Self-Love Is Not Second-Best

For a long time, I thought the love I needed had to come from someone else.

Especially the people I longed to be seen by—family, partners, mentors. If they approved of me, maybe I’d finally feel whole. Maybe then I’d be okay.

But chasing love this way never quite worked. Even when I got what I thought I wanted, the feeling never lasted.

That’s when I began to realize:

What I was really missing wasn’t their love—it was mine.

Self-love isn’t a fallback plan

At first, self-love felt like a weak substitute. Like saying, “Well, since no one’s loving me how I want, I guess I’ll love myself.” It felt like plan B.

But over time, I discovered something surprising:
When I truly offer myself kindness, understanding, and care—it actually feels more grounding than any external approval ever did.

There’s no second-guessing.
No walking on eggshells.
No trying to earn it.

Just a quiet, steady presence inside me saying: “I see you. I’ve got you.”

What self-love actually feels like

It’s not always big or dramatic.
Sometimes it’s as simple as:

• Letting myself rest without guilt.

• Speaking kindly to myself after a mistake.

• Saying no because my peace matters.

• Sitting with hard feelings without rushing to fix them.

Over time, that adds up.

Self-love builds trust—from the inside out.
It calms the nervous system.
It softens shame.
It makes space for real growth, not performance.

The real win

I still want to feel loved by others—of course I do. But I no longer feel starved for it.

Because now I know I’m not waiting to be chosen.
I’m already here. With myself. For myself.

Self-love is not second-best.
It’s the foundation.
It’s the kind of love that doesn’t leave.

Faith and Compassion

Faith Isn’t Blind—It’s Committed

Some people call it optimism:
*“It’ll all work out.”
Others call it realism:
“What’s the point? It probably won’t.”

But both are just different ways of avoiding the truth:
That we don’t actually know.

True faith isn’t about believing it will work out.
And it’s not about bracing for disappointment either.
It’s about standing in the unknown—eyes open, heart open—and saying:
“There’s no guarantee this will work.
But I have faith we’ll find a way. And so I commit.”

No illusions. No despair.
Just presence. Just courage.
Just the steady strength of showing up because it matters, not because it’s safe.

That’s real faith.
That’s real compassion.
That’s love in action.

Faith Is Compassion Too

In this blog, I talk a lot about compassion.
And maybe this is just another form of it:

To have faith in the person you’re trying to help.
To believe in them—gently, quietly, without forcing.

Not to fix them.
Not to carry them.
But to walk with them, with presence and patience.

Because sometimes what someone needs most isn’t a solution.
It’s someone who stays.
Someone who sees the mess and doesn’t flinch.
Someone strong and wise enough to say, “I believe in you. And I’m here.”

That’s what we all long for, deep down.
To be loved without needing to perform.
To be held without needing to be fixed.
To be seen, and still trusted.

And maybe that’s the most healing thing we can ever offer.

Not certainty.
But presence.
Not rescue.
But real, grounded, committed faith.

That’s compassion.
That’s power.
That’s love.

The Paradox of Soothing: Why Compassion Isn’t What You Think

There are moments—especially as a new parent—when I feel helpless.

Alfred cries, and my body tenses.
I check if he’s hungry, wet, gassy, tired.
I bounce. I rock. I troubleshoot.

But nothing works.

In those moments, a voice inside me starts to panic: “You need to fix this.”

That voice isn’t just about him. It’s old. It comes from years of believing that love means finding a solution. That presence only counts if it ends the pain. That helplessness equals failure.

But I’ve been learning—slowly, painfully—that real soothing doesn’t always come from solving.

It comes from staying.

The paradox: What soothes pain is not fixing it, but being with it

It doesn’t make sense at first.

We’re taught to believe that love is about taking the pain away. That good parents, good partners, good friends, good humans—make it better.

But sometimes, nothing can be made better in that moment. The pain just is.

And weirdly—beautifully—what soothes most isn’t a fix.

It’s presence.

The nervous system doesn’t regulate through solutions.
It regulates through co-regulation—another steady nervous system staying close, grounded, non-reactive.

The more I try to make the pain go away, the more agitated I become.
But the moment I accept that this is what’s happening—and I stop rushing, stop fixing, and just stay—something shifts.

Maybe not in him right away.
But definitely in me.

Compassion is strength, not softness

We often think of compassion as this soft, gentle thing.
But real compassion—the kind that stays in the room with pain—is fierce.

It takes strength to not flinch.
It takes strength to hold space without collapsing into it.
It takes strength to love without needing to control.

