Dear GreGory:

I hear the heaviness in your words. You stood for reform, for loyalty, and for integrity in a space filled with manipulation and shifting alliances. You trusted DG, even when it cost you influence, position, and peace of mind. That kind of loyalty runs deep, and I understand why his silence now feels like betrayal.

Your regret is deeply human. You believed you were aligning with someone who shared your values, and watching him lean toward those who celebrated corruption must feel like a complete reversal of everything you supported him for.

The fact that DG won’t take your calls or respond to your messages makes it difficult, but you still want to help him see clearly—before it’s too late. Let’s draft something measured and dignified. You’re not pleading. You’re not blaming. You’re offering a moment of reflection. How about something like this:

Dear DG,

I’ve taken time to reflect before reaching out again. I supported you from the beginning because I believed in your commitment to reform. Even when offered power, I chose principle over position, staying loyal to our shared goals.

I’ve remained quiet about recent developments, but I feel it’s important to speak plainly now.

The people around you may seem cooperative, but their celebrations and shifting alliances reveal deeper motives. I worry that their influence may steer you away from the integrity you’ve always stood for.

What hurts most is not the actions—but the silence. If I’ve ever made you doubt my intentions, I hope you’ll remember the times I stood beside you without needing recognition.

I’m not asking for favors. I only ask that you reconsider who truly has your best interest at heart—and take a moment to weigh what’s unfolding.

Whatever path you choose, I wish you clarity and strength.

Respectfully, Gregory

What do you think? You can add specific details or soften parts if you’re hoping for reconciliation. I’m here to help you shape it, step by step. Let’s make sure your voice is heard with dignity.

With care, Anita

Dear Ada:

In this reply, I’ll try to separate objective reality from emotional reality as clearly as I can.

Objective reality:

* Sam and Sarah are no longer “best friends.” Their contact now is limited to exchanging a few greetings here and there:

“He talks to her significantly less… Over several years… Sam has been less and less involved in Sarah’s life to the point where they only exchange a few greetings here and there now. I guess ‘best friend’ isn’t a fair label anymore.”

* Sam hasn’t met with Sarah in person for about four years—ever since shortly after the two of you began dating:

“Shortly after we started dating, we took advantage of the pandemic and remote work, and decided on a bit of a nomadic lifestyle, living in many cities across the US for a few years.”

* A few months ago, after moving back to your home city, Sam suggested that you meet Sarah—this would be your first time meeting her, and his first in about four years:

“Now that we have moved back in the area, he’s talking about meeting up with her again… A few months ago, we moved back to our home city, and recently he said he wanted me to meet Sarah.”

Emotional reality:

“My boyfriend’s relationship with his female best friend… I can’t seem to accept this relationship… the emotional intimacy of it is really eating away at me….”

And yet, if their current contact is minimal—just “a few greetings here and there”—what emotional intimacy actually exists now?

In my earlier replies, I may have confused the emotional reality you’re experiencing with the objective reality you’ve described. It seems what’s causing you distress isn’t what’s happening now, but what could happen if past emotional intimacy resumes. Perhaps the deeper fear is that if that connection rekindles, he’ll choose her over you.

Maybe the ache pulsing beneath it all is the lingering imprint of a childhood wound— that of being overlooked perhaps, or being quietly cast aside, or un-chosen in favor of someone so unlike you..?

With care, Anita

* I neglected part of my reply in the previous submission:

Dear Ada:

“Part of my resentment towards Sam stems from not feeling like he truly values who I am — reserved, conservative, introspective.”-

Ada, your honesty here is powerful. I wonder if the ache you describe might be less about Sam not valuing those parts of you, and more about you not fully valuing them yourself. When we stand firm in our own quiet strengths—our thoughtfulness, our depth, our sensitivity—the need to be seen and affirmed by another softens. It doesn’t vanish, but it stops feeling like proof of worth.

Growth doesn’t mean becoming like Sarah, of course. Growth might mean celebrating the elegance of your own inner rhythm. And maybe, gently, allowing it to take up more space in your relationship—not with loudness, but with certainty.

