Tag: dailyprompt

Breaking the Silence: A Journey of Healing and Strength

Three years ago, I met the man of my dreams—or so I thought. He seemed kind, thoughtful, and everything I could ever want in a partner. For a while, I believed in the idea of us, in the possibility of building a life together. But even then, there was this quiet voice in the back of my mind telling me that love alone wouldn’t be enough. I wanted a child. I really did. But the reality of my situation, the weight of my debts, made me wonder how I could make it all work.

Then I found out I was pregnant. Despite the financial challenges, there was a rush of excitement. I wanted to be a mother, and the news filled me with a sense of purpose, even though the world felt heavy. I wasn’t prepared in the way society might expect, but in that moment, something shifted inside me. My daughter gave me purpose. She gave me life, a reason to keep fighting. I felt strength and courage I didn’t even know I had, and suddenly, I was standing on my own two feet, ready to bring this beautiful soul into the world.

Before I got pregnant, I had already been struggling with depression. I had taken time off work, trying to find some sense of balance, some way out of the darkness. But when I found out I was pregnant, I also found a new reason to fight. It wasn’t just about survival anymore; it was about living for someone else, someone who needed me more than anyone ever had.

The early days of pregnancy were filled with uncertainty. Despite the love I felt for my unborn child, I couldn’t shake the weight of my debts and the fear of what the future might hold. But I pushed through. I had to. I started to feel something deep inside me—a shift, a quiet confidence that I would find a way to make this work. My daughter was going to be my everything.

When she was born, the reality of motherhood settled in. There were sleepless nights, moments of doubt, but also immeasurable joy. I had the baby I’d longed for, but things weren’t as simple as I’d imagined. His family, ever present, began pushing their own expectations on how we should raise our daughter. I wasn’t ready to bend, but he didn’t step in. He didn’t defend us. And the tension between his family’s demands and my desire to parent the way I thought best created a constant strain.

As the weeks turned into months, it became more apparent that his inability to set boundaries with his family was taking a toll. I felt alone in the battle. Alone in my desire to protect my child and create the family I envisioned. Every argument, every disagreement seemed to revolve around them. I couldn’t understand how the man I loved and trusted could prioritize their needs over mine, over the family we were trying to build. It hurt. Deeply.

There were moments when I thought I could walk away, when I felt like I was losing myself. I was exhausted—physically, emotionally, mentally. I took time off, went home for a month, hoping to find some clarity. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, I’d return to a different situation. But when I came back, things hadn’t changed. The cracks were still there, and I was still hurting.

The turning point came with the new year. I was in a deep low again, my depression creeping back into my life. I took time off work, hoping for some support, for him to step up. But instead, he pulled further away. He lived his life, as if nothing was wrong. When I confronted him about it, the gaslighting began. He made me doubt myself, made me believe I was asking for too much.

Then, I found out the truth. The man I had loved, the father of my child, was cheating. The pain of it hit me like a wave, pulling the ground from beneath me. I told my family. I told my friends. But I didn’t confront him—not yet. I had to make a plan. I had to leave, but I wasn’t ready to walk away just yet. Not with the debts and financial strain weighing me down.

The more I watched him, the more I saw the lies, the deceit. I checked his phone and confirmed what I already feared—he was still seeing her. They had planned a trip together, and there he was, complaining about having to care for our baby. It wasn’t just the betrayal that hurt; it was the way he showed no respect for our daughter, for me. He let her cry, when we had both agreed we wouldn’t do that. It wasn’t just infidelity—it was cruelty, selfishness, and disregard for the family we’d created.

I was done. I knew in my heart that I couldn’t keep going like this. No matter what happened, I wasn’t going back to him. Even if the world ended, I wouldn’t go back to a man who had betrayed me, who had hurt me and our child. I was focused on what was next, on building a better future for us. I started to take it day by day, pushing forward for the sake of my daughter, for the sake of my healing.

