Echos of Insight

Exploring personal growth through reflections of shared experiences.

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Welcome to Echoes of Insight. I’m Elle Indy, a writer drawn to the depths of human experience and the silent stories we carry within. Through my blog, I explore the shadows we often shy away from, illuminating the wounds that call for healing and growth. My writing is a reflection of the collective human journey. It’s an invitation to pause, reflect, and see yourself mirrored in the lives of others. Whether it’s through the lens of personal growth, the complexities of human relationships, or the subtleties of shadow work, my goal is to provoke thought, spark meaningful conversations, and offer new perspectives. Thank you for joining me on this journey of reflection and insight. Here, you’ll find the echoes of stories waiting to be told, with the hope that in them, you’ll find pieces of your own.

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  • The Place After the Spiral

    The Place After the Spiral

    Some moments don’t change you—they just reveal the change that’s already happened. Suddenly, you can see what’s been there the whole time.

    The last four years have been my reckoning. Not a polished redemption arc or a tidy transformation. A reckoning. With my past, with the ways I disconnected, with the version of me who didn’t show up how I wish she had. Especially when it counted.

    The grief I carry isn’t just about losing my mom. It’s the weight of knowing I could’ve shown up differently, and didn’t. Maybe I didn’t know how. Maybe I was just surviving. But the guilt stuck around anyway. And when you love someone deeply, that kind of guilt doesn’t let go easily.

    Maybe it’s survivor’s guilt. Or maybe it’s just the kind of hindsight that love makes heavier.

    This is the part no one talks about.

    The guilt for not doing more.

    The regret that lingers louder than the grief itself.

    It shows up in flashbacks you can’t stop. In memories you try to rewrite. In the heaviness that sinks in when you realize there’s no “do over.” Just a choice to keep punishing yourself, or start forgiving her; the version of you who was doing her best in the dark.

    I’ve learned to walk the latter.

    The reconciliation hasn’t been an arrival. It’s a rhythm. A process. A thousand tiny choices to stay present rather than perfect. Every day I slow down enough to question: do I meet myself with shame, or do I meet myself with understanding?

    That’s the shift.

    I’m clearer now. Not because I had a breakthrough, but because I stopped numbing. I gave myself space to feel again, space to notice what was underneath the fog. (If you read “The Fog Between Rooms,” you know.)

    I’m more willing to be honest. More willing to lead from what’s real, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

    Clarity doesn’t mean certainty.

    It means I don’t abandon myself when I feel unsure.

    And that’s been enough to change everything.

    Reconciliation, I’ve realized, isn’t a moment of peace you reach. It’s the practice of returning to yourself again and again, until the person you’re becoming aligns with the one you’ve always been. It’s holding the dark and the light together, and knowing both matter.

    There’s no version of me that gets to skip the spiral.

    But every version of me deserves to be seen.

    Some days that looks like making dinner.

    Some days it looks like letting go of the guilt when I don’t.

    Most days, it means being present enough to stay in the room, even when I’m not getting it all right.

    That’s the place after the spiral.

    And I’m learning to live here.

  • The Fog Between Rooms

    The Fog Between Rooms

    Wren was a girl with a calendar heart

    who earned every door that she walked through.

    She wore her ambition like a hand-me-down coat,

    kept it buttoned up high so the ache wouldn’t show.

    She drifted through classrooms like fog through a screen,

    memorized rules but forgot how to dream.

    They measured her worth by how well she conformed,

    but she always felt weathered in a world built for storms.

    She moved like a plan with no pause in the middle,

    mistook being good for being whole.

    They said she was golden—

    but gold doesn’t bend.

    She built a whole life

    that looked just like the end.

    And the fog rolled in

    when the lights got too loud.

    She disappeared slow

    in a soft little cloud.

    It started with pain in the back of her jaw,

    then a shot in the arm, then a phone call: “She’s gone.”

    So she found something velvet,

    something that hushed—

    just a small kind of silence

    when the world asked too much.

    She called it her rhythm,

    she called it her rest,

    just a gentle delay

    on the weight in her chest.

    But time learned her name

    and it whispered her back—

    it said, “There’s no more room here for living like that.”

    They said she was golden—

    but gold doesn’t breathe.

    She coated her life

    in a soft little sheath.

    And the fog rolled in

    like a lover who knew

    just how to hold her

    and what to undo.

    Turns out the girl who lived under my pen

    wasn’t fiction at all, she was just hiding again.

    I didn’t fall hard, I just floated too long.

