I’m starting to love this routine and have begun to internalize what I want to share with you each week.

Unfortunately, the pain in my shoulder is still very present and continues to bother me. It has brought unconscious thoughts and old patterns to the surface.

I spent years fearing them, but I realized soon after that many of those thoughts weren’t really mine. They were stories my parents told me to protect me or make me behave.

“The gecko will eat your liver if you cry,” for example.

However, that very voice has continued to play a role in my life.

In an attempt to reprogram my inner dialogue, I wrote myself a letter.

Instead of listening to fear, I began collecting evidence from the past several months.

Every promise I kept.

Every fear I faced.

Every small step forward.

Every moment I didn’t give up.

Evidence that my fearful mind often forgets.

Holy crap.

I didn’t know I’d done that much.

And now, granted, I’m only able to see it because this evidence is lying right in front of me.

So here we go.

I wanted to share it with you, my precious readers, and I hope it reminds you how great you are…

Because you really are.

Love,

Lalita Janette

This Full moon week feels like an initiation into something new.

Don’t you ever feel that?

It wasn’t an easy week for me, but surprisingly, it was a very progressive one.

I received the most painful treatment yet to crack open my frozen shoulder.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether it would help or simply make things worse.

Instead, I got better.

So I learned something.

Sometimes healing doesn’t look like resting. Sometimes healing looks like pushing through.

As my shoulder was forced open, I began training my mind as well.

Instead of sitting with pain in the foreground of my attention, I practiced letting it remain in the background while continuing to build what matters.

That was the week I finally gave birth to my subscriber page for Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn.

It wasn’t an easy job.
Every part of me wanted to hold back.
But I didn’t listen to that voice.

I made it.

And now I’m sharing it with you.

Once you subscribe, you’ll be able to enjoy the free Explorer Episodes.

Many of you may remember the very first version I wrote during the COVID lockdown.

It feels like yesterday.

Without you by my side, that first draft might never have found the courage to meet the world.

It was much simpler back then.
Now it carries a new life.
It is richer.
More cinematic.
More emotional.

I hope you’ll enjoy this new version.
For the first time, I can honestly say:

I’ve crossed the line from writing only for myself to letting my story live in the world.
Honestly, I’m excited...

...and terrified.

I have no idea what awaits me.
But one thing is certain.
No matter what happens
I will never abandon myself.
Or my dream.

Not ever again.

One last thing...

This week I was shocked to hear that Hlun Solo, a Thai travel filmmaker and creator whose work I admired, passed away.

He came from very little and built a life that inspired so many people through his travels and storytelling.
It all feels far too soon.
Honestly, I’m still trying to take it in.
I simply wanted to acknowledge his passing and send him my love.
Wherever your next journey takes you, Hlun, may it be filled with peace.
Thank you for the stories you left behind.

With love

Lalita Janette

Dear my readers, my family and friends,

I’ve been looking forward to writing to you.

How are you all doing?

This week I decided to give it a go and share Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn with my weekly writing group I recently joined.

The feedback was fantastic, and I can feel they are all looking forward to hearing the next reading next week.

I just had to smile inside.

They have not seen the best part yet—the cinematic musical version with full narration and music.

I think they’ll be jaw-dropped, but I’m keeping that version exclusively for my subscribers.

I’m very proud and happy about this story and can’t wait to share it with the world.

However, setting up the paid subscriber page has been another challenge, especially because I’m currently dealing with physical pain in my left shoulder.

Doctors told me I have a frozen shoulder.

They said it’s quite common in women, and there is still no scientific explanation for why it happens. There also isn’t a clear cure.

Some people recover on their own, but it can take one or even two years.

To be honest, I’ve been feeling really down.

When I’m dealing with physical pain, it drains my emotional energy. I struggle to focus, especially when I’m trying to work on things that require a lot of brain power, like building my paid subscription page.

But not all of it has been bad.

This pain has shown me how unbalanced my life had become.

My mind had taken over.

I would forget my body.

Forget to rest.

Forget to even go to the toilet.

I hadn’t exercised for so long that my body began losing those little muscles.

As my body screamed in pain, I realized I had to stop living only in my head and return to my body.

I signed up for a wellness membership.

Yoga.

Pilates.

Swimming.

Jacuzzi.

You name it.

Every day now revolves around caring for my body.

I truly believe this pain is calling me toward a deeper transformation.

I feel emotional just writing this.

Part of me is tired of learning through pain.

Another part of me can’t wait to see the brighter days ahead.

I’ll keep my optimism.

And for now, this is where I’ll end this week’s letter because my Pilates class is about to start.

See you next week.

I hope I’ll have another good story to share with you.

Love,

Lalita Janette

Hi friends,

I hope you are all doing amazingly. It has been a while since you heard from me.

Over the past months, I have been quietly trying to figure out where I am heading. Slowly, something is becoming clearer.

Alongside everything else, I have been developing a cinematic musical novel called Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn — a story about a young woman searching for love, facing betrayal, and walking unknowingly through the same path her mother once walked. Beneath everything is a little girl still searching for the answer to one painful question: why did her mother leave?

I created a separate newsletter dedicated to this project, so if you are curious, you are welcome to follow that journey there.

Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn - A Cinematic Musical Novel

Experience a new way of storytelling that turns story, music, and motion into emotion — Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn

By Lalita Janette

For this space, I wanted to create something different: a small weekly journal of my own journey. Imagine us sitting together as old friends, sharing what happened during the week, what has been on my mind, and what I have been discovering along the way. I feel like this little corner is starting to take shape — and I like it.

Occasionally, I will also share article on Medium.

So let’s begin where I left off.

Many of you may already know, but let me remind you: I am now living in Cyprus. My husband and I moved here from Andorra seven months ago.

Since then, my life has been a journey of searching for belonging.

I thought I would find my new tribe here — people who would make me feel at home, understood, and accepted. But instead, I kept finding walls in front of me.

And if all of that wasn’t enough, we lost our cat.

He came with us from Andorra to Cyprus, and only a few months later, he was hit by a car.

I was devastated.

He was the most loving, gentle cat I have ever known. The kind who would quietly curl up beside you and somehow make everything feel a little lighter. I cried what felt like a river of tears, and there hasn’t been a single day that I haven’t missed him.

And strangely enough, through the grief, the disappointments, and all those walls I kept running into, I slowly found my way back to myself.

One of the deepest wounds that kept returning was my longing for my mother — something I thought I had worked through, but perhaps something I will continue to carry in different forms throughout my life.

Something inside me finally realized that the little girl within me had been holding onto the hope that she would one day find her mother in someone she met along the way.

After many deep conversations with myself and what felt like endless waves of grief, we finally came to an agreement: to stop searching for her in everyone else and pour that energy into creating my animated video, Are You My Mommy?—the story of a fully grown woman wandering through life, mistaking everyone she meets for her mother.

Something shifted after creating it. The desperate need to find my tribe outside myself slowly began transforming into a quiet curiosity about what life might bring instead.

And because of that, I found a local writing community where I could connect with people simply as people.

For the first time in a long time, I did not mistake them for my mother.

And that opened a completely different kind of connection—one with far less expectation and much more freedom.

The very first piece of writing I shared with them was about how I ended up finding them: Be Slut, Belong Everywhere.

It was inspired by a lesson I learned from my tantric community. A “slut” doesn’t expect one man—or one person—to fulfill every need she has. She receives what each person genuinely has the capacity to offer. She knows what she wants, and she isn’t afraid to ask for it.

Instead of expecting one friend, one partner, one community, or one place to become everything, I allow ourselves to receive different kinds of love, support, and connection from different people.

That will be my mantra from now on. 😉

Lastly, I want to thank each and every one of you for being part of my tribe.

Writing this letter to you feels like coming home.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of this newsletter as just an email list. I started thinking of it as a place where I can sit down with old friends and share a little piece of my week.

Thank you for being here. It truly means more than you know.

Until next week,

With love,
Lalita Janette

I’m tired of being the good girl.
The one who’s loyal long after the love is gone.
Loyal to places that no longer feel like home.
Loyal to people who have already become memories.
Loyal to versions of myself I’ve already outgrown.
I once lived in a little spiritual community in southern Thailand where every day felt like magic.

Until it didn’t. Not because the place changed. Because I did.

But instead of accepting that, I spent years trying to find another place that could make me feel the same way again.

Another tribe.
Another community.
Another home.

The search was endless.

My life has moved on my heart hasn’t.

Even the beautiful rays of the sun and the Mediterranean air could not calm the ache inside me.

I scrolled through my phone as if there was an answer there, checking messages from several social groups I was in. It only emphasized the fact that I didn’t belong to anything.

Feeling sorry for myself, really.

Trying to get out of that despair, I turned on the AI music I had created to cheer myself up.

It worked wonders.

Something snapped in my mind.

“Stop.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. don’t you forget what a year in the tantric community taught you.”

