Letting Go

I’ve always believed in finding new ways to think – in the power of the mind to reshape and renew itself.
In my own life, I’ve seen how reprogramming my thoughts brings healing. When something troubles me, I word it.
People often say, “Don’t say it aloud. The devil will hear.”
But hello – God hears too.
Keeping silent or being afraid to face what hurts, to me, shows a lack of faith.
I’m not challenging the darkness by naming it. I’m releasing it. Speaking it aloud is my way of setting it free, of letting it go.
Why am I saying this? Because of the birthday month – a time that was always about newness, the beginning of another year of life.
But since 2021, as the freshness of life arrives, I also carry my brother’s death with me.
Even this year, my birthday felt heavy.
There’s still a brokenness and restlessness inside me that weighs me down – not because I don’t want to move on, but because I can’t let him go.
And yet, October cannot remain a month of wounds. It must become a month of wonder again.
The day before my birthday, it hit home hard. I said it aloud. October needs to be the birth month again. Not the month of death.
Something shifted. A new awareness was born.
I became aware that the only reason I was clinging to Johan’s death was because, from the day he was born, I had always kept my hand over him – watching, protecting, trying to soften his path against the world.
That quiet obligation should have ended when he died… and yet, it lives on in me.
It’s as if my hand is still there – stretched out over nothing, and yet, over everything.
Now I understand.
It’s not the loss that keeps me from moving forward – it’s the holding on.
I carry so many memories, and though they sometimes shimmer at the edge of forgetfulness, they still live quietly within me.
I cannot keep carrying the guilt of his death.
I cannot keep playing the ‘What if’ game:
What if I had done this.
What if I had said that.
What if I had listened better.
What if I had gone with him to see Dr. Els.
What if… What if... What if…
Love was never meant to be chained to guilt.
It’s time to remember him with peace, not punishment.
So, I prepare myself to let go.
And, hopefully, by next October, maybe my mind will rest differently.

Ready to fly

The world is at the edge, 
and so am I.

The air is filled with foreboding
as delusion swarms the skies –
thought-flocks shimmer,
then vanish in static.

Every headline reads disaster,
every chat thread runs with dread,
every honest facade
cracks beneath the weight
of finality.

People mirror it –
a dying constellation of minds,
signals collapsing into silence 
as their universes flicker offline.

They laugh when they shouldn’t,
cry when no one is watching,
scroll through the corridors
of their own undoing,
curious about the darkness.

They falter when stepping back, holding fast
to the small certainties that remain –
coffee in the morning,
a friend’s familiar voice,
the sun setting even when the day
breaks apart.

And even in their clinging,
their yearning, their endless chase for meaning,
they lean forward, peer over the edge –
drawn by the mystery
of the fall.

Perhaps that’s the truth of it –
generations have teetered on the brink,
thinking the world will break,
but the verge has always held.

While the world teeters at the edge,
I do not look down, nor wait
for the fall – my heels touch the brink
but my eyes seek the horizon
as I gather wind and turn toward the light.

I am at the edge,
ready to fly.

You are what you survived

I’ve never been someone who enjoys gossip. Many people do, and in the past I’ve sometimes listened and given my opinion. Sad fact: I’m brutally honest. 

Take Example 1: If someone asks me what I think about a colleague, I stick to the facts. If that colleague is outside the classroom smoking while the kids are left idle, I’ll say they weren’t present. What usually gets repeated back is that I called them lazy. Big difference. Do I correct it? No. If they choose to dislike me for it, that’s on them. 

Example 2: I don’t just notice people’s personalities – I’m drawn to their psychology and even their neurology. My mother had an uncanny ability to “read” a room, and I seem to have inherited that. A twitch of the mouth, a glance, a hand gesture, or the way someone responds tells me more than their words ever could. We all have habits. We all repeat patterns. If you ask me to analyse you, I can usually do so with a fair degree of accuracy. 

I say usually because analysis has limits. If someone lies to impress me or hides something, I can spot the change in their pattern – but it produces a false picture. 

Here’s the belief I’ve held for years: we are what we have experienced. Every single person has a backstory, and that story has shaped them into the human being standing in front of us today. All of us – yes, every one of us – carry imprints from childhood, whether we call them trauma, lessons, or survival strategies. 

