A painful beginning, and the illusion of punishment
I didn’t have what most would call an easy childhood—or adolescence, for that matter. Life felt like a battle from the very start, full of obstacles that I couldn’t understand. For a long time, I was convinced that life itself had something against me, as if I had been singled out to be punished. As I grew older, I did what many do when they don’t feel safe: I built walls. I wore every mask I could find, crafted personas to hide behind, and moved through the world carrying my wounds like invisible scars. I thought I needed protection from others, but in truth, I was hiding from myself.
Building masks to survive a hostile world
In my inner world, I believed that love equaled pain. I had internalized that to be seen was to be hurt, and so I made sure no one ever got too close. On the outside, I appeared cheerful, helpful, even radiant to those around me. I became the one who saved others, hoping they’d need me—because being needed felt safer than being truly known. But I was never really saving myself. My relationships reflected my own inner chaos, each one a mirror showing me what I believed about my worth: that I didn’t deserve love, that I was broken, that something in me was fundamentally flawed.
The unbearable weight of false identity
Eventually, the persona I had built began to crack under its own weight. The more I tried to uphold the image, the more distant I became from my true self. That distance—the betrayal of myself—was a wound deeper than anything the world could inflict. Life, in its mysterious mercy, began to offer me invitations. Invitations to step into truth, to release the performance, to show up raw and real. But I resisted. I believed that if others saw who I really was underneath it all, they would find weakness. And so I clung to the illusion, even as it burned me from within.
The descent that leads to freedom
Then came the breaking. One cannot live forever in contradiction with the soul. The pain grew louder than the fear. The first and most painful step was facing the rejection of my family—the place where I had first learned that love came mixed with hurt. It was terrifying to step into the unknown, to no longer play the role they expected, to risk losing the only love I had known, however painful it had been. I had spent years performing even with friends, afraid that being vulnerable would cost me their affection. But when pain is all that’s left to feel, you stop fearing it—and you begin to listen.
From «why» to «what for»
In those long nights of unraveling, I asked the same questions over and over: why did I go through this, why did I allow that, why was it so hard? But eventually, the question shifted. A deeper voice inside me whispered not “why,” but “what for?” That simple shift changed everything. “Why” had kept me stuck, trapped in repetition, endlessly replaying old stories. “What for” cracked open a new space—one filled with meaning, transformation, and purpose. When I opened my heart to love—not the romantic kind, but the cosmic, sacred love that never judges—I began to understand that none of it had been in vain.
A path with no straight lines, only returns
I won’t pretend the road was smooth. Healing is not linear, and transformation is rarely gentle. But with every step, I came closer to something real. A quiet knowing began to grow in me—that I was never alone, not truly. That I had always been held, even in the darkest hours. I realized there are no errors, only lessons. No punishments, only correction. And we are never truly separate—we only forget, so that we may one day remember. The present became my home, no longer something to resist but something to surrender into, to allow it to shape and fill each experience with meaning.
Living from presence and compassion
Now, I nourish myself with each breath, with each second of awareness. I meditate not to escape life but to melt into it—to remember I am one with everything. I no longer judge others for their path, for I see each soul walking their unique journey. I watch with reverence now, knowing I have walked similar roads. And I often think—if I hadn’t lived through all those experiences, I might still be bound by the same patterns my ancestors carried. But my soul chose this path, chose these wounds, so that I could bring light to them. So that I could return.
We are bridges, and the universe watches through us
We are not here to be perfect. We are here to remember. To remember that we are bridges between heaven and earth, expressions of living love in motion. Each time you open your eyes with presence, the universe sees itself through you. Through your breath, your energy, your compassion, your love. And for me, that’s the true miracle: not that I was broken, but that I always held the key to remembering I was whole.