2024

“If you accept a limiting belief, then it will become a truth for you.” ~Louise Hay When I first set out to create my business, I poured all my hopes and energy into it working tirelessly, learning, refining, and investing. Since childhood, I knew I wanted to do my own thing. Something that felt meaningful to me. But despite all my best efforts, the success and sense of support and steadiness I longed for always felt out of reach. I chalked it to timing, or not doing enough, or missing something others had that I couldn’t put my finger on. But all along, what was behind the stuckness was a force I’d never considered—conditioning. Conditioning is the learned behaviors and beliefs we adopt as children to feel safe, loved, and accepted. These patterns become so ingrained that we don’t realize they follow us into adulthood. But do they ever, shaping how we approach everything, including our ambitions and relationships. My own deconditioning journey has spanned years and, my goodness, the layers… but one of the densest and most sabotaging was this: I was raised to believe that being misunderstood was unsafe. My childhood experiences taught me that expressing myself with honesty or assertiveness could come at a mega cost, and I carried this lesson into my life and business (like nobody’s business), without even realizing it. As I began to share my work with the world, I felt an anxious compulsion to prove myself and my approach exhaustively. I couldn’t shake the picture of a hostile audience judging every word I wrote or spoke, so instead of focusing on how my work could solve a problem for potential clients, I was caught up in an endless loop of over-explaining, justifying, and defending my ideas—before anyone even questioned them. I wasn’t marketing my work as much as I was making a case in a courtroom of my own projection. It was the worst. It drained my energy, sabotaged my business, and made showing up for it feel like a rerun of a past I thought I’d outgrown. Seeing this and other aspects of my conditioning for what it was (distinct from me and a coping mechanism from the past) took a lot work. My unique path included estranging from toxic family dynamics, moving from Brooklyn to a very calm corner of Italy, quitting alcohol and cigarettes, and hiring a coach who understood where I came from and where I wanted to go and could go as deep with me as I knew was required. I don’t believe it’s a fair ask to release aspects of our conditioning (regardless of how limiting they are) when our lives and relationships don’t feel safe, and it took creating safety, cogency, and self-trust to start seeing all at the ways coping had kept me from thriving. The first step toward breaking free of the anxious over-explaining pattern was noticing how it felt in my body. I’d feel the anxiety rise, and then survival mode would take over whenever I tried to communicate my work with directness. More than once, my jaw would lock, my head would go fuzzy, and my throat would collapse if too much truth, confidence, or opinion came to the surface. This wasn’t a personality quirk; it was an echo of the past, manifesting in the present. Inner child work was the medicine for this—when those feelings welled up and the impulse to shut down or over-explain would come up, I’d picture little me sitting on my lap and I’d hold her through the fear, reminding her that she was feeling the past, not the present. That she wasn’t alone in this and wouldn’t be ever again. And then I’d lean in and say the thing. As I sat with those feelings, acknowledging them instead of letting them direct my actions, something shifted. I was re-parenting that vulnerable part of me that had once believed it was dangerous to be seen and heard and showing her that we could walk past those fear thresholds together. And so, we have, more and more every day. Letting go of this need to defend myself, I found both clarity and a sturdier sense of being safe in my own skin than when I only had the conditioning to protect me. And when it came to my work and business, my focus could center on what truly mattered: serving my clients and making my work clear and accessible, not to the critic within but to people, real people who are looking for change. The impact was immediate. Communicating with clients became smoother, and even tasks I’d once dreaded—like getting on sales calls—felt natural, grounded, and friendly. It opened the door to a new kind of productivity, one fueled by purpose rather than “headless chicken” survival. Thank heavens. Really. If you’re finding it difficult to make things happen as you envisioned them, it may not be about working harder or finding the perfect moment. It could be that unseen patterns of conditioning are guiding your actions, just as they were guiding mine. The beauty of recognizing these patterns is the freedom that opens up. When you let go of outdated beliefs and create space to move forward from a grounded, present, clear-eyed place, ambitions start to feel within reach because the truth is, they kind of are. What can feel impossible or out of reach or alignment becomes so much less charged and so much more achievable when we’re no longer fighting these unseen barriers. It isn’t always easy work, and it requires a commitment to challenge familiar beliefs, reach for support, and sometimes make some big changes. But if you’re willing to face your hidden patterns, you might just find that what you want is far closer than it once seemed. About Mel Wilder Melanie’s a coach whose work dismantles the hidden conditioning that keeps women stuck, helping them build thriving businesses that are as aligned as they are successful. Drawing from decades of personal