Neuroscientists have found that the nervous system doesn’t just remember events – it remembers how those events felt. 

This is called implicit memory. Unlike ordinary memory, which lets you recall facts and moments, implicit memory stores body states. If you grew up anxious, your body learned to live on high alert. If you grew up secure, your body learned to rest and trust. These patterns get wired into your autonomic nervous system – the fight, flight, freeze, or rest-and-digest settings that keep us alive. 

The fascinating part? These imprints can last for decades. You might think you’re reacting to the present moment, but often your nervous system is pulling up an old “file” from childhood and replaying it. 

In other words, our bodies are libraries of our lived experiences. Every gesture, every reaction, every gut feeling carries echoes of what we’ve been through. That’s why I try not to judge too quickly. Behind every behaviour is a story. And behind every story is a nervous system that has been doing its best – often since childhood – to keep that person safe.

When you see someone fighting tooth and nail just to stay afloat, it’s worth remembering: that’s not weakness. That’s survival. It’s the nervous system’s deepest instinct to keep going, even when life feels unbearable. 

That’s why I believe no one really wants to die. Most people who seem “self-destructive” aren’t longing for death. They’re longing for relief, for safety, for a way out of pain. Their fight to stay afloat is evidence of the part of them that still wants to live. 

And if we can understand that – if we can see the story behind the struggle – maybe we can meet each other with a little more compassion.

Eternity in Our Hearts

Quite often, since the loss of my brother and mother, I find myself thinking about eternity. Not as something far away or vague. No. Eternity is something deep and real. It’s almost like a seed that was planted inside us long before we took our first breath. 

It’s not strange that we struggle to understand life and death. When God first created people, there was no death, no end at all. We were meant to live forever with Him. “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” — Ecclesiastes 3:11 (NIV) 

I believe that’s why, even when everything feels heavy or sad, there is still a small part of us that refuses to give up. Something deep inside makes us believe that life is worth living, that there must be more to life than pain and suffering, and more to simply existing. 

Time is relative. It bends and stretches. One hour can feel like forever, and a whole year can pass in the blink of an eye. The psalmist reminds us of life’s brevity: “Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures; yet the best of them are but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass, and we fly away.” — Psalm 90:10 (NIV) 

At first, it may feel heavy, even discouraging, to think our time is so short. But maybe it’s not meant to bring despair. It’s the paradox: we weren’t created for seventy or eighty years alone. We were made for eternity. And that’s why all the things we collect — money, possessions, even success — never fill the emptiness we sometimes feel. They only make us chase after more of the same. 

What we really long for is not “more things.” It’s something sacred. We were not made to be filled by the world, but by the One who made the world. 

Death always feels wrong because it is wrong. It was never part of God’s first plan. But through Jesus, the way back to life has been opened. Not just life here, but life forever with Him. 

Now, our bodies are fragile and often tired, but our hearts keep longing for wellness. The groaning is real — it’s the part of us that longs for hope, for light, for eternity. 

In my case, my body is done with the struggle! Living with peripheral neuropathy is a physical obstacle, but also hard on the mind. Many mornings are so overwhelming. The weight of knowing I must face another day with pain can press heavily. But, I remind myself: pain is not my master. It’s my teacher. It doesn’t govern me; it guides me forward, reshaping how I think and how I face the day. 

Still! The struggle to move is there. So, whenever I feel depleted, I remind myself: eternity is within me. I wasn’t made to live in pain, but to live in hope. To shine even a small light in the darkness. To be kind, to be truthful, to stay humble before God. 

And also, I remind myself that I’m not alone. Many people are suffering the burden of this imperfect life. Even today, with all its struggles, we can still live with a thankful heart, do good where we can, and hold on to the thought of forever. “Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.” — 2 Corinthians 4:16–17 

Perhaps the question isn’t how short life is, or how heavy time feels, but where our focus rests. If we fix our eyes only on what is fragile and temporary, the weight of it all will crush us. But if we lift our eyes to the eternal — to the One who placed eternity in our hearts — then even seventy or eighty years become filled with meaning.

This is the real paradigm shift: Where is your focus? Not on what fades, but on what lasts. Not on fear, but on hope. Not on time running out, but on eternity already begun.

Be Still. Make Room.

