the house looking at the mess or finding things to clean up, slamming things down on the counter, etc., then we knew to jump up and immediately start doing some kind of chore. It was almost as if he didn’t want to be the only one doing housework: if he was gonna have to clean stuff, so were we. He didn’t really like it when we sat down to play or relax. He would always ask, “Did you get your chores done?” And then go behind us to double check it was good enough.

Years later, my brother told me that he HATED it when he would sit down and play video games on the weekends and his wife would be up cleaning. He felt like he had to get off the game and help her clean. He said he really wished she would just sit down and relax too, because he felt guilty any time she was up cleaning and he wasn’t. It’s always been fascinating to me, how we pick up on these things and integrate them into our own mannerisms and triggers.

I started to notice there are many traits people could pick up, by living in these narcissistic homes.

For me, it was “normal” to know which parent was coming down the hallway — and what kind of mood they were in — by their footsteps. Literally the sound of footsteps could send my heart racing and my hands sweating in an instant. This kind of “reading the room” was my body’s way of helping me gauge the safety of a situation: to try to know what was going to happen before it happened. I had integrated the belief that, somehow, there must be something I could *do* to prevent the lashing out or the anger or annoyance of my parents.

It felt like constantly running around trying to put out fires, even though I wasn’t the one who started the fire. His moods were NOT my fault, and as a parent he was faced with many situations that were just part of raising a child and helping them learn how to function in the world. But his anger and stress always seemed to be directed at us kids and something we hadn’t done, or had done wrong. So I really believed after a while that it must mean I just wasn’t doing enough stuff right.
It often felt like us children were just not something my dad or my step-mom really wanted to be dealing with. I often felt like an inconvenience or a roadblock. And, even if I hadn’t done anything wrong, it always felt like I *could* be doing more, according tot he feedback I would get from them. This left me with a constant guard being put up, because if I DID relax, someone would be coming in there to bark at me: DID YOU GET YOUR CHORES DONE? And if I had… they weren’t done well enough.

Obviously, this person was never going to be pleased, no matter what I did. Logically. But as a child, I couldn’t see that. I couldn’t fathom that something within HIM was his problem, and that he was just taking it out on me. I did feel anger at him, and i knew that the way he treated us was not okay. It felt so unfair. But I couldn’t put my finger on WHY. It didn’t feel good to be treated that way, and i knew it wasn’t nice. But I didn’t yet have the logic to say, Okay this is actually HIS problem. I’m not the problem. So I kept trying so hard to prevent him from being upset. This led to the constant belief that no matter what I did, I would be the problem. I was doing something badly, or wrong, or I was going to get in trouble. i couldn’t relax, I always had to be cleaning, and everything had to be perfect.

I’m not sure why that happened… I think it just sunk in over time. And then you look back, and it’s this whole layer of an identity you’ve been living with, and you didn’t even notice it creeping up. Life has just been covered over with this blanket of fear.

One of the traits I picked up from living in a narcissistic household was a sense of self-centeredness that came across as selfishness, but in reality it was just a deep sense of self-analysis that was my constant attempt to not be further ostracized or disliked.

I always had this passion for figuring out how the brain works, and why people do what they do. Especially my own brain — I really wanted to deeply understand myself and have a relationship with this person who I was walking around becoming. I remember noticing at one point that, when I interacted with people, my brain would relate that situation back to myself.
For instance if I said something dumb or embarrassed myself, or just had a conversation on a random topic, I would go back over it later and question what I said, wondering how they felt about me instead of what it must have felt like to them. It’s like I was unaware that other people processed things in their own way and instead expected everyone to be using that information to judge me, to form an opinion of me, to know more about me… presumably to use it against me later. It felt very, “Me me me.”

This bothered me, because I wanted to be a kind, empathic, compassionate person. So I texted my therapist, “What does it mean when I have difficulty separating myself from other people and realizing they have feelings outside of mine? It reminds me of a toddler. Is there a word for that?” She texted back, “It’s kind of narcissistic….” (This was the same therapist who told me I ‘needed’ benzos, and from this narcissism conversation she told me it was time to get my blood checked, NOW, and told me which doctor to go to. Lots of fear, lots of urgent language being used.)

In reality, I was stuck in hyper-awareness of how I was being perceived. From the outside looking in, that can look egotistical. But it’s actually an acute, constant self-criticism — a fear lens that kept me from being able to see others’ point of view. I was so busy projecting my fears onto their perspective, because I was so certain they were mad at me or hated me. It was a survival response, not because I didn’t care about other people, but because I had constantly had to be hyper-vigilant, trying to control the outcome of my parents’ bad moods and abusive behaviors.
If I changed my voice or my facial expression too much, I could be slapped in the face for cutting my eyes at my step-mom. That doesn’t exactly teach great communication skills, or self-confidence. So of course I was constantly in fear of how others would perceive me.

Learning to be super critical of myself cast a critical lens on life: I wonder if someone is going to take this wrong. I wonder if this will be a threat to me, too. There was no sense of safety to be found for me in those moments, no action was safe. So the world began to feel unsafe.

Another trait that I picked up, which really had me questioning if i was a narcissist for a long time, was how I would get super defensive over things.

When I lived in a household that consistently taught me I was doing something wrong, no matter how hard I tried, or how good of a person I was (which was something I NEVER got mirrored back to me, but I still tried my best to believe), my value was dependent on what I was providing the narcissist or how well I had pleased them. Again, swinging wildly by the hour and how their mood was. This is a very mercurial judgment system. Because of that, my opinions and beliefs were cut down.

I would be told how wrong I was — if not in words, then in demeanor. My dad always had to step in and say something in response to my opinions: whether in smug validation (“I’ll allow that”), or in doubtful questioning (“I don’t know about all THAT…”), the things that I said out loud always had to be run past his system of approval. And a lot of times I didn’t pass. Many times it was just, “Well that’s just not true. But that’s something I had to learn over time, and you will too.” Like children were just peons, but may become someone some day, worthy of validation and respect. Nowhere near his level of wisdom.

What’s really sad is that these judgments were passed on my opinions, too…. things that can’t be “wrong.” But when you’re told you’r4e wrong all the time, you learn that’s how the world works: you are wrong until proven right. You are guilty until proven innocent. Children are not treasured and appreciated, they are bothersome and inconvenient, unless they do something really helpful or conducive to the adults’ fulfillment and happiness.

To me, it felt like my opinions and emotions were just one more thing that my dad had to micromanage and have control over.. like he had all these plates in the air, and he had to be ruling over my emotions and thoughts too, and that was even more of an inconvenience for him. I was a burden for even having them. Because his life was a lot easier when I just played and shut up and did what he said. Less to have to control that way, and he already had so much to do. So much weighing on him.

I learned that even my opinions were somehow damaging others, getting in the way of others, or exhausting others. This was a very lonely feeling, and it caused me to feel super defensive over my thoughts, my emotions, even my existence. Ay time i had a belief form, which is a normal process for children, they would form with this qualifier, “I have to prove it true, or I have to keep it to myself, because it could be wrong.”