I’m still healing. The sadness comes in waves, and some days it feels like the weight of it all is too much. But there’s also this strength I didn’t know I had—this fierce love for my daughter that keeps me moving. I’m focused on my future. I’m focused on what’s next. I’m working toward financial freedom, searching for a role that will give me the stability I need. And through all the hurt, through all the pain, I know that I’m stronger than I ever thought I was. I’m fighting for us. I’m fighting for me.

When Protecting Your Peace Means Letting Go of Old Patterns

Today broke something open inside me.

Not in a loud, messy way — but in the quiet, aching way that tells you something has shifted for good.

For a while now, I’ve been feeling the edges of it:

Small things, piling up like tiny stones pressing on my chest.

The way my home doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

The way decisions about my child are made without me, around me, over me.

The way “help” starts to feel more like control.

The way the atmosphere feels heavy — like I have to apologize for existing in my own life.

At first, I brushed it off.

I told myself I was overreacting, that I should be grateful.

That having help is better than doing it alone.

But somewhere deep inside, a voice kept whispering: Something isn’t right.

Today it became impossible to ignore.

Today I realized — the help came with a price.

And the price was my peace, my voice, my right to be the mother I am choosing to be.

It hit me how much of my upbringing is being replayed right here, in front of my eyes.

How fear was used to mold us.

How tidiness wasn’t about pride, but about punishment.

How respect was demanded, not earned.

How joy was rationed and wins were never simply celebrated — they were dissected, compared, measured, used to fuel someone else’s idea of “how things should be.”

And now, it’s happening again — but this time, it’s aimed at my child.

At the little girl I carried, birthed, nursed.

The little girl I promised would know a different kind of love.

The kind that sees her.

The kind that lifts her up without crushing her spirit.

I’m not crazy.

I’m not ungrateful.

I’m not overreacting.

I’m waking up.

And today, I decided: I will protect my peace and my daughter’s peace at all costs.

Even if it means making other people uncomfortable.

Even if it means being seen as the villain in someone else’s story.

Even if it means letting go of the illusion of closeness with someone I desperately wanted connection with.

Even if it means doing it alone for a while.

Because my daughter deserves a home built on love, not fear.

And I deserve a life where my voice matters — not just when it’s convenient for others.

I’m scared.

I’m tired.

But more than anything, I’m sure.

This cycle ends with me.

The Struggle of Letting Go: Finding My Peace in the Chaos of My Mother’s Love

For years, I’ve bent and twisted myself to fit into what others need from me, especially my mother. I’ve sacrificed my peace, my sanity, and sometimes even my identity, just to make sure everyone around me—especially her—is comfortable. It’s a burden I’ve carried for as long as I can remember, but the weight of it has reached its limit.

I used to think that helping others, especially my family, meant being there for them at all costs—putting their needs above mine, constantly smoothing things over, and making sure the peace is kept. But recently, I’ve had to face a truth that’s been growing inside me for years: help comes at a price. And for far too long, I’ve been the one paying that price.

With my mum, it’s always felt like there’s a price for her help—emotional blackmail, resentment, and a constant undercurrent of criticism. She’s helped me, yes, but the moment I accept that help, there’s a shift. Suddenly, I’m indebted to her in ways I never agreed to, and my needs and boundaries don’t matter anymore. She has a way of making me feel like I owe her not just for the help she gives me, but for her love, for her mere presence. And it’s exhausting.

I’ve spent so much of my life navigating the emotional landmine that is my relationship with my mother. She’s the one who raised me, yes, but she also became the one who made me feel invisible, unworthy, and like I was always in her shadow. The sacrifices I made for her and my brothers were always meant to be acts of love, but somewhere along the way, I lost myself in them. Now, I realize I’ve been walking on eggshells, trying to please her, trying to get her approval, and in the process, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to just breathe.

The pain I feel isn’t just from her criticisms, or the constant undermining of my boundaries—it’s from the realization that she has never truly seen me for who I am. The love I’ve shown her, the things I’ve done for her, have never been enough, and it’s time for me to stop trying to prove myself.

