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

My husband’s birthday is right here, and it feels like the perfect moment to reflect on and share our story. It’s a journey filled with love, resilience, and growth—a testament to the magic of the Universe and the strength of two hearts committed to each other. As I look back on where we started and everything we’ve been through, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the life we’re building together.

On March 21, 2016, my life changed forever. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the day the Universe answered one of my deepest wishes: to find the love of my life. It happened in the most unexpected way, in a bustling city, on an ordinary day that turned into the extraordinary.

I met my husband in Bangkok during what was supposed to be a short visit for him. But fate had other plans—what was meant to be a brief trip turned into a year-long stay. Looking back, I believe that this wasn’t just a coincidence. It was the Universe listening to the quiet wish I had whispered, a wish to find the love of my life.

When I saw him for the first time, everything changed. He wasn’t just another person in the room—he was a force of nature. His hazelnut eyes radiated kindness, his smile lit up the space, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: hope. In that moment, my heart whispered, “This is him.”

Over the years, our connection deepened. We laughed, traveled, and shared moments that became the foundation of our life together. Then, on October 26, 2021, he gave me the greatest surprise of all.

He planned a trip to S’agaro, Spain, and brought me to La Gavina, a historic hotel steeped in timeless elegance. I had no idea what he had planned, even when he nervously disappeared and reappeared with champagne, pretending it was a gift from the hotel. When he knelt down on one knee, my world froze. I don’t even remember the exact words he said—just the overwhelming emotion of knowing this man wanted to spend his life with me. Of course, I said “yes.” We got married on May 7, 2022.

But it wasn’t always easy, life gave us one of its hardest tests: we lost his mother. It was a devastating blow, one that broke both our hearts.

Her loss was a reminder of how fragile life can be, and it bonded us in a deeper way. We leaned on each other through the pain and came out stronger. In the moment that followed, other challenges emerged, including fractures within my own family. It was a time of uncertainty and grief, but through it all, he was my rock. He held me when I cried, stood beside me when I felt lost, and reminded me every day that we were in this together.

Those hard times didn’t break us—they made us stronger. We emerged from the pain with a renewed bond, one forged in love and resilience. This year, I took his last name, embracing the life we’ve built together.

We’re still on the journey, working toward our shared dreams. Financial stability is something we’re striving for, but he shoulders so much to make our lives work. He takes care of every detail, gives me the freedom to chase my passion as a writer, and treats me like a queen even when things aren’t easy.

What inspires me most is his unwavering dedication—to me, to us, and to our future. He’s smart, ethical, hardworking, and constantly planting seeds for the life we envision. I believe in him with all my heart. I believe in us.

So today, as I celebrate my husband’s birthday, I want to honor the incredible man he is. He’s not just my partner—he’s my anchor, my inspiration, and my greatest blessing. Here’s to him, to us, and to everything we’ll create together.

Happy Birthday, my love.

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I also wrote a song and making a music video as a gift and now you also can have a peak. Enjoy.

I just poured my heart into a song called The Permission to Dream. It wasn’t just music—it was a piece of me, raw and vulnerable. I spent hours crafting it, polishing it, making sure it captured everything I was feeling. I made a video to go with it, something beautiful that I was proud of. And then I posted it online, sharing it with the world, hoping it would resonate.

And the feedback? Silence.

This isn’t the first time, but it doesn’t get easier. I find myself questioning everything: Is my work not good enough? Am I not good enough? Why doesn’t anyone see me or what I’m trying to share? The doubts spiral, and they’re loud. They tell me to stop trying, to stop hoping, because the pain of being unseen is so sharp.

I know the advice—I’ve read it, heard it, tried to tell it to myself: Create for the joy of it, not for the validation. Trust the process. Believe in yourself. But the truth is, I’m not fully there yet. I don’t always feel like a creator. I don’t always feel strong enough to push past the silence.

Still, I keep reminding myself of something: I am a creator.

Even when I don’t feel it, I try to hold onto it. I try to tell myself that the act of creating, of putting something new into the world, matters. That it means something, even if no one else acknowledges it. It’s not easy, and most days, it doesn’t feel true. But I keep trying.

This Song’s Story

The Permission to Dream was born out of my own fluctuations about the meaning behind Christmas. Growing up, the beautiful packages wrapped in bright paper and ribbons used to spark excitement. But somewhere along the way, those gifts stopped calling to me. The glitter and perfection didn’t seem to hold the meaning I was searching for.