My mind drifted into a juicy memory of all the men I was with. The men who had taught me what love without procession and belonging was in my own.

Hermit was meditation in human form. He could sit still from morning until night, day after day. Being around him was like stepping into a silent lake. My mind, usually running in a thousand directions, would slow down in his presence.

What amazed me most was how connected he was. He could feel me from a distance. He shared my joy, my love, even the bliss I experienced with another man entirely. Not as an idea. Not as a concept. He was happy because I was happy.

Then there was Atman. People called him greedy because he loved so many women.

But I saw something deeper. He just loved. I never met a woman he did not find beautiful.

Women others overlooked. Women who felt unwanted. Women who felt broken.

He loved them all.
Being with him challenged me.
His freedom challenged me.
His love challenged me.
His spirit whispered behind my ear:

“Go love more men. Enjoy. I’ll be happy for you.”

Then there was Ardy. A pure beauty- handsome in every inch, like a living piece of art. Just looking at him felt like a blessing. he was a love making machine. He could go on and on, almost nothing could stop him.

He was thrilling to be with, even though I knew he would never commit. I didn’t need that from him. His gift was beauty. And beauty itself was enough.

And Forrest, I could lie next to him half-naked, my leg on his, completely comfortable.

He listened to every story I told, really listened. The kind of listening that makes you feel seen, and important. He would caress my hair, sometimes touch my breast gently. We never went further but his love penetrated me deeply, emotionally.

And perhaps that was the lesson.

Hermit gave me peace.
Atman gave me freedom.
Ardy gave me beauty.
Forrest gave me presence.

None of them gave me everything.
None of them were perfect.
All of them annoyed me at times.
But I didn’t need them to change.
I didn’t need them to become something else.
I only needed to receive what they genuinely had to offer.

I loved them for who they were, faults included.

It wasn’t always easy.
It was challenging.
But the reward?
Phenomenal.

Freedom.

“And wasn’t that an amazing year?” my inner voice asked.

I nodded to myself. The voice continued.

“You are a tantric woman at heart.”

I heard it clearly from within, even though part of me doubted if I still was. But the voice didn’t let me linger in confusion.

“Now it is time to integrate it outside the tantric community. Outside the form.”

As I was about to argue, it continued.

“It’s hard, darling. I know. But you know how.”

With that, I searched the internet for what I love most.

Writing.

There we go. A writing group. Every Thursday at ten. I looked at the time.

Ten past ten. I washed quickly and rushed there.

By half past ten, I arrived. They were there. Men and women. Mostly British people. As always, I was the different one in the room.

The only Asian woman. Perhaps the youngest too. But despite the differences, I was thrilled. I had found a place where there was at least one thing we all shared.

A passion for stories. A determination to put them down into words.

And then I realized something.
Perhaps what I had lost was never a community.
Perhaps what I had lost was trust in my ability to belong.
And perhaps what I found was not the writing group at all.
Perhaps I found the lost tantric woman in me.

Not in places.
Not in people.
Not in a community.
Inside myself.

I woke up to bright sunshine filling the sky. I asked my husband, “Shall we go swimming today?” At first, he said he had many things to do. Then, as though the day itself had made up its mind, he came back to me and said, “Let’s go swim.” Without that small shift, none of what followed would have happened.

So we packed our things. Just as we were about to leave the house, we noticed our neighbor in his backyard. My husband told me to bring the small cake we had prepared for him as a gift. I rushed back inside, grabbed it, and we walked over to give it to him. I said, “Happy New Year,” and my husband said, “Happy Epiphany Day.”

I asked, “Epiphany? What’s that?”

My husband explained that it’s the day Jesus Christ was born and the three kings brought gifts to him. As he handed the cake to our neighbor, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a coincidence.

We talked for a bit and then headed toward the sea on foot. Along the way, we saw a muscular man walking in the opposite direction carrying a towel, so I assumed he had just finished swimming.

When we reached the spot where I had swum before, I showed it to my husband. He asked, “Is this the place where you swam naked last time?”

I said yes. I told him I hadn’t planned it — the water had been so inviting that day.

“And where that creepy man talked to you?”

“Yes,” I replied. I told him I had already been covered then.

“You have to shout if it ever happens again,” my husband said. He was frustrated by how some people disrespect boundaries.

I wish I had. But at that time, I was too scared.

After we changed, just before we entered the water, the man we had seen earlier suddenly walked toward us and stood very close. The spot was tiny, hidden between rocks, almost like a small room. Even though it was a public place, it felt uncomfortable.

He tried to say something to me. I couldn’t understand at first. Then he kept repeating, “It’s a nude beach here. It’s a nude beach.”

I said, “What? Nude beach?”

He told us that if we wanted to swim, we had to go somewhere else. His tone was unfriendly.

Something stirred in me, and it had nothing to do with whether it was a nude beach or not.

Honestly, I don’t mind people swimming naked — I like that freedom too. But freedom doesn’t mean controlling others or claiming space as your own.

I raised my voice and responded to the fully grown man standing half naked nearby.

“We were here before you, and you have no right to tell us to leave.”

He became angry and walked away.

I went into the water. The cold January sea didn’t bother me because I felt proud of myself. For the first time, there was no confusion about whether I was allowed to be there.

After we came out of the water, we talked about Epiphany again. My husband told me that in Orthodox tradition, especially in Cyprus, it is also the day celebrating the baptism of Jesus Christ. I was amazed — we had just gone deep into the sea on that very day. The cold still lingered on my skin, pulsing with every breath.

Overcoming the guilt of simply existing made me feel reborn, like a baptism. And that day, my body was beating with life, releasing the first blood of my period.

I lived in a spiritual community for years. I found my way there after my romantic relationship fell apart and the identity of a city-ambitioned girl came to an end.

The new circle, the new language, the new group of people under a new identity called spiritual community felt incredibly comforting. I don’t deny that it was one of the most magical periods of my life. Days and nights soaked in light and love. Friendships felt effortless. Conversations went deep fast. I made friends in almost every corner of the community, and I truly believed: this is it. I had found my place.

At the time, it felt like liberation.

Looking back, I can see it was also a kind of refuge.

Leaving the community was not a voluntary choice, but a matter of circumstance.

My body regained awareness first, long before my mind could understand what was happening. The body knew. It tightened, resisted, grew tired of holding a shape that was no longer true. My mind tried to keep up, searching for meaning, for justification, for something to replace what was dissolving.

At times, I felt completely lost — as if I were being swallowed by darkness.

Like withdrawing from a drug, I suffered. There was no ceremony for leaving. No blessing. No gentle transition. Just the absence of what once held me.

What surfaced wasn’t peace.

It was self-hatred.

An aversion toward the version of me inside the spiritual form — the one who built an ego around softness, who wrapped superiority in the language of love. The one who wore happiness, peace, and compassion like a costume, believing that if I embodied them well enough, I would never have to feel lost again.

That version of me judged the world harshly.

Measured others by how “awake” they were.

Felt irritated by anything I labeled unconscious.

Mistook sensitivity for truth and detachment for wisdom.

I saw how easily spirituality became a shield — a way to stand above life instead of inside it. And seeing that in myself was unbearable. I didn’t just lose a community. I lost a self-image I had invested everything in.

There was grief not only for what I had loved, but for how deeply I had believed. For how much of myself I had given away to an idea of goodness. For how I had confused belonging with purity, and clarity with certainty.

The detaching process was painful and lonely — letting go of an identity I once believed was me.

It wasn’t a clean break. There was no hand holding me through it, no containment to soften the fall. I walked it alone.

The echo of the old identity followed me everywhere.

You are lost.

Why leave love and light?

Why grow at all when you can stay held here with us?

I believed that voice more times than I want to admit.

I tried to find the same containment elsewhere — something familiar, something that looked like what I had left behind. I knocked on doors that resembled the old ones. I stepped into new rooms hoping they would hold me the same way.

But every door felt closed.

I don’t know how long this journey will last, or whether I will eventually form another identity to rest upon. But one thing is certain:

I am not lost.

I may be between forms.

Between identities.

Between places.

But I am exactly where I am meant to be.

It has been a difficult time.

My husband and I are packing for a move—

the house cluttered with things, heavy lifting, long days that end in exhaustion.

I find myself trapped in triggers, day in and day out.

The abandonment wound speaks loudly, and an old idea rises in me: leave before I am left.

A survival mechanism I’ve used for years.

I struggle in the bitterness of the life I did not choose.

The rain clouds the sky, as tears pour from my eyes.

Sometimes, when my husband and I enter difficult emotions, that voice rises in me: leave.

Especially because I don’t live in a place I love anymore. When I left Koh Phangan, the island I adored, I questioned myself:

Am I sacrificing my life for love?

Without him, I would still be living there, on my beloved island.