There are people who move through a day as though through a storm, their eyes lowered, their hearts closed.
They say they are busy.
The hours are too short, the burden of life too heavy, the path forward too steep.

And so they focus on everything and nothing.

Small tasks are dropped by the wayside, like stones unnoticed on the road.
They focus on negativity.  

They say, people are careless, people are lazy, people do not think.
Systems are broken. The world is evil.
The end has come.

Some ignore the negativity and drift like clouds in their own realms of stupor. 
Some sink into the muck and mire of the world.

People are in conflict, mostly with each other.

When the ear is closed, the river of love between people dries to a trickle.
When the heart is distracted, the field of care lies barren.
And a voice unheeded is like a seed cast upon rock. It cannot take root. It cannot grow.

What does this tell us of the state of man?

That he builds his houses high, but neglects the foundation.
That his hands are full of harvest, yet his soul goes hungry.
That he moves with the swiftness of the wind, yet passes by the spring that could quench his thirst.

The world grows louder, but man grows blind and deaf.
The days shorten, like the shadows of evening, yet his attention grows thinner.
And though he sows much, he often sows without depth, and reaps little that endures.

Goodness is not absent.
We need only to turn our eyes upon the small and hidden things, upon that which is often passed by in haste.

Goodness is here, waiting to be seen.

It requires no effort from us to see it.
We do not need to fix anything to find it.
We only need to stand without judgment.
Open our eyes.
Open our ears.

Open our hearts.

Be still.
Make space in our hearts.

When we pay attention, when we look and listen with gentleness and reverence, then what is good will grow, as a seed grows when the earth gives it room.

The seed of goodness waits – not in the world out there, but in the quiet you make within yourself.

Paper Tigers

In a world where unemployment is high and opportunities can feel scarce, it’s easy to feel stuck. So many people wait for something or someone to come and change their life. But what if the shift doesn’t come from the outside? What if it begins with how we see our own potential?

There’s a short but powerful instruction that we can look at: “Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest.” (Proverbs 6: 6–8, NIV).

This ancient wisdom paints a picture of the ant – tiny, easily overlooked, yet full of insight. The ant doesn’t wait to be told what to do. It doesn’t depend on a system or a boss or the perfect conditions. It simply works. Quietly. Consistently. Intentionally. It gathers what it can, while it can, knowing that the time for harvest will pass. It’s not driven by fear or panic, but by purpose.

Wisdom is humble and moves steadily forward.

In today’s world, many are forced to become resourceful. Formal employment may be out of reach, but that doesn’t mean we’re without purpose or possibility. If we do what we love, if we build something around our passion, no effort is ever wasted.

Like the ant, our strength lies not in what we have, but in what we choose to do with what we have. A skill. An idea. A small start. It may not look like much, but it can carry us far, especially if we stop waiting for the perfect time and simply begin. 

What stops most of us from beginning isn’t always circumstance. More often, it’s fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of getting it wrong. And that’s why Amelia Earhart’s words remain so relevant: “The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life and the procedure. The process is its own reward.” 

A paper tiger looks fierce, but it’s made of paper. It can’t actually harm us. It only feels threatening.

Most of our fears are just that. They hold shape, but no true substance. And when we see them for what they are, we realize the hardest part was never the work itself. It was making the decision to start.

In 2 Thessalonians 3:10 (NIV), Paul writes: “The one who is unwilling to work shall not eat.” This isn’t said with cruelty, but with clarity. It’s a reminder that action is part of living. If we want change, we must take part in it – not sit back waiting for someone else to write our story. Work, in whatever form we can offer it, is not just about income – it’s about dignity, meaning, and contribution. 

We don’t need a perfect business plan or a groundbreaking invention to start. We just need a spark, a desire to build something, offer something, do something that aligns with who we are and what we care about. We can start small. Offer a service. Make something with our hands. Use our voice, a skill, or experience – even if it feels ordinary.

The ant never questions if it’s doing something great. It just works, and that work sustains it. At the same time, we need to remember that life is not only about producing or surviving. It’s also about enjoying the process. That’s what Amelia Earhart meant when she said, “The process is its own reward.”

There is joy in movement. Fulfillment in effort. Meaning in even the smallest of steps forward. 