    The silence was cozy, the hush felt like home.

    But I’m done with the curtain. I’m done with the grey.

    I’m walking through mornings that call me by name.

    They said I was golden—

    and maybe they’re right.

    But I traded the shimmer

    for something with light.

    The fog was a hallway,

    a halfway cocoon—

    but I found my own rhythm

    in the shape of a room.

    Maybe you’ve been her.

    Maybe you’ve stayed.

    But there’s breath on the other side

    of the haze.

  • Mama, Can I Have Something That Smells Like You?

    Mama, Can I Have Something That Smells Like You?

    I cried myself to sleep last night.
    Not out of confusion.
    Not out of fear.
    And not because I was asking myself what I should do.

    I cried because I finally saw the full picture —
    and I missed her.
    Not the person she used to be,
    but the little girl I now realize I always knew was there.

    It hit me in flashes.
    Quick, aching scenes from her childhood —
    the way she’d push back,
    the spark in her eyes when she did something bold,
    the moments I thought she was being defiant
    when really,
    she was just trying to breathe.

    “Mama, can I have something that smells like you?”

    I won’t ever forget that.
    And now, all these years later,
    that longing has turned around in me.
    Now I’m the one wishing for something that smells like her —
    something to hold on to.
    Something that wraps me in the comfort of her being —
    now that she finally gets to be.

    When She Was Little

    She was wild in the best way —
    uncontainable, curious,
    moving with instinct
    and never asking for permission.

    Even as a baby,
    she refused anything that tried to confine her.
    Hated being swaddled.
    Hated being put down.
    She needed motion, freedom, her own rhythm.

    And from the very beginning,
    I was trying to figure out
    how to hold her without holding her back.

    The Houdini nickname came early.
    As a toddler, she didn’t just wiggle in her car seat —
    she’d get her entire top half out,
    no matter how tightly I secured the straps.

    I took her to the fire station,
    not just to check the seat installation,
    but to make sure I was fastening it correctly.

    They confirmed everything was done right…
    and then I asked them to watch.
    Sure enough, she slipped right out.
    Their faces said it all.

    She was something else.

    At three,
    she left the house during what was supposed to be naptime
    and walked a block barefoot
    until she found a boy playing basketball.
    His dad brought her home —
    using her directions.

    That same year,
    she started climbing out the window.
    Once, her uncle told her she couldn’t go outside.
    Minutes later, she was waving to him
    from the other side of the back door.

    Then there was the night I’ll never forget.
    She was four.
    It was close to midnight.

    I woke to the sound of police knocking on the open door,
    asking if everyone was okay.
    They said the front door was open,
    the car outside had its headlights on,
    windshield wipers going,
    trunk wide open.

    I couldn’t make sense of it —
    until I walked outside
    and saw all of her stuffed animals
    buckled carefully into every seat,
    blankets and all.

    She had dragged a barstool from the kitchen
    to reach the key hook,
    unlocked the front door,
    and let herself out.

    I stood there in the dark,
    watching this scene she had created —
    all her little friends loaded up, ready to go somewhere —
    and the whiplash of terror, disbelief,
    and overwhelming love
    when I found her scared
    and hiding in the bathroom
    hit me all at once.

    By five,
    she was riding her bike through the neighborhood,
    making friends anywhere and everywhere.

    It didn’t matter if she’d never been down a particular street before —
    she’d hop off her bike,
    walk into the yard like she lived there,
    and by the time I found her,
    she was already back at home.

    She was magnetic.
    She followed her energy.

    She scared me.
    Not because she was bad —
    but because she was beyond me.
    And I didn’t know how to mother that.

    I was afraid to go to sleep after that.
    I felt like I couldn’t turn my back for a second.
    And the only advice I kept getting was to control her.
    Rein her in. Tighten up. Fix it.

    So that’s what I tried to do.
    Everyone said it was on me.
    And control was the only thing I had left.

    School Years

    She started out excited for kindergarten —
    until it came time for me to leave.

    She panicked.
    Bit me on the leg.
    Screamed until her teacher
    gently coaxed her inside.

    We laugh about it now.
    She’s told me plainly:

    “I just didn’t like the classroom.”

    And honestly,
    that tracks.

    Middle school came with its own weight.
    Her dad had pulled her from school
    for a couple of years to homeschool,
    and when she reentered the system,
    she felt behind.

    She was hard on herself
    and told me she felt stupid
    compared to her classmates.

