As I sit here with a cup of tea, flipping through old journals, I’m struck by the sheer weight of emotions they hold. These journals are more than just pages filled with words; they’re fragments of a journey—my journey. The intention was simple when I picked them up: to review some important lessons, notes, and reflections, both from my own life and from what I had learned through others. But what I found in those pages was far more profound than I had anticipated.
I saw a younger version of myself who was determined to make sense of life’s chaos. There were moments of raw vulnerability, pages soaked in self-reminders to stay strong, personal analysis of why things happened the way they did, and dreams so big they felt almost out of reach. As I read through them, I was overwhelmed with emotions—a strange cocktail of sorrow, pride, and gratitude. How much I had endured. How much I had grown. And how much I had resisted along the way.
The intellectual clarity in those entries astounded me. I had written about the importance of letting go, of forgiving myself, of being patient. I understood these concepts well enough to articulate them clearly on paper. But in practice? That was an entirely different story. I remembered the struggles vividly: the nights spent wrestling with anxiety, the resistance to change, the self-sabotage that felt both mysterious and maddening. I couldn’t help but feel a deep compassion for the person I was back then—a person who didn’t give up, even when giving up felt easier.