As if it was not confusing enough, a tantric guru spoke over the internet about a great ending that happened around a time of powerful celestial shifts, as if whispering in my ear: This is a sign for you to leave too, to return to the familiarity you once believed in.

But that old voice is losing its power.

I see through these voices, just as I see through the false guru. These so-called teachers spoke about love and relationship in such a devoted way, and then gave abrupt reasons why their relationships ended. Often it was after meditation that they “realized” they were no longer aligned, leaving the real cause of separation unspoken. No one admitted their wounds.

For a long time this unsettled me. It was as if the ground shook. Because I held their relationships in a high place, as role models. And if even they could lose love, what was left to believe in? I felt bitterness, and separation rose in me, echoing the same wound I carried from my parents’ divorce.

It has taken me a long journey to see that what I was really leaving behind was not love—but my addiction to Koh Phangan and the idea of life I built there.

The island gave me so much—healing, wisdom, beauty, community. But I was trapped in the illusion that only there could I find love and happiness. That lifestyle felt like the whole truth about me. That only in circles and ceremonies could I thrive.

Meanwhile, my husband took me to see the world. We traveled through countries, stayed in luxury, and he provided everything. Yet often I could not see any of it. My vision was narrowed. All I saw was my longing for the island, the life I had known. Only now do I realize how small my mind had become.

I had isolated myself. Conditioned myself to believe in only one way of love. Instead of expanding, I shrank—content with one place, one way, one identity.

But in truth, I was not content.

In many areas of my life I was stuck. My career as a writer and creator suffered; when my mind was trapped, so was my expression. I abandoned choices and dreams that no longer seemed to fit the “island way.” Judgment crept in. Isolation closed me off from the wider world.

Everything felt wrong, as though the whole world spun in the wrong direction—except for my beloved island.

And then, on the morning of September 21, a partial solar eclipse comes.

The sky begins to shift. The heaviness lightens.

I see my situation with clearer eyes.

During eclipses, something is always hidden, and something revealed.

Something must end so that something new can begin.

Now I see the wisdom in those words I once heard: that something must die during times of transition. They were right. But for me, it was not my relationship with my husband.

We are not perfect. Yet with each conflict, with each disharmony, we grow stronger. What must end is not our love, but our separation.

The fear.

The trauma we both carry.

The belief that happiness lives only on an island.

The voice that told me to leave when things got hard—

that voice no longer has power over me.

But the truth is:

✨ It takes courage to stay.

✨ It takes depth to face the mirror of relationship, where every wound is reflected back.

✨ It takes love to not run, but to transform inside the fire.

I don’t want to be fooled into believing that “leaving is always the higher path.” I know in my body that sometimes true wisdom is in the staying, in the transforming.

Back to why I went to the island in the first place: I once did the same with Koh Phangan. I called it refuge, but really it was escape. It was a beautiful escape — healing, community, beauty — but still an escape.

The world hurt me, so I ran from it. And yet, as I’ve seen, what is left undone never disappears. It waits. It calls me back. The wound is not healed by running, only by facing.

That’s why my soul is asking now:

• Don’t abandon myself when it gets hard.

• Don’t dress escape as growth.

• Meet life full-on, with open eyes, even when it hurts.

So now, as I pack my belongings, I also pack away the illusions I once clung to.

And as I let go of boxes and clutter,

I let the old illusions go, too.

The Escape & The Island

In 2018, I was heartbroken. I ran away to an island for healing — little did I know, this wasn’t just any ordinary island. It was a tantric island.

I had no idea. There was even a part of the island where yogis had created a rule: one of the beaches allowed nude swimming. Still, I remained unaware. I didn’t know I had landed on sacred ground — a place soaked in tantra.

When I finally realized where I was, I felt a wave of internal resistance. A part of me wanted to leave — to run again. But something kept me there. I surrendered. I joined in. I stayed to see for myself.

In the midst of rituals, ceremonies, and practices, the veil I had carried — shaped by conventional ideas of love, control, and possession — began to loosen.

I practiced open love. I became intimate with more than one man at a time. I even participated in Tantra Temple Night. I let go of what I thought love was “supposed” to be, and instead, let love meet me in any form it chose.

That year was incredible — the juiciest of my life. My mind released its grip on conventional love and opened to something new: tantric love. I prayed for a tantric man — a man who worships at the altar, who believes in devotion. And when I thought I found him, I believed: This is it. This is perfect love.

The Illusion of Tantric Love & Awakening to the Truth

But illusion doesn’t always show up in the same costume.

At one point, I even said I had manifested a tantric man — a teacher, no less. I fantasized about the idea of them. But over time, I realized: most tantric men were just… men. Dressed in new words. Embodying a form of love, but not its essence.

Many of those men were miserable. They hid behind the altar. They performed devotion but didn’t embody it. Their lives weren’t drenched in love — only in the illusion of worship.

That was my awakening: embodiment is not decoration.

It’s not in rituals, or words, or titles. It’s in how someone breathes, listens, chooses — especially when no one’s watching.

On the island, the ideal of freedom and equality often replaced the reality of love and responsibility.

The kind of man most often found there was the man who wanted “freedom.” The man who claimed equality — which really meant: you pay half. Half rent. Half meals. Half responsibility. Full freedom for them. That’s it.

I tried to connect with the essence of these men, and maybe I did see some light. But I couldn’t attach — not because I was more spiritual, but because my body knew: This isn’t safe.

They weren’t committed to relationship. They were committed to idealism. To the idea of “tantric love.” But once love fell outside the tantric framework, no one stayed — not the men, not even the women. They weren’t committed to people. They were committed to a concept.

It looked like equality. It was convenience.

It looked like freedom. It was escape.

And essence without commitment is just a glimpse — not a foundation.

This isn’t just my story.

So many women who came to that island for healing fell into the same trance. Under the glow of tantra workshops, they mistook lovers for gods. They saw “divine union” in the rituals.

But when the form dissolved, so did the fantasy. And heartbreak followed.

We traded one illusion for another: first, conventional love — shaped by control, possession, and “forever.” Then, spiritual love — shaped by altars, sacred words, and performance.

Each time, it looked like freedom.

Each time, it was still a cage.

And I’m relieved I didn’t get stuck in it. I lived inside it just long enough to know it — and then I walked out, with eyes open.

In spiritual circles, astrology, “patterns,” and signs often become sacred frameworks. But let’s be honest — they’re just like personality tests in conventional dating.

Useful? Sometimes.

Truth? Not always.

They can offer insight, but they can’t replace lived experience.

Too often, these tools become excuses to override our boundaries. Even women who teach Tantra or boundaries sometimes forget them when love enters the room. They surrender to signs instead of truth. They accept poor treatment and call it “divine.”

They spiritualize pain: “It’s a lesson.” “He’s my twin flame.” “The universe sent him.”

But often, it’s just limerence — obsession born from old wounds. I know, because I lived that way too.

What triggers me most isn’t longing — it’s blindness. When someone teaches loudly but can’t see their own shadow. That dissonance — between public light and private truth — is dangerous.

And yes, I’ve been that person. Fiery. Certain. Newly awakened. I thought I had the truth and judged those who didn’t. I wasn’t malicious — I was just young in my awakening.

Now, when I see others doing the same, I’m not just reacting to them — I’m seeing my old self. It’s like watching my past skin walk around on someone else. I cringe, but I also understand. It once kept me warm.

Meeting My Husband — Tantra in Daily Life

Then I met my husband.

All the guards fell. He didn’t know the word “tantra.” He didn’t speak a spiritual language. He never set an altar. He gets dizzy doing yoga. He struggles to sit cross-legged. In every way, he was not “that kind of man.”

But in essence, he was that man.

He embodied tantra — not through rituals or words, but through grounded love. He protects. He provides. He shows up — especially in conflict. When I get stuck in my ego, he’s the one who softens first, asks the question that breaks the walls.

In our hardest moments, he looks into my eyes and says:

“What can I do to make this better?”

He initiates the healing — not from a script, not from a workshop, but from his soul. In his presence, I see the divine. No incense, no candles. Just truth — alive in the real world.

While many “spiritual men” use teachings as weapons in conflict, he uses presence.

He doesn’t back down when things get hard.

I’ve seen so many tantric teachers — especially women — still struggle with this. Their identities get wrapped in the form. They teach others, but can’t see their own patterns. Love becomes a performance: aligned charts, cosmic matches, sacred ideals. It looks like depth, but it’s often romantic idealism dressed in spiritual robes.

But true love isn’t in the stars. It’s in time and action.

A “tantric man” doesn’t always live in a tantric community. He could be anywhere — working 9-5, raising kids, rooted in real life. He might never say a Sanskrit prayer, but he lives his devotion through action. That’s the one. That’s love.

Unblind yourself from the concept — and you might find him.