    But she caught up —
    and eventually,
    she surpassed them
    in ways that mattered most.

    By high school,
    she turned inward.

    Still funny,
    still magnetic,
    but her energy shifted.

    She made close friends online
    through gaming,
    rather than spending time
    with school peers.

    The rules, the disengagement, the apathy —
    it wore her down.

    At the beginning of her junior year,
    she told me she wanted to drop out
    and get her GED.

    I told her she had to finish the semester;
    really, I was just buying time.
    I wasn’t ready to let go.

    But she didn’t let it drop.
    She reminded me.
    Held her ground.
    And I began to shift too.

    I signed the papers.
    I let her go.
    I wasn’t happy.
    But I wasn’t going to choose
    my comfort
    over her clarity.

    She’s always known what she wanted.

    She always has.

    The Shift

    Through the years,
    our bond was jagged.

    I thought I needed to control her —
    especially as the single parent I was then.
    I thought that was what protection looked like.
    It’s what I knew.

    But now I know:

    She wasn’t fighting me.

    She was fighting for herself.

    She didn’t have the words for it then,
    but I can see it clearly now —
    the inner storm she lived through,
    trying to reconcile the outside world
    with the truth she carried inside.

    I wondered if she’d been hurt.
    I tried to make room for those conversations —
    not to pry,
    but to keep the door open.
    To show her there was nothing she could say
    that would make me love her any less.

    But the space between us stayed quiet.
    Not cold… just aching.

    She shut down.
    And I tried to accept it.

    We both wanted connection —
    we just didn’t know
    how to reach each other
    through the static.

    I’d hit my limit
    more times than I could count —
    emotionally, physically, mentally —
    trying to manage someone
    who didn’t want to be managed.

    And over time,
    I started to realize:

    Maybe she wasn’t the one who needed to change.

    Maybe I was the one who needed to let go.

    It didn’t happen all at once.
    There wasn’t one defining moment.

    Just quiet shifts —
    hard-earned and sometimes painful —
    that started to peel back
    everything I’d been taught
    about what it means
    to be a “good parent.”

    I started noticing
    how often I was acting from fear.
    Fear of getting it wrong.
    Fear of being judged.
    Fear of what people would say about me —
    or about her.

    Fear that if I didn’t control her,
    something terrible would happen.
    That she’d get hurt.
    That I’d be blamed.
    That the effects would ripple to my other kids.
    That it would all come down on me.

    But somewhere along the way,
    I started listening differently.

    I stopped reacting
    and started observing.
    I stopped asking, “How do I fix this?”
    and started wondering:

    “What is she trying to tell me with her resistance?”

    “What am I refusing to hear?”

    I began recognizing
    that the story I was trying to uphold —
    the one where kids are supposed to behave a certain way,
    meet certain expectations,
    make their parents proud
    in a socially acceptable order —
    wasn’t my story.

    It was handed to me.
    And it never fit.

    And if it didn’t fit me…

    how could I expect it to fit her?

    I started letting go.
    Not in the loud, heroic way
    people think of
    when they hear the word surrender,
    but in quiet, unglamorous ways.

    I stopped controlling every decision.
    I stopped fighting every moment of tension.
    I stopped trying to make her look
    more “together” than she felt.
    I stopped performing as the “good mom.”

    Instead of forcing closeness,
    I learned to create safety.
    Instead of demanding honesty,
    I made space for it.
    Instead of holding her
    to the version of her I thought she was supposed to be,
    I allowed myself to wonder
    about who she might actually be.

    And slowly, something changed.

    She still didn’t talk much.
    She still kept things private.
    But there was less resistance in the room.
    There was air between us.

    And I could feel
    that something deep inside her was shifting —
    not toward who I wanted her to become,
    but toward who she already was.

    It wasn’t rebellion.

    It was alignment.

    She had always known who she was.

    She had just been waiting for the rest of us to catch up.

    Letting Her Go

    So when she told me
    she wanted to move back in with her dad,
    I didn’t stop her.

    I had resisted it
    when she first asked at sixteen.
    But by the time school was behind her
    and the papers were signed,
    I had loosened my grip.

    I knew she needed something different.

    She moved about a month
    after turning eighteen,
    once everything on his end was ready.

    And while I missed her
    before she even left,
    I also knew — deep down —
    that the physical space
    might finally soften the emotional one.

    For the last few years,
    she had mostly stayed away from the rest of us.
    The tension in the house was constant.
    Conversations were minimal.
    Everyone was walking on eggshells,
    and no one really knew why.