It hit me recently: I need to stop putting myself in a position where her discomfort becomes my responsibility. Her anger, her bitterness, her constant need for validation—those aren’t my burdens to carry anymore. Her inability to respect my boundaries, her constant overstepping, her need to control everything I do with my own child—none of that is mine to fix.

I’ve given so much of myself to try and make her comfortable, to try and please her, but at the cost of my own peace. I’ve been holding myself back, compromising on what I believe in, just to keep the peace. But I can’t do it anymore. I won’t do it anymore.

I’ve spent enough time living in fear of her anger, of her judgment. But now, I’m done. If her discomfort means that I have to choose myself over her, then I’ll do it. Even if it means creating distance, even if it means cutting ties, even if it means losing the ‘help’ she’s always given me. I’m ready to let go of this cycle of needing her approval, of needing her love, because I know now that I will never get it in a way that truly nourishes me.

It’s hard. It hurts. But I have to stand in my own truth. I’ve spent years trying to heal the wound she created inside of me, but healing can only happen if I finally step away from the thing that’s been tearing me down. It’s time for me to be my own source of comfort, my own source of strength. And that means drawing clear lines, setting boundaries, and making sure that her anger, her discomfort, doesn’t become my problem anymore.

I’m learning that peace doesn’t come from making others comfortable. It comes from honoring my own needs and standing firm in what I believe in. And no matter how much it hurts, I know that I can’t keep sacrificing my peace for someone who doesn’t see me, doesn’t respect me, and doesn’t truly love me in the way I need to be loved.

It’s time to stop giving my power away, even if it means losing everything I thought I needed. It’s time to choose me.

And that’s what I’ll do, every single day.

Surviving the Storm: A Love Letter to My Healing Journey

Its been two months since I found out the man I thought I was building a life with had been cheating on me.

The heartbreak wasn’t just emotional — it felt like a thousand swords stabbing my heart all at once, over and over again.

Since then, I’ve been trying to exist inside a nightmare I can’t yet wake up from.

On the outside, it might look like I’m holding it together — navigating my complicated relationship with my mother, managing my home, raising my daughter — but inside, I’m still fighting waves of pain that come without warning.

Some days, like today, I even find myself laughing and smiling around him.

Not because the pain is gone — but because survival sometimes looks like choosing not to bleed in front of the person who wounded you.

I think back to the times when I would have curled up next to him on the couch after putting our daughter to bed.

But now, even in fleeting memories, the betrayal slices through any warmth I might feel.

I’ve moved on — I know that. I don’t want him back.

But moving forward? That’s the part that feels impossible some days.

Not because I’m stuck in love, but because the practical steps — finding financial stability, building a way out — take time.

It’s torture living under the same roof, watching him prepare himself for other women, watching him glow for them the way he couldn’t even pretend to for us.

And yet, every morning, I wake up and fight.

Because I have a little girl who deserves better.

I fight not for him, not even for the version of myself that he broke —

I fight for her.

Because if something were to happen to me, I need to know that I did everything in my power to protect her from a future where someone like him could ever hurt her.

Some days I feel like he’s a cancer, draining the very soul out of me.

I know that no simple stitches will fix what he’s done — my healing needs surgery, chemotherapy, an entire rebirth.

And still — I survive.

I breathe through the heartbreak.

I resist the urge to engage in his cruelty.

I choose silence when silence is safer.

I choose peace when my spirit aches for justice.

I’m carrying more than heartbreak.

I’m carrying the weight of breaking generational curses, of healing patterns that run deeper than anyone sees.

It feels like everything, all at once — and still, somehow, I float.

I survive.

I endure.

I keep showing up.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I don’t cry behind closed doors.

But because my daughter deserves a mother who fought for both of them.

I pray every day for a lifeline — for the day when someone sees the battle I’m fighting and says,

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. We see you. We are here.”

Until then, I carry my own torch.