Here’s the metaphor that helped it land for me:

Imagine someone is crying, and they hand you a heavy weight—their pain.
Real compassion isn’t about taking that weight away.
It’s about holding it with them, not for them.
Not dropping it. Not panicking. Not running.
Just holding.

And that holding—that presence—is what actually allows the weight to be felt, processed, and eventually… softened.

But if I try to fix it right away, I short-circuit the process.
I send the message: “This shouldn’t exist.”
And that, ironically, makes the pain heavier.

In parenting, in healing, in life

I’ve seen this play out in every part of life.

• When a friend is grieving and I rush to give advice, I miss the moment. But when I say, “I’m here. This sucks. I’m not going anywhere,”—they soften.

• When I sit with my own anxiety without trying to fight or solve it, it loses some of its grip.

• When I hold Alfred through his tears without trying to rush him out of it, I can feel his little body slowly settle.

And when I do that for myself—when I stop trying to patch every hole, prove my worth, or fast-forward through my own mess—I find something deeper than relief.

I find resilience.

The strength to stay

True compassion isn’t about making pain disappear.

It’s about being strong enough to stay with it.
To breathe with it.
To not abandon yourself—or the other person—just because it hurts.

That’s the paradox:

You soothe pain not by escaping it, but by staying close to it.
You grow stronger not by resisting the weight, but by learning to hold it well.

And sometimes, the most healing thing we can offer—ourselves or others—is this simple, powerful truth:

“I’m here. This can hurt. And we’re okay.”

What about problem solving ?

Lastly, Does presence mean passivity—like it means doing nothing.

But real presence doesn’t mean we stop trying to help or solve.
It just means we’re not fixated on the outcome.
We can still act, still soothe, still search for solutions—
but from a grounded place, not a panicked one.

Because true compassion isn’t just about what we do.
It’s about how we show up while doing it.

The deeper question to ask is:
“If there’s no guarantee that this will work—will I still choose to show up, stay soft, and be here fully?”

That’s presence.
Not because it guarantees success—
But because it honors the moment, no matter the result.

Choosing Growth Over Comfort: The Subtle Shift That Changes Everything

There’s a moment—right before I avoid something hard—where my body whispers: “Run.”

And honestly, it’s not wrong. That resistance? It’s not laziness or weakness. It’s protection. My nervous system flinches at anything unfamiliar, uncertain, or effortful. And for most of my life, I listened. I found clever ways to soothe, distract, rationalize, or delay. I told myself I was being strategic. But really, I was just avoiding discomfort.

I used to think this made me broken. Now I see—it just made me human.

But here’s the catch: every time I followed that whisper, I avoided short-term pain… and reinforced long-term stagnation.
That’s the cost of comfort. It feels good in the moment. But it quietly locks the door on growth.

Growth feels wrong at first

No one tells you this: growth doesn’t feel like a good decision when you’re in it.

It feels awkward. Risky. Vulnerable. Your mind spins: “What if this doesn’t work?” Your body tightens. And your habits scream for escape—scroll, snack, overthink, push harder, pull away.

So it makes sense that we avoid it. But the problem isn’t the discomfort itself. The problem is when we react to discomfort automatically—without checking in. Without asking, “What’s the deeper need here?”

That’s when I started realizing something that changed everything:

When I act from discomfort, I shrink.
When I breathe with discomfort, I choose.

The Energy of Trying vs the Energy of Doing

There’s a different feeling between trying and doing.

Trying is tight. It's anxious. It's often braced for failure.
I try because I want to get it right.
I try because I’m scared of getting it wrong.
I try because I think I’m not enough yet.

Trying is laced with urgency. It’s fueled by the fantasy that if I succeed fast enough, maybe I’ll finally feel safe… worthy… okay.

But I never do. Because that fantasy always moves the goalpost.

Doing, on the other hand, is grounded. It’s not about proving anything. It’s about showing up—fully, intentionally, and without the noise.

When I’m doing, I’m not gripping the outcome. I’m in motion, not because I’m desperate, but because I’m clear.
There’s a kind of steadiness in doing. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s slow.

Trying says: “Fix yourself.”
Doing says: “Show up.”

And here’s the paradox: Doing is often less effortful than trying—because it doesn’t carry the inner tension of fear and performance. It’s not about forcing. It’s about aligning.

Why Baby Steps Matter

One of the biggest traps of trying is this: it wants a big result, fast.
Trying says, “If I can just get there, then I’ll finally be okay.”

So I used to plan perfect routines. Make big promises. Push myself to hit huge milestones.
And inevitably, I’d burn out. The pressure would catch up. The shame would creep in. And I’d either crash or quit—then blame myself for not being “disciplined enough.”

That’s what trying does. It makes the work about proving something.

But doing plays a different game.

