I have fought. Like a lion. To the bone.
And yes, it’s not over yet. The legal and emotional work continues. But still… something inside me whispers: it’s okay. Not because everything is resolved. But because I feel I can breathe again. That I can, finally, let it rest for a moment.
For the first time, I accepted help. Something I rarely do. Not out of pride, but because I long believed I had to carry everything alone. This time, no. And yes, it brought a strange kind of guilt. But at the same time… it brought peace. And for that peace, I’m deeply grateful.
At some point, I realized I’m no longer fighting my memories.
They simply walk beside me.
Not as a burden.
But as what was once soft and real.
These past few days have shown me how much gentleness there can be in what seems insignificant. A morning walk. A glass on a table. An unexpected encounter with someone staying in his car. A couple who sensed me already last year — and now reappear with questions, understanding, and promises.
Today, I met a young man on the beach.
On vacation for five days, staying in his car.
Lost in thought. Vodka-cola in hand. No judgment. Just softness.
It touched me.
Not because of who he was, but because of what he reflected.
In the past, I would have thought: “He lives in his car.”
But that’s not the same.
Someone who stays temporarily is not someone without a destination.
And it reminded me of someone else.
Someone who truly did live in his car.
And suddenly, the silence returned.
Because even in stillness… everything still lives on a little.
I’m realizing more and more that the sense of loss doesn’t disappear.
And maybe it doesn’t have to.
The memories remain vivid.
But they are beginning to move.
They hurt less.
They become softer. More grateful.
I know how much pain I’ve carried.
But I also feel how I’m slowly learning not to see that pain as a wound,
but as a witness to something that was once truly real.
Maybe this is just an in-between time. A pause.
It is judicial recess, isn’t it?
So I let it rest. Not because I’ve forgotten. But because now, I dare to set it down.
And maybe that’s the greatest victory of all.
Reflection
I’ve now learned that allowing isn’t weakness. That I don’t have to do it all alone. And that memories become gentler when I stop trying to control them.
Psychological insights:
• Relational autonomy
True autonomy means choosing who you let in — and who you don’t. Allowing help can be a form of strength, as long as it stems from choice, not necessity.
• Guilt around rest or healing
Those who’ve lived in survival mode for a long time often feel guilt when they finally slow down. That guilt often hides an old belief: “I must prove my worth to exist.”
• Memory as inner movement
When a memory is no longer stuck in pain but starts to move, it becomes a direction rather than a weight.
• Mirroring through encounters
Sometimes an encounter touches something already alive inside us. Not because the other does something, but because they reflect a part of ourselves. Like the young man on the beach. Or the couple, returning unexpectedly.
• The healing power of allowing
Allowing is not surrendering. It’s an intentional act: making space for support, gentleness, or peace — without losing yourself.
Spiritual reflections:
• In Christianity
Jesus let Simon of Cyrene carry his cross. Even the path of love is not a solo journey. Accepting help is not failure — it’s the recognition of our shared humanity.
• In Buddhism
Stopping is not giving up; it’s awakening. Compassion begins with oneself: welcoming what is, without judgment. Even guilt may arise — as long as you don’t believe it.
• In Sufism
“Let in what wants to come. Let go of what wants to leave.” Inner silence arises when we stop resisting what longs to rest. Surrender is not an end, but a passage.
• In Taoism
The river does not fight the stones; it flows around them. Softness is often the greatest strength. One who allows without losing themselves moves with the current — not against it.
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