Gratitude That Heals: Not Perfection, But Presence

November brings talk of gratitude everywhere — journals, quotes, lists, challenges. And while gratitude can truly shift us, sometimes it starts to feel like another expectation:

“Be grateful.” “Be positive.” “Look on the bright side.”

Reminds me of a time when I purchased a book for my sister, something about not being bothered by the “small stuff”.  Yikes, it was not a mindful purchase at the time.

For many women — especially those who’ve spent years in survival mode — gratitude isn’t always about sunshine and bubbling joy. Sometimes it's quieter. Softer. Slower.

Sometimes gratitude is less about feeling thankful all the time and more about remembering you are still here.

This month, we are embracing a different kind of gratitude:

Because gratitude isn’t meant to silence your feelings. It isn’t meant to force a smile over a tired heart. It isn’t meant to dismiss your pain or ask you to “stay positive” through everything.

True gratitude can hold your truth.

It’s not about rewriting your story. It's about returning to it — with tenderness.

Some days, gratitude might look like:

🤍 “I’m grateful I paused before reacting.”

🤍 “I’m grateful I made time for breath.”

🤍 “I’m grateful I asked for help instead of carrying it all.”

🤍 “I’m grateful I rested. That counts.”

🤍 “I’m grateful for the parts of me that kept going, even when I was tired.”

This is not performance gratitude. This is nervous-system-friendly gratitude ~ the kind that soothes instead of strains.

How will you show gratitude for YOU today?

"The Truth Comes From the Inside"

(A reflection on learning to trust your own voice again.)

For so much of our lives, we’re taught to look outward for answers. We scroll, search, and seek — advice from experts, reassurance from friends, approval from those around us. We measure ourselves by others’ standards and call it clarity.

But the truth? The real truth — the one that brings peace, purpose, and alignment — doesn’t live out there. It lives inside you.

There’s a quiet knowing that whispers beneath all the noise. It doesn’t shout or demand your attention. It waits patiently for you to slow down long enough to hear it. It’s the gentle tug in your chest when something feels right. The uneasy flutter in your stomach when something doesn’t.

It’s your inner compass, softly guiding you home to yourself.

We forget that wisdom doesn’t always sound like logic. Sometimes, it sounds like breath. Like rest. Like the moment you finally stop asking everyone else what they think — and start asking yourself what you feel.

Listening inward takes courage. It means trusting that your body and your heart hold more truth than the loudest advice column or the most confident opinion. It means remembering that no one else lives in your skin, feels your pulse, or carries your story.

So, if you’re searching for answers right now — pause. Breathe. Put your hand over your heart and ask, “What do I already know?”

You might be surprised how clear it becomes when you stop looking outward for permission and start listening inward for truth.

Because the truth was never lost. It’s been waiting for you — quietly, faithfully — inside.

"Play Like You Have Nothing To Lose"

(A reminder to live freely, even when fear whispers otherwise.)

At some point, many of us stopped playing. Not because we didn’t want to — but because life got heavier. Responsibilities grew, expectations stacked, and the fear of “getting it wrong” crept in.

We learned to measure risk before joy. To hesitate before saying yes. To protect instead of play.

But here’s the quiet truth: we never really lose when we’re fully living. When we laugh without permission, try something new, or follow curiosity just because it feels good — that’s where life happens.

Playing like you have nothing to lose isn’t reckless. It’s brave. It’s choosing connection over control. It’s remembering the part of you that once chased wonder without asking for permission.

And yes — you may still think you have something to lose: your comfort, your certainty, your image of “how it’s supposed to look” or "how you're supposed to look" But maybe what you’re really letting go of… is the illusion that staying safe keeps you whole.

When we loosen our grip, joy has room to return. When we let ourselves play, we remember who we’ve always been underneath the weight.

So here’s your gentle nudge: Dance. Laugh too loud. Try the &*%$ thing. Play ~ not because it’s practical, but because your spirit needs it.

After all, what if you never really lost anything that mattered most?