I started to ask myself: What is the true gift I want for myself? The answer didn’t come easily, but eventually, I realized what I longed for was this: the permission to dream. To give myself the freedom to try, to experience, to fail, and to find my way. That’s the deeper meaning I wanted—not something material, but something real and transformative.

How Do I Move Forward When I Feel Stuck in This Space?

1. Create for the Process, Even When It Hurts

I don’t always find joy in creating, especially when I’m caught up in doubts about the outcome. But I’ve learned that even on the hard days, creating can be grounding. It’s not about forcing joy; it’s about showing up for myself, even when it feels heavy.

2. Allow Myself to Dream

The Permission to Dream isn’t just the name of my song—it’s a reminder to myself. Even when the doubts are loud, I try to hold onto the possibility that my work could matter to someone, someday. It’s not easy, but giving myself that permission to dream, even just a little, keeps me moving forward.

3. Share, Even When It Feels Vulnerable

I know not everyone will see or connect with my work, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth sharing. The act of creating and putting it out there is an act of courage in itself. If you’d like to watch the music video, here’s the link:

Final Thoughts

When the silence feels deafening, it’s easy to lose sight of why you create. But I’ve come to understand that the act of creating itself is the purpose. Whether or not the world sees it, what you make has value because you made it. You are a creator, connected to the divine power of creation itself.

So keep going. Keep creating. The world may catch up, or it may not—but your art, your effort, your soul, are already enough.

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In the music video, I used scenes from a recent ski day—a day that mirrored my struggles. The uphill climbs, the falls, and the moments of doubt felt so similar to the creative journey. But just like on the slopes, I didn’t give up. Step by step, I kept moving, and that perseverance became the heart of “Permission to Dream.”

🎵 Watch “Permission to Dream” here:

This song is my gift to you—a reminder to embrace your journey, even when it feels hard. If this resonates with you, subscribe to my mailing list for more inspiration and heartfelt stories.

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Merry Christmas, and may your dreams keep soaring.

Warmly,

Lalita Janette

Dear Friends,

This year, I found myself under the Christmas tree with no gift box to open. It wasn’t that I hadn’t received anything—I’d already unwrapped all the presents I bought for myself. I couldn’t wait. But as I watched others joyfully scurry around, finding the perfect gifts for their loved ones, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. It was as if the magic of Christmas had somehow passed me by.

The thought crossed my mind: Should I buy a gift for my husband and myself? But when I tried to think of what I truly wanted, the answer eluded me. I had already treated myself to so many wonderful things and countless other treasures that I’ve long dreamed of owning.

Yet, despite all these gifts, I couldn’t ignore the feeling of not wanting anything more. Not in the way I expected to. There was something deeper, a sense of longing that didn’t have anything to do with material things. My inner child felt neglected, unsatisfied. I had everything I thought I wanted, but something inside me was quietly saying, “It’s not enough.”

On Christmas Day, we went to the supermarket to pick up a special meal, but the idea of an extravagant feast didn’t appeal to me. Even though I could have indulged in a roast or foie gras—luxuries I usually crave—nothing seemed to stir excitement. I didn’t feel the need to treat myself. And yet, there it was: the heaviness, the unshakable feeling that something was missing.

I took a moment to ask myself, What do I really want? What does my inner child want? In the silence, I heard her voice, trembling, fragile—yet loud enough to cut through the noise. “I want something,” she whispered.

She continued, “I want the freedom to express, to try, and to fail. Don’t put a price on my mistakes. Don’t let the fear of failure stop me from growing. Will my learning process cost you too much?”

Tears welled in my eyes. In that moment, I realized the Christmas gift I truly needed wasn’t something wrapped in paper or tied with a bow—it was the permission to play, to explore, and to fail.

This year, I had been experimenting with creating videos using AI. Each experiment came at a cost—both financially and emotionally. I hired an AI artist to bring my ideas to life, but the results didn’t align with my vision. I tried different AI tools, each of them requiring a monetary investment, and each time, I felt a sense of hesitation. I didn’t mind paying for something that worked, but the fear of wasting money on something that didn’t work kept me paralyzed.

I realized that my fear of failure, of wasting money, was keeping me stuck. I wouldn’t let myself experiment or take risks unless I knew for sure it would work. But how could I know if something would work unless I took the leap and tried?

And then, I made a decision. Enough. I told myself that this Christmas, I would stop letting the fear of spending and failing hold me back. I would give myself the freedom to experiment, to fail, and to learn without worrying about the costs or the outcome.