Koh Phangan & The Grief of Letting Go

When I lived in Koh Phangan, I was consumed by love. Not with one man — with many. Love was everywhere. Fast. Dramatic. Magical. One high after another. One fantasy after the next.

I told myself I was learning non-attachment. That I was free. But really, I was addicted to the high. And when I left, I grieved — deeply.

Now, I can’t feel the same way. I’ve seen through it. I no longer live in fantasy. And sometimes, I miss it. I feel jealousy when I see someone still dancing in that space.

But I also feel relief. Because I’m not lost anymore.

It’s like grieving a version of myself that once lived in technicolor romance — while honoring that I’ve matured into someone who can build, create, and sustain.

Devotion to God — The Romance

Back then, I didn’t just love men — I loved God. I wasn’t raised with God. I was Buddhist. But heartbreak cracked me open, and I surrendered to something bigger.

God became a romance. I sang. I cried. I lit candles. I prayed every morning:

“Use me, Lord. Let me see the world through your eyes. Let me hear your words. Let me speak your words.”

It gave me beauty. Songs. Prayers. Longing. The sense that someone almighty was choosing me, guiding me, carrying me.

And I was in love.

The Loss — From God to Self

Then came the deeper truth: God was never outside of me. God was me.

And suddenly, the romance dissolved. Not because it wasn’t real — but because it was time to grow.

How do you long for yourself? How do you light incense to your own body? How do you cry to the mirror?

It was easier when God was outside. He could be perfect. Flawless. Everything I wasn’t. But now, devotion turns inward. And it’s quieter. Harder. Because I am not always perfect. And yet… this is the truth:

There is no savior but me.

I lost the devotional romance —

But I gained something real:

The power to navigate my life without waiting for a sign or an alignment from the stars.

Now, the devotion is to myself.

To the fiery goddess — the one who holds anger, jealousy, joy, tenderness. Who doesn’t hide. Who doesn’t apologize. Who is whole.

Devotion to Self

So yes — the trigger I had toward the tantric community was also about grief.

Grief for the version of me who longed for men. Who longed for God. Who felt chosen, uplifted, romanticized. Who cried songs of surrender. Who felt magnetic and special through the eyes of someone else — man or God.

And yes, it was beautiful. And now… I don’t want to go back.

The true devotion now is to myself.

Not the polished saint — but the fierce, full goddess within me.

And it’s harder — because she’s not separate.

She is me.

And yes, sometimes it’s hard to believe:

I am that magnetic. I am that special.

I choose myself.

That’s the work now.

Not to be chosen — but to choose myself.

To see myself as worthy of the devotion I once gave away so freely.

It’s Okay

And with all that said — I feel clarity.

The jealousy fades.

The grief softens.

That part of my life was beautiful.

I don’t want to go back, but I can honor it.

And it’s okay if others are still living there.

It’s not my job to fix them.

That version of love gave me joy. It gave me magic.

And now, I walk with that memory —

Not as a cage. But as a chapter.

There was a time when I was deeply embedded in spiritual communities, the kind that gather in eco-villages, host conscious festivals, and speak of tantra, sacred living, and soul-aligned love. I once found refuge in those spaces. Inspiration. A sense of purpose. It all felt so vibrant, so full of promise.

But something has shifted.

Since stepping away from that world, I’ve noticed an unexpected tension arise especially when I come across social media posts from those communities. Blissful retreats. Ecstatic dances. Glowing words about divine love and conscious connection. Where I once felt resonance, I now feel discomfort. A quiet recoil in my body.

It’s not about any one person or post. It’s something deeper — a subtle but profound dissonance between what is portrayed and what I’ve come to see behind the scenes.

At first, I couldn’t quite place it. But with time, I began to understand: it’s not that the community changed. It’s that I changed.

The Island That Saved Me

In 2018, I arrived on a small island in Thailand, carrying heartbreak, confusion, and the disorientation of a collapsing identity. I had lost a relationship, felt unaligned with my work, and was terrified of not having income or a defined place in the world. I was a woman unraveling.

The island felt like sanctuary. I had always dreamed of living near the sea, but imagined it would come later after success, after wealth, after building a business and retiring to a villa. Instead, I arrived at that dream empty-handed, barefoot, and broken.

My home was a tiny wooden bungalow no air conditioning, no hot water but I had the sea. And for the first time, I felt joy. Not the joy of achievement, but the joy of simply being. I surrendered. I gave up the chase. I let life happen. I felt held by something I call God.

The more I let go, the more I flowed. Life became full of story and meaning. I stopped planning and started trusting. And in this state of openness, I stumbled into a spiritual school.

The School That Changed Me

I came upon a yoga school that offered free classes for Thai citizens like me. It felt like a guide, so I said yes. I immersed myself in all-day yoga practice, lectures, and a community that celebrated embodiment and connection.

Little did I know that this was not any ordinary school, but one of the biggest tantra schools in Thailand. When I realized this, I faced an internal resistance. Their practices felt counter to my Buddhist upbringing. Love without possession? Sacred sexuality? Polyamory? It was all too much.

And yet, they were freer than me. Happier.

Eventually, curiosity got the best of me. I joined.

And what I found cracked me open: I realized my love had always been conditional. That my pain came not from heartbreak, but from my own tightly held beliefs. That what I called love was often control.

This was more than healing. It was a full identity shift. I stopped needing certainty. I embraced flow. I felt reborn.

I didn’t just study there I belonged. I knew the island, the people, the rhythm. Despite being one of the few Thai people in a mostly foreign community, I felt at home.

The Collapse

Then came the scandal.

Accusations surfaced — rape, abuse, misconduct. The founder of the school. Then more stories. More women. The community fractured. Trust shattered.

What had been my spiritual home dissolved almost overnight. Friends left. Classes disappeared. A dream turned to dust.

I didn’t choose sides. I saw the nuance — the trauma, the lack of care, the way sacred practices became dangerous when used without awareness. But the grief hit hard.

And just as the school collapsed, I fell in love with a man and left the island.

Two losses at once. One chosen. One forced.

Trying to Go Back

I couldn’t let go.

I traveled the world but compared every place to the island. I told my partner we should live there. When we returned a year later, I was heartbroken. The island had changed. My people were gone. I had forgotten they were tourists, not permanent fixtures.

I returned again, and again. Each time, I hoped for the magic to return. And each time, I was reminded: we had both changed.

Yet I found new joys — new communities, new practices. I started to rebuild a different kind of relationship with the island. But nothing ever felt like that school.

The Medicine Journey

Years later, in a time of personal crisis, I returned to the island and began working with plant medicine. The medicine showed me things I hadn’t wanted to see: the shadow behind the light, subtle hierarchies masked as freedom. Rules hidden under the guise of “flow.” Fear of the outside world cloaked in spiritual language. Communities that were “light-filled” on the surface but carried a quiet undercurrent of isolation, control, and spiritual bypassing.

I saw how the school had given me a container — but also taken something. I saw how the community’s beliefs, though never forced, had subtly shaped me. I had judged ambition, rejected technology, suppressed my voice in the name of harmony. I thought I was spiritual, but I was just edited.

So when I see those communities now, or people still immersed in them, it’s not the beautiful photos or poetic captions that bother me. It’s the mirror they hold up. They still embody a dream I once gave myself to completely — the same dream I’ve worked so hard to disentangle from.

When I met old friends still in the school, I saw them with new eyes. Not with hate, but with clarity. I saw their superiority, their fixed identities. I saw who I had once been.

And I felt disgust. Not to punish. But to detach.

The Deeper Wound

But the real pain goes deeper.

It’s not just about spiritual communities, or tantra, or workshops. It’s about trust. It’s about the ache of having believed in something so fully, only to discover it wasn’t what it claimed to be.

It’s the same wound that was first carved by my parents, by society.

I was told: Be good. Work hard. Do the right thing. And you’ll be loved. You’ll be safe. You’ll be whole.

And I believed them — because they were my world. I gave my youth, my effort, my heart. But when I arrived, I found not wholeness, but exhaustion. Emptiness. A self I didn’t recognize, a life I didn’t love.

So when I hear the voices of the spiritual world — “This is the way. This is love. This is freedom.” — I hear more than just their words. I hear the echo of every promise that didn’t deliver. I feel the sting of every dream I once followed blindly.

And I realize: it’s not that they meant to deceive. It’s that they believed it too, with the same lack of awareness I’ve now outgrown.

From Grief to Ground

For a long time, I carried grief. Grief for the years I gave to dreams that weren’t mine. Grief for the self I tried to mold into someone lovable, acceptable, “spiritual.” Grief for the youth I could have spent doing what I actually loved, instead of what looked good on the outside.

But something has softened in me.

The grief isn’t gone, but it’s composted. The years I once saw as wasted now feel like soil — rich, painful, and alive. Without them, I wouldn’t have the depth or clarity I carry now. I wouldn’t be writing this.

