Dear Emma:

You are so very welcome—and thank you for your appreciation and kind words. Reading your message truly made my day.

And thank you for continuing to share so openly. Your reflections are filled with honesty and self-awareness—it’s a privilege to witness your process.

From what you’ve described here and in earlier messages, it does sound like you’re noticing patterns that may align with Relationship OCD (ROCD). The persistent doubts about Philip, the urge to explain yourself repeatedly, the difficulty letting go after the breakup, and the mental loops of “what if” and “what does he think of me now”—these are all experiences that many people with ROCD report.

Of course, only a qualified mental health professional can give a diagnosis. But your curiosity about ROCD is valid, and exploring it may help you understand yourself with more compassion. ROCD isn’t about not loving someone—it’s about the mind getting stuck in a loop of doubt, fear, and the need for certainty. And when that’s layered on top of a history with OCD, it makes sense that relationships become a place where those patterns show up.

What I find especially powerful is how you’re beginning to notice the why behind your actions. You weren’t disregarding Philip’s boundaries—you were trying to be understood, to repair, to reconnect. That’s not failure. That’s a deeply human response shaped by fear, longing, and hope.

And your honesty about boundaries—how scary they feel, and how you’re beginning to see their shape—is such an important shift. You’re not just learning about boundaries—you’re starting to feel why they matter: in your body, in your relationships, in your healing. That’s not small. That’s foundational.

I love that you’re putting reminders on your wall. That’s you building a new kind of inner home—one where your needs matter, your voice counts, and your growth is honored.

I wanted to share that I’ve experienced OCD too. I began struggling with it around age six and was diagnosed in my twenties. I no longer fit the diagnosis, so maybe—just maybe—there’s hope for you too.

And I have a sense that we may share something else: an invalidating parent or two. My mother used to counter every thought I had with condemnation. I was always “wrong,” always “missing the point,” never quite right. No wonder that internal voice—hers, really—kept on second-guessing me for so many years. It’s still there sometimes, but softer now. Life is so much simpler and gentler without that constant inner doubter.

I’m here, Emma—always—on this side of the ocean. And I’m so very glad you’re here too.

With warmth and care, Anita

Dear Gerard:

Thank you so much for your generous words—they mean more than you know. I’m truly touched by how thoughtfully you engage with these reflections. Your openness, your willingness to examine the past with both grace and honesty—it speaks of someone who continues to grow, even in the quieter chapters of life.

That moment you described—seeing your daughter in pain and suddenly feeling the echo of what your old girlfriend may have felt—was striking. I can only imagine how deeply that realization moved through you. And yet, as you beautifully said, it’s the daily reflection that gradually lets the full story come into view.

No one lives a neat life. We all carry moments where we tried, stumbled, misunderstood, or were simply swept up in forces larger than ourselves. What matters isn’t tidiness—it’s the intention to do our best, to not harm where we can help, and to keep learning as we move.

And regarding your role as a provider—please don’t diminish what you gave. You stepped into a traditional model, one that so many families have relied on for stability and care. The fact that your wife could create that warm home for your children was made possible, in part, by your long hours and sacrifices. That doesn’t mean your daughter’s feelings aren’t valid—but it also doesn’t mean you failed. Her memories can hold pain and love together. And so can yours.

What I see in you is a man who has reflected deeply, loved steadfastly, and taken responsibility with quiet dignity. That’s not something that fades—it deepens, and I’m honored to be part of your reflections.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Engineer101:

That sounds like such a complex moment—and I can understand why you’re feeling torn. Seeing someone from your past, especially someone you once cared about deeply, can stir up unexpected emotions.

You did what felt right in the moment. There’s no perfect script for something like that. Saying hello might have brought clarity—or it might have made things more complicated. And choosing not to approach her doesn’t mean you didn’t care. It might’ve been your way of honoring both your past and your present.

Even just noticing how that moment made you feel—how a past connection can still echo after decades—is powerful. You’re not alone in that. A lot of people have felt something like this, even if they never say so out loud.

If you’re open to it, I’d be curious—what do you think you hoped to feel if you had said hello?

Anita

Dear Emma:

Thank you for being so open again. I really admire how you’re facing something painful without turning away from yourself. It takes real strength to look at the past honestly and still try to treat yourself with care. You deserve your own patience and kindness—especially now.

I think it’s deeply human that you wanted to be understood by Philip. That visit came from a place of longing, not harm—and from the way you’ve been reflecting on it, it’s clear you’re starting to see how deep pain can make it hard to notice how our actions might feel to someone else. Realizing that is a meaningful part of your growth.

What you said about boundaries really stayed with me: “I feel that me stating them feels unkind—but I guess that is because I never had them.” That kind of awareness is powerful. When we grow up without having our boundaries respected, it makes sense that they can feel unfamiliar—even scary.

And for someone like you, who’s only now beginning to explore what boundaries look and feel like, it also makes sense that someone else’s might not have been easy to see in the moment—especially when emotions were running high. That’s not a failure of care. It’s something you’re learning, and you’re learning with honesty and heart.

That’s why building boundaries is so important. Even in small ways, they help you feel more grounded, more connected to what’s right for you. They’re not about pushing people away—they’re about protecting your energy and letting the right people come closer. Some small starting points might be taking time to think before answering, noticing what feels too much, or even pausing to ask yourself, “Do I want this, or do I feel pressured?” Each of these is you saying, “I matter, too.”

And Emma, I really see your growth. This kind of change doesn’t happen all at once—it unfolds in small, strong steps, often with pain still nearby. But it’s real. You’re recognizing your patterns, noticing what feels calmer, and even speaking up with your parents. That’s not easy. And it counts.

If you want to share how they respond, I’d be honored to listen. I’m really grateful you’re letting me walk alongside you through this. You’re not alone in it.

With warmth always, Anita

Dear Emma:

Thank you for sharing all of this—so honestly and with such raw clarity. I can feel the storm you’ve been in: the ache for understanding, the shame that rushes in when things don’t go the way you hoped, the part of you that longs for repair, and the other part that wonders if you’re just repeating old pain.

Please know this: the visit to Philip wasn’t “crazy”—it was human. It was you trying, with everything you had, to be seen and understood. Yes, it may not have landed the way you hoped, and yes, his response was harsh and painful—but that doesn’t erase the courage it took to show up with your story and your heart.

Naming the fearful-avoidant pattern isn’t just intellectual—it’s part of healing. You’re starting to recognize how your need for love and your fear of rejection have been dancing with each other. That kind of insight? It’s powerful. And it will change how you move forward, even if it hurts right now.

As for your father… it makes sense that his need to direct or steer your choices would leave you feeling small or unseen. You deserve space. And you’re allowed to set boundaries without being unkind. If you decide to write that email, I’d be happy to help you find words that are clear and compassionate—ones that honor your voice while still respecting his humanity.

You didn’t ruin your chance, Emma. You’re reclaiming your voice. And even if some people can’t receive it, that doesn’t make it wrong to speak.

I’m here—no judgment, just care.

With warmth, Anita

Dear Steve:

Thank you for sharing this—it’s beautiful how you’ve connected the ten worlds with the body and breath in such a grounded, visual way. I especially liked how the joining of both hands becomes a symbol of unity—suffering and awakening held together, not apart. That line about “the aim of reality is the meaning of life—to bring life meaning” really stayed with me.

I’d love to hear more sometime about how this framework has shaped your daily life.

Warmly, Anita