And every flicker of light I create is proof:

I am my own rescue.

Cooking is my love language

What foods would you like to make?

When you search for my heart, you’ll find it in the one place that feels like home: the kitchen. Whether it’s cooking samp, beans, and oxtail or making a no-bake cheesecake, the aromas that fill the air and the time and dedication I invest create my happy place.

Only a few have been lucky enough to share a meal made by me. Every time I cook, it comes from the heart—an expression of my love on a plate.

I still have a long way to go with my culinary skills, but my curiosity to try new things, coupled with my never-ending urge to learn, allows me to explore levels I never knew I could reach. Perhaps my passion stems from watching my mom excel with her catering company or from the cherished memories of my granny teaching me how to make my first full meal at the tender age of nine.

Cooking has always been my escape. When I’m stressed, it calms me down, makes me forget my worries, and lets me dance to the music while whipping up something that tells my story.

I used to be insecure about cooking for others, mainly out of fear of rejection. This insecurity sometimes stemmed from a need for perfection, instilled by my dad, who would fuss if I didn’t cook a good meal growing up.

I got lucky and met a man who appreciates my cooking—the good, the bad, and even the burnt cauliflower. He gave me newfound confidence in the kitchen, inspiring me to dream of owning my own restaurant where people can feel at home.

I can’t wait to share my love and passion for cooking with my daughter and her future siblings. Though I’m not one to share the kitchen, for my little angel, there’s no better chef’s assistant. She is my life, my light, my heartbeat, and my will to keep going in this life full of ups and downs.

I hope someone out there feels the way I do about cooking—the place where my heart feels at peace and my soul feels fulfilled.

A symphony of love and pain

What bothers you and why?

From the moment I met you, it felt like I’d known you all my life. We embarked on an adventure filled with sunflowers and occasional rain. The day we brought our baby home, my world changed profoundly. I felt an overwhelming love for our little one and a newfound appreciation for you, who gave me this wonderful gift. But somehow, in that same moment, I began to lose you.

The man who once cried with me and shared my worries seemed to transform into someone I no longer recognize. I ignored the arguments at first, believing I was at fault. But now, a year later, I realize the man I fell for and the man in front of me are not the same. I feel foolish for falling so deeply and quickly, and now I question if you ever felt the same way.

These days, my tears, sadness, and worries seem meaningless to you. The tender care you once showed me has vanished. I feel alone in this relationship, with you only present when you choose to be. I’ve been fighting for us since day one, but I’ve reached a breaking point. I need to see you fight for us too, to know that we are in this together.

I’ve always tried to be there for you, supporting you in every way I can, sharing in your joys and shouldering your burdens. I’ve cherished every moment, from our happiest times to the challenges we faced together. I’ve been clear about what I want, but I don’t think you know what you want. Your treatment of me, the lack of defense for me, and the constant emotional neglect suggest you may not want to be with me. When someone loves another, they show it in every possible way. You say you love me, but I don’t feel it, and that hurts because I know I deserve better.

This is my love letter to you. Love is something given freely, without expectation. If we are meant to be, we will weather this storm together. If not, I am grateful for the opportunity to have loved you and hope you find someone who makes you feel as I feel about you.

Allowing myself to be loved

Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

I can recall the moments where I did not solicit these random acts of love that live rent free in my heart:

1. In 2017 I fell ill and had to take time off work. During this time my mood was low and I was in excruciating pain. Every morning my uncle woke me up with breakfast, lunch time he would walk to my favourite chicken joint and buy we whatever I felt like and dinner time he would make different warm meals. My uncle is a wild case but he showed me a love I’d never experienced, being taken care of without asking. Just thinking of it gives me butterflies in my stomach! I’ll never forgot what he did for me, he may not be perfect, in that moment, he was what I did not know I needed.

2. Carrying on from the same story, my mum also showed me warmth I never knew existed in her. Growing up we had a rocky relationship, she’s quite strict and shows little emotion. However, in my weakest moment, she was the true definition of a mum. Every day she ran me a bath and bathed me. I cannot describe what those moments felt like all I know is that was true love. I’m crying just thinking of this.