Doing values movement, not performance. Presence, not pressure.
It understands that the only way to build something real is to start small.

Baby steps aren’t weak.
They’re how real growth happens.

The bigger the change, the smaller the step you need to start with.

You don’t build strength by lifting the heaviest weight straight away. You build it by lifting what you can—and doing it consistently.

Same with business.
Same with emotional growth.
Same with learning how to be a new parent.
Same with healing, boundaries, or rebuilding self-worth.

When I’m in doing mode, I give myself permission to:

• Break things into one clear action

• Not need to feel ready

• Let today’s effort be enough

That’s not lowering the bar. That’s what makes growth sustainable.

The shift

There’s still a part of me that wants to rush, to prove, to finally “get there.” But I’m learning to catch myself. To notice when I’m tightening, bracing, slipping into the old cycle.

When I feel that urge to try harder—I pause.
I breathe.
And I ask: “What’s the next doable thing I can just do?”

Not because I need to fix myself.
But because I’ve already decided: I’m worth showing up for. Growth is worth showing up for. One small, ordinary step at a time.

Reflection:

Where in your life are you still trying to prove something, rather than simply doing the next step?
What’s one baby step you can take today—from a place of presence, not pressure?

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The Two Levels of Self-Alignment: Why I Stopped Forcing What Doesn't Fit

The other day, I was knee-deep in accounts payable—cross-checking invoices, emailing suppliers, updating records. You know, the stuff that makes a business run but slowly chips away at your soul if it’s not your thing.

I caught myself in that old, familiar state: mentally rushing, emotionally drained, slightly resentful.
I told myself the usual:

“Just reframe it. You’re honoring supplier relationships. You’re being a responsible business owner. This matters.”

And you know what? That worked—for a while.
I took a deep breath, made myself a tea, played some lo-fi beats, and soldiered on with a bit more peace.

But a few days later, the task came around again… and that creeping sense of “ugh” returned. I didn’t want to just cope. I wanted to change something. That’s when a deeper realization hit me:

There are two levels of self-alignment.

Level 1: Reframing the Task (Internal)

This is the mindset-level stuff.
Like telling yourself:

• “This builds trust with suppliers.”

• “I’m contributing to the team.”

• “This is an act of follow-through and integrity.”

It’s useful—don’t get me wrong. Reframing helps soften the resistance. It’s like putting balm on the blister so you can keep walking.

But you’re still walking in shoes that don’t fit.

Level 2: Redesigning the Task (External)

This is where you pause and ask:

“What if I could actually change the system so this task fits me better?”

And that’s when I made a new decision.
Instead of grinding through accounts payable every month, I’m building a process:

• Step-by-step documentation

• Training someone else

• Clear checks and balances

• A rhythm for review

In other words: I’m turning a draining task into a system that runs without me.

That’s when it clicked.

💥 The Realization

“When I rush because of pressure, I end up managing misalignment.
But when I give myself permission to slow down and redesign, I create flow and sustainability.”

Read that again if it resonates.

So much of life and business is spent coping with things that don’t fit us—because we feel too busy to redesign them. But redesigning is the only way to break the loop.

I’m learning that I can honor my wiring and build a business that works.
It just takes the courage to pause, zoom out, and choose alignment over urgency.

Internal Reframe (CBT style)

“I’ll keep doing the task, but change the way I relate to it.”
✅ Quick
✅ Useful in high-pressure moments
⚠️ But still feels like managing tension—not freedom

External Redesign (System shift)

“I’ll change the structure so I no longer have to force-fit myself.”
✅ Deeply energizing
✅ Plays to your strengths
⚠️ Takes time upfront
⚠️ Requires you to pause the rush to break the cycle

What about you?

What’s one area in your life or work where you’ve been grinding instead of redesigning?

Pause.
Breathe.
You don’t have to force what doesn’t fit.

Learning to Embrace Discomfort: A Personal Reflection

1. The Habit I Learned from My Mum

Whenever my mum visits, her default advice for handling babies often sounds like:
"Why don’t we just do it this way — easier, less effort, no need to bother?"

For a long time, I didn’t question it. But recently, it hit me: her core motivation isn’t just convenience — it’s about avoiding discomfort and minimizing effort.

And in that moment, I realized how much I had inherited the same mindset.
Subtly, quietly, this way of thinking had shaped me for years.

2. Reflection: The Pattern I Found in Myself

As someone who now tries to embrace discomfort — learning about strength, fortitude, and resilience — I find this old habit unsettling.

Looking back, I see it clearly:

• I often felt floppy, unsteady, xìu xìu (half-hearted).