That makes it so difficult to live al life where you’re open to the ideas or input of others… everything becomes a potential threat to your system. You’re already living in a state of confusion, where everything you believe about the world is apparently wrong. This makes your internal terrain scary, on top of the outer world being scary, and of course trusting others is scary…. So you just live your life in a constant state of fear. Like a terrified little kitten, who only knows how to hiss and swat at anything that approaches it.

Becoming an adult with this trait is crippling, because it’s nearly impossible to handle constructive criticism. You don’t know when someone is actually helping you or not. I quit so many jobs out of sheer terror and panic, because I couldn’t handle people teaching me how to do things. I constantly felt like I was stupid or a nuisance. I had NO confidence in myself at that point.

Another nuance to this is a third trait, related to the constant fear of hyper vigilance of being in a narcissistic household: the belief that people can be defined by what you observe, and then keeping them trapped in those boxes.

This is something i was always so upset that my dad did to me, keeping me trapped in these boxes of who he said I was. But then I realized that i did it to people, too. I noticed specific behaviors or traits and i catalogued them, based on “safe” or “not safe.” If a person’s words, actions, or demeanor felt like a threat to my nervous system, I placed them into the category of being a threat, and it was really hard for my brain to trust that they weren’t one.
At the same time, I would decide that i trusted people based on the role my brain believed they were supposed to be playing, like parent, teacher, romantic partner, etc., and it seemed as if logic was turned off in my mind: I would overlook harmful actions by certain people, and it was difficult for me to set boundaries and move them into the “threat” box, because I valued being a loyal person.

Fear really gives you tunnel vision sometimes, and I would believe something about someone until proven otherwise. A lot of times this was based on what my nervous system felt when I interacted with them, and my romantic relationships largely mirrored the dynamics I had experienced as a child with my parents. You can probably see where this starts to get muddled and confusing. But again, it’s the result of trying to control outcomes, so I could have the feeling of safety or at least feel like i could prevent total devastation and heartbreak.

These traits really kept me from having close, deep connections with people, because I would inadvertently judging their “safeness” based an initial reaction I had, which was often clouded by fear from prior experiences in the narcissistic home.

I think it’s also really important to talk about how this constant state of fear, having to toe the line all the time, and feeling responsible for other people’s emotions….. this can cause a person to become the same level of micromanaging and controlling that they were trying so desperately to be free from in the first place.

For me, in my quest to constantly be perfect and make sure everything was just right, I learned that I had to be aware of everything, at all times. If my dad came home and noticed something, *someone* had to pay for it. I often got, “You should know better.” And i really took that to heart. Even though none of it was true… we didn’t disappoint him. We were kids. He lived in a constant state of disappointment because he felt like HE was a disappointment. So he managed the environment around him… and I learned to do the same.

Mine was often taken out on my household, cleaning, chores, not being able to sit down and relax, but it also pervaded my life in bigger ways: nothing felt joyful to me. “I should be doing more. i haven’t done enough.” Which meant that all the things that I did do, were also never good enough.

This affected my relationships with others too: romantic partnerships, my kids… nothing ever felt good enough. So I just micromanaged it even harder. People noticed this, too, and told me in their own way: “You’re just so hard to please. You’re unapproachable. Nothing is every good enough for you.” It was this frantic feeling. It’s really worth noting here that this is often recognized as a narcissistic trait: controlling things and being in everyone’s business. But it’s also another survival tactic, rooted in fear.

No one ever told me, “Hey — you’re doing a great job. You’re so awesome.” And kids really benefit from hearing that.

Parents SHOULD be saying these things to their kids. Pouring into them, talking them up.

Not consuming them like a black hole and leaving the child in a constant state of depletion and seeking what they didn’t get.

I think that’s where the black hole actually begins: seeking the love that you never got. And it hurts so badly that you’ll fill it from anywhere, consuming anything in your path, even your own kids.

When you say “my anxiety won’t let me…” here’s what might be underneath.

My mom or dad would be upset with me

My friends would judge me

My culture would be embarrassed of me

My family would ostracize me

My peers would laugh at me

My church would condemn me

My teachers would yell at me

My fear of being alone would paralyze me

And on and on…

Hopefully you get the picture.

When we say “my anxiety won’t let me,” it’s often not some invisible force inside of us that comes from being broken, lacking, or doing too much.

Anxiety is very real, and it absolutely has physical and neurological components. But it’s also shaped by external pressures that have been held inside for too long. That internal sense of “something’s not right” is trying to get your attention. It’s trying to help you.

The constant judgment and criticism. The sideways remarks that seemed innocent on the surface. The pressure to fit expectations or risk disappointing someone. Your body knew those things didn’t feel right. They were boxes that family systems, cultures, or society really wanted you to fit into.

To keep functioning and performing, we often learn to stifle those messages. Later, they show up physically. Nerves on high alert. A constant sense of urgency or doom. Trouble concentrating. Racing thoughts. Maybe even palpitations or nausea.

Those aren’t signs that something is wrong with you. And they don’t mean you’re doomed to struggle forever. They’re guideposts, inviting you to look deeper, if and when you feel ready.

Sometimes support starts with noticing more subtle layers too, like:

my gut health is struggling to support my physical and mental load

my hormones are out of balance and chronic stress isn’t helping

my body is missing nutrients that could actually make this feel more manageable

This is why I always meet people where they’re at. Some feel safer starting with the physical first and then noticing how their emotional world shifts. There’s no right order.

Whatever your situation looks like, anxiety doesn’t have to be something you carry forever. And it definitely doesn’t have to be your authority figure.

You get to decide what you want your life to look like. No one has to “let you” anymore. You already have the capacity to handle life from an empowered place. Maybe you just weren’t taught how to use those tools yet.

I know this personally. Moving through anxiety was hard for me at first because I felt deeply underprepared to handle life as a competent adult. My fears were stacked on top of each other until everything blended together and just felt like too much.

So I do get it.

And I also know that on the other side of anxiety, life feels very different. Meeting challenges without my heart racing, my hands going numb, or feeling weak and dizzy still feels a little magical to me.

My hope is that everyone gets to experience that one day. Not because anxiety made them weak, but because it shows just how resilient and resourceful they already are when they’re finally allowed to thrive. 🩷✨

Self-Reflection: Getting Clear on Your Roadmap for 2026

As we step into 2026, I want to offer you something simple and grounding. Not a plan to fix yourself. Not a list of goals to hustle toward. But a way to reflect, release, and move forward with more clarity and peace.

This is an invitation to let go of what no longer fits, while also noticing what has quietly helped you grow. You don’t need to have everything figured out. You just need a place to start listening.

The reflections below are shaped around six core principles that I return to again and again. They’re rooted in self-awareness, self-compassion, and self-validation, and they can be applied to any season of life. Especially one that’s asking you to move forward more intentionally.