3. Last year during the last trimester of my pregnancy I realised my partner and I were struggling to prepare for the baby. I asked my brother if he would be willing to come and help me out for a month as hiring someone would cost an arm and a leg. He did not even hesitate, just got his visa sorted and flew over within the next month. When he arrived he took care of me, I’m a chatterbox and all he did during the day was talk and listen to me. I felt seen and heard in those moments. During my pregnancy I felt so lonely and overwhelmed as I was diagnosed with depression pre-pregnancy. In addition to that he helped transform my flat into a fresh nest for his niece. My brother and I have always been close and that brought us even closer. Initially I was embarrassed to ask him, looking back it was the best decision I ever made. I’m forever for his love and support in everything that I do, he’s a big reason for my growth overall as a better human being and I’m proud to have him as a brother and uncle to my baby girl.

3. My dad and I are like cousins. He’s a story for another day. One thing I can count on is his support in times of despair. When I first moved overseas, I had a horrible working experience and considered leaving it all and moving back home. I took time off and I told my dad all about it, he gave me the best advice. And five years later I have him to thank for still hanging on.

4. The birth of my baby girl will always be my absolute favourite thing. The experience was traumatic, however, I would do it all over again just to get to meet her and hold her in my arms. Her cute smiles warm my heart and brighten up my day. I could be feeling sad or angry but when I look at her and she always smiles at the right time, I feel at peace. I feel lucky to love and be loved by her.

5. Pre-pregnancy I was diagnosed with depression. I’ve never felt so numb in my life. I contemplated going back home and spending time with my family. However, my partner of 3 months at the time asked me to give him a chance to take care of me. When I say this man took me in, bathe me, fed me and allowed me to just be in my feelings for 2 months straight. He never acted moody or complained, just simply took care of me. He was gentle and kind in a way I didn’t know was possible. He drives me mad some days, but on those days he made me whole, he helped me fill my cup and for that I will never forget the love, care and kindness he showed me. I never expected nor asked, he just came through for me and give me what I did not know was missing in my life.

I can go on and on for days, this is my top 5 highlights in no particular order.

Forever in solitude

What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?

I think at some point one reaches a point where they have enjoyed something and do not want more. I get the feeling living a very long life might not be as glamorous as it seems.

The only reason I would want a long life is the uncertainty around death. When we enter this earth we are promised that someday we will surely leave it. The how and the when is where the mind boggle begins. For me, the anxiety around death stems from not knowing when I will go and once I do, what happens?

I guess if I knew I’d have a level of peace when it comes to the topic of death. Going back to the topic, a long life only sounds good if your loved ones also have one as well as your body never aging. If I had eternity alone, I’d be forever miserable seeing those I love and care about leave me and knowing I’m nowhere closer to joining them.

As the saying goes, all good things must come to an end, including life itself. The only thing we can do is enjoy each day and appreciate every breath we are blessed to take.

The first thought is your gut, trust it

Do you trust your instincts?

Yes I do! it took me a while to reach a place where I trust my gut and I’m glad I finally made it there. Of course I didn’t get here on my own, my brother helped me by constantly challenging me to accept my own narrative rather than that of others as it’s mainly laced with doubt, insecurities as well as the fear to accept what is.

I am someone who dreams a lot and my dreams tend to come to pass. In the past I would expect people to act on these messages but my brother taught me that I am a messenger and it’s up to the other person to decide what their next step looks like.

When it comes to things like people and intention I always follow my gut and intuition. I am rarely lead astray by it and sometimes it’s just life happening. for me, my instincts are just God, my angels and the universe looking out for me. When I need to make bold decisions I always pray and give it time to receive an answer by being still.

Finally, if you are on the journey of learning to trust your instinct, always remember, the first thought is your gut, anything else after is your mind clouded by ego!