1. Letting go.
Letting go has been one of the hardest and most necessary lessons. There is a violence in clinging. It is never just about releasing the thing itself—it is about releasing the version of yourself who thought they couldn’t survive without it. I’ve learned that clinging to people, to dreams, to outcomes, doesn’t keep them alive—it slowly strangles them, and me with them. Placed carelessly, hope does not sustain—it withers and poisons. Letting go feels like unclenching a fist that has forgotten how to open. The release feels unnatural at first, like you are betraying yourself. But over time, you realize you are simply making room for what was meant to arrive. Sometimes the act of letting go is not an ending but the beginning of breathing again.
2. Crying.
Wise philosophers MisterWives once said, “Flowers don’t grow without the rain.” I used to think holding it in made me strong—that composure and silence meant control. But the truth is, silence turns into pressure, and pressure eventually cracks. Crying has taught me that strength is not the absence of tears, but the willingness to let them fall. There are moments when tears come without permission, and I used to resent them. Now I see them as evidence that I am alive, that something within me still refuses to be numb and cold. Tears don’t dissolve the ache, but they create just enough space to carry it. They protect a tenderness in me that the world would rather harden. I’ve learned that crying is not collapse—it is the exhale that steadies me to keep moving.
3. Freedom.
Freedom is often mistaken for escape, but I’ve learned it is far more intimate. It is not found in running away, but in standing still and realizing you are no longer stuck. Sometimes it looks like quitting a job, moving to another city, or leaving the church; other times, it is something quieter—choosing not to carry guilt, choosing not to explain yourself when you owe no explanation. True freedom is the quiet work of choosing the life that mirrors who you are, not who others want you to be. Its fragility lies in the fact that the choice must be made continually.
4. Rebellion.
Rebellion has taken on a different shape than I once imagined. It isn’t recklessness or chaos—it’s intentionality. It is choosing to write your own story when others have already drafted something else for you. Rebellion can look small: refusing to conform to timelines, rejecting traditions that suffocate you, or even choosing to heal when bitterness would be easier. For me, rebellion has been about reclaiming my truth, even if others disapprove. It is not destruction for its own sake—it is construction, laying down a path that is truly mine to walk. Sometimes rebellion is loud, but more often it is quiet—a slow, steady defiance against a life that doesn’t belong to you.
5. Friendship.
The last eight years have shown me that friendship is less about constant presence and more about unwavering foundation. Real friendship endures silence, distance, and change. It is not measured by frequency of contact, but by the strength of connection when life finally allows you to sit across from each other again. Friendship is not always glamorous—it is sometimes sitting in a car in silence, a hand held when words fall short, or sending a three-word text that arrives exactly when it’s needed. I’ve learned that friends are not just people you laugh with; they are the ones who steady you when you’ve forgotten who you are. They remind you of your worth in the moments you feel unworthy. Friendship is not a luxury—it is a kind of survival.
6. Love.
Love is far messier and far more ordinary than I once believed. It is not just grand gestures or cinematic moments—it is persistence, forgiveness, and choice. Love requires vulnerability that feels unbearable, and patience that stretches beyond comfort. It strips you of illusions, exposing not only the other person but the parts of yourself you have never seen or would rather not see. Love will hurt you, and it is heavy work, but it is also a fragile gift. Sometimes it ends, and the ending feels like failure. But I’ve come to understand that love is never wasted. Even when it does not last, it leaves something behind: a lesson, a tenderness, a deeper understanding of yourself. Love doesn’t always stay, but it always shapes us.
7. Manifestation.
Manifestation has not been about magic or instant rewards—it has been about clarity. About naming what I want and then moving toward it with intention. It requires both patience and responsibility. It is not enough to simply want; I must align my choices, my discipline, my perspective. Manifestation has taught me that life responds not only to what we dream, but to what we build space for. Often, it is less about summoning something new and more about preparing myself to receive what is already moving toward me. Over the years, I’ve learned that the greatest barrier to my own becoming has often been the belief that I didn’t deserve what I asked for.
8. Heartache.
Heartache is the lesson that never seems to end. It is the shadow that has followed me, sometimes at a distance, sometimes pressed against my ribs. It is never easy, never brief, never simple. But I have learned that it is not wasted. It shows up in different forms, at different times, and each time it reshapes me. It has hollowed me, yes, but it has also carved out room for new depth. Heartache lingers long after the moment has passed—sometimes in memory, sometimes in silence, sometimes in the way you avoid certain songs or streets. Heartache reminds me that to feel deeply is to risk deeply, and that the cost of loving is always vulnerability. It does not get easier, but it does get more familiar—and in that familiarity, I have learned that I can endure it. Over time, I’ve come to see it less as a wound and more as a scar: not something to erase, but something that proves survival.
