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.