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Tuesday, 31 March 2026
On this day of your life
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I believe God wants you to know ... ... that there is
only one way to go, and that's up. I know that it is
possible for life to look, sometimes, as if it's going
downhill, as if everything is falling apart. But consider this: When
life is 'falling apart' things could actually be falling
together...maybe for the first time. Try to not see
things that are not there -- and do not fail to see things that
are... You will not have
to think but a second to know exactly why you
received this message today. |
The Benefits of Singing (OM)
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This Definition of Emotional Intelligence can Change How we Show Up in Relationships.
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Like most people, I like to think I’m fairly emotionally intelligent.
I can talk about my feelings until my brain starts to melt. I’ve been “doing the work” in therapy for years. I can adjust my tone and remain calm in order to diffuse tension (most of the time). And I’m open and curious, if sometimes overly empathetic, when it comes to understanding someone else’s experiences and opinions.
So I should be good, right?
Well, not entirely. Life—like it often does—shows me regularly that I’m not as emotionally well adjusted as I’d like to believe.
Because emotional intelligence is about more than checking boxes off a list:
Did I pause before reacting? Check.
Did I use reflective listening? Check.
Did I apologize without excuses? Check.
Did I set healthy boundaries? Check.
Did I show enough empathy? Check.
I saw a post recently that redefined emotional intelligence, and it is changing how I show up in relationships:
I used to think being emotionally intelligent was about how I interacted with others. How I showed up during the hard days, the struggles, the conflicts. And while that’s still true, these words helped me see that more than anything, emotional intelligence is about how I show up with myself first.
Can I name what I’m feeling?
Can I sit with these feelings?
Can I let them live in my body?
Can I understand where they came from?
Can I truly own these feelings, without judgement?
So often, we try to work through our emotional turmoil with those closest to us—our partners, our friends, our family—before we’ve even given ourselves time to understand what we’re feeling. We think talking it through makes us smart, empathetic, mature. But because we’re still processing, we end up recklessly spewing all our stuff onto those we care about most.
What if we tried to understand ourselves first? What if we gave our feelings our undivided attention? What if we sat in the dark with ourselves long enough to find the light?
Maybe emotional intelligence starts with being selfish enough to focus on understanding our own head and heart, and ends with handing those feelings gently to those who long to sit in that understanding with us.
~
author: Nicole Cameron
Image: Gantas Vaičiulėnas/Unsplash
The Beautiful (& often Painful) Truth about Forgiving, Forgetting, & Finally Letting Go.
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Escape and Embrace: First the Mementos, Then the Moment
Mom and Dad keep asking me to come down to the house to go through my old things.
I’ve been out from under their roof for years, but there’s a collection of my ancient belongings taking up space in their basement and they want it, at the very least, minimized. I keep putting it off. I still want these things, still need them—because one day I’ll make a quilt out of the old T-shirts. And a scrapbook with the concert tickets, movie stubs, and photo strips. And I’ll use all the notes and letters as material for a book.
You see? I can’t possibly get rid of all this stuff.
I’ve attempted it a few times, though—the cleaning out—but I never finish, and I rarely part with much more than a third-place track and field ribbon. Because when I go down into my parents’ basement, I connect with my past, revisit my old self, tap into the emotions and the motivations of days so far gone.
One box turns into 12; five minutes turns into three hours. Time bends around me, and I sigh, telling myself I’ll finish another day. I can’t stay any longer; I must get back to reality. The basement is cold and my eyes are itchy from the dust. My heart is racing from the conflicted emotions that accompany nostalgia; my mind is exhausted from the regret, the wonder, the question of who was I then?
And, the even more important question: Who am I now?
This is for the people who have boxes, or storage bins, or baskets full of what you call memories and what others call junk—reminders of childhood friends, old loves, birthdays, summer vacations, tragedies. Reminders of growing up.
This is for the people who, every time they clean, add more things to the stash, because it’s impossible to let go. Maybe it’s just about being sentimental. Or maybe it’s more about being scared. But these things—this stuff—somehow made me who I am, as yours made you who you are.