    I didn’t want to control her anymore.

    I just wanted peace —

    for her, and for all of us.

    So I let her go.
    Not with anger.
    Not with guilt.
    Just with hope
    that something better
    could grow from the space between us.

    And like before —
    I thought the letting go
    would be the hardest part.

    But again,
    the real shift came after.

    When She Came Out

    She didn’t hold back.

    She labeled it.
    She named it.
    She told me she’s transgender.

    She said she’d been feeling a lot —
    overwhelmed, emotional —
    but also honest.
    Like she was finally letting herself be real.

    And I didn’t feel shocked.
    I didn’t panic or freeze or fall apart.

    I felt… ready.

    Because I was.

    Acceptance didn’t come easy. It came before.

    It came from years of doing my own work.
    From learning to question what I’d been taught.
    From sitting with hard truths
    about what had been modeled for me —
    and what I never wanted to pass on.

    It came from watching her suffer,
    and choosing not to meet her pain with fear.
    It came from deciding — long ago —
    that I would not be the parent
    who needed my child to change
    so I could feel okay.

    It came from recognizing her as part of my soul tribe —

    someone whose life and energy had always mirrored back to me

    the parts of myself I wasn’t always able to name.

    She reminds me of me.

    And I knew that if I didn’t want her
    to grow up feeling the way I did —
    unseen, unheard, constantly misunderstood —
    then I had to align myself.

    Not someday.
    Not when it was convenient.
    Now.

    Last night, as I lay in bed,
    one memory hit harder than the rest:

    “Mama, can I have something that smells like you?”

    That wasn’t about scent.
    That was about safety.
    About wanting to feel close to me…
    even before she had the words
    to say what she needed most.

    And now,
    all I want is to hold her —
    not who I thought she was, but who she’s finally allowed to be.

    The orange nail polish at two.
    The grin she couldn’t hide in the mirror.
    Trying on my bra at three
    and standing proudly to show me
    when I got out of the shower.

    Even the silence.
    Even the distance.
    Even the shutdown.

    She didn’t need to be fixed.

    She needed to be trusted.

    She didn’t need more structure.

    She needed sovereignty.

    She didn’t need a map.

    She needed room to make her own.

    It all makes sense now.

    She wasn’t rejecting us.
    She was surviving.

    She was protecting
    the only thing
    that still belonged to her.

    And now —
    she’s not just out.
    She’s free.

    What Acceptance Feels Like Now

    Acceptance feels like softness.

    Not because the journey was soft —
    but because I had to soften to stay in it.

    It feels like breathing again.
    Like watching her become herself
    from across the miles…
    and realizing we’re somehow closer now
    than we’ve ever been.

    It feels like finally exhaling
    the fear that used to drive me.
    Like the air between us has cleared.
    Like grief and gratitude
    sitting quietly side by side.

    It doesn’t mean I did everything right.
    It doesn’t mean I never wish
    I had known more, sooner, better.

    It means I’m here now.

    It means I love her now.

    It means I see her — truly see her — now.

    And she sees herself.
    And that changes everything.

    To Trans Kids

    You don’t have to prove anything.

    You don’t have to explain every feeling
    or make it make sense to anyone else.

    Your truth is not too much.
    Your identity is not a burden.
    Your becoming is not an inconvenience.

    There is nothing wrong with you.

    There never was.

    Even if your parents don’t get it yet —
    some of us are trying.

    We’re learning how to show up for you
    the way you deserve.
    And we’re not going to stop.

    You are not alone.

    To Parents Like Me

    The ones who made it look like acceptance came easy —

    It didn’t come easy.

    But it came immediately.

    Not because I got it all right.
    Not because I’m better than anyone else.
    Because I was ready.

    Because I’ve spent my whole life
    trying to understand other people’s perspectives —
    hoping maybe someone would one day
    try to understand mine.

    Because I know what it feels like
    to go unseen.
    To feel unworthy of being known.
    To carry the weight
    of someone else’s expectations
    instead of being allowed
    to just be.

    And I made a promise to myself
    long before this moment ever came:

    That my kids would never have to wonder

    whether they were worth knowing.

    So I work on myself.
    I learn. I unlearn. I listen. I integrate.

    Because I don’t want my children
    to inherit the silence I grew up with.
    And I don’t want to miss who they are
    because I’m still tangled in who I was taught to be.

    No, it didn’t come easy.

    But when the moment arrived —

    I didn’t miss it.