Core Principle #1: Worthiness

When you look back on 2025, are there moments you still label as “mess-ups” or “failures”? Are you carrying those stories with you into this new year?

Pause for a moment and imagine moving through all of 2026 while holding onto self-blame. How does that feel in your body? Is that weight something you want to keep carrying?

Now imagine the same year, but with more self-acceptance. More grace. More trust in yourself. What would need to soften inside you for that to feel possible?

Reflect on where your sense of worth has been coming from. Achievements, relationships, productivity, appearance. None of those are wrong. But none of them determine your value.

What feels worth keeping as you move into 2026?
What feels heavy or performative?
What belief about your worth are you ready to release?

Core Principle #2: Curiosity

When you think about 2025, can you see places where life offered lessons instead of obstacles? Moments that didn’t make sense at the time, but revealed something important about you?

Are there experiences that might be quiet doorways into something new this year?

If there were no limitations, what would you feel curious about exploring or building in 2026? Not what you should do, but what genuinely pulls your attention.

Are you curious about who you’re becoming, or do you feel pressure to stay who you’ve always been?

Core Principle #3: Objectivity

Looking back on the past year, are there moments that still feel unresolved in your body? Situations that don’t feel complete yet?

Instead of forcing closure, what would it look like to hold those experiences with more spaciousness? To allow them to become wisdom rather than weight?

Consider viewing lingering situations from a different perspective. If a close friend told you this story, how would you respond? What compassion or clarity would come naturally?

As you look ahead into 2026, choose three words you’d like to embody consistently. Objectivity can help anchor you in those intentions, allowing you to choose your responses rather than react from old patterns.

How comfortable are you separating facts from feelings?
How might that practice support you this year?

Core Principle #4: Honesty

With objectivity in mind, turn toward honesty.

As you reflect on 2025, were there areas where you were too hard on yourself? Or too easy on yourself, avoiding what needed attention?

Are there places where you looked for answers outside yourself because you didn’t trust your inner resources yet?

If those areas were truly a priority, how might you approach them differently in 2026?

Have you clarified your core values recently? When things feel off-balance, it’s often a sign that our choices aren’t aligned with what actually matters to us.

Where did your actions reflect your true intentions last year?
Where didn’t they?
What feels difficult or tender about changing that?

Core Principle #5: Authenticity

Looking back, were there parts of your life where you didn’t feel able to show up fully as yourself?

Notice why. Without judgment.

Which of those reasons hold lessons for you now? Which ones were protective at the time, but no longer needed?

As you move into 2026, where do you feel called to be more honest, more real, more you? In your words. Your choices. Your relationships.

Do your actions invite authenticity in others?
Are there parts of yourself you’ve been hesitant to show?
What might shift if you allowed more of yourself to be seen?

Core Principle #6: Intention

Think about the big decisions you made last year. Were they driven by fear, obligation, or genuine purpose?

There’s no wrong answer here. We do the best we can with the awareness we have.

With everything you now know about yourself, what intentions feel meaningful to carry into 2026? Not rigid goals, but guiding reminders that support worthiness, curiosity, honesty, and alignment.

When was the last time you acted with clear intention, without fear or pressure driving the choice? What did that experience teach you about yourself?

How open are you to adjusting your intentions as you learn more about what actually brings you peace?

A gentle reminder

Life isn’t a race. And healing isn’t linear.

After trauma especially, it’s common to feel pressure without knowing where it’s coming from. When that happens, come back to the beginning. Your worthiness.

You are allowed to learn. To change your mind. To move slowly. There is no right or wrong way to grow into yourself.

You are the person you’ll spend the most time with in this life. Getting to know yourself with compassion isn’t indulgent. It’s grounding.

If these reflections help you move through 2026 with a little more clarity and self-trust, that’s enough.

Sending you steadiness as you step into this new year.

Until next time,
Ashana

The Journey to Healthy Boundaries (Especially for Empaths and Givers)

If you’re someone who has spent most of your life giving, anticipating needs, holding space, or being the “strong one,” learning how to set boundaries can feel… disorienting.

Not because you don’t understand boundaries.
But because you were taught, directly or indirectly, that your role was to accommodate, endure, or absorb.

I see this again and again with women who identify as empaths or lifelong givers. Women who learned early that love meant self-sacrifice. That safety came from being useful. That saying no risked connection.

Choosing to change that isn’t just self-care.
It’s a reclamation.

And it’s not always comfortable.

Here are some of the most common experiences that show up when women begin setting real boundaries, and what’s actually happening underneath them.

Guilt and self-doubt

Guilt is usually the first thing to surface.

You might feel selfish. Cold. Like you’re letting people down or doing something wrong. Especially if you’re deeply attuned to other people’s emotions and have spent years managing them.

Here’s what I want you to know.

Guilt doesn’t mean you’re harming anyone.
It usually means you’re breaking a pattern that once kept you safe.

Boundaries aren’t walls. They’re clarity. They’re how relationships become more honest and less resentful. Over time, guilt softens when your nervous system learns that you can protect yourself and still be connected.

Pushback from others

When you change, the system around you feels it.

People who benefited from your lack of boundaries may struggle. Some will test you. Some will minimize your needs. Some won’t like the new version of you at all.

That doesn’t mean you’re wrong.

Pushback is often a sign that something real is shifting. Holding your boundaries calmly and consistently teaches others how to relate to you now. And it also reveals who is willing to grow with you, and who isn’t.

The quiet after over-giving

When you stop over-functioning for everyone else, space opens up.

Sometimes that space feels peaceful.
Sometimes it feels empty.

If caretaking was your identity, you might wonder who you are without it. That’s not a failure. That’s an invitation.

This is where you begin to ask different questions.
What do I enjoy?
What actually restores me?
What have I been postponing?

Rest isn’t laziness. Exploration isn’t indulgent. This is how you reconnect with yourself instead of disappearing into roles.

Old wounds resurfacing

As boundaries strengthen, old memories can surface.

Moments where you weren’t protected. Times you said yes when you wanted to say no. Relationships where your lack of boundaries led to harm.

This isn’t regression.

Trauma lives in the body, and as you create safety in the present, the past sometimes asks to be witnessed. Anger, grief, sadness, even shame can rise. That doesn’t mean you’re going backward. It means layers are loosening.

Gentle, body-based support can help here. So can reminding yourself that awareness is not the same as reliving.

Relationships changing

Not every relationship survives boundaries.

Some will deepen.
Some will shift.
Some will end.

That can be painful, even when it’s necessary.

You’re allowed to grieve what you hoped those relationships could be. And you’re also allowed to trust that making space invites connections that are mutual, respectful, and nourishing.

Letting go doesn’t mean you failed. It means you chose alignment.

The peace that follows

This is the part people don’t always talk about.

When boundaries settle into your body, there’s often a quiet kind of peace. Less resentment. Less internal conflict. More clarity.