And yet, I hold a subtle truth, too: it could have been otherwise. If I hadn’t believed those lies, I might have walked a different path — maybe one just as beautiful, maybe even more free.

But this is the one I’m on. This is the one I get to speak from.

Reclaiming My Voice

What’s shifted most of all is that I no longer outsource truth. Not to parents, not to gurus, not to glowing social media posts or dreamy retreats. I’ve stopped searching for the “right” path. Instead, I’ve started listening to the quiet wisdom inside — one that doesn’t speak in absolutes, but in honesty.

The story I’m living now is not as shiny. It doesn’t photograph as well. But it’s mine.

And I know now that I was never truly betrayed by the communities, or the people, or even my parents. The deeper betrayal was abandoning my own inner knowing to follow someone else’s version of the truth.

But that’s over now.

I’m writing my own story — with roots in the grief, clarity in the compost, and a voice that no longer needs to convince anyone of the way.

And still despite the disillusionment, despite the awareness I now hold I feel deep gratitude for my parents, for society, for the beloved communities I once called home. They were part of my story. They held me when I could not hold myself. They gave me dreams to live inside of, even if I would one day outgrow them.

And even now, when I think back to those memories — the circles, the music, the sunsets, the laughter I still feel a tingle in my heart. Sometimes it lifts a quiet smile. Not because I want to return, but because something beautiful did exist there too. Something real. Something that touched me.

I know there is light and shadow in all of them as there is in me. And I hope that one day, I can look into both and love them all.

When AI Critique Feels Personal

Every time I saw someone critique the use of AI, it used to feel personal. They said forests were cut, water was wasted, and CO₂ emissions were rising. I felt like a villain just for chatting with ChatGPT — as if their words were aimed right at me. Guilt and shame would rise in my body. I’d freeze. I’d even start questioning my own morals for using AI in my creative process.

It felt like becoming that little five-year-old girl again — the one who was told her limits, told what she shouldn’t do, who she shouldn’t be.

Back then, I thought following the rules would keep me safe.

In reality, they kept me small.

That’s why this conversation about AI isn’t just intellectual for me — it’s personal.

It touches my creativity, my self-worth, and my freedom to explore.

Perspective Beyond the Headlines

I don’t believe that everything with negative consequences must be cut down. If we operated on that logic, humans would be first to go.

Here’s some perspective:

• Humans collectively consume ~172,000 TWh of energy each year.

• All the world’s data centers (including AI, cloud, streaming, and crypto) use about 415–460 TWh — roughly 1.5–2% of global electricity.

• Even if AI’s share grows to 4% by 2030, it will still be a small fraction of overall human energy use.

If we eliminated everything with a negative footprint, AI wouldn’t even make the top ten list.

But is that really the way forward — to think in black and white, eliminating everything with consequences?

I’ve Seen Both Sides

I used to work as an engineer and project manager in the oil and gas industry.

I was right at the source — where we drilled deep underground to extract natural resources. That crude oil and gas traveled downstream to power our electricity, fuel our cars, and become the plastics that are part of nearly every piece of technology today.

I’ve seen the impact up close.

I’ve seen our company attacked by outsiders for the harm caused by fossil fuels. Everyone involved was labeled as a supporter of the devil.

And I’ve felt the weight of knowing those criticisms weren’t baseless.

But I’ve also seen how those same resources powered human evolution.

Without them, we wouldn’t have the technology, infrastructure, or connectivity we take for granted now.

If we had banned oil and gas the moment we realized they polluted, we wouldn’t be here.

We wouldn’t have medical equipment, transportation networks, global trade, or even the devices we’re using right now.

Progress came because we used those tools, saw the harm, and worked to reduce it.

The Myth of “Simpler” Living

I once believed that the problem was modern life itself — that the solution was to live as we once did, before capitalism, before money. I thought we should return to the simplicity of indigenous tribes.

So I went deep into the forest to find a remote tribe in Vanuatu, hoping to see freedom in their eyes.

But what I saw was different: the same human fears, the same limitations — just without modern tools.

They weren’t “more evolved” for living without money or technology.

They were simply human, in a different stage of the same journey.

That was the moment I understood:

We are not going the wrong way.

This is the way.

Evolution is forward, not backward.

And forward always means a mix of good and bad — learning and improving.

Progress Is Never Perfect

This is where my stance comes from:

• I’ve lived both sides — in industries celebrated for their innovation and criticized for their impact.

• I’ve seen progress in its rawest, messiest form, and I know it’s never purely good or purely bad.

• I’ve tested the romanticized idea of “simpler living” and found it no more free, no more evolved.

• I’ve learned that fear of harm is not a reason to stop — it’s a reason to keep creating and keep improving.

Maybe the path is learning how to live with the dual nature of every innovation — 

To keep the benefits, address the harms, and keep evolving.

This is the nature of evolution: complex and messy.

It’s about how we relate to progress, how we hold nuance, and how we keep moving forward without shutting ourselves down.

My lens is personal, not technical — and sometimes, a shift in perspective is what opens the door to new solutions.

Everyone Has a Role

I also see now that this “outer plane” — the world we live in — needs all kinds of people to function.

Some of us push evolution forward.

Some of us place caution in the game — watching for harm, making sure responsibility is part of creation.

They play their role. I play mine. And together, we keep the balance.

I respect them for this. I believe we need them.

To the Creators — And the Little Girl Inside

Here’s the truth I want every creator to hear — including the little five-year-old girl still inside me:

You don’t need to convince them.

You don’t need to defend yourself.

You don’t need to carry guilt just because someone else’s role is to question your path.

Your energy belongs to your work, your audience, your vision — 

not to reacting to those who were never meant to walk beside you.

Let them do their job.

You do yours.

And to that little girl — the one who was told to be quiet, to be good, to stay small:

You were never wrong for wanting more.

You were never wrong for dreaming big.

You were never wrong for being curious, or different, or bold.

You are not bad for creating with new tools.

You are not dangerous for exploring new ideas.

You are not selfish for following what lights you up.

You are allowed to be here.

You are allowed to take up space.

You are allowed to create, fully and unapologetically.

AI is part of that same evolution.

It’s not perfect, but neither are we.

And perfection has never been the standard for progress.

The standard is:

Can we create good?

And are we willing to address the harm?

For me, the answer to both is yes.

And I’m moving forward — hand in hand with that brave, curious little girl who always knew there was more.

I get frustrated. Not the cute kind of frustrated where you sigh and go make a cup of tea — the deep, bone-heavy kind, where every part of you wants to create something but your hands won’t obey because your mind has them hostage. I want to make what I really want, but I don’t have the skill yet, not enough to match the vision in my head. And still, I can’t stop. My mind grips it like a dog with a bone, biting, wrestling, refusing to let go.

But there’s a voice. Always, the voice.

It says: Maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it won’t work. Maybe you’re wasting your time. What you’ve done already is enough.

And then I’m paralyzed. The spark collapses into ashes. I pull back. I stop. But the desire doesn’t die — it waits in the corner, twitching. And sooner or later, I go back to it again. And again, the voice steps forward, blocking the doorway.

This voice is not a stranger. It’s my father.

My father — who treats risk like a rattlesnake, whose whole life has been about security, whose courage only extends as far as the walls of a steady job. My father, who has taught me the gospel of be careful until it’s etched in my bones. And when I try to dream, it’s him I hear, shaking his head.

But my mother is here too.

My mother — the risk-taker. She jumps into fire with bare feet. She invests, she tries, she chases dreams. And each time, she lands in debt, asking for help. Her fire never goes out, but her patterns never change. And so my father looks at her and says, See? I was right.

They are divorced in real life. But inside me? They’re still together. They still argue. And I am the room where their argument happens.

One voice says: Go. Freedom. Exploration. Leap and don’t look back.

The other says: Pull back. Think. Prove it first. Protect what you have.

Both believe they’re saving me. Both have evidence. Both are exhausting.

I have tried to make them divorce in my head, but I can’t. They are fused in me, tangled into my thinking. And every time I try to create, I am caught between them.

So I decided to speak to them.

Mom, I tell her, I have your fire. I feel your dreams burning in me. You gave me the energy to chase, to fight, to build. That seed is alive. I will not let it die. But I need you to trust me. Rest. Watch. Let me make my own choice, and don’t worry so much. I’ve got it.

Dad, I tell him, I know your fear. I’ve seen what you’ve seen — the patterns, the failures, the waste. I understand why you hold back. And I thank you for the foundation you gave me. But I need you to step back from this part of my life. I’m not reckless. I know my limits. I’m building my own safety net. I need you to say it: Go for it, girl. I’ve got your back. Even if it costs time, even if it costs money, I want you to see that every step is progress. That you’re proud of me — not because the world claps, but because I keep moving forward.

And then I step out of the room where they argue.

I look at them from a distance — these two voices, both worn from their own lives, both fighting battles they lost long ago — and I see they’re not my truth. They’re just the programming I inherited.