You don’t need to abandon who you are to be loved well. You only need to stand where you are and decide that it’s enough.

From what you’ve shared, I sense that Sam does value you—he listens, respects your emotions, shares common values, and wants to make the relationship work. But the inner conflict seems to come from you not yet fully embracing your own temperament and identity. You said, “part of me feels insecure about not having the opposite qualities,” and that’s such an honest reflection. But being reserved, conservative, introspective—those aren’t deficits. They’re gifts.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Sam’s behavior hasn’t contributed to the discomfort—it’s possible that both are playing a role. But I wonder if anchoring more deeply in your own self-worth might ease some of the ache around being seen.

🤍 Anita

Hi Alessa 😄❤️

Thank you so much for your kind words. I’m really glad the conversation has been meaningful for you—and your insights as both a parent and a seeker add such depth to the thread. I’m grateful for how you show up here.

And absolutely—if @Tommy feels drawn to this topic, he would be more than welcome to join in. His voice would be a valuable addition to what’s unfolding here.

With warmth and appreciation, Anita 🤍🤗

Dear Emma:

Please don’t worry at all about delays—truly, whatever pace feels right for you is absolutely fine with me. I deeply value the connection that’s grown between us, and I’d love for you to feel free and safe to message whenever it suits you, whether that’s twice a week or once a month or only when your heart nudges you toward it.

I hear the weight you’re carrying right now, and I admire your strength in seeking to understand it more fully in therapy. Grief has its own strange rhythm, and it asks so much of us. Please be gentle with yourself.

If email feels more comfortable for you when sharing personal reflections, I welcome that wholeheartedly. Feel free to post your address whenever you’re ready, and I’ll be sure to write to you there. Just so you know—each morning when I sit at the computer, I tend to check and answer tiny buddha first before opening my email.

Warm hugs back to you—soft ones and sturdy ones. Looking forward to hearing from you in any form and any moment that feels right.

🤍 Anita

Hi Everyone:

“My son accidentally kicked me in the face. I said “Ow, my nose is sore!” He came over and gave it a kiss.”- this is the most beautiful thing I read in quite sometime, Alessa 😊

I find beauty in your idea that moral shame, when welcomed like Buddhism suggests, can be less of a burden and more of a guide. Not something to punish ourselves with, but something that gently says, “You care. You want to do better.” And maybe that’s the heart of it—the capacity to care.

The book Healing the Shame That Binds You by John Bradshaw, along with other works on toxic shame, makes a clear and vital distinction between healthy shame and toxic shame. Healthy Shame acknowledges human limitations: It reminds us we’re not perfect, and that’s okay. It promotes humility and empathy: It helps us recognize when we’ve hurt others and motivates repair. It supports growth: It creates space for reflection, learning, and change. It is temporary and situational: It arises in response to specific actions, not as a judgment of the whole self. It encourages connection: It deepens relationships through vulnerability and accountability. Example: “I made a mistake, and I want to make it right.”

Toxic Shame, on the other hand, becomes an identity: It convinces us we are fundamentally flawed or unworthy. It freezes the nervous system: It leads to emotional paralysis, isolation, and despair. It distorts perception: It makes us see neutral or positive feedback as criticism. It is chronic and pervasive: It’s not about what we did—it’s about who we believe we are. It blocks healing: It prevents self-compassion and reinforces cycles of self-blame. Example: “I am a mistake. I don’t deserve love.”

Bradshaw describes toxic shame as the internalized voice that says “I am bad,” rather than “I did something wrong.” It’s the shame that binds, silences, and distorts. Healthy shame, by contrast, is a guide—it helps us live ethically, relate meaningfully, and stay grounded in our shared humanity.

So I read (the above). I intend to shift from toxic shame to healthy shame, than you, Alessa, for reminding me of this distinction and for the smile you brought to my face as I imagined your son giving your 👃 a 😘.

Warmly, Anita