This Christmas, I gave myself the gift of freedom—the freedom to explore, to create, and to be imperfect. To embrace the journey, even when the end result is uncertain.

Merry Christmas to me—and to all of you who might need to hear this message: give yourself permission to dream, to try, and to fail. It’s not the material gifts that bring joy; it’s the courage to be vulnerable and the freedom to grow.

Warmly,

Lalita Janette

There are moments in life when everything feels uncertain. When you pour your heart into your work, but the results don’t reflect the effort. The voice of doubt creeps in, and you start questioning if all the time, energy, and passion you’ve invested will ever pay off. If you’ve been feeling like this, I want to tell you something loud and clear: You will make it.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that the setbacks and challenges you face are signs of failure. But what if I told you those moments are not evidence of defeat—they’re simply stepping stones leading to your inevitable success?

The Lies of Failure

It’s time to face the truth: failure is not your future. The moments of disappointment, the unmet expectations, and the struggles you face are lies. They’re the noise, the illusion that tries to convince you that your dreams are out of reach. But those thoughts don’t define you—they don’t dictate your path. They are merely temporary obstacles.

When you’re trying to build something meaningful, failure can feel like an unrelenting force, whispering that you’re not enough, that your efforts will never matter. But here’s the truth: failure is a lie. It doesn’t define who you are or what you’re capable of. Every setback you face is not a dead end; it’s simply part of the process that’s going to lead you to the success that’s already waiting for you.

Your Efforts Are Not Wasted

It’s important to remind yourself that everything you’ve done so far matters. Every piece of work you’ve created, every lesson you’ve learned along the way, every small improvement you’ve made—they are all adding up. Even when you don’t see the results immediately, the work is not wasted. It’s laying the foundation for what’s coming next.

Success is not an accident. It’s built through persistence, patience, and the courage to keep going even when things feel uncertain. When you feel like giving up, remember that you’ve already taken so many steps forward. You’re building something that will eventually come to fruition.

You’re not lost, and you’re not failing. You’re in the process of becoming who you are meant to be—and that is the most important part of the journey.

The Power of Persistence

If you’ve ever felt like your efforts are going unnoticed or your progress is too slow, I want you to understand this: Success doesn’t happen overnight. It’s built on persistence. It’s the commitment to show up, day after day, and to continue even when the results don’t match the work you’re putting in.

Many successful people have faced rejection, failure, and frustration before reaching the place they are today. They didn’t let temporary obstacles stop them. Instead, they used those moments to grow stronger, to learn, and to fine-tune their craft. You can do the same. The key is to keep moving forward with unwavering belief in your potential. You are on your way to success—right now, in this very moment.

Your Work Is Special

The world needs what you have to offer. There is something uniquely yours in every piece of work you create—something that no one else can replicate. Your ideas, your creativity, your perspective are irreplaceable. Your work is not just another project—it’s a reflection of your unique voice, and that’s what makes it special.

Even when you feel like it’s not being recognized, remember this: the right audience will find you. It may take time, but the right people will resonate with your message and appreciate the value you bring. Your work has a purpose, and it’s just a matter of time before it reaches the people who need it most.

Success Is Inevitable

Here’s the bottom line: You will make it. There is no question about it. Your success is inevitable because you have what it takes to achieve it. The world might not always validate your efforts immediately, but that doesn’t mean your hard work is in vain. Success doesn’t happen on anyone else’s timeline; it happens when it’s meant to.

If you stay true to yourself, keep learning, and continue to show up for your dreams, your success will come. The setbacks? They’re part of your journey. The doubts? They’re just noise. And every step you take, no matter how small, is moving you closer to your success.

Trust the Process

It’s easy to get caught up in the desire for immediate results. We live in a world where instant gratification is common, but success is rarely instant. It takes time, growth, and a willingness to keep going even when the road gets tough.

You don’t need to worry about when success will come. You don’t need to focus on how it will happen. All you need to do is trust that it will happen—and continue on your path with unwavering belief that you are on the way.

Conclusion: You Are Destined for Success

Remember, you are destined for success. The journey may not always be easy, but you’re exactly where you need to be. Each challenge, each piece of work you create, and each lesson learned is getting you closer to the success that awaits you. Don’t let the lies of failure or the pressure of instant results distract you from your true path. You will make it. Keep going, stay true to yourself, and trust that your hard work will lead to the success you deserve.