    And I won’t miss the next one either.

    To Parents Who Are New to This

    If your child trusts you enough
    to tell you who they really are —
    believe them.

    Even if it surprises you.
    Even if it scares you.
    Even if it challenges
    everything you thought you knew.

    You don’t have to be perfect.
    You just have to love them more than you love being right.

    This is what it means to be a mother.

    And this is what it means to see her.

  • Soultrack – A Rhythm You Can’t Unfeel

    Soultrack – A Rhythm You Can’t Unfeel

    for anyone who’s ever longed for a love that finally makes sense

    Some loves don’t begin with fireworks or fairytale timing.

    Some begin quietly — in the space between phone calls, in the ache of dreams you don’t talk about, in the long patience of letting something real unfold without force.

    This is about a love that didn’t arrive on cue — it built over years of energetic resonance, long-distance connection, unspoken knowing, and subtle recognition.

    And when it finally became real, it didn’t arrive with noise or urgency.

    It arrived the way truth does — inevitable.

    This is my Soultrack.

    There’s a kind of love that doesn’t demand attention — it just holds it.

    A love that doesn’t need to announce itself because you feel it long before you can name it.

    A love made of presence. Of resonance. Of the kind of recognition that is, in fact, the most romantic thing there is.

    This is what it feels like to find the one who sounds like home before you even knew what home was.

    I didn’t just fall for a man. I fell for a frequency.

    A vibration I didn’t know I was tuned to until I felt it hum through the quiet spaces of my life.

    And now? I can’t unfeel it. Wouldn’t want to.

    He isn’t just someone I love — he’s the rhythm I live to.

    He is the Soultrack I didn’t know I’d been waiting for.

    He moves with energy. I move with intention. He builds momentum. I offer direction. He hums through the current. I listen for what the moment needs.

    It’s a dance — not of steps, but of signals.

    And the choreography changes, but the pulse never leaves.

    Some days we glide. Some days we trip. But the music doesn’t stop. We just breathe through the beat drops.

    He doesn’t just walk beside me — he scores the moments. Like a film composer sensing the emotional arc before the scene even unfolds.

    His presence adds tone, his words shape rhythm, his voice turns silence into feeling.

    It’s not always music, but it’s always sound. A hum. A vibration. A way of making ordinary moments feel like they matter more — because he was there, shaping them with his frequency.

    Guitar in hand, voice like velvet and smoke, he weaves sound into the shape of emotion.

    He doesn’t always sing to me — but he always sings with me.

    Even when I’m quiet. Especially when I’m quiet.

    Because silence isn’t absence — it’s a sacred rest.
    A space that holds sound, even when nothing is playing.

    A holy kind of undoing. Muscles slack. Heart open.

    My whole body tunes in, involuntarily at first — then intentionally — until the sound of his voice and the strings in his hands blur into something I can’t separate.

    It’s not just music. It’s him.

    And I try to hold it in — but the tears come anyway.

    Sometimes gentle. Sometimes shaking. Sometimes I’m on the verge of sobbing just from the way he looks at me while he plays — and knows.

    I’d forgotten, by then, that he was even a musician.

    He’d shared a song or two, some sketches, a few pieces of his inner world in passing — but I didn’t fall for the artist.

    I fell for the energy. The consistency. The alignment. The way every conversation felt like we were calibrating to something invisible that only we could hear.

    So when he showed up to the hotel with his guitar in hand and played for me and my best friend for hours…

    I was stunned.

    Not because I didn’t know he was talented — but because I hadn’t needed any of that to fall in love.

    It was a bonus. It is a bonus. A wildly beautiful, unexpected one.

    And now? It wrecks me. Every time he plays. Every time he sings.

    It’s like rediscovering the same love a thousand different ways.

    I felt it the very first time we talked — before I knew the sound of his laugh, before he looked at me across a room with a guitar in his hands.

    Just a voice on the phone, inviting me to say more — not because he had to, but because he wanted to understand.

    And in the weeks that followed, I noticed the small things.

    Like the way he’d correct himself in team messages — not performatively, but because he cared that what he meant was what you heard.

    That alone made my body exhale.

    I’d spent too many years translating for people who never asked if they’d said it right.

    But he noticed. He adjusted. He met clarity with clarity.

    That’s how I knew he was already speaking the language I’d never been able to teach.

    And then the long calls started. Always about work, until they weren’t.

    Until it became conversations that lingered — half-serious, half-laughing complaints about dating culture, stories from childhood, family history, and slowly, without trying, we started showing each other who we really were.