You stop explaining yourself so much.
You stop negotiating your needs.
You stop abandoning yourself to keep the peace.

And that peace becomes something others can feel around you.

Final thoughts

Learning healthy boundaries isn’t about becoming harder or less caring. It’s about becoming more honest.

You might stumble. You might second-guess yourself. You might need to revisit old patterns more than once. That’s normal.

Growth isn’t linear. But every boundary you practice is a step toward a life that feels safer, steadier, and more yours.

You are worthy of boundaries.
Not because you earned them.
But because you exist.

If this resonates and you want support as you navigate this shift, there are ways to go deeper. Sometimes that looks like conversation. Sometimes it looks like guided reflection. Sometimes it looks like learning how to listen to your body again.

Trust yourself to know what you need next.

The Labels You Didn’t Choose

We’ve all heard the saying, “You are who you believe you are.” But what happens when your identity is shaped by someone else’s judgment, instead of your own truth? For many of us, this journey begins in childhood, where the labels we didn’t choose started to stick.

When I was younger, I was often told I was “too sensitive” any time my emotions didn’t fit with others’ perspectives of a situation. It was a label that felt heavy, like a tag that couldn’t be peeled off. Every time I cried, every time I felt overwhelmed by my emotions, there it was: “You’re too sensitive.” It wasn’t just a passing comment—it became a defining part of how I saw myself.

But here’s the truth: that label was never mine to wear.

The Burden of Labels

As a child, I didn’t have the words or the perspective to question this label. I absorbed it, and it became part of my story. When you’re labeled “too sensitive,” it’s easy to start believing that something’s wrong with you, that your natural emotional responses are “bad” or “excessive.”

This label made me feel like I was too much. Too emotional. Too reactive. But what I didn’t realize at the time was that these labels weren’t a reflection of who I was—they were a reflection of someone else’s judgment, a manifestation of their fears projected onto me.

When we’re told something enough times, we internalize it. That becomes the lens through which we view ourselves and the world. But here’s the powerful shift I eventually made: I realized that the label wasn’t my identity—it was someone else’s fear-based perspective.

Reclaiming My Sensitivity

As I grew older and began my own journey of healing, I started to unravel the layers of these old labels. And one by one, I shed them. I came to understand that my sensitivity wasn’t a flaw—it was a gift. Being deeply attuned to my emotions meant that I was also deeply connected to the world around me. It meant that I could empathize with others, feel compassion, and notice the subtle shifts in energy that most people overlooked.

I wasn’t “too sensitive”—I was emotionally aware and intuitive. These qualities allowed me to connect deeply with others, and most importantly, they eventually helped me understand myself.

Breaking Free from the Labels

We all carry labels—some we’ve chosen, and some that were placed on us by others. But it’s important to ask yourself: What labels am I carrying that don’t belong to me?

Maybe you were labeled “too quiet” or “too bossy.” Maybe someone told you that you weren’t “enough”—not smart enough, not strong enough, not good enough. But these labels, just like mine, don’t define who you are. They are someone else’s judgment, and they only hold power if you let them.

Here’s what I want you to know: You are not defined by labels. You are more aptly defined by your choices, your growth, and the love you have for yourself. These are the things that determine who embody in your world each day.

The Path to Freedom

When you start shedding these old, destructive labels, you create quantum space for your true identity to emerge. You give yourself permission to be who you really are, without the constraints of others’ opinions. You remove the authority that you thought other people had over you, and realize that you determine the course of your reality.

So, I invite you to ask yourself today: What labels have you been carrying? Which ones are you ready to release? And most importantly, who do you choose to be from here on out?

Your true identity is not confined to the labels you were given. It is something deeper, something only you can define. Let go of the labels that no longer serve you, and step into the fullness of who you truly are.

A New Perspective on Sensitivity

For those of you who were labeled “too sensitive” (or any other judgmental label), I want to leave you with this: Your sensitivity is not a weakness—it’s a strength. It’s your ability to feel deeply, to empathize, and to connect. It’s a part of your intuitive nature, your unique gift to the world.

Let’s stop letting others’ judgments define us. We get to write our own story.

How to Apply This in Your Life

1. Challenge the Labels:
The next time you catch yourself thinking, “I’m too emotional,” or “I’m not strong enough,” ask yourself, “Is this really true? Or is this something I’ve been told?” Challenge the stories you’ve been living by and rewrite them with your own truth.

2. Practice Self-Compassion:
Let go of self-criticism and give yourself permission to feel deeply. Remember, sensitivity isn’t something to hide—it’s something to embrace. Be kind to yourself in moments of vulnerability.

3. Set Boundaries:
If someone tries to impose their judgment on you, set a clear boundary. Just because someone else labels you doesn’t mean you have to accept it. Protect your energy and your sense of self.

4. Create New Labels:
Start labeling yourself in a way that empowers you. Instead of "too sensitive," maybe you label yourself "emotionally aware," "deeply empathetic," or "intuitive." Choose the labels that reflect your true essence.

If this message resonates with you, I encourage you to take the first step toward reclaiming your true identity. You don’t have to carry the labels that others have placed on you. You are more than enough, just as you are. If you’re ready to explore how to step into your power, set healthy boundaries, and heal from the labels you didn’t choose, I invite you to reach out for a free clarity call or check out the library at wayhomewellness.com.

With love,

-Ashana.

There is No Failing in Healing

You think the problem is that you’re not doing enough. But the truth is that you’re actually doing a really good job, at way too many things.

Can we just talk about the elephant in the room for a second?? That feeling I know we’re all familiar with, that we are not quite measuring up at any given moment? It causes us to go to sleep at night feeling like we just didn’t hit the mark. Or maybe we skated through but it sounds like bliss to just be unconscious for a few hours before we have to wake up and try to do it all over again..

If you could just read the right self help book..

Find the right meditation practice…

Memorize your partner’s needs and habits so you can make their day easier..

Raise your kids like the moms you see on tiktok…

One more yoga class. One more diet change. One more water drinking challenge. One more mindfulness app.

This constant consumption of content, the continuous cramming-in of more information to analyze and overcome, it’s killing you slowly.

It may not seem like it, that new diet may have helped you feel bursts of energy again. Or hell, maybe that’s the slow drip of caffeine throughout the day, but still. You’re hanging in there. Right?

What about your impending sense of doom as you age each year, looking in the mirror and no longer seeing the young, carefree person you once were? Or the slow realization that’s been coming on for a few years now, that you didn’t really accomplish all the things you thought you would, and now you’re not sure if that’ll ever happen?

Sure, gratitude in the moment helps, all the beautiful parts of your life are such a blessing.

But why do you still feel this sense of sadness, tinged with worry? Like you didn’t quite get something right?

Those are the pleadings of your child self, asking for attention but diligently staying in the background so you can keep feeling like you’re running the show.