“The only journey is the one within.” ~Rainer Maria Rilke Navigating life after divorce has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but divorce also contained the best gifts I have ever received. My whole world was shaken up and rearranged. The shake-up included a loss of career and becoming a mostly solo parent on top of the divorce. From the rubble of my old life, I got the chance to build something new, authentic, and fresh. Divorce was a painful portal to powerfully reclaiming myself and my life. Through the rebuilding process, I found strength and clarity in ways I never expected. Before my divorce, I felt anxious all the time, trapped in a constant cycle of wondering if I could be happier and if the problem was me, him, or us. I stayed in an agonizing limbo of “not bad enough to leave, not good enough to stay” for about five years. My husband at the time would ask “Why can’t you just be happy with what you have?” The question hit me like a punch to the gut. Why couldn’t I? I was constantly questioning myself and my worth. Looking back on it now, I see that was the wrong question. My husband at the time was largely deflecting from the issues I was bringing to him and making it about me being perpetually unhappy as some kind of default. But it was true that I had inner work to do, and it was up to me to figure out what would make me happy. I tried everything to fix myself and the marriage—therapy, couples counseling, countless self-help books, and coaching. But the sense of loneliness persisted, especially around parenting, community, and spirituality. The key challenges that made my marriage deeply unsatisfying for me were money, sex, emotional connection, and identity. For the first three we didn’t share the same values and there was constant friction. Underneath all of that misalignment in the relationship, though, was the fact that my identity had been swallowed up. First in our company, which was his dream, but I worked tirelessly in it, and then in my role as a mom. But who was I, just for myself? That was the better question. Eventually, what gave me the strength to leave the marriage was simply giving myself permission to want what I wanted based on knowing who I truly was and believing that whatever was best for me was also best for everyone in my life. I believe all the models of self-help and self-care that I tried contributed to this realization. I had to believe that I could stand on my own, which was terrifying. But as I started taking small steps, each step, even the hardest ones, gave me the energy to keep going. I began to rebuild something real, authentic, and new. Of course, it’s impossible to distill the five-year-plus journey into easy steps or “hot” tips. But I want to attempt to narrow it down to the six key insights that got me through, in the hopes it can inspire others too. These are the six steps I took to use divorce as a portal to reclaim my authentic self. 1. I gave myself permission to want what I wanted. For so long, I didn’t even know what I wanted. It was buried under years of trying to make everything work and thinking about what others wanted. It felt scary and uncomfortable to give myself permission to truly explore my desires, but once I did everything began to shift. I admitted to myself that I was ambitious in my own right, that I wanted my own business, and I wasn’t satisfied playing the key supporting role in the family business. I uncovered the secret longing I had for an exciting and equal romantic partnership where I felt seen and valued for the insights, fun, and hard work I bring to my relationships. Letting myself know what I wanted, taking those swirling locked-up longings from deep inside and forming them into solid words to be spoken out loud—that was the first step toward reclaiming my identity. 2. I identified my core values. I took time to reflect on what truly mattered to me. Somewhere along the way I had merged values with my husband and his family. I needed to re-evaluate which ones were truly mine. This meant questioning everything from how I approached money to what emotional connection meant to me. My core personal values of wholeheartedness and adventurousness weren’t engrained in my career nor were they present in my day to day.  While there was nothing inherently dishonest about my life with my husband, our family wasn’t living in the deepest integrity that I longed for. When I was able to let go of the values that no longer represented me, there was room to discover my true values, which I had suppressed. 3. I worked through old beliefs that were keeping me stuck. The old narratives that had kept me stuck in my marriage for so long didn’t go away overnight. It took time to unpack them and let go of the guilt, fear, and limiting beliefs that were holding me back. Particularly sticky was the belief that I was responsible for everyone’s feelings and coping abilities, even grown adults older than myself. Even after we separated, I felt responsible for how my ex was coping and the things he was choosing to do. But once I started working through these mental roadblocks, many of them newly emerging from my subconscious, I felt a sense of freedom I hadn’t experienced in years. 4. I allowed myself dream big—even when it felt impossible. At the height of my separation, I was overwhelmed by tough decisions—parenting, finances, and the legal process. It felt ridiculous to even think about my dreams, but doing so gave me momentum. Dreaming big gave me a vision for a brighter future, one where I could live authentically. So my message for