These keepsakes that have been tucked away, buried in my parents’ basement, are souvenirs of times I’ll never get back. They’re proof I was happy once, proof I was broken more than once. They remind me of who I was then, and take me away from who I am now.
I open the cardboard time capsules and regress, and depending on the contents, I either close my eyes tight and try my hardest to go back, relive it again—or, I shake my head, thinking how grateful I am that it’s over, grateful I survived. Because when I open these boxes and smell the T-shirt, feel the sand, listen to the CDs, see their faces, read their words, my words—I return.
And sometimes, I laugh. Sometimes, I scream. Sometimes, I rip the letter into pieces and instantly regret it (so I keep the scraps). Sometimes, I call a friend, tell her what I stumbled upon. Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and apologize. Sometimes, I think about burning it all.
I never do.
Each item elicits a different response. The pictures are the most painful, and the notes are my favorite. I unfold them, breathe them in, think to myself things like:
Her fingerprints must still be on here.
Her DNA is scattered across this college-ruled lined paper.
We were so young; Jesus, we’ve come so far.
Language of the past—it’s magic, really. It’s like I’m reading about someone else’s life, someone so damaged, someone so naïve. But with each unfolding comes, well, an unfolding. Each note fuels a different fire, but a different reason to smile—because, thank God, it’s over.
Maybe you don’t know what I mean. Maybe I don’t. Maybe speaking of this in abstract terms makes it easier to deal with. Because the concrete of it is sort of sad, isn’t it? That what’s done is done? That I can’t go back? That I’ll never be that 14-year-old girl with her whole life in front of her ever again.
Ever. Again.
But it shouldn’t be sad. And it shouldn’t be scary. It should be—well, it really shouldn’t be much of anything other than an indication that I’m still holding on to the past, which means I’m not living in the moment. And that, of course, just might be my greatest struggle of all, and what all this is really about anyway.
A friend told me not too long ago, “Let go of everything but the moment you are in right now—the past, the future, all of it. Find something to love and enjoy right f*cking now. Whether it’s the AC, the roof over your head, the beautiful night. Live there. Not the past or the future.”
This was her response to me sending her an old video of her and me and some other friends who are now, unfortunately, more like strangers. Maybe more like enemies. I told her the video made me both happy and sad. She told me, “Life can be like that.”
I sighed, maybe even rolled my eyes, told her I was just reminiscing, like it was no big deal. I brushed off her response, even laughed at it. She’s such a hippie, I thought to myself, smiling. It took me some time before I could admit to myself how right she was. Not to say this was a brand new idea—to live in the present. It is, of course, advice I’ve been given before. But now, as I think about the piles of stuff collecting dust down at Mom and Dad’s, and re-read her words, I feel I’m closer to saying goodbye to it all.
And it doesn’t hurt as much.
This is for the people who need help clearing out their parents’ basement. Or for the people who need help clearing out their minds—because that must come first. We can’t let go of anything until we detach from it, and I think I’ve figured out what I need to do. Finally.
I never thought this would come down to a cliché, but I can’t help but think that all this seems to be about forgiving, and of course, forgetting. It seems to be about letting go of the past, about moving on, and about finally allowing ourselves to heal from old wounds and be free. Be happy.
It’s about being able to look at that picture and smile despite their absence now. And being able to listen to that song and still break into dance, even though all you can think of is the first time you heard it in her apartment when you didn’t think a world would ever exist where she wasn’t your friend. It’s about decluttering your mind and making room for all that is happening right now—today, in this moment, underneath the dust, the pain, and the I should’ve done this or that.
But more so than anything else, it’s about us finally being able to grab a garbage bag and walk down the stairs into our parents’ basement, close the door behind us, and say goodbye to our past, knowing that nothing has changed, but everything will be different.
~
author: Sarah Michelle Sherman
Image: @elephantjournal/Instagram
Image: Sarandy Westfall/Unsplash
Editor: Nicole Cameron
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