Dear Robi:

I decided to respond to you this time with a poem. I’ll title it: Your Car in the Garage

You left it where the sunlight fades— where still air holds the scent of dust, a little red heart on wheels waiting for your hands again.

They called it ego, you called it joy. They said grow up, you said maybe later. But the years kept walking, and you kept putting away what made you feel most alive.

But now— you walk back through memory, a little travel-worn, with sand in your shoes and courage newly born.

You lift the cover, crack the window, breathe in the silence and the petrol and the past.

This is not a return to childhood— this is the honoring of truth. Not escape. But integration.

You don’t need to explain it. You don’t have to call it “a job.”. Just climb inside, let your heart speak— you loved something once. And it loved you back.

Now—turn the key.

Warmly, Anita

Dear Q:

I’m doing well—thank you so much for asking! 😊

Before I share the grounding exercise, I want to say this first: there is nothing “funny” about feeling anxious after an interview. That part of you that keeps checking, wondering, and even googling for reassurance? It’s simply trying to protect you—trying to find a sense of control in the unknown. That’s human. That deserves your compassion, not your judgment. There is no shame in that. 🫶🏽

What really stood out in your message was your resilience. Your awareness. The way you’re sitting with discomfort and choosing to shift toward acceptance and hope—it’s powerful. That sand metaphor? Beautiful. You’re not gripping anymore. You’re trusting. That takes courage. And it takes patience—something you’ve clearly been practicing.

As promised, here’s the grounding practice you can return to when the anxious thoughts spin up:

1. Sit comfortably with your feet flat on the floor. Let your hands rest on your legs or gently over your chest—wherever feels calming. Notice the pressure of your body being supported. Say silently or aloud: “I feel my feet on the ground.” “I feel my body held by the chair.”

2. Look around and name five things you can see. (Examples: the color of the wall, light reflecting off a surface, a nearby plant)

3. Touch four things you can feel. (Examples: the texture of your clothing, the floor beneath your feet, your hands resting softly in your lap)

4. Listen for three sounds. (Examples: the hum of the fridge, wind outside, your own breath)

5. Breathe. Take two slow, steady breaths. Let them go. No need to force anything—just notice them pass through.

6. Say to yourself: “I’m here. I’m safe enough. This moment is okay.”

7. Name one small thing you might do next. (Examples: make a cup of tea, stretch your back, write down a thought and gently let it go)

I hope this gives you a sense of grounding when things get noisy inside. I see how deeply you’re showing up—for yourself, for your growth—and I admire that more than you know.

With warmth, Anita ✨

Dear Bella:

You’re so welcome—and it’s truly good to hear from you.

Your words don’t sound like someone “back at square one”—they sound like someone trying to build a square that’s finally hers.

What stands out most is the quiet tug-of-war you’re carrying: “I’m trying to accept my mom and aunt as they are… but I feel stuck, lost, and not much different than before.”-

That’s such an honest tension—loving the people who shaped you while trying not to lose shape yourself.

When everything feels like too much, I often return to a familiar line that helps sort through the fog. I wonder how this one lands for you right now:

* God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Here are a few things you can’t control when it comes to your mom and aunt: the unspoken wounds they carry, their coping mechanisms, avoidance, or exhaustion, the roles they expect you to inhabit, and whether or not they choose honesty or growth.

And here are a few things you might be able to control: how and when you engage with them, what expectations you choose to release, how much space you offer their opinions inside your inner world, and the energy you give to explaining yourself to those unwilling to understand

Maybe a gentler version of the prayer could be: * Help me hold what’s mine without carrying what isn’t.

I see someone who’s noticing what no longer fits and still choosing to stay present—not perfectly, but with deep intention. That’s not failure. That’s self-respect, growing stronger even in the rubble.

Would it help to name just one thing that feels in your control this week?

With you in this, Anita 🫶🏽 ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

Dear me:

Sounds like you’re doing your best to honor what your dad wanted. The way you’ve talked to him, wondered about the afterlife, and made space for change—all of that says a lot about your heart and your strength.

It takes strength to keep going and start fresh like you are. I hope the next chapter brings you peace, new routines, and maybe something exciting on that cruise ship 🌊. And whenever you feel like picking the conversation back up, in a new thread, I’ll be here.

Take care out there, truly. 🫶 —anita ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

Dear Tommy:

When the Sun Goes Down-

You don’t have to call it self-forgiveness—
Just call it a moment in space where your hands unclench
And no one asks for perfection.

The sun sets, sadness stretches long like shadows,
And still the moon shows up— quiet, soft-spoken, enough to see by.

You’ve named your regrets,
Held them like aged spots dotting your skin in the shape of the Big Dipper—
A kind of map, maybe, to something beyond punishment.

The dream may be gone.
But you, Tommy— you still burn like Arizona sky.
You still carry songs that say the things you can’t.

So let the music catch the fire for you.
Let the light in you be something you no longer run from.

You don’t owe yourself pain.
You owe yourself a little rest.
A little moonlight.
A little truth that doesn’t hurt to hold.

And hey, Tommy— just so you know, I like you. I’m on your side. And I hope one day, you’ll be on your side too. 🌙

—Anita (Monday, 6:45 pm my time, 9:45 pm your time)