    Nights where neither of us noticed how long we’d been on the line.

    And I knew. Before he ever held my hand. Before anything was said out loud.

    He is what I always knew it could be. The frequency that held me before I was ready to be seen. The sound I kept turning toward before I ever heard it out loud.

    Six days later, he drove back with half his things.

    We didn’t hesitate. We didn’t need to.

    We were the same in person as we had been for years on calls and screens and in dreams.

    The comfort was immediate — like coming home to your best friend and realizing your best friend is also your future.

    It was three years of buildup and then boom — like magnets finally close enough to pull themselves together without resistance.

    Because when it’s real, you don’t need to hold on tight — you’re already being drawn in.

    And just like that, the song we’d both been humming quietly for years — without lyrics, without chords, without context — started playing out loud.

    We weren’t starting something new. We were finally stepping into the sound we’d been writing in silence.

    This wasn’t a sudden composition. It was rests and refrains, held notes and unfinished chords, until the melody finally found its way out.

    Because this has always been more than love. More than compatibility. More than chemistry or timing or fate.

    He is the hum beneath my silence. The rhythm I return to.

    The rhythm isn’t rushed — but it’s relentless. It builds. It waits.

    And when it hits? You don’t need a map. You just feel it.

    This is what Soultrack means.

    It’s not about falling fast. It’s about aligning deeply.

    It’s about remembering the melody you thought you’d only imagined — and then hearing it out loud for the first time, sung back to you in his voice.

    For the one still waiting…

    If you’re still holding out for that kind of love — the kind that moves through you like a memory you haven’t lived yet — don’t give up.

    Don’t water yourself down. Don’t rush the tempo.

    The right one will hear your frequency without you needing to raise your volume.

    They’ll respond in rhythm — not with noise, but with resonance.

    You won’t have to chase. You won’t have to perform. You won’t have to explain why you feel what you feel — because they’ll feel it too. Not in theory. In their chest.

    You don’t have to chase love that’s meant for you. You just have to stay in tune.

    And when it happens? It won’t be perfect — but it’ll be true.

    It’ll be messy, maybe even inconvenient.

    It might come after years of silence, after dreams you kept to yourself, after practicing patience like a sacred art.

    But it will come.

    Because the kind of love that’s meant for you doesn’t arrive on your timeline — it arrives when your signal is clear.

    So don’t dim it.

    Don’t lower your standards to match someone else’s static when you were made for music.

    The one who’s meant for you will know the song.

    And when they do — you’ll feel it in your body before it ever reaches your ears.

    You’ll just know:

    This is my Soultrack.

    If this moved something in you — maybe that’s because you already knew the rhythm. I just put words to it.

    Soultrack.
    Not a soundtrack. Not a soulmate.
    But something between the two —
    a resonance so deep,
    you feel it in your bones
    before you ever hear it aloud.

  • Breaking the Cycle

    Breaking the Cycle

    Trusting the Journey of Growth

    My son sent me a text one afternoon, carrying both hesitation and relief.
    “I wanted to tell you this when I was upstairs, but I wanted to share it with you privately, so I’m texting you about this…”

    He went on to describe how a classmate had said the N-word at lunch. Twice.
    So, in an act of self-imposed justice, he took the classmate’s backpack.
    He kept it through the next class, passing it between friends when a teacher started asking questions.
    Eventually, the backpack made its way back, and no one got caught.

    But that wasn’t the part that seemed to weigh on him.
    It was the fact that he hadn’t told me.

    “This felt like a burden not to tell you.”
    That part stuck with me.

    Trusting the Process, Not Controlling the Outcome

    I often remind my son that I trust his instincts—because I do.
    I trust him to choose the next best step, no matter the situation.
    And when he missteps, I trust in his ability to catch himself and make his next choice one that better suits him.

    That trust isn’t just a passive belief; it’s an active practice.

    “That trust isn’t just a passive belief; it’s an active practice.”

    Instead of asking my kids the usual “How was your day?”, I make a point of occasionally asking:
    “What did you fail at today?”

    The discussions that come from that question are priceless.
    It teaches them that failure isn’t an endpoint—it’s a sign of progress.
    It’s proof that they are stretching, growing, becoming.

    And when you learn to fail forward, you stop fearing missteps.
    You stop believing that getting something wrong means you are wrong.

    So yes, I actively chose not to launch into a lecture or call the school.
    But it was more than just a parenting decision—it was a reflection of a much deeper truth.