In the quiet, I feel something else.

Not my mother’s fire. Not my father’s fear.

It’s softer than both — a faint echo.

The memory of a girl I once was, before she knew what she should be, before she learned what she must achieve.

She didn’t think about winning.

She didn’t think about proving.

She just moved — lost in her own small worlds, her own games, her own wonder.

I wish to return to her.

To create like she played.

To live inside the process without asking if it’s worth it.

No applause. No scoreboard.

Only the moment.

“Are you still there? I return to you now.

But because this is what I’m here for:

To enjoy the process.

To live in the making.

To merge, to emerge, to create.

The rich don’t pay tax, and many people get angry about it. Blame and hate are thrown toward them. I’m not rich myself, but I sympathize with the rich. Why?

Because I made more than most of my family members — which has been a blessing for me — but it comes with a cost and obligations. This is the principle of society: you work hard and make more, so now you have to contribute to others who don’t.

For years and years, as Thai people, we’ve lived under this social condition. A person who does well in life is not allowed to enjoy it for themselves before helping others who don’t.

I personally didn’t get much pressure from my family, but I feel and connect deeply to this pressure from society. I felt guilty for having good things, guilty for going on holidays that others couldn’t afford. And believe it or not, sometimes when I shared those moments on social media, I got comments like, “What about your dad?”

Even my own sister said something when she saw me travel abroad:

“If you have that much, why don’t you take Dad with you?”

This is the unspoken rule — hidden in society’s criticism.

The same goes for the rich. People hate being poor, and they turn their blame toward the rich.

Governments that can’t manage their resources well enough to take care of people also turn to the rich to collect higher taxes. It’s the same old loop: the ones who work hard get tired of being used and look for a way out. Many wealthy people escape the system by moving to tax havens.

And why not? Why live in a country that wants to consume you and gives you nothing in return? Isn’t that insane?

My husband and I once lived in France — a country where we paid taxes on everything, yet didn’t feel safe. That kind of high-tax environment turned out to be unsafe, which doesn’t make sense. Aren’t we supposed to pay more for a better life? But in reality, it was the opposite.

When we moved to Andorra — a so-called tax haven — we actually earned nothing. No income in our household, which is the opposite of what most people expect when someone moves to Andorra.

For us, it was more about healing — healing from being conditioned to believe that if you earn more, you must give more. What kind of curse is that?

Living in Andorra opened my eyes in many ways. It offers a high standard of life, little to no crime, and low taxes. I paid taxes to Thailand for over a decade and got nothing in return, yet never questioned it. But when you move far away from the system, you start to see how unfairly you were treated — and how normalized that treatment became. It’s as if the rules are made by the poor, and everyone else must follow them.

Now that people can move more freely, we’re seeing a wave of wealthy people leaving countries that treat them unfairly — people who are refusing to be held responsible for problems they didn’t create. Countries like France, Spain, Germany and England are seeing wealth leak out. There are even rumors that these countries may try to force taxation no matter where you live, like a bloodsucker refusing to let the “good piece of meat” escape.

Personally, I ask: why don’t they think about fairness — so the rich never feel they have to escape in the first place?

Maybe the real question isn’t why the rich don’t pay more taxes, but why success so often comes with guilt and blame. Why are people who work hard and earn more expected to carry everyone else, even when the system gives them nothing back?

You can only demand loyalty for so long before people start walking away. No one wants to feel like they’re being used — no matter how much they earn. The wealthy aren’t escaping responsibility; many are simply escaping unfairness.

I still believe in giving back — but not through guilt, shame, or pressure. What we need is a new kind of social contract: one that respects success, encourages true generosity, and treats people — rich or not — with basic fairness. If we get that right, maybe fewer people will feel the need to run.

First off, fear isn’t a bad thing. Let’s stop pretending it’s the enemy. You feel fear because you’re doing something that matters. You’re stepping into something new, something uncomfortable. And yeah, it sucks—it’s heavy, it’s loud, it’s relentless. But fear is also a signal that you’re alive, that you’re growing. Every time I hit “post,” fear is sitting right next to me. I just choose to do it anyway.

And here’s the part no one likes to talk about: That feeling of being stuck? It’s not failure. It’s progress. It’s your brain, your heart, and your gut wrestling with the block that’s been holding you back. You think you’re doing nothing, but the truth is, you’re doing the hardest work of all: breaking through the resistance. So, when you feel stuck, when you feel like you can’t move, let me remind you: That’s you moving forward. Even if it doesn’t look like it.

For years, I was just like you. I thought about creating. I wanted to put myself out there. But I didn’t. I hesitated, I doubted, I played small. And guess what? That wasn’t wasted time. That was me, silently building the courage to finally say, “Fuck it, let’s do this.” So, if you’re stuck in that cycle, give yourself grace. You’re not behind—you’re getting ready.

Here’s another thing I’ve learned: Action is the cure for fear. Not overthinking, not waiting until you feel ready. Just action—messy, imperfect, uncomfortable action. Every post, every video, every journal entry—it all started as a tiny, scared step forward. And every single one of those steps counted.

But let me share something deeply personal with you. What you see when I post isn’t just me working hard or being bold—it’s something much deeper. It’s about reconnecting with a part of myself that I lost for a long time: my inner child.

When I was younger, I didn’t get the chance to just be. I was taught to be perfect, to behave, to grow up too fast. Mistakes weren’t an option, and my worth always felt tied to how well I could perform for others—parents, teachers, society. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how to play, how to create just for the joy of it.

As I’ve grown and done the inner work, I realized there was this little version of me—scared, silenced, waiting to be seen. I decided to show up for her. I told her, “It’s okay to play now. It’s okay to make mistakes, to try new things, to mess up and laugh about it. You don’t have to be perfect anymore.”

And that’s what you’re really seeing when I create. It’s not fearlessness—it’s me keeping a promise to her. It’s me saying, “You’re safe now. I’ve got your back. You’re enough, just as you are.”

Social media, for me, has become a playground. A space where I can let her run free, let her create without pressure, and let her explore without fear of judgment. She doesn’t care if the world turns its back on her, because she knows I’ll always be there, cheering her on.

And you know what? I’ve become her biggest fan. I tell her every day, “You’re amazing. You’re doing great. You’re my favorite artist, my favorite creator, my favorite person.” And in that safety, she thrives.

So, let me leave you with this: Whatever’s blocking you right now isn’t your enemy—it’s your teacher. Feel the fear. Let it sit there. And then, take the smallest step forward. Post that messy video. Write that imperfect blog. Take the action that feels terrifying. Because every time you do, you’re telling your inner critic to shut the hell up.

And one last thing: You don’t need anyone’s permission to create. But if you’re waiting for a sign, here it is. Go out there and create—not for the likes, not for the validation, but for you. Do it for the part of you that’s been waiting to play. Because that’s where the magic happens. And trust me, you’re so much braver than you think.

When I first heard about TikTok, I dismissed it. I thought it was childish, a playground for silly dances and lip-syncing, something I couldn’t possibly connect with. But I gave it a try because I heard about BookTok—a space where people like me were sharing their love for books. What I didn’t expect was to find a platform that not only made creating fun and easy but also felt alive in a way no other app ever had.

TikTok is unique. It’s raw, real, and unapologetically diverse. It isn’t polished like Instagram, where every post feels like it’s been through a thousand filters. It’s a place where anyone—no matter their background, appearance, or status—can grab their phone, share their thoughts, and maybe, just maybe, go viral. It’s a space where creativity isn’t just encouraged; it’s celebrated.

But now, with the threat of TikTok being banned in certain countries, I find myself feeling something I didn’t expect: grief.

I don’t have a big following. I won’t lose a business or a platform that supports my livelihood. But my heart aches for those who will. For the small businesses that built their shops on TikTok. For the creators who found their voice there after years of feeling silenced. For the marginalized communities who used TikTok to shine a light on their stories when no other platform would. For the friends, families, and strangers who connected over shared passions, experiences, and ideas.

TikTok is more than an app. It’s a lifeline.

What makes this even harder to accept is how unfair it feels. TikTok is being blamed for issues that go far beyond the app itself. Some say it’s about national security; others argue it’s because TikTok is one of the few platforms where people can’t control the narrative. On TikTok, I’ve seen stories about the world—war, oppression, joy, resilience—that never seem to make it to the sanitized feeds of Instagram or other platforms. It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s real. And maybe that’s why it’s so threatening.

As I sit here, scrolling through TikTok and seeing creators post their heartbreak, their uncertainty, and their resilience, I realize what we’re losing. We’re not just losing a platform. We’re losing a sense of connection, of spontaneity, of freedom.

It feels like watching a fire burn down a house—except this time, it’s burning down businesses, dreams, and communities. The saddest part? Many people don’t even realize what’s being lost until it’s gone.