“Life doesn’t owe us anything. We only owe ourselves, to make the most of the life we are living, of the time we have left, and to live in gratitude.” ~Bronnie Ware Today, I’d like to tell a story about death. It’s a word that tends to shift the energy in a room, isn’t it? People tense up, lean back, or grow silent. Death is often seen as morbid, something to avoid or fear. But I’ve come to see it differently. The more we speak about death with openness and reverence, the less heavy and frightening it feels. My earliest experiences of death were when my grandparents passed away. I remember the moment my parents told us about one of my grandfather’s deaths. The atmosphere was so tense, so thick with unspoken grief. I was five or six and wanted to laugh. It wasn’t disrespect or indifference—I now realize it was my body’s way of releasing the unbearable tension in the room. But the most profound experience of death came when my mother passed away. I was twenty-six. Almost twenty years ago. She had cancer. I spent long, quiet days with her in that stark, clinical hospital room. I vividly remember the stairs—climbing them one at a time, deliberately slow, as if dragging my feet might delay the inevitable. Each step felt heavy, as though I could somehow resist the truth waiting on that floor. I remember not knowing what to say or do, especially as she told me, “It’s hard.” I think she held back her tears for my sake, just as I held back mine for hers. Part of us denied the truth. Part of us clung to hope. And part of us knew the inevitable was coming. Looking back, I wish we had cried together. I wish we had allowed ourselves to fully feel the grief, the sadness, the heaviness of it all. Instead, we put on brave faces, trying to protect each other. But what were we protecting? We were both struggling. If I knew then what I know now, I would have approached her final days differently. I would have offered her a soft space to breathe, to release, to let go of the grasping. I would have guided her into that transition with love, reminding her she was returning to the beautiful energy of the universe, back to the souls she loved. I would have told her I loved her. Many times over those last few weeks together. I carried the weight of guilt for years, particularly over not being with her in the exact moment she passed. She transitioned in the middle of the night while my sister and I were sleeping at home. But now, I choose to believe she wasn’t alone. Perhaps she was supported by the unseen forces in the soul field, her guides, and her loved ones on the other side. No one knows what happens after we die, but I find this thought comforting. I’ve come to believe we need to talk about death—not to dwell on it but to embrace its truth. Death is part of life. It’s a cycle—a beginning, a middle, and an end. When I returned to Florida after her passing, I was in shock. Everything felt different, small compared to the immensity of what I had just experienced. Parties and drinking no longer appealed to me. My relationship felt empty, and I couldn’t even remember why I was in it. My job felt meaningless. Death had brought to my attention a way deeper understanding of impermanence, driving a quiet urgency to reevaluate my life. Not a frantic urgency but a deep realization that life is short. Life is precious. That realization was life-affirming. Each breath matters. Each moment matters. It made me ask: Where am I spending my energy? With whom? What am I serving? What am I contributing to this world? This questioning was the beginning of my expansion. It wasn’t linear—there were steps forward and plenty backward—but it set me on a path toward alignment with my evolving truth. I believe we must live with an awareness of death. Not just intellectually but deeply, in our bones. When we truly embody the knowledge that we will die—perhaps even today—it reshapes how we live. Buddhist teachings encourage meditating on death, imagining one’s own passing. It’s not morbid; it’s clarifying. If you knew you might die today, how would you live? In The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, Bronnie Ware shares wisdom from her years as a palliative care nurse. These are the most common regrets she heard: 1. “I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.” 2. “I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.” 3. “I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.” 4. “I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.” 5. “I wish I had let myself be happier.” These resonate deeply with me. When my mother passed, I unknowingly began a journey to align my life with these truths. I’ll admit I’m still working on the five of them. Life has a way of distracting us from what matters most. But this is my reminder to myself—and to you—as we near the end of the year: Slow down. Take a step back. Reflect on how far you’ve come and where you want to go next. My wish for you is to reflect on this. Let the thought of your mortality infuse your life with intention—not pressure, but clarity. Maybe you’ll realize that what matters most is spending time with loved ones. Maybe it’s pursuing a dream, letting go of a grudge, or simply savoring the gift of being alive. See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it! https://cdn.tinybuddha.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/New-life.png 2024-12-27 15:57:32

