Week 11 • September 26, 2026

I tried to make my story serve too many people.

I wanted it to work as a novel, with the words standing alone.

I wanted it to work as audio alone.

And I wanted it to work as a video script.

The same problem of pleasing everyone.

I tried too hard, and I’m exhausted.

Finally, I came to the realization that I have to choose who I am talking to:

The one who is reading. The one who is listening. Or the one who is watching.

I can’t keep carrying all of them around.

And after sitting with it, I decided that I would not position my story as a novel, but as a full cinematic musical experience.

Which means the script is no longer written like a traditional novel.

It will focus more on the visual form.

And you know what?

This is really scary.

To let go of the idea of who I am and embrace a new identity.

But I’ve already stepped my feet inside it.

I’ve seen how my characters move and sing, and I can’t drop them.

They are so alive.

And fun.

As this new direction emerged, I had a hard time letting go of what I had already created—work that hasn’t even seen the world yet.

So I decided to share the evolution of how I create and let those earlier versions become part of the story too.

For today, I’d like to share the newest version with you.

Thank you for watching me grow.

And if you have any thoughts, I’d really love to hear them. Just reply to this email.

I’d be very grateful.

With Love

Lalita Janette

Perhaps this story is for you.

Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn is a Cinematic Musical Novel, a new storytelling form where narrative, music, voice, and cinematic imagery come together like theatre on the page.

At first glance, it may appear to be a romantic heartbreak story—where pain transforms an innocent “good girl” into a “bad girl,” while the good girl carries all the blame.

But beneath the romance lies something much older. It is the story of a little girl abandoned by her mother who unknowingly walks a path similar to her own mother.

Through love, mistakes, and longing,

she slowly begins to understand why her mother left.

And in that understanding, the part of herself once seen as reckless, the “bad girl” becomes integrated and accepted.

And the good girl?
She finally realizes it was never her fault.

Before You Join

I’m Lalita Janette—the author, songwriter, art director, and, well… just about everything you see here.

This is an independent creative project made by one person with the help of a technology and a lot of heart.

As you read, you’ll experience original music, voice, visuals, and storytelling that continue to evolve alongside the story itself.

That also means you may notice changes in the artwork, character designs, or visual style along the way.

I’m continually learning, experimenting, and discovering what this story wants to become. While the art may change, I do my best to stay true to what matters most—the emotional heart of the story.

By joining, you’re becoming part of this little world while it’s still finding its shape.

Thank you for believing in the journey before we know exactly where it will lead.

With love,

Lalita Janette

Subscribe now

Dear friends,

I did it again.

Last week, I cut my novel, Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn, in half. This week, I restructured the whole story.

It’s by far the most challenging thing I’ve done with it. It feels like performing surgery on my own baby: cutting it into pieces, moving them around, stitching everything back together, and praying that by the end it will be okay.

No.

Not just okay.

Really fabulous.

Here’s what changed. The story used to move in a straight line, from the good girl slowly becoming the bad girl. Now it opens with the bad version of Lalita, bold and confident, then flashes back to the innocent version, the good girl she once was, then comes back to the bad version again. From there the story goes back and forth between the two.

It all started after I watched The Odyssey. Christopher Nolan tells Odysseus’s journey home in a complex, intense way, leaping from one scene to the next, one timeline to another.

Nothing is linear.

But I didn’t watch the movie and suddenly decide to change my story. That night I had a terrible headache on top of a sore throat. I spent the night feeling like I wanted to hit my head against the wall.

My mind kept recirculating scenes from the movie, even though I was trying not to think about them.

I was sure it had nothing to do with my story. It was just sickness and a three-hour movie.

But a few days later, when I finally felt well enough to sit in front of my computer and open the story again, something had changed. Somewhere in that headache, a new pathway had opened in my mind, and it started pulling the story in a new direction. The fearful voice was still there, saying,

“You are going to make it worse.”

But I couldn’t help following the new idea in my head.

Boom.

I did it anyway.

There’s still more to do, and honestly, I’m not sure how it will end.

But yeah.

This is the road of no return.

I’m going to keep going until my story find its end just like Odysseus’s journey coming back home.

Tell me if you’ve ever done something like that.

And please pray for me too.

With love,

Lalita Janette

I cut Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn in half. I never thought that was possible.

When you have written every word and spent time connecting to them, to kill your baby is the hard thing.

I don’t know if it is coincidence, or the effect of being in Dubai — fast-paced and so energetically vibrant — or about the story I’m about to share. At first it felt unrelated to my creation. It isn’t.

Dubai became a space to process an unfinished story of the past I didn’t know I was still carrying.

I didn’t realize that growing up I carried a fear when people look at me — as if they think I don’t belong, or that I can’t afford this place. It comes from childhood, from fear around money, from going anxious in rooms that feel out of reach.