    A Moment of Trust

    So when my son confided in me about what happened, I listened.
    He didn’t have to tell me.
    There were no lingering consequences, no loose ends to tie up.
    But something in him needed to be heard.

    That, to me, was the real moment of growth.

    “That, to me, was the real moment of growth.”

    I could have launched into a lecture.
    I could have called the school.
    I could have imposed my lessons onto his experience.
    But I didn’t.

    Instead, I led with appreciation.
    “Thank you for telling me.”

    And then, I told him the truth:
    “Honestly? I probably would’ve done the same thing at your age.”

    A few seconds later, his text popped up:
    “w”

    A single letter—short for “W, Mom”—his highest honor.
    The equivalent of an A+.

    Because in that moment, he knew: I wasn’t there to scold or correct.
    I was there to listen.

    Every Lesson Belongs to Its Student

    Everyone is on their own journey.
    The lessons meant for each of us are unique to us.

    I’ve learned not to impose the importance of my lessons onto my children but to instead remain open to helping them navigate the ones that naturally come to them.

    By third grade, kids begin integrating everything they’ve been taught so far.
    Fourth grade expands their understanding further, introducing lessons on personal boundaries and safety.
    By fifth grade, they’ve started forming their own social circles, spending more time with friends, absorbing influences—both good and bad.

    I know how influence works at that age.
    It isn’t just about what adults say—it’s about who they see, who they spend time with, who they mirror.

    That’s why I don’t just aim to be a role model for my own kids, but for their friends, too.

    Because in their world, peer influence and adult influence don’t live in separate silos—they coexist, constantly shaping how they see themselves.

    Breaking the Cycle: The Weight of Trust

    When I was my son’s age, I took someone’s jacket.

    Trust is not simply granted; it is a living exchange, reflected in action.

    “Trust is not simply granted; it is a living exchange, reflected in action.”

    My mother always knew when I was lying.
    My father, in his unwavering belief in what was best for our family, often overlooked what was best for me.

    “I see you. I believe in you. And I trust that you will find your way.”

    Trust is not about control—it is about believing in what exists even when you are not holding it in place.

    And so, I do not simply declare trust; I enact it.
    I show it by stepping back, by making space, by allowing others to exist beyond the limits of my own fears.

    When “Doing What’s Right” Becomes a Cage

    The moral dilemma in front of me—the one that might have made other parents immediately correct, punish, or call the school—wasn’t lost on me.

    But I’ve learned to let go of the rigid adult fixation on always doing what’s right.

    What happens when we are so focused on “doing the right thing” that we leave no room for growth?

    Because when you’re obsessed with being right, when you’re afraid of judgment, you leave no room for error.
    And without error, there is no growth.

    Instead of allowing ourselves to learn from the lessons meant for us, we buckle under pressure.
    We shame ourselves for not being better, doing better.

    We fall into plateaus disguised as rock bottom and wonder why we feel stuck.

    We praise those we see as morally superior and, in doing so, unconsciously try to become more like them—further distancing ourselves from who we are actually meant to be.

    Yes, the lesson here is that retaliation doesn’t serve justice.
    That vengeance doesn’t create change.

    My son is learning the weight of his choices, and I am here to guide him—not to punish, but to help him understand.

    So no, I didn’t scold him for taking the backpack.

    Instead, I acknowledged his instinct.
    He knew what the other student said was unacceptable.

    Was it the best way to handle it? Maybe not.
    But I trust that, in time, he will recognize that himself.

    He doesn’t need my punishment.
    He needs my guidance.

    “He doesn’t need my punishment.
    He needs my guidance.”

    Because he is still shaping his judgment, and my role is to offer perspective—not to dictate his every move.

    Because that’s how real learning happens.

    Coaching, Not Controlling

    Parenting isn’t about preventing mistakes—it’s about equipping our kids with the tools to understand them.

    I don’t want my children to be obedient.
    I want them to be discerning.

    “I don’t want my children to be obedient. I want them to be discerning.”

    I want them to know that I am not their judge, jury, or executioner.

    I am their leader until they turn 18.
    After that, it is up to them to decide if I have earned a place in their life as a great role model.

    In many ways, I am still a student myself.

    Every day, I am learning.
    Every day, I am failing forward.
    Some days, I earn an A+.

    And my children?
    They are my greatest teachers.

    Now, What About You?

    When was the last time you let someone—your child, a friend, yourself—figure out a lesson without stepping in?