“I think this is the start of something really big. Sometimes that first step is the hardest one, and we’ve just taken it.” ~Steve Jobs I’ve had a dysfunctional relationship with alcohol for almost as long as I’ve been drinking. I was mostly a binge drinker through college and into my twenties and thirties. I could drink “normally” sometimes, but I never really knew if I would stop at two or ten. Two felt okay, but ten would land me blacked out and barefoot on the bar, which was never a good look for me. It scares me now to think about all the things I did after too many Crown and cokes, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Everyone was drinking heavily. It was part of the culture of the people I surrounded myself with. Hangovers were badges of honor, and blackouts, provided nothing horrible happened, became funny stories to tell the next day over greasy fast food eaten to soak up the vodka from the night before. It wasn’t until I got into my forties that I really started to question my relationship with alcohol. In 2016, shortly after turning forty, my drinking went off the rails. At the time I was raising four young children in a blended family, and I was trying to stay afloat in a job that expected more of me than I was capable of giving. Despite the stress, by all appearances, I had it all together. Good job, healthy family, a roof over our heads, and a minivan in the garage. But on the inside, I was deeply struggling with depression and anxiety, both worsened by the extent of my drinking. As the year went on, things got steadily worse. My weekend drinking morphed into drinking one, sometimes two, bottles of wine every night. The hangovers started to last days, taking me out of work and keeping me from showing up for my family. My blackouts got scarier and more frequent, once landing me walking down MacDill Avenue alone and barefoot in the middle of the night with no memory of it the next day. My depression and anxiety became completely unmanageable, to the point that I made attempts on my life twice that year, both times incredibly drunk. I tried multiple times over the course of 2016 to stop drinking. But each time, in the back of my mind, I was, as Laura McKowen talks about, looking for the third door. I was sure there was an option between drinking like I was and stopping completely. I wanted so badly to be able to drink “normally,” but every time I stopped and then tried drinking again, I went straight back off the rails. Interestingly, it was an ordinary night (or day, really) of drinking in early January 2017 that finally brought me to my knees. On January 1, 2017, my husband took the kids to the pool so I could recoup from a cold that I’d been fighting. Instead of resting, I sat on the back porch and drank two bottles of wine. Nothing terrible happened, but I woke up the next morning with a deep knowing that something had to change. I was, quite literally, sick of my own bullshit. I once heard John Mayer talk about getting sober, and he said that he asked himself, “Ok John, what percentage of your potential would you like to have?” He decided he wanted 100%, and that couldn’t happen if he kept drinking. That January morning, after an ordinary night of drinking, I asked myself the same thing, and it became clear that I was only living up to a fraction of my potential because I spent so much of my time drinking, thinking about drinking, and recovering from drinking. I lay in bed that morning for hours with tears of fear and relief streaming down my face. I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to stay sober but so relieved that I was calling myself on my own shit. I was finally ready to be done for real. Because I was ready at that point, I threw the kitchen sink at it. I journaled, meditated, moved my body, stayed close to quit lit and podcasts on living alcohol-free, and so much more. I made it my number one priority. For a while, nothing got as much attention as my recovery. Not my husband. Not my kids. Not keeping up with housework. Nothing. I focused all of my energy on saving my life for several months. And there was guilt around focusing so hard on myself at the expense of giving attention to my family, but, as I look back now, I’d do it again the same way. My husband and my kids have so much more of me now than they did when I was drinking. Dry January doesn’t have to be just a month of not drinking; it can be the start of something bigger. It can be the start of building a life that you love. A life that doesn’t have room for alcohol because it is so much better and brighter without it. I was able to see this process of getting sober as additive (adding in the practices that support and nourish my whole being) rather than just a subtractive process of giving up alcohol. And this is how I encourage you to look at it. As an opportunity rather than a life sentence. As something joyful and meaningful rather than something punitive. As a chance to build a life you don’t need or want to numb out from. Choosing to stop drinking is one of the most courageous decisions you can make. But courage alone isn’t enough; it takes tools, support, and a willingness to try new things to truly thrive. If you’re reading this and thinking, “That’s me,” I want you to know you’re not alone. The road to living alcohol-free isn’t easy, but it is possible—and it’s worth every step. When

The holidays can be a magical time, filled with beautiful memories and traditions that remind us of what truly matters in life. It can also be emotionally fraught for anyone who’s struggling with financial insecurity, depression, or grief. This year has been especially challenging for me personally, for reasons I’ll possibly share some time in the future. For now, I am focusing on my family and the gift of today and soaking up joy wherever I can find it. And I’m putting these messages out into the world, hoping they reach those who need them and provide a little comfort, perspective, and peace. Sending you all my love this holiday season!   About Lori Deschene Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She started the site after struggling with depression, bulimia, c-PTSD, and toxic shame so she could recycle her former pain into something useful and inspire others do the same. She recently created the Breaking Barriers to Self-Care eCourse to help people overcome internal blocks to meeting their needs—so they can feel their best, be their best, and live their best possible life. If you’re ready to start thriving instead of merely surviving, you can learn more and get instant access here. See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it! https://cdn.tinybuddha.com/wp-content/uploads/2024/12/Christmas.png 2024-12-25 14:04:21