When I was young I was suspected once of stealing something from a mall. I didn’t. They searched my body and found nothing. I left with shame, and with a belief I didn’t know I was carrying.

Only when that look was not on people’s faces here did I see it. It was never my fault. When a place cannot offer basic security, people watch for a thief before they see a person. A girl who looks like she wants something gets treated as the thief. Here, people are not walking around deciding who might steal. So the look was not there — and I could finally tell their fear from my shame.

I let out a big cry and let my little young girl release that it was never her fault.

In doing so, I let go of the fear of being misunderstood, and the need to explain myself that had also shown up, unconsciously, in Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn.

That’s how what looked unrelated to my creation became another source of it.

Until next time

Lalita Janette

Dear friends,

This week, I’m writing to you from Dubai. My husband and I are here to attend a conference.

This is my first time experiencing Dubai in the summer.

Wow.

The heat here is huge—like I’m carrying the whole atmosphere on my shoulders.

But surprisingly, I don’t mind being here at all.

We’re staying in a nice hotel, and everything is much better value in the summer. Honestly, it’s a really good place to be if you want some space, settle down, and focus on getting things done.

This city is fascinating. Not gonna lie.

I’ve been wondering whether I could live here, and whether I would actually like it.

The answer is still unknown.

But I’m enjoying being here.

Now, let’s come back to Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn.

I still had a few ads I wanted to test—the format I was curious to see whether it would work.

But I hadn’t felt enthusiastic about posting them or running them.

Deep down, I knew why.

I already wanted to upgrade all the visuals.

The only thing holding me back was that I couldn’t quite let go of what I had already created.

Speaking of letting go, arriving in Dubai reminded me of myself a year ago.

My husband and I stopped here for a month before heading to Cyprus.

Back then, I was hoping and longing for Cyprus to bring back the feeling I used to have in Koh Phangan.

I wanted to be embraced by that same feeling of womanhood and belonging I had experienced there.

But it didn’t happen.

And because it didn’t happen, I learned something I couldn’t have learned any other way.

I learned to become a home for myself.

So coming back to Dubai now, with a completely different feeling inside me, gave me a strange appreciation for the journey I’ve been through—and for the person I have become.

The huge grief of that old longing came through me one final time.

And then came the realization:

There is no going back.

I don’t need to keep lingering there, searching for the same feeling in a different place.

The road ahead is about creating a new one.

A new way.

A new path.

A new feeling.

I can create where I’m going next.

And somehow, that realization gave me the courage to let go of the old version of Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn too.

A new script.

New music.

New visuals.

And, God…

It looks so good.

I’m so pleased with it that this huge rush of excitement and possibility came over me again.

I actually had to stop and breathe.

Something in me opened up.

I think I’ve crossed a line.

I’m no longer trying to produce videos quickly and in quantity.

I want to create better quality work.

And I know something now.

Once I know I can make something work, the hours it takes to produce something good—or even the cost—doesn’t matter as much anymore.

Because now I can see the possibility.

The possibility that I can keep creating something better.

The possibility that I can make beautiful things.

The possibility that I can have anything in the world.

And that feeling is enormous.

So enormous that I had to sit still and breathe for a moment, just to let my body catch up with it.

Here are some snapshots for you guys.

And hold on…

The best is yet to come.

Love,
Lalita Janette

Week 7 • August 28, 2026

Let’s begin this week with a progression in the story Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn.

I wrote a scene where Lalita and Gavin exchanged a kiss under the full moon.

It was literally a full-moon night when I wrote this.

I also created a little video scene for it, paired with the music from the story.

In the story, Lalita was never quite sure whether Gavin felt the same way she did. She wondered if what she was feeling was hers alone.

Until he kissed her.

And suddenly, she knew.

I wasn’t dreaming. I wasn’t alone. You felt the same thing I thought was mine alone.

He didn’t need to promise forever. He didn’t need to stay.

He only had to kiss her and take her doubt away.

And somehow, this week felt a little like that for me in my creative journey.

Honestly, when I sat down to write this newsletter, I felt like I had nothing to share with you.

I felt as if I hadn’t moved forward at all, but had somehow gone back to zero again.

Well, I know that wasn’t true.

But I couldn’t help it. I still struggle to see how far I’ve come and how much I’ve actually done—just like Lalita in the story, who was never quite sure of herself.

But for me, it wasn’t really a kiss from a man.

It was a number.

A statistic that opened my eyes to reality—and possibility.

So, let’s continue where we left off last week with the ad experiment.

As I said, I put on a simple ad—basically the beginning of my story—expecting the engagement to be quite low.

But I didn’t see it coming that it would be that low.

Here’s the result.

11K views, but a dramatically low number of people actually came to the page—only 147 visits.