But here’s the thing. Those sudden bursts of emotion that leave you feeling worn out, disconnected, and sometimes ashamed?

Those are the moments when the pleadings of your inner child have come front and center, and taken full control over your ability to function as an adult.

That’s why it’s such a helpless feeling. A feeling you don’t quite know how to deal with.

As a child, you were helpless. And at times you didn’t have the words to say what you needed.

So you go on feeling that way now.

It creeps in when you least expect it. But it leaves a mark on your life that colors everything with a particular sense of “not enough.” Or, in the case of overstimulation, perhaps a sense of “everything is too much.”

The theme looks different depending on your individual needs and emotions, but I know you feel what I’m talking about.

When I get on the phone with a client, I can typically listen to the things that have been weighing on them, and get a sense of the theme of their issues within a few minutes.

It’s not always a specific word or an emotion that can be described. It’s a feeling.

An aching, a twinge, a gnawing dread, a disabling fear.

A lot of times I am able to just sit and listen, and then offer a few pieces of feedback at the end. There’s not always something you can “do” about this. You can continue to take action in the direction of your goals, but there comes a time when the theme has come so fully into open awareness that it must be felt.

This is when my client has realized something that they feel needs to be looked at. If they want true peace and happiness, they must face this “thing.” The facing of a huge thing like this can be so cathartic. I can’t really help with that part of it. A person can’t feel things for you.

But 100% of the time, I do have a piece of feedback that seems, more often than not, to help that process along in some way, whether by allowing space for tears to come, or by simply helping them feel seen for the first time.

I remind them:

You’re doing SO much. This is a lot. It’s okay to feel tired. It’s okay to feel like you want to say “fuck it all.”

You’re not failing. You’re finding yourself.

It’s okay to let a few chips fall while you figure out what’s most important to you.

It’s okay to never want to pick some of them back up.

It’s okay to decide that you still want to handle all of them.

But I hope you don’t forget how brave it is either way, to have carried on the way you have, to have kept surviving and doing your best. There’s no competition in that. You did it the way you knew to do it, and you’re getting curious with it now. You win the gold medal when you come into greater awareness of yourself, every time.

Thanks for being here.

-Ashana.

Neglect Begets Neglect

Tired of feeling like you don’t have the time, energy, or resources to care for yourself properly? My story may be extreme, but I was, too…

I used to experience a sense of “dirtiness” that followed me around. It didn’t matter what kind of clothes I put on, or how long ago I had gotten a pedicure. I felt like my clothes always looked wrinkled, my car always got embarrassingly dirty, and even if I wore a new outfit it would always end up with a fresh grease stain on it from some kind of food.. even if I was super careful. One of my signature phrases was, “I can’t have anything nice.”

Typically I would just keep over-performing, constantly cleaning and tidying things so that I didn’t have to sit and feel that dirty feeling. But every once in a while I would have a vulnerable moment and essentially crumble to the floor in tears.

Why did I always feel unclean?? Why did I feel like everyone else walking around was so much better taken care of than me??

I didn’t have the time to go get regular facials, much less the funds to do so. So my pores stayed gross. By the time the house was clean each night, I really didn’t even care enough to shave anymore. A quick shower would suffice, so I could fall into bed. And wouldn’t it be so nice to just have a regular housekeeper to come in and keep things looking decent, since I couldn’t keep up with the daily dirt and grime that seemed to cover every surface of my home??

There were quite a few layers for me to dig into here.

• Poverty consciousness that had been taught to me by my parents

• Comparison to others to feel acceptable or “enough”

• The feeling like I needed to be/look perfect in order to be worthy of taking up space

• The helplessness that comes with a lifetime of feeling disempowered and like a victim to life

• Negative self-talk that only reinforced this belief that I, as a person, was dirty or undeserving

• A near obsession with cleaning as a form of passing time and avoiding my emotions

Some people may read this story and say, “Okay, OCD. And?”

But there was this excruciating feeling, this urge to figure it out so I could stop doing it. Make it better. Fix it. Feel clean.

I didn’t want to get away from the dirtiness, I wanted to fucking obliterate it into neutrality.

So why am I telling you all of this??

To illustrate the complexity that individual healing can bring. I had so many contributing factors that came up for me as I sat in the feeling of being dirty and needing things to be clean around me:

• Growing up with cockroaches in my home

• Living in a shelter home where I shared a dresser with a girl who pooped in her underwear and put them back in our drawers

• Wearing clothes from the lost and found at school because I got myself dressed every day and we didn’t have anything clean

• Having to clean as soon as I got home from high school each day, never able to be caught relaxing or enjoying myself

• Having to wash every single dish in a 6-person home because I accidentally left a spoon dirty the night before

• Listening to my family always talk about how my grandmother was a hoarder and that clutter was trashy

• Reading a legal affidavit stating that my mother would leave me in soiled diapers and ignore me crying for hours when I was a baby

• Sexual abuse that caused me to feel a sense of shame from the inside out, even though I didn’t remember all of it

• Remembering a girl in 7th grade history class who turned around and looked disgusted one day when I accidentally touched her hair with my books

• Wearing my dad’s hand-me-down clothes and being made fun of by the other kids, thinking their compliments were genuine until they started laughing at me

Prior to this, I had little to no memory of many of these things. I maybe remembered the cockroaches and the chores, but that had just been “normal” to me. Nothing to be a big baby about.. right?

This is an example of how the stoic, distorted-masculine-energy-centered culture teaches us to just shoulder our burdens and look at things as normal. It doesn’t matter. Take it in stride. Just keep going. Your childhood is in the past. Everyone struggled.

I’m here to say, NO NO NO. That energy is ALL WRONG.

I know MY examples may seem extreme to some people, but I invite you to sit and take a look at themes that may show up in YOUR life, such as the lack of time or ability to take care of yourself. In what ways did you possibly feel neglected as a young child? As a school aged kid? As a teenager? Did anything ever cause you to feel less than, or unworthy of being noticed? Or maybe you got too much attention in negative ways, and internalized shame as a result?

I don’t know your specific history, and that’s the heartbreaking beauty of this work. People have experienced things that the rest of us may never know about. But the internal struggle from those experiences WILL find ways to creep out and show up externally.

I don’t agree with an OCD diagnosis for myself. Was my need for cleanliness obsessive? Yep. Did I do it compulsively when things felt overwhelming, out of my control, or tiptoeing on being too personal? Absolutely. Did it impede my daily living and make it difficult for me to function? Yes. But these behaviors had their roots in very specific memories. I was just helplessly trying to clean my way out of them, like a scared little child who didn’t have anyone to get me through it. I fell back on what I knew to do.

None of this is meant to bring shame, by the way. If you’re a person who doesn’t feel the need to prioritize tons of self care, and you’re okay with that — it’s awesome that you know that about yourself and are comfortable being authentic.

If you don’t necessarily prioritize self-care and this post may have triggered disgust or annoyance in some way — I think that’s awesome, too. Perhaps some small part of you recognizes something to feel deeper into on this concept.