“It’s not about time, it’s about choices. How are you spending your choices?” ~Beverly Adamo You hit a point in life after which choices seem to become less and less reversible. As if they were engraved in stone. No matter how many motivational posts about following your own timeline and going at your own pace cross your Instagram wall. No matter how much you try to convince yourself that it’s never too late to start a new career, move into a new house, or find the right person. It’s not that you don’t believe it—it just does not work for you. It’s okay for other people to follow their dreams and dance to their own rhythm. But not for you. You feel like you’re in school again, falling behind. The more you tell yourself that you don’t have to live up to anyone’s expectations, the more you realize the only person you’re afraid to disappoint is the one looking back at you in the mirror. I used to listen to this song that goes, I wake up in the middle of night It’s like I can feel time moving And I did. I did wake up at 3:00 a.m., haunted by question marks. And to think that I was doing everything right! I had graduated, moved in with my boyfriend, and started working as a teacher. I had a spotless resume. Still, I was obsessed with the idea of time moving. Of time unstoppably reaching the point after which I simply would’ve had no choice but to stop seeing my situation as temporary and resign to the fact that no greater idea had come to my mind—and that I was stuck with that. With my daily life in the classroom. Now don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those people who ended up teaching because they couldn’t get a better job. On the contrary, teaching has always been my passion. It still is. The classroom, on the other hand… There was not a single day in my four years as a teacher during which I really thought this could be a good fit for me in the long run. Not once. There were bad days, good days. “Easy” classes, tough classes. Small victories, daily failures. Parents who wanted to sue me and students who wanted me to adopt them—one of those end-of-the-school-year letters still hangs on my fridge. But each and every one of those days, I knew I wanted this to be temporary. I didn’t want to stay in the classroom forever. It’s hard to pin it down. All I wanted to do was to be myself and teach something I love. But, as a teacher, you and your students don’t exist in a bubble. You’re very much intertwined with the complicated, emotionally loaded context of the classroom. So, you’re forced to impersonate the role of the Teacher. Unlike me, the Teacher was able to come to terms with the pressing matter of relevance. I knew that most of the curriculum I had to teach, and the way in which I had to teach it, was so far removed from the reality of my students that no amount of interactive lesson plans and student-centered methodologies could help me get the point across. As the Teacher, I was supposed to feel comfortable in the role, to identify myself with it rather than question it every step of the way. I just didn’t feel at ease. As a facilitator, as a guide, as a tutor, I’d always felt whole—not as a teacher. As much as I admired and respected those who did, I couldn’t do the same. I really, really did everything I could to solve my issues. I tried to fake it ‘til I made it. I read all the books. Attended all the courses. Shared my thoughts. Every time I told someone how I felt, they would reply with all the right things. That it’s just the first few years, until you get used to it, and I’m sure it is true—for me. That you’re actually really doing something for the kids, that you’re making a difference—and I don’t doubt that teachers do make a difference. Just not me. That you need to come to terms with the fact that, no matter what your job is, it is not supposed to be fun or fulfilling. But, as whiny as it might sound, that’s what I needed it to be. Maybe not perfect, maybe not idyllic, but please, please, please not meaningless. And then the intruding thought: “What, ‘cause you’re special? ‘Cause you’re too good to just get by, day in and day out, like everyone does?” I’ve always worried about being difficult, and I really wanted it to work, so that sensation of having to crawl into someone else’s skin every day when I got into the classroom—I just tried to push it aside. To swallow it down and get myself together. Still, it was there, and the only way to stop it was to think that it could be temporary after all. Just until you find a better job. Just until you come up with something else. Just until you find out what the hell is wrong with you. The only thing that managed to distract me was studying. I would come home and study, trying to keep my mind alive, trying to keep it dreaming, trying to keep it learning. I invested time and money, draining all my energies. I was constantly tired from the effort of basically being a full-time student on top of a full-time job. Luckily, I had the support of my boyfriend—later, husband—who had no idea what it all would amount to but could see that I needed it. It’s not like I had a project, though. I ached for meaning. I needed to learn something that felt real to me. That’s how I started to dig into languages. Here was something that felt relevant, immediate. You could learn it