That means only 1.3% of the people who saw the ad visited my website.

To put that into perspective, my previous ads reached 27.4K views and brought 1,628 people to my website—5.9%.

That’s quite a difference.

And strangely enough, I didn’t feel sad.

I finally knew:

This format isn’t working.

Working again is still better than working without direction.

This experiment has given me a guideline and a way forward. Knowing what doesn’t work is still better than knowing nothing.

So now I’m starting again.

Same story, different format—the format that is closer to my previous ad.

I just realized how powerful that last ad actually was.

I thought it was simply because I paid for visibility.

But no.

The content itself made a huge difference.

And now I think I’d rather invest in upleveling the way I tell the story than simply paying more money to drive visibility.

Which means…

A lot of redoing the work.

I edited the script and made the story move faster.

I redid all the music and narration with a more consistent voice.

And the next step is to explore how I can create better visuals.

Hmm.

Writing this down is making me realize that I’ve actually done quite a lot.

So, back to where I began.

I said I felt like I was back at the start.

I knew that wasn’t true.

I’m actually getting closer to understanding what works.

My mind tried to trick me again.

And yes, I fell for it.

But I always get back up.

And oh yeah…

The cat. 🐈

She is much more confident now and has started to show her personality:

Sweet.

Fun.

Independent.

And somehow, she has become even more beautiful.

And yes, there is still hope and progress for both of us.

Cheer for now.

See you next week.

Love,
Lalita Janette

Hi, friends.

Since last week, I’ve been testing Instagram ads with a very unclear direction.
The only thing I know for sure is that the ads work.

They do send people to my website, where my story, Good Girls Cry, Bad Girls Mourn, is sitting there waiting to be explored.

But somehow, it still hasn’t been discovered—or enjoyed—by anyone yet.

Not gonna pretend it didn’t hurt.
My mind knows there is a lot of trial, testing, and error involved in this process.
But my emotions didn’t quite catch up.
So I went into a black hole of self-doubt.
I started doubting my story.
I’ve been in this black hole before. There were times when it felt as if I would never find my way out.

But I did.
I got through it.
And now I’m ready to put it through another test.

One thing I’ve noticed is that the black-hole period is getting shorter.
It used to take me three or four months to recover from a disappointment like this.

Then weeks.
Now, it took only a few days.

Somehow, I’m beginning to understand that walking the journey of a solopreneur isn’t only about the product you’re building. It’s also about building the muscle to recover from each hope and disappointment. And I am definitely a different person from three days ago.

I’m ready to change, adapt, and give this story another chance to thrive.
So, let’s take a look at what I’m going to do—and what I’ll continue testing this week.

A new experiment

I’m adopting a new approach to my ads.

Instead of focusing on making them super fast-paced and highly engaging, I want to show the story more directly.

My guess is that when people are stimulated by a fast-paced ad and then suddenly arrive at something much slower, there might be a mismatch.

A friend of mine who is an expert in Meta ads—and has sold many products online with great success—told me something a long time ago:

If your ad is too good or too entertaining, you can end up spending a lot of money on people who aren’t actually interested in your product. They watched because the ad entertained them.

That idea actually contradicts quite a lot of what I believe.
But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

Perhaps a simpler ad will attract fewer people—but the people who stop might actually care about the story.

Secondly, I’m going to explore more ways to showcase the story itself and keep testing.

I learned the hard way that I spent too long developing this story without testing it with the world.

That makes it harder to let go.

But at the same time, I know those long years of isolating myself with my work were necessary for me.

I needed to let the idea take root inside me.

And before I even know whether it will work out or not, this story has already taken such deep root that giving up feels almost impossible.

So, yeah.

That’s my journey this week, guys.

And what about my shoulder?

Oh, how my painful shoulder is going…
Yeah, it’s still with me.
But I’m getting better at accepting it, and somehow it seems to protest a little less when I stop fighting it.

And have I told you?

I got a cat.
Well…
Not our cat yet.
She just came walking into our garden.

A pure white cat.

I had never seen a white cat since moving to Cyprus nine months ago, so seeing her was quite a surprise.

She was extremely fearful.
The moment she saw me, she ran to the other end of the garden.
But we stayed there, at a distance, just witnessing each other.

I sang her a little song.
Just to comfort her.=
Something along the lines of:

You are safe.
You are loved.
You don’t have to be all alone.

And somehow, she softened.
She came a little closer.
She ate.
She relaxed.
She even let me touch her.

She has been here for four nights now—eating, resting, and slowly becoming more comfortable, although she is still very careful.

And somehow…

she feels like a little mirror of my own journey.

Scared.
A little alone.
But still hold on to hope

That is for now, this week! See you next time

Love

Lalita Janette

My dear,
Another update from me

This week is marketing week.
My ads are running, and so is my mood.