Grief is a strange thing. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. I didn’t think I’d care this much, but I do. Not just for me, but for the millions of people whose lives have been touched by TikTok.

If this truly is the end, I hope we carry forward what TikTok taught us: to create unapologetically, to share authentically, and to lift each other up in ways no algorithm can predict. TikTok wasn’t just about videos—it was about people, connections, and a shared spark of creativity. That’s something no ban can ever take away. Here is the song I made for TikTok—sing along with me and keep the spirit alive.

@lalitajanetteauthorGuys I love you

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You called into the void, searching for what felt lost.
But I was never gone.
I whispered in your quiet moments,
Hummed in your softest songs — 
Your voice, waiting to be heard.

Why didn’t you see me,
In the stillness of your breath?
I was there in every heartbeat,
In the silence, in the depth.

I heard that whisper, deep and haunting, rising from within. It was disappointed, hurt. It was my voice — raw and exposed — speaking to me.

For years, I searched for something I thought I’d lost — my voice. Not just the sound of it, but the part of me that carries my truth, my essence, my story.

I remember standing in front of my voice coach, their face tightening as they pointed out every “imperfection.”

“Too breathy,” they said. “The ‘air’ weakens your words. It’s not loud enough, not powerful enough.”

Those words echoed in my mind every time I opened my mouth, making me question not just my voice, but my worth. For so long, I believed I had to change my voice to be worthy.

It wasn’t until I learned about Marilyn Monroe. Her breathy, almost fragile tone wasn’t a flaw — it was her signature. It captivated a world obsessed with perfection because it was distinctly hers. She didn’t shout to be heard; she invited you to lean closer, creating intimacy and connection. That realization shattered the walls of doubt I had built around my own voice.

My voice wasn’t broken. It was simply misunderstood — by the people who’d convinced me it needed fixing. But they were wrong.

I am not a thing to fix,
Not broken, weak, or frail.
I am your truth, your soul’s echo,
The wind behind your sail.
Why do you want to change me,
To shape me into stone?
I am the air, the soft embrace — 
I am yours, your very own.

The air in my voice is life itself. It’s the breath that carries my words, the softness that invites people to lean in, to listen with intention. It simply is — flowing freely, unapologetically. This is my voice — a gift, not a flaw.

Do not force me into volume,
Do not cage me to please the crowd.
I am here to tell your story,
In whispers, soft, not loud.
Feel me rise within you,

Gentle as the tide.
I’ve been with you all along,
I’m your shadow, by your side.

I let my breath carry my words, trusting they will find the right ears.
I let myself exist fully, knowing that my softness is not weakness but wholeness.
In this surrender, I’ve discovered a peace I once thought impossible to reach.

The people who seek my voice will find me. Those who are meant to hear it will lean in. Gentle as it is, my voice will find its way to the ears and hearts it was always meant for.

I was always here, waiting in your breath,
Through silence, through doubt, through every test.
I rise with you now, no longer confined,

Soft as the air, but strong as time.
I am your truth, your quiet power,
I bloom in your words, your voice, your hour.
Let us move forward, together as one,
No need to force — I’ve already begun.

Inspired by my journey of rediscovering my voice, I wrote a song, Soft as the Air, Strong as Time. This song captures the beauty of embracing softness as strength, turning doubt into self-acceptance.

Listen to it, and let it remind you that your voice—gentle or bold—is enough, just as it is.

If my words have resonated with you, if you feel that quiet call deep within, I invite you to join me on this journey. Let’s continue to discover, to share, and to amplify our voices together.

Sign up for my maillist to receive more stories, insights, and inspiration — straight to your inbox. Let’s keep the conversation going, and let your voice be heard.

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Together, we will rise, soft as the air, but strong as time.

There is a certain fire that burns within me—a creative energy that, when it flows freely, feels like an intoxicating romance. For so long, I had felt blocked, waiting for the moment this dam within me would break. And when it finally did, the rush was overwhelming.

This creativity became a new lover, demanding all of me. It was intoxicating, thrilling, and consuming. Night after night, I dove deep into its embrace, unable to resist. This energy pulled me into an endless dance—its excitement akin to the thrill of a new romance, to finally being seen by someone whose attention I had craved. The spark was exhilarating, the fire intoxicating. Careless, I let my soul touch its flames, surrendering completely. I created, created, and created. I could not stop.

Yet, as the fire burned brighter, it began to split my affections. Guilt crept in, as if I were betraying my husband—not in reality, but in the emotional space this creative energy now claimed. It was as though this new lover had drawn me away, demanding a part of my heart, a part of my life, that was once wholly shared. The guilt lingered, but the pull of the fire was irresistible.

As with any consuming passion, there was a cost. Over time, my body whispered its reminders: I am human. It tugged at me gently, reminding me of my limits, urging care for the vessel carrying this inferno. But my creative energy ignored these calls, its allure too seductive to resist. Night after night, it kept me awake, my juices drained, yet my longing for more boundless.

I continued, producing piece after piece—art, ideas, expressions of my soul—ready to share with the world. But the world was silent. My creations seemed to echo back only to me, and in that silence, doubt crept in. Was I giving too much to this lover? Had I sacrificed something essential in my life for this consuming fire?

Amid the uncertainty, one truth anchors me: I am moving forward. Answers remain elusive, but my heart believes this path, no matter how unclear, is the one I am meant to take. And so, I continue this dance with my creative energy—this lover that consumes, lifts, and sparks my soul. I am still learning to balance its intensity with the care my body needs, still learning to ensure this fire lights my way without burning me.

I don’t know the answers. I truly don’t. But I know this energy needs an outlet. So I sit down and write. From words, it becomes lyrics, and from lyrics, it transforms into a song: Dance with the Divine.

Dance with The Divine

This one is for every creative soul—

You’ll understand what it feels like when it flows through us.

That unstoppable surge,

The electricity coursing through our veins,

The whispers of inspiration

Too loud to ignore.

When it flows,

We are no longer just ourselves—

We are vessels.

We speak in colors,

Dream in rhythms,

And mold the intangible into form.

Every creator knows this feeling:

The blissful chaos of becoming.

This is for you,

For us,

For the flow.

From this event, I’m starting to understand what it truly means to enjoy the process.

This project has shown me how to lose myself in time,

To dive deep into the experience,

And to savor every moment of it.

As I work, I feel a beautiful sensation,

A tingling in my heart that reminds me—

This is everything I’ve ever wanted.

It’s not just about the destination,

But the act of creating itself.

The journey, the flow, the joy of being immersed in it.

This is where I belong,

Where passion and purpose meet.

And for the first time,

I’m learning to love every step of the process.

I’m on the high end tonight,

Unable to sleep,

Because I’ve poured my soul, my feelings, my love

Into bringing my words into visions.

It’s captivating—

Every accent, every detail I wanted to see

Is finally coming to life.

And in this moment,

It feels as though the world has opened itself to me.

The world of imagination.

The world of possibility.

The blocks that once weighed on my chest

Have lifted,

And I’m free to express everything inside.

In that release,

I’ve found joy—

Deep, overwhelming joy—

In the force of creation.

It’s a feeling unlike any other:

When you know, with absolute certainty,

That this is all there is.

That this is all that’s needed.

To create.

To feel.

To exist in the flow of something greater than yourself.

If only I could show you what’s in my mind,

The colors, the shapes,

The endless threads weaving into something whole.

It’s not chaos—it’s alive.

It hums with ideas,

Whispers of stories,

And visions I can barely contain.

There’s a rhythm to it,

A pulse that keeps me moving forward.

Every thought,

Every feeling,

A piece of the puzzle I’m trying to create.

If I could show you,

You’d see not just the project,

But the soul behind it.

The beauty of being lost in this world I’m building,

And the sensation that says, This is everything.

“I finished writing the first draft of my book—140,000 words,” I said, the words spilling out like a hidden treasure finally unearthed. My heart fluttered with anticipation, hoping their light would join mine in celebration. But their eyes flickered away, and one of them, after a moment’s pause, asked absently, “What’s it about?”

For the first time, I dared to believe they might truly care. My breath caught as I began to answer, pride swelling in my chest. Yet before I could say more than a few words, their attention shifted—to a phone, to their own thoughts, to anywhere but me. The moment crumbled, brittle and sharp, leaving me lonelier than I’d ever felt while alone.

As I sat there, a brief, familiar voice crept into my mind: “Prove your success to them. Show them how far you’ve come, how much you’ve achieved. Then they’ll see you. Then they’ll finally care.”

Some voices are louder than truth.

They wear the mask of desire,

but underneath it lies a lie.

For a second, I almost believed it. It was the same voice I had listened to for years—driving me to measure my worth by my accomplishments, chasing success as a currency for love. It was a seductive thought, blinding me to believe success was the answer to all my emotional hunger.