My hope is that I can bring awareness to the idea that there is a root cause for so many of the issues we face, and for someone who doesn’t want to spend years in therapy or take medication, that realization can be life-changing.

For me, facing these root issues and naming them to myself was not enough. I had to really FEEL the depths of shame, fear, paranoia, loneliness, and crushing heartbreak that these moments had been trying to bring up in me. The way that I often process these things is through very intense periods of feeling that used to feel like death itself to me. But now I know to let the energy do what it’s here to help me do. To finally feel what I couldn’t before. That process looks different for everyone.

A lot of the time, simply beginning to look at the limiting beliefs we’ve held of ourselves is enough to start unraveling these patterns. Because, once you start to view yourself compassionately, they lose their validity. That’s one of my favorite parts of coaching in the way that I do: witnessing my clients follow the inner guidance to their unique process, recognize these things on their own, and share with me how they feel hopeful and empowered. There’s nothing like that feeling!

If you’d like support or to chat things through, if you’re ready to unravel some of these patterns for yourself, you can book a free Clarity Session with me through my calendar link.

If you want to start working on some of these deeper issues in a concentrated, supportive environment, you might check out my 12-week program Journey to Self. We have a new round starting soon, and I’d love to see you there.

Until next time,

-Ashana.

The Fear that Tried to Take Me Down

The fear of not fitting in was a real doozy for me. And I actually just realized that.

I was listening to somethign recently and heard that “hiding your true self from others doesn’t just mean hiding your faults and insecurities. Many times it also means hiding your beauty and your gifts.”

I realized that stepping into my gifts when I was younger would have been a real threat to the family system I grew up in. It was great when my mom could tell people that her indigo child could see auras, communicate telepathically, and talk to ghosts. Not so cool when that indigo child was telling mom that her addictions were killing her slowly and consuming the lights of the people around her. '

When I really thought about it, it became clear that many of the “strange” things I did as a teenager and young adult — the things I had no explanation for — were mostly ideas I got from other people.

• I decided to randomly lose my virginity one day because it seemed like everyone else in my grade was doing it, and my favorite book character at the time was my age when she decided to do it.

• I stole a bra from a store because the girls I was spending the night with did it too, and they acted like it was almost expected, if you wanted to be a part of the group.

• I developed an eating disorder because I read books and saw videos of other people restricting their diets, and the level of control they had over their life and their body was appealing to me.

• I drank alcohol on the school bus one morning because the adults had all been drinking alcohol the night before, and they made it look so desirable and fun and laughed at us when they sent us to bed. I felt left out and uncool.

To some people, some of these may seen as rites of passage. To me, they were life altering moments. Without a safe home base to come back and discuss these experiences, to really examine them and learn from them, I was left to feel the shame of the punishments that came instead. No curiosity, no compassion, no benefit of the doubt that my true character was still precious, that it was only my actions that showed I needed guidance and understanding. So the spiral of shame and self destruction only continued.

I don’t think I would have actually done any of those things if I hadn’t seen others doing them. They weren’t even ideas in my mind. I wasn’t interested in sex. I had a training bra that worked just fine. I had never looked at my body with judgement before. And I certainly didn’t ever think that I would be drinking alcohol. I threw my mom’s cigarettes in the toilet when I was 5 — because I could feel and see what the addiction was doing to her energy field. I just didn’t know it ran deeper than the cigarettes.

My point is that I didn’t have the acceptance and love to be my true self at home, so I had to look elsewhere to find my place.

Since I was small, I would listen to people, watch their behaviors, notice their interactions, and I would butt in and tell them easier ways to do things. “If you just work on this, you’ll be able to do this.” Friends would have me do card readings for them, but I wasn’t using the cards. I was telling them what I felt and saw when I looked at them, and the cards were just a focal point. I looked at people and I saw their past. I felt their pain. I told them what I saw, and they were always grateful. Someone sees me. Someone validates me. Someone agrees that this is a struggle. Someone can tell me what to work on. A starting point.

This trick wasn’t always appreciated in childhood. When my dad was being abusive and I refused to cry - You won’t make me cry. I don’t consent to that. You can beat me all day long but I know I didn’t do anything to deserve this. He wouldn’t hear what I was actually saying: this is wrong, this is painful, this is ruining our relationship. This won’t bring you peace or power. This only brings more suffering. You’re losing my trust and convincing me I could never even earn yours.

When my mother and brother would have screaming fights in parking lots and I didn’t take my mom’s side — You’re the one who is supposed to soften. You are supposed to hear his needs, you’re his mother. He’s not the enemy, he’s just copying the way you’ve spoken to him and that’s why you’re struggling, he’s just a scared little boy right now…. Those words weren’t always what people wanted to hear.

So I stifled that side of me and I sought comfort in other ways. I learned to fit in where I could. I copied the people in my books. I copied my peers. I tried to make friends. I tried to be cool.

Some people may say, “You were a teenager. You should have known by then not to do those things.”

And to that I would say, you’re absolutely right. I should have already known by then that my interests, gifts, and talents were safe to express. That my needs would be heard. That I fit in with my family and could safely feel like a part of the pack. I shouldn’t have been seeking to fit in elsewhere, anywhere, mimicking book characters and strangers to try to form an identity.. since the one I already had, had been deemed unsafe.

Some people may say, “You’re being too sensitive. Let it go. Your parents had a hard childhood too.”

And my answer to that? You just told me the root of the problem, right there. They had a hard childhood. They were treated that way, too. They’re just doing what they were taught to do. So doesn’t that mean the answer is to stop following that pattern??? It’s not “being too sensitive” to say these things. It’s fucking brave.

My experience may be more extreme than others, but I decided that I’m not going to sugar coat what I went through anymore. I’m not going to change my words in order to help people feel more comfortable when they read it. What I went through as a child was excruciating to me. It was lonely and heartbreaking. It crushed my spirit and it caused me to struggle.

And what kind of coach would I be, if I told my clients that all of their feelings and memories are valid as-is, but didn’t offer that same grace to myself?

Allowing space for authentic emotions is necessary to get through them. Not past them, not around them, not avoid them altogether. But to make it through feeling them and come out the other side, alive, compassionate, with a greater understanding.

If someone.. ANYONE.. in my childhood had seen me as more than a rebellious teen and reassured me that I was accepted, seen, and safe, and if I had been able to have that consistently and believe it to be true…

But that is not what happened. And honestly, these days I’m kinda glad it didn’t. I don’t feel shame for those things I did anymore. Because if I didn’t have that story to tell, I wouldn’t have such an awareness of how important it is to feel safe at home. To be who you truly are. This is the way it played out for me, and maybe it can help someone see their own shame differently, when they read it.