Oh God… I want to escape this journey and call it quits. Honestly, imagine the emotional roller coaster this has put me through.
Especially when the ads land in front of people who don’t like them.

People who hate the use of AI.
People who have strong opinions about what I’m doing.
And suddenly, all those opinions are sitting there, looking back at me.

At first, my instinct was to delete those comments and let them disappear, just as my dad always taught me in his Zen Buddhist way.

But then something in me said:
No.
This is exactly the moment I need to stand by myself.
Not as a softer, more polite version of myself who makes sure everyone is comfortable.
Not as someone who needs everyone to agree with me.
But as the woman who created this work.
The woman who believes in it.
The woman who is willing to let it exist in the world.

So I decided to create another piece of art, another AI video, in response, and pair it with the caption:

I am here to stay.

You are free not to like it.
You are free to disagree with me.
You are free to have your opinion but it doesn’t get to take me out of my game.

And that realization felt surprisingly empowering.
Because perhaps this is another part of putting my work into the world that I didn’t fully understand before.

It’s not only about learning how to market.

It’s learning how to remain myself while being seen.
To hear criticism without immediately questioning everything I believe.
To let someone dislike what I created without deciding that I must have done something wrong.
To keep going even when the world doesn’t immediately say yes, while a faint echo of my dad’s voice whispers in the back of my mind: “Come back.”

So yes, I am still figuring this out.
Some days I want to run away.
Some days I feel completely overwhelmed.

But I’m here.
I’m standing by myself.
I’m standing by my work.
I’m standing by what I believe.
And this time, I’m not walking away from myself.

Chill, chill.
Hold on to your opinion.
I’m ready to fight.
No—not the fight you think.
The fight in my marketing game.

So let me share with you a closer look at how my ads are performing.
Let’s look at the overview first.

My aim is simple: I want people to visit my website and, eventually, discover the free Explorer episode.

Here is the website result so far, up until today, August 14.
I’ve had a total of 1,266 visits.

Surprisingly, most of them came from Facebook, even though I was mainly focusing on Instagram.

That made me think that perhaps I need to rethink where I’m putting my focus.

Here is where people are checking in from.
It’s no surprise that Cyprus is number one, since I’m actually only targeting Cyprus at the moment. I live here, so I wanted to start where I am.

There are also quite a lot of views from Indonesia. That one was my mistake. I accidentally clicked the wrong setting on one of the ads.

Oh, my bad!

The overall result came from two main videos.
The first one was the video I put up and ran first.

I spent around $30 on it and got about 15K views, with 747 visits (From Cyprus) to my landing page.
But so far, no one has entered the free Explorer episode.

My first thought was: perhaps the landing page isn’t impactful enough yet.
But I don’t want to jump to that conclusion too quickly.

Then I created a second video and started testing different settings.
For this one, I tried two different approaches.

The first sent people directly to the chapter 1.
It got around 10K views, 427 website visits (From Indonesia), and cost only about $6.

The second approach used a mix of different actions (from Cyprus).
That one performed much worse when it came to sending people to my website. It got around 6K views but almost no additional website visits.

So clearly, I wouldn’t continue with the mixed-actions approach.

Overall, I still need more information.
I also need to learn how to plan my ad testing better.

This is my first week doing this. Some of the parameters weren’t fixed consistently between the different tests, which means the results aren’t truly comparable yet.

And strangely enough, looking at all of this has done something much more important than giving me marketing data.

It calmed my panicked mind.
A few days ago, my mind was saying:

“It’s not working.”
“It’s a failure.”
“Maybe the whole idea doesn’t work.”

But now I can look at the numbers and say:

No.

We are working on it.
We have data.
We have evidence.
We have things to learn.
We have things to test.

And that feels very different from reacting to an emotional trigger or an old piece of programming or one random comment on the internet.

Maybe this is also part of learning to put my work into the world.
Not every uncomfortable feeling is a sign that I should stop.
Sometimes, I just need to take a breath, look at the evidence, and keep going.

And before I go…

Thank you for being here and witnessing this journey with me.
I know I’m sharing a lot of things that are still unfinished.

The novel is out in the world, but I’m still learning how to let it find its readers.
The marketing is running, but I’m still figuring out what works.

Some days I feel confident.
Some days I completely lose my mind.
And perhaps that is exactly what I want this little space to be.
Not a place where I come back every week with everything figured out.
But a place where I can tell you what is actually happening.

The beautiful parts.
The messy parts.
The things that work.
The things that don’t.

And what I learn somewhere in between.

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for witnessing.

And if you’re still here next week, I’ll have another story to tell.

Until then,

I’m going to keep making the work, keep learning the game, and keep coming back to myself.

Love,

Lalita Janette

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.