Take a moment today and ask yourself:
Am I being held back by real obstacles, or by paper tigers?
Am I waiting for a miracle, or is it time to become the miracle in my own story?

The ant doesn’t wait for certainty. It acts. And so can you.  No matter how limited your resources, no matter how small your beginnings, act with courage, work with purpose, and follow what you care deeply about.

The world needs more people who are alive with purpose, not afraid of paper tigers, and willing to begin with what they have. The time is now. Consider the ant. See through the fear. And begin.

A final thought to consider…

John Steinbeck wrote, “I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen” (from The Winter of Our Discontent). This speaks to the invisibility of ordinary people, everyone who is trying to make a living. Whether someone is selling home-baked goods or offering a humble service, the effort behind that deserves our respect and support. Instead of judgment, let’s choose care and encouragement.

Everyone trying to make an honest living deserves to be seen and valued.

We Don't See Reality - We See Through It

We like to think we see the world as it is. But we don’t.

We don’t see with our eyes. We see through them. Like light filtering through stained glass, our vision is coloured by everything we’ve lived. Our eyes might capture the image, but our minds interpret it. And what we perceive is never neutral. It’s shaped by memory, trauma, belief systems, fears, and hopes.

What we’ve experienced becomes a lens, tinting every moment.

A room isn’t just a room if you once felt unsafe in one.

A smile isn’t just a smile if you’ve learned not to trust them.

Even colours and sounds can carry emotional echoes we no longer consciously register.

We don’t notice everything. We notice what we’ve been conditioned to see. We scan for patterns that support the story we’ve always told ourselves, and we often miss what doesn’t fit.

And here’s another layer: our senses aren’t perfect. Even when fully alert and emotionally grounded, we still don’t experience the full picture.

Biologically, our eyes detect only a sliver of the electromagnetic spectrum. We miss the infrared, the ultraviolet. Our ears register only a limited range of frequencies. So even before personal bias comes in, we’re already working with incomplete data. We build entire truths from fragments. And what makes it worse is that we trust those fragments absolutely. We forget how much we’re missing.

So yes, the past shapes perception. But so do the natural limits of being human. We think we’re seeing clearly, but often, we’re just seeing enough to feel certain. And that’s dangerous.

This is the creative’s ache – one that artists, writers, and speakers know too well. It’s not just about craft. It’s about translation. Taking something filtered internally and trying to make it visible to others. The goal isn’t just accuracy. It’s honesty. To reveal not just what we see, but how we experience it. And that takes more than talent. It takes vulnerability.

In every painting, story, or speech, the creator’s internal weather is present. Mood shapes expression. Meaning every piece is more than creative output. It’s a mirror.

Can we ever see more clearly? Maybe. The path starts with asking better questions: Is this real, or is this my past speaking? Am I seeing this moment, or a memory dressed up as the “here-and-now”? 

Self-awareness helps us interrupt the automatic replay of old wounds. It allows us to meet the moment as it is, not as we once knew it. Healing our vision is the first step toward a better life. One not dictated by shadows.

Yes, it does matter that we don’t see objective reality. Because until we realize that, we’ll keep reacting to ghosts and calling them truth. The narrative of the past will dominate the present. That’s why so many people stay trapped in victimhood instead of showing up as survivors.

Memory doesn’t record facts. It stores emotion. And over time, the line between what happened and how it felt begins to blur. We don’t just remember events. We remember how they made us feel. And those feelings become filters, colouring how we see now.

A kind word can sound like a warning if we’ve been hurt before.

A loving gesture can feel suspicious if trust has been broken.

Suddenly, we’re no longer responding to this moment. We’re reliving that one.

Without awareness, memory manipulates perception. And perception, in turn, becomes a prisoner of the past. 

So maybe the answer isn’t just to paint, write, or speak about what we think we’ve experienced. Maybe the deeper work is this: to explore it again. To find the truth beneath the emotion. To revisit the past, especially with someone who was there.

In the end, we have a choice. We get to decide how we see.

As for me? I am the captain of my creations, the master of my perceptions. Yes, I’ll probably always see the world through eyes slightly clouded by yesterday, but knowing that helps me pause. Even when I can’t name what’s haunting me, awareness gives me a choice. If I can feel it, I can face it. And whether I understand it fully or not, I can acknowledge it, release it, and choose to reframe it.