With bravery, love, and vulnerability, comes courage.
When therapy ends, but the healing keeps unfolding. For the days when bravery feels like just trying again. Thoughts from a heart that’s still learning to trust.
You know what’s been the hardest thing about being “on the other side” of the therapy rainbow?
By “other side” I mean the side I’ve been living on for about a year now—the side where you’re not currently going to therapy every week, where it’s been a year or so since the last time you spoke to someone—an expert—about what’s hurting, what’s happening.
The hardest thing has simply been… being brave, failing, and trying again.
When I was in therapy, it was so much easier to feel like I was doing something big for myself just by showing up every week. That somehow, because I was checking in regularly, I was helping myself—and others around me—by asking for help.
Now that I’m not in therapy weekly, it often feels like it’s all up to me.
Well, I guess it always has been up to me, whether I’m in therapy or not… but somehow, “raw-dogging it” without a therapist just makes everything feel a little trickier.
There’s fear.
There’s trauma.
There’s the urge to run away, to hide under a rock, to explode like a volcano and take it all down with me.
And yet—there’s also hope.
There’s love.
There’s a desire to try again.
Because OMG, look at what we’ve already done.
All it takes is trying again.
Getting up again.
Even after it feels like maybe—just maybe—this time you won’t.
Going to therapy, working on myself, healing little “t” or big “T” trauma… it’s cracked my heart wide open. I feel so much more now. And now I finally get what Brené Brown meant when she said: “When you try to cover the dark, you also cover the light.”
But Brené…
I cry, I scream, I yell—this time I failed.
I failed to communicate clearly.
I failed to make others feel seen.
I failed to make others feel heard, listened to, cared for.
But Brené, I don’t know how not to be blinded by the sun.
It feels like no matter the intention, someone will always get hurt.
I guess that’s the beauty of being human.
Of love.
Of attachment.
Of pain.
Pain reminds us how deeply we care.
It reminds me why I went to therapy in the first place.
Sometimes it feels so heavy on my chest—like a military boot crushing my ribs, blocking every breath.
Maybe this is why, when I went to Vipassana at Wat Rampoeng, Pra Sukhito said:
“If you are coming here, it is because you know suffering.”
Because who willingly chooses to suffer for 10… 26… 40 days?
To lose sleep, to sit in silence, to meditate all day, to slow down, to train the mind, the body, the soul?
As I write this, the “outside” world feels more painful than the temple world.
I’m scared to write these dark thoughts.
I’m scared to exist in them.
I’ve been there before.
Some corners of my soul still feel like the darkest abyss.
Some corners of my mind still hold monsters under the bed.
It feels like my inner child is haunted—haunted by the pressure, the expectations of post-therapy me.
What she expects from me.
So today, I’m writing this to let it all exist.
To let these thoughts live outside my brain, my body, my soul.
Because living doesn’t mean no fear, no pain, no attachments.
Living means slowing down enough to hear my heart.
To feel the tuntuntuntun of my heartbeat.
To allow my breath to leave my chest—and to chase it.
Even if it means swimming deep into the murky waters I’ve been avoiding my whole life.
Who wants to feel pain?
Who wants to feel love?
Who wants to laugh?
Who wants to cry?
I’m here to tell you: it gets better.
It gets worse.
It’s both.
Ask for help.
Learn tools that help you breathe deeply, ground yourself, feel.
Whatever that is—please, allow yourself to feel.
Try out different breathing techniques, grounding practices, survival skills.
Put them on your imaginary toolbelt, and get out there again.
Because there’s risk in engaging.
But there’s more risk in disengaging.
I miss therapy.
I miss having someone to talk to, someone to listen.
Someone to hold space for me every week.
Someone to care for my wounds with intention.
But I guess that’s the trick, right?
It’s time for me to be the therapist I wish I had today.
Because what’s the point—
If I can’t even see myself,
If I can’t hear myself,
If I can’t truly feel myself?
Being brave doesn’t mean being fearless.
Being brave means allowing courage, love, and hope to give your human body the momentum it needs to take that next step.
I hug you.
I cheer you on.
Thank you for reading me.
And even if no one else does—thank you, Estefi, for being brave enough to show up to this keyboard.
I’m proud of you.
You showed up.
You know, one time—when I was maybe 7? Or 8? Maybe 6…
I was visiting family on the coast of Ecuador, and my cousin and I decided to sneak out of her house (inside a gated community—don’t worry, we weren’t that wild yet) and go to the park.
Both of our moms were strict. They used to smother us in protection—controlling our food, our hair, the way we dressed…
Okay but this isn’t a story about all those mistakes (even though that story is probably coming too, lol).
Where was I?
Oh—so we sneak out to the park.
And I decide to be WILD—by my childhood standards—and get on the monkey bars.
Now I’m sure I did a lot more than that, but that’s all I really remember.
I climbed up.
I never usually did—shockingly afraid for a kid.
Afraid of hurting myself.
Afraid of upsetting my mom.
But this time?
I felt brave.
With all the courage I could summon, I went for it.
One bar. Two bars.
Oh. My. Freaking. God.
I was doing it!
Halfway across the monkey bars—ME!
And then…
I fell.
I got scared.
Fear got to me.
I stalled.
And I fell.
My knee was bleeding.
My cousin was panicked—and also pissed.
Because now we were definitely going to get in trouble.
Not just for sneaking out.
But because I got hurt, and they’d blame her.
I guess I’m telling you this because—
I’m still trying to cross the monkey bars.
Still trying to trust.
Still trying to believe I won’t fall.
Still trying to believe I’ll catch myself if I do.
I don’t trust that my body will hold me.
That I will hold me.
But I know I can learn.
I know I can train.
I know I can build strength—body, mind, heart.
With bravery.
With vulnerability.
With love.
I know I can teach myself.
I know I can unlearn what needs unlearning.
Because even if I don’t make it across—at least I’ll know I tried my freaking best.
That’s all I need.
That’s why I’m telling you this story—because I’m still healing wounds that opened 25 years ago on that monkey bar.
So no wonder I’m still healing other, deeper wounds too.
The lesson isn’t about therapy or fixing.
It’s about showing up.
For all of me.
And holding space, compassionately.
Ok. I love you.
I hope you can hold space for all of you, too.
Written elsewhere, with love,
Estefi 💛
Some of my favorite quotes from Insight Timer that I have screenshotted recently:
Some art I found online that I have been loving, I wish I knew the artist, I tried to find the source but couldn’t, I just found these on Pinterest… PS. I printed these out and have them handy!
I hope this post feels like a hug <3 From my corner of the internet to yours!