Suffice it to say, I’m not struggling anymore. I am definitely okay. It doesn’t pain me or even bring me relief to write about these things. I just write when I feel a nudge to, and see what comes out. Because for once in my life, I’m not trying to fit in anywhere. I’m just being me, and allowing space for my gifts and my beauty.

And I truly want to see a world where everyone feels free and safe to do the same.

With love,

-Ashana

PS- I don’t do card readings anymore, and I’m not in the business of professionally reading auras, but I do have a knack for life coaching, especially for people who struggle after trauma. If this resonates and you want to chat further, you can book a free clarity call with me here. I’m rooting for you, my friend.

The Art of Cycle-Breaking

People are quick to claim the black sheep identity, but the truth is that breaking dysfunctional patterns isn’t always so catchy and pretty. Here’s how to look for the message in the mess.

Have you ever noticed a habit you don’t love—a trait you desperately want to change—but felt unsure where to start?

That realization can feel icky. Like a prickle at the back of your neck, almost as if someone is watching, waiting for you to mess up.

You don’t want to be impatient or critical, but sometimes you snap at people—or silently judge them—even though you see yourself as kind most of the time.

Or maybe you don’t feel much like certain family members, but… yikes, you catch yourself acting just like them.

There may be a pattern playing out in your behaviors and actions, but it almost feels like it’s out of your control, because you just keep doing it. Then comes the shame.

Shame starts small but grows roots. If you can’t reason it away, it lingers and takes over.

Everyday tasks become a struggle, and chasing big dreams? That feels impossible.

Over time, the constant battle exhausts you. Trying to be your best self all the time wears you down until you wake up already defeated—helpless to patterns that feel inescapable.

Moms are just gonna be worn out and depleted.

Women are just supposed to be over-emotional and illogical.

People with anxiety are just going to feel burned out and afraid, most of the time.

I’m here to tell you friend, this does not have to be a reality. There is a way out.

To break free, we must first acknowledge a hard truth:

Feelings of helplessness can trap us in a never-ending cycle.

And the only way to break a cycle’s momentum is to knock it off course.

It’s simple science, right? An object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and direction unless acted upon by an external force.

==> (This means that you’re not going to see a change in your behavior if you keep doing the same things you’ve been doing, with the same beliefs you’ve been believing. It’s just not gonna happen.)

Even if you read 20 self-help books or take a communication class, the fear of losing your temper may still lurk beneath the surface, ready to pop up.

Or the fear that you’re not a great mother will be eating away at your confidence, even if you’ve watched a million gentle parenting videos and perfected your “I’m not upset, I’m just overwhelmed” voice.

Here’s the truth: your energy doesn’t lie, and others—especially kids—can feel it. This could be why you sometimes feel disconnected or misunderstood; it reflects the fear still lingering beneath the surface.

So, what gives? What can you do?

Step 1: Acknowledge Your Fear.

You’ve identified the behavior. You’ve tried to change it, but the results haven’t stuck—otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, reading another self-help post.

The truth is, the fear or shame is still there, and your energy doesn’t lie. People sense it.

What’s your worst-case inner dialogue? That you’re a phony? A bad person? Take a moment to face those fears. Write them down, if it helps. What are you really afraid of?

That you’re a horrible friend, a bad mom who’s ruining her kids?

Let that thought surface for a moment. Set it down and really look at it.

Do you really believe this is true about yourself? 100% of the time?

Have you ever acted in a way that was genuine and clear, that debunks this statement and shows that you’re capable of being kind, patient, loving, etc.?

If you have, then congratulations — you know that the fear of being a bad person is not rooted in absolute truth. You know that you are capable of the opposite. and with that truth, you’ve taken your power back.

Step 2: Challenge the Narrative of Helplessness

Once you admit that you can embody who you want to be sometimes, it’s easier to admit that maybe there’s some fuckery going on in your head, preventing you from living that truth consistently.

You’re not evil or incapable of being your best self. Something is blocking you from believing it’s safe to try.

As a child, were your bold ideas met with encouragement—or were you warned to be careful, not get your hopes too high? What if your dreams clashed with family or cultural norms? Did stepping outside the expected role feel impossible?

What if your dreams were so unique that no one believed in them, leading you to silence your aspirations and conform to expectations?

I want you to think for a moment, about how many years of your life were spent following the rules that others laid out for you, or waiting for someone else to tell you what to do (or how to do it).

Did school allow you to follow your creative instincts, speak freely, or even go to the bathroom when you needed?

How much of your life have you truly spent embracing your full power, without worrying about outshining or offending others?

Thinking about having the sole power to change your life and manage your energy can feel intimidating.

Living with learned helplessness is daunting—especially if you experienced abuse, criticism, or neglect growing up. As kids, we depend on caregivers and want to make them proud. But when nothing we do seems to measure up, we start to feel powerless, like our actions don’t matter and vulnerability isn’t safe.

Step 3: Flip the Script

Instead of “I’m afraid I’m a bad person because I keep doing things that are rude or undesirable,” what if you flipped it around:

“I keep doing undesirable things because I’m afraid to believe that I’m actually a good person.”

Or instead of, “I’m an awful mom because I keep losing my temper with my kids,” you can take a look at,

“I lose my temper with my kids because I want to be able to say I’m a bad mom.”

I know. Who in their right mind would WANT to say these things??

But when you flip them around like this, you really start to take your power back from the situation. Because the truth is, you have the power to completely change the trajectory of your life, and it starts with little moments like this every single day.

If you can cut through the shame that keeps you stuck feeling helpless to the situation, and start to look at it from a different perspective, you’ll see that your brain switches into a mode of curiosity and alternative solutions, rather than doing the same old thing and repeating the cycle.

What could be the possible reasons for not stepping into believing “I AM A GOOD PERSON?”

Did someone always tell you otherwise? Would it steal the spotlight from a parent, partner, or friend if you truly stepped into your most vibrant self?

Why would you ever WANT to say that you’re a bad mom?

Does it help you fit into a group of moms who constantly engage in self-deprecating gossip? Would embodying an awesome mom force you to find inner safety in a situation that brings up feelings of past hurt or fear? Maybe you’re not confident in your ability to do that because no one ever taught you?

Step 4: Find the Lesson

Maybe there is a message of, Slow down. Be present.

Or perhaps, You’ve felt this way for a long time. Maybe it’s time to realize you didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

These messages are entirely unique and individual, but one thing is certain: there is always more to the situation than we tend to believe in the heat of the moment.

Overwhelm may feel like waves crashing over you, threatening to pull you under. It’s tempting to just throw up your hands and say fuck it.

But that moment will pass — and it can bring absolute clarity, if you’re open to it. As Albert Einstein said,

“Adversity introduces a man to himself.”

I’ve faced a lot of adversity—hard things no kid should endure. My temper and inability to stay calm in tough moments ultimately reconnected me with my inner child. I’d spent years suppressing my needs, stifling my rage, and pushing past my instincts. I lost touch with the brave, determined little girl who had big dreams, and the tender, scared girl who just wanted to be held and told everything would be okay.