    Have you ever caught yourself imposing your own lessons instead of allowing someone to grow into theirs?

    We all want to do what’s right.
    But maybe the real question is:

    Do we trust the people we love enough to let them learn on their own?

  • The Passenger Seat

    The Passenger Seat

    Someone recently told my daughter that her biggest insecurity is having her social awkwardness misconstrued as standoffishness. It stuck with me—because I see her, and I see how others might not.

    She doesn’t want to be standoffish. That’s not who she is. So instead, she masks her social awkwardness. It’s her comfort zone, a buffer, a well-rehearsed defense mechanism. And it works, mostly. She would rather be seen as awkward than unapproachable. She would rather fumble through an interaction than have people think she doesn’t care.

    But I can see how others might misinterpret her. The way she rushes out of spaces. The way she keeps to herself unless she’s with an already-established friend. She’s conscious of it, of course. She knows that when she bolts out the door, it’s not about avoidance—it’s about movement, escape, control.

    She has sat long enough. Through class, through practice, through somewhere she didn’t want to be. And when she finally gets up, it’s like shaking off a weight she didn’t realize she was carrying. Her body just wants to move. To remind itself that it’s still in charge.

    What she doesn’t realize is that, in those moments, she’s not actually the one driving.

    Who’s Driving?

    The mind is clever. It’s an opportunist. It loves control. It will convince you that you are making the decisions, but if you’re not careful, it will push you out of the driver’s seat and take over completely.

    Her mind does this often. It tells her how to react, how to protect herself, how to navigate social spaces without getting hurt. And at the very last moment—before she does or says anything—it filters everything through the question: “How will this make me look?”

    The mind tries so hard to get it right. It scans for danger. It overanalyzes every potential misstep. It tries to account for every lesson learned, every past embarrassment, every rule ever absorbed.

    But the mind is not the professional driver here.

    It is the imposter. The backseat driver who doesn’t actually know how to read the road signs, but insists on giving directions anyway.

    And when the mind is in control, it attaches itself to feelings to reinforce its position. The body reacts. For her, it stiffens. It closes off. It does exactly what she never wanted it to do—it makes her seem standoffish.

    The Discipline of Letting Go

    This is where the real work begins. Not in forcing herself to be more social, not in trying to prove to others that she’s friendly—but in catching the mind the moment it tries to take the wheel.

    At first, it will feel impossible. She will catch herself after every decision, every interaction.

    “I don’t like this game anymore.”

    She may feel like it’s getting worse. She may wonder why she’s even trying.

    Always questioning, analyzing—see, that’s still the mind. As soon as the mind makes a decision, it’s right there questioning if it made the right choice, searching for what it could have missed. But that’s how it works. That’s the process.

    Every time she notices, every time she puts the mind back into the passenger seat, she is making progress. Every time she chooses to feel her feelings without letting the mind attach to them, she is reclaiming her place behind the wheel.

    I can’t wait for her to share the moments she surprises herself—the aha moments when she outshines even her own expectations.

    For the moments she catches that split-second switch—when the mind lunges for control, but she chooses herself instead. When she gives her determination to her higher self, not her fear. When she trusts in the professional driver that she inherently is; when she puts the mind back where it was meant to be all along:

    Watching the movie from the passenger seat.

    Because the mind is not the creator of the story. She is.

    And as her mother, I get the rare and breathtaking privilege of witnessing this unfold in real time. To see her stepping fully into herself, shedding old narratives, rewriting the ones that never fit. It’s exhilarating, watching someone you love realize—slowly, but surely—that they were never lost.

    She was always the driver.

    And isn’t that the beauty of it? We all get to do this. To take back the wheel, to move from autopilot to intention, from fear to trust.

    In this space, the mind can recollect the movie, because that’s all it’s been used for—to store our movie. The professional driver—her intuition, her true self—just drives. It knows what to do and what not to do. It is in the moment; it is not concerned with backseat drivers.

    Creativity is fostered in this space, because the mind has no control over the analysis of the past or the future. There is no room for depression or anxiety; it simply does not get a role in the movie.

    Don’t give the mind the opportunity to attach to your feelings, to twist them into insecurity, hesitation, or self-doubt. Let your body feel the feelings. It’s trying—desperately—to kick the mind out of the driver’s seat.

    Your Turn

    Who’s been driving your vehicle?

    And if you took the wheel back—if you let yourself be in it, fully, without the mind dictating the road ahead—where would you go?

    🍿