“No! I won’t believe it anymore.” I fought with that voice, arguing within myself. “I don’t need to prove my worth. Their lack of connection isn’t my fault. I’m not a reflection of anyone’s limitations.” The internal tug-of-war lasted a while, but it felt like an eternity.

I searched for love
in applause,
in success,
in the eyes of those
who could not see me.

I shared this story with my husband that evening. His face tightened with pain for me, mirroring the ache I had carried out of that gathering. “You shouldn’t see them anymore,” he said firmly. His love wrapped around me like a shield, but it was my own heart whispering the truth: It’s time to release them. Come Back to Me, Lalita is the book I wrote—a message for my own soul.

Now, I return,
not to their approval,
but to myself—
to the quiet truth of my worth,
to the light that needs no audience.

I am releasing you, the false belief. I let you go, just as I let go of those who are not blind but cannot see, who are not deaf but cannot hear. I let you go.

Letting go isn’t a loss; it’s a clearing. By releasing what no longer serves me, I make space for what truly belongs. I am pouring my attention inward, rooting deeply into myself, finding the best friend within who will always celebrate my successes. The right people won’t need me to prove my worth. They’ll see it, because they’ll see me.

To anyone who struggles to be seen or understood by those around you: this is your reminder to come back to yourself. I wrote this song out of my longing to be seen, but now I’m coming back to me. I hope you enjoy it.

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Lyric,

I spent years measuring my worth in every trophy I could find
Thinking that success and praise would fill the void inside
But your silence cut me deeper than all the battles I’d been in
And I finally saw the truth beneath the noise within

A spark ignites in the emptiest space
A voice that leads me to a kinder place
No longer bound by a need to perform
I’m letting go and finding peace in the storm

No more chasing silhouettes I cannot hold
No more painting pictures on a wall so cold
I’m not the sum of all these things you refuse to see
I release the false belief—Come back to me

Some voices are louder than truth
They wear the mask of desire
But under that mask is a lie
And I say, “No, you can’t use me anymore”

In the quiet, I call in love that doesn’t need a stage
Love that breathes in every line
I’ve written on the page
No proof required for a heart that’s truly free
I’m finally coming home to me

No more chasing silhouettes I cannot hold
No more painting pictures on a wall so cold
I’m not the sum of all these things you refuse to see
I let your shadows go, and I come back to me

I come back to me, Lalita… Where the light needs no audience to shine I come back to me… And in this love, I finally find I’m already enough—come back to me.

Love

Lalita Janette

A few days ago, I was overwhelmed by this incredible flow of creativity. Ideas were pouring into my mind faster than I could keep up with them. But instead of feeling excited, I felt stuck—trapped.

Why?

Because I didn’t feel like I had the skills or the ability to express what was inside me. It was as if my imagination was shouting, “Let me out!” and I didn’t know how to open the door. I was paralyzed by self-doubt, by fear.

Fear that I wasn’t good enough. Fear of investing in my dream—of spending money, time, and energy with no guarantee of success. Those fears kept me locked up, unable to move forward.

But then something changed.

I decided to give myself permission to try—and permission to fail.

I stopped thinking about the “what ifs” and started focusing on the possibility. I told myself, “Let’s just see where this goes.”

And that’s when I discovered the power of AI.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “AI? Really?” But stay with me. It wasn’t just the technology—it was the way it opened a door I didn’t even know existed. Suddenly, I had a way to take what was inside me—those colors, visions, sounds, and feelings—and bring them to life.

For the first time, I could see my imagination on a screen. I could hear it in music. I could feel it in motion.

It was like meeting a new lover—one who completely captivates you. You know the feeling: staying up all night because you can’t pull yourself away, and when the sun comes up, you’re still there, lost in that beautiful connection.

That’s what creativity felt like for me. It consumed me in the best way possible.

I wrote an article about this feeling—about the overwhelming joy and exhaustion of being in the creative flow. From there, I created lyrics for a song. Then, using an AI tool, I composed the music.

And that’s when it hit me: I didn’t have to stop there.

I turned that music into a music video, and as I watched it all come together—my words, my music, my vision—it was like falling in love all over again.

I must’ve watched that music video a hundred times. Each time, I felt the same rush, the same joy. Not because it was perfect, but because it was mine. It was a piece of me that I’d brought to life.

And in that moment, I realized something profound:

The joy of creating isn’t in the destination. It isn’t about the final product.

It’s in the process.

It’s in the late nights and early mornings, the trial and error, the moments of doubt, and the moments of breakthrough. It’s in the act of taking something from inside you and letting it out into the world.

So, to anyone listening who’s holding back—whether it’s fear, doubt, or uncertainty stopping you—I want you to know this: You don’t have to have all the answers. You just need to take the first step.

The tools are out there, waiting for you. And so is the joy.

Thank you for joining me on this deeply personal episode of The Creative Flow. If my story resonates with you, share it with someone who might need to hear it. Let’s keep inspiring each other, one creation at a time.

Until next time, I’m Lalita Janette Keep creating, keep exploring, and most of all, keep feeling.

I have a song for you too!

This song, The Permission to Dream is for every soul longing to be heard, for those who feel unseen and unheard. Let these lyrics remind you that your voice matters, and your dreams are worth chasing. 💛

Lyrics

I called into the void, searching the skies,
For a voice I thought had said goodbye.
Through the echoes of doubt, the silence so wide,
I found you there, right by my side.

You whispered in the quiet, hummed in my song,
You were the strength I’d had all along.
In the stillness of breath, in the depth of my core,
You reminded me: I needed no more.

Soft as the air, strong as the tide,
You carry my truth, my soul’s guide.
No need to shout, no need to fight,
Your gentle power shines so bright.
Soft as the air, yet strong as time,
You’ve been my voice, my heart’s own rhyme.

They said, “Not enough, you’re too soft to be heard,”
Tried to cage the essence in every word.
But like the breeze, I cannot be bound,
My strength is in the quiet sound.

Marilyn sang in whispers, they leaned to her song,
Fragile yet mighty, she proved them wrong.
Now I rise, in whispers I speak,
Not broken, not weak — just uniquely me.

Soft as the air, strong as the tide,
You carry my truth, my soul’s guide.
No need to shout, no need to fight,
Your gentle power shines so bright.
Soft as the air, yet strong as time,
You’ve been my voice, my heart’s own rhyme.

Feel me in the breath, the wind, the sea,
The whispers that set your spirit free.
In silence, in stillness, I’ve always been here,
A voice of courage, soft and clear.

Soft as the air, strong as the tide,
You carry my truth, my soul’s guide.
No need to shout, no need to fight,
Your gentle power shines so bright.
Soft as the air, yet strong as time,
You’ve been my voice, my heart’s own rhyme.

So lean in close, hear what’s mine,
A voice so soft, yet strong as time.
Together we’ll rise, no need to confine,
Soft as the air, forever I’ll shine.

It’s a new year. The first day of 2025.

Last night, I stayed up late writing Chapter 11 of my novel, The Ceremony of Death. What a way to end the year—it felt like the old self had died from me. I woke up feeling reborn. The hard lessons of the past year have passed, though I know many more will come. Still, I am proud of myself.

Last year was another year of clearing old beliefs. A year of realizing just how much power I gave to others. How much of my life I lived based on someone else’s ideas—society’s, religion’s, anyone’s but my own. It wasn’t easy to see this. My body, however, became my guide. Through subtle communication, it nudged me toward truths I hadn’t yet faced.

This past year, I was like a child rediscovering myself and my emotions. It was not easy when you grow up not being allowed to express what you feel. To cry, to be angry, to feel anything that isn’t “appropriate.” But I did it. Slowly, I let myself feel. And I made it. I really did.

One of the biggest steps I took was admitting the feeling I’ve carried for so long—that I don’t belong in Andorra. It was a hard truth to say out loud, but my husband listened. He heard me, and together we came up with a plan to explore somewhere else. Knowing that my needs are seen and supported has brought me so much relief.

I also unblocked my creativity this year. I can feel it now, flowing freely in ways I didn’t know were possible. I still have expectations, and sometimes I fail to meet them. But it doesn’t take long for me to return to creating. I’ve learned that the process—the joy and love I pour into my work—is the most rewarding part. The outcome? It matters, but not as much as the act of creating itself.

This year, I am more than ready to show myself to the world. My first novel is on its way. Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Moan will be the open gateway for readers to get to know me. It feels like the perfect beginning for this new chapter of my life, and I am so excited to share it.

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I trust myself. I trust the process. I trust the path ahead, even if I don’t always know the way.

Here’s to a year of courage, creativity, and becoming.

Thank you

To everyone who has been a part of this journey, thank you for your patience, your kindness, and your encouragement. To those who will read my stories, thank you for trusting me with your time and attention. You remind me why I write, why I create, and why I choose to share pieces of myself.

Here’s to a new year and to all of us finding our way forward.

With love,

Lalita Janette