What did I learn today? Lessons on the Journey to Unconditional Self Love

  A Rooted Reflection There’s a part of us — the unhealed part, the protective part — that cannot stand the mystery of endings. The ego hates blank space. It hates transitions. It hates anything it cannot control. So when a relationship begins to shift or dissolve, the ego rushes in with its favourite coping mechanism: reasoning. It wants to name the cause. It wants to identify the flaw. It wants to assign blame — to us or to them. It wants a story that makes the discomfort feel justified. The ego says things like: “I wasn’t enough.”   “They didn’t appreciate me.”   “I should have tried harder.”   “They should have known better.” Blame becomes a kind of emotional furniture — something to hold on to when the ground is moving. But here’s the truth I’ve learned through friendships, loveships, work partnerships, and soul contracts of all kinds: When a relationship is completing its cycle, ego reasoning doesn’t heal anything.   It delays the lesso...

  There is something I’ve been noticing about myself, and I’m finally ready to name it. I don’t experience time the way most people do. I don’t track dates. I don’t mark anniversaries. I don’t measure my life in milestones or seasons. Time, for me, doesn’t arrive in tidy chapters. It doesn’t tap me on the shoulder. It doesn’t demand attention. It simply moves — quietly, faithfully — and I move inside it. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent years cultivating presence. Years learning how to stay in the Now without rushing ahead or lingering too long in the past, when I started this practice, the life I was living was chaotic, it was uncertain, unsteady and taking one day at a time was absolutely essential for my survival. I often say, “The Divine is in time, on time, all the time.” And I trust that so deeply that I don’t feel the need to monitor time’s footsteps. I let it be. I let myself be. But here is my confession. When someone sends me a photo from nine years ago, I am stunned. When I...

  J uly's word is  — Abundance. It's not  just a word. It is a shift. A lens. A way of being. My own reminder that abundance is not something I wait for, chase, or hope to deserve. It is something I practice. Abundance is a mindset. A perspective. A daily intention to return to the truth that the Source of All Things is never absent. Never withholding. Never late. Always here. Always available. Always flowing. And I am here for it. Abundance Beyond the “More” Beyond the mindset, the thinking that it is  more money, more things, more opportunities, more comfort. Abundance is not a shopping list. It is a knowing. It is the quiet confidence that even when something feels missing, something else is present. Even when discomfort rises, support is still here. Even when the path feels uncertain, provision is already unfolding. Abundance is not about grabbing for more. It’s about recognizing what already is. It’s about remembering that the Source — God, Spirit, Universe, Bre...

Yung Pueblo says that the mind is always looking for something to grab onto — a sensation, a fear, a gap in information — and from that grasping, it begins to weave stories. And if we are not observing ourselves, those stories can become the foundation of our stress. I have lived this truth intimately over the past week. Stress, I’m learning, is not just about the situation itself. It’s about the moment I stop accepting reality as it is and start swimming in the craving, the discomfort, or the negativity that I’m holding onto. Stress pulls me out of the present moment and into a realm of imagined outcomes, half‑truths, and emotional echoes. It ties itself to a sensation in the body — tightness in the chest, a knot in the stomach — and suddenly the mind begins to build a narrative around that feeling. And the mind loves a narrative. As I continue charting a course for the young women in the NiNa Program, I’ve noticed how quickly my mind can create stories when things feel uncertain or o...

  Most people spend their entire lives inside stories someone else wrote for them. The betrayed wife. The abandoned child. The strong one. The fixer. The one who always survives. The one who never asks for too much. Roles handed to them before they even knew they had a choice. And because these stories were repeated — by family, by culture, by trauma, by silence — they become scripts. Scripts people perform for decades, sometimes without ever questioning who authored them or whether they still fit. But here is the truth: You can look at the same facts and write a new story. This is not denial. This is reframing. The facts remain. But the meaning you make of those facts becomes yours. You cannot always prevent the hit — the heartbreak, the disappointment, the loss, the moment that knocks the wind out of your chest. Life will hand you chapters you did not ask for. But you can decide whether you stay on the ground. You can decide whether the story becomes: “I was abandoned, so I am un...

  Today, I asked myself a simple question: What change am I most proud of?   I am proud of feeling my feelings without rushing to fix them. For years, I treated emotions like emergencies — something to solve, silence, or outrun. Now, I let them pass through. They rise, they speak, they leave their feedback, and they move on. They no longer take up residence in my body, waiting for the next incident to remind me they were never dealt with. I am learning to let feelings be visitors, not tenants. I am proud of showing vulnerability instead of wearing stoicism like armour. Proud of minding my own business — truly minding it — and remembering that not every conversation requires my advice, my opinion, or my intervention. Silence can be a boundary. Silence can be wisdom. I am proud that I continue to show up at the gym at 6 a.m., no excuses, no drama, just discipline. I am proud of staying calm when the money in my savings account dips low, while I search for opportunities, whi...