I might have kept pushing through life, ticking off to-do lists and silently carrying the weight of feeling alone. But my mood swings forced me to confront the lost parts of myself I’d been ignoring.

Learning to find the messages and respond with care instead of shame took practice.

The great news? Now I get to help others do the same.

The Journey to Feeling Powerful

One of the central themes of my 12-week healing program, Journey to Self is the concept of feeling Powerful versus Powerless. We look at our range of emotions on a scale ranging from total apathy and meaninglessness, to gratitude, connectedness, and joy. In the program, I guide you through exercises that help you see the repetition of these Powerful and Powerless times in your life.

When did the theme of feeling helpless first start intruding upon your sense of curiosity and creativity?

How did the grip of anxiety really start taking its toll on your ability to feel wonder and joy?

What do you need, in order to feel safe leaving that behind?

I guide you through these objective journeys, on a gentle quest to meet your truest self. The one who’s been reaching out to talk to you, sometimes in the most unexpected ways.

Stuck on the emotional merry-go-round, I felt lost. Self-help books weren’t cutting it, and my relationships felt strained. Prioritizing my peace was hard—but it’s the best thing I’ve ever done for myself and the people I love.

Ready to make this shift? Book a free call or explore more of my work at www.wayhomewellness.com. Whether you work with me or someone else, know this: you’re not broken. You’re just processing what you weren’t equipped to handle before.

In love and gratitude,

-Ashana

Being interviewed on a Podcast about childhood trauma

Listening to my own words after being interviewed on 2 episodes of Dear Little Me: You Are Not Alone, with Dawn Chitty

It can feel so comfortable to fall back on excuses and explanations we heard as children.

Familiarity.

“That’s just how things were done here, we live in a small town.”

“My mom often needed medication to deal with various illnesses and injuries.”

“I trusted my doctor and he put me on pain medication.”

Stepping out of those limits can feel nearly impossible, because our view of the world is often formed within the boundaries of our caretakers’ fears and expectations.

If no one had ever done things differently, we might feel like something isn’t right but also feel like we have no idea how to step into something more.

We may take childhood circumstances at face value and it may not occur to us that there is a deeper implication (or an untruth) behind what we often witnessed or heard.

We may continue living out the same patterns of trusting people to tell us what to do, how to think, how to see things, and not even realize we’ve been doing it.

Stepping outside of our experience for a moment to view it objectively is extremely beneficial when being IN the experience has often felt so overwhelming or confusing. But it really helps to hear other people’s stories and pay close attention to how we feel when we hear them/interact with others. If our world was created to be really small, it may feel shocking at first to realize how big the truth actually is.

“As a child you went through more trauma than most adults.”

I heard this my entire life, repeatedly. But listening to myself answer the next question, I realized that I hadn’t actually been through “more” than most adults. mine was just more overt. Things that people would think Wow, that’s really shitty, that you went through that.

But looking at my “symptoms,” the manifestations of feeling so unloved and abandoned, was my experience really so extreme?

How many people are doing their best to cope with life, while also battling similar roadblocks and doubt?

I feel like most adults are quietly dealing with the effects of childhood traumas that they don’t even realize would be categorized as such.

How many kids are forced to accept hugs and unwanted touches from family members they only see a couple of times a year? Does that not teach a child to ignore their own inner messages of NO just as much as my experience did?

How many children are placed in front of a screen so their parents can complete all of the menial tasks that now apparently constitute a “successful” adult life, despite both parents often working full time jobs and already being gone from their kids most of the day? Isn’t that just as isolating and lonely as me being left with strangers when all I really wanted was attention from my mom?

I don’t believe this platitude offers much in the way of validation or feeling truly seen if you look at it more deeply, but I do think it’s a way for people to try to cope with the reality that our society reinforces and even rewards this life of “casual” trauma that makes such coping necessary. And that is endearing to me, even if it’s incredibly sad.

Humans are not meant to live this way. We are wired for connection and nurturing. Reaching out like this is proof, to me, that many people are suffering on some level and are aching for connection.

Children will seek the comfort of mother, even if it’s damaging to their own wellbeing.

A few tidbits I heard myself say:

“I struggled with a disconnect from what it’s supposed to be like to have a mom.”

“As a kid I would have coffee with milk and sweetener, and that’s comfort. That’s Mom.”

“I wanted to have a mom. I wanted to have that experience.”

“I’m figuring all of this out on my own without a mom there to guide me through it.”

Mother is the root of everything. I spoke of being “used to” heart racing, fight or flight, instability. It occurred to me, listening to this playback: that was my Mom. With the BPD, I never knew which Mom I was going to get that day, or if I was even going to get one. That was my baseline of comfort for a long time. Instability.

One thing that children need, that can change the trajectory of their self worth and confidence, especially after trauma: being noticed, listened to, and validated.

As I listened to myself talk about my childhood, I realized that I often just wanted someone to be a safe space for me. To know I wasn’t alone. To be told that I was loved despite any mistakes or undesirable behavior, rather than condemned for them and get in trouble.

I even said it at the beginning of part 1: There was no single adult who could consistently be my home base. So I found my identity and security in what I could.

This is the beginning of seeking external validation.

After having been through what I did with my mom and being in foster care, no one ever stopped to ask me if I was okay, or what i needed. I was just expected to keep performing and was actually shamed for being “just like my mother.” I feel this only deepened my mother wound, as I then also learned to associate shame with what I had desired for a long time: to be like mom. (I feel I had long since determined that being like myself was simply not an option, as she was so undesirable and a disappointment.)

We are raised to adhere to a value system, to exist on a worthiness scale. We live in a tit-for-tat culture.

“I was a good kid. I didn’t do anything to be grounded for two years straight.”

These were the pleadings of an inner child who was still trying to make sense of WHY she didn’t get the love she needed. It must be me. I must have done something wrong.

This reminds me of the “eye for an eye” message in church. Just more bs religious trauma and it all goes back to family trauma, which is so deeply ingrained and passed down.

Overall Moral of the story:

Having a record of your own candid thoughts and recollections can be so helpful in retracing patterns and recognizing feedback loops you’ve been clinging to.

Back when I created my Journey to Self program, I implemented a graphing technique I learned from Kaia Alline, an incredible coach who helped me through uncovering repressed emotions and navigating grief after divorce. I knew at the time that the graph had been helpful in achieving objectivity, but I didn’t realize just how much I would refer back to it throughout the rest of my program. Many of the later metaphors and “Assignments” during our 12-week journey refer back to that graph of emotions, and I eventually came to relate to the graph in terms of feeling Powerless versus Powerful.

I had been offering my clients space to refer back to their own candid writing or sketching, without recognizing just how profound that could continue to be when you revisit it over time. Experiencing it myself was humbling and so powerful.

I’m very grateful to Dawn for inviting me to join this experience, and I look forward to co-creating light spaces with more amazing people on this journey.