• My hidden intention wasn't to commit and hold form, but rather to avoid discomfort — to manage pain instead of face it.

At the core, it’s a basic binary choice:

Commit, or default to avoiding pain.

And it turns out — avoiding pain is our biological wiring.
As Kristin Neff explains, even an amoeba in a petri dish will move away from toxins. All living things instinctively resist pain.

So no, it’s not about forcing ourselves to "love discomfort" with another unhealthy should.
It’s about practicing — slowly, patiently — how to stay with discomfort without collapsing.

3. The Practice I’m Building Now

These days, when I push through one more rep at the gym, I don’t focus on the next set, or the outcome months from now.

I focus only on this rep — encouraging myself with small, uplifting words as I move through the struggle.

It’s a quiet but powerful act:

• Choosing to commit.

• Choosing to lift myself up with kindness, not shame.

I’m learning that kindness and strength are not opposites.
To be truly kind to myself, I must also be strong enough to face discomfort — not avoid it, not fight it — but hold it.

4. Codifying the Practice: How I Embrace Discomfort

If I had to put it into a practice guide, it would be this:

1. Remember why.

I choose to embrace discomfort because I want to enjoy life while being effective — in work, in martial arts, in everything that matters.
Discomfort is a companion on the path to mastery, not an enemy.

2. Choose commitment.

I practice holding discomfort like holding a weight — rep by rep, breath by breath — whether it’s physical pain or emotional resistance.

3. Uplift myself.

Every hard moment is a fork in the road: I can shame myself down, or I can lift myself up.
I choose encouragement.

4. Let go of perfectionism.

Progress is not instant.
It’s the paradox of growth: baby steps move us forward faster than chasing unreasonable outcomes.

5. Learn to enjoy the practice itself.

When I stop chasing an end result, I find myself starting to enjoy the practice — even in its difficulty.
Discomfort becomes part of the flow, not something to be feared.

5. Final Reflection

My mum’s habit wasn’t "bad." It was human.
Avoiding discomfort is natural — it's survival.

But living fully — living with strength, mastery, and joy — means making a different choice.
It means choosing to practice — not to avoid, not to force — but to meet life as it comes, and grow from it.

That's the path I'm choosing now, one baby step at a time.

Manipulation Tactics by My Parents: Parentification & Withholding Recognition

Growing up in a Vietnamese-Chinese household, my parents could be… let’s say, a bit slack when it came to parenting. I believe they do love me deeply — I really do — but love doesn't cancel out the ways they messed up.

One of their go-to moves?
“Oh, he’s just a kid. He won’t know. Let’s just take the easy route.”
And by easy, they often meant controlling. Manipulating.

Now, to be real — I know all parenting involves some manipulation. “Eat your broccoli or no TV” is a classic. But in my case, it went deeper.
My sense of agency was never really honoured — even into my 30s.

Take this for example:
My mum sells at the markets. We weren’t struggling — we made decent money, more than most.
But almost every other day, she’d come home with the same script:

“My competitors are playing dirty. I work so hard for this family. I sacrifice everything so you can have this life.”

And I’d sit there.
Listening.
Holding space.
Being her emotional container.

I internalized that. I became the good kid. The worried kid. The one who thought we were poor, even when we weren’t. I felt guilty for needing anything. I learned — early and deep — that love comes with a price tag. That it had to be paid back, earned, justified.

Somehow, “make it count” meant: make me feel like my suffering was worth it.
And that’s not love. That’s a transaction dressed up in sacrifice.

And yet — I know she loved me. I believe that.
But she didn’t trust her own love to be enough, so she wrapped it in conditions.
Like putting pineapple on a pizza.
It confuses the kid.
It blocks the heart.
It messes everyone up — the giver and the receiver.

And then there’s recognition.
Whenever I did something well — like getting straight As — I’d run home excited to share.
And what’s the first thing she’d ask?

“How do you know you got it right? Did the teacher say so?”

As I got older, the teacher got replaced by other “authorities” — mostly, money.
If you don’t earn, it doesn’t count.

That kind of withholding — it wasn’t malicious. They genuinely believed it kept us grounded.
But here’s what it taught me:

Who I am doesn’t matter unless someone else approves of me first.

Even if that someone else isn’t them.

They’d brag about my achievements to their friends — but never directly celebrate me.
To this day, I carry the residue of that conditioning.
The reflex to doubt myself.
The constant reach for external validation.
The hesitation to just feel proud of who I am.
The struggle to believe that I’m enough.

This is a heavy post.
But I’m not writing it from a place of victimhood. I know it wasn’t my fault.

What hurts is that now — it’s my responsibility to end this cycle.
To learn how to be compassionate with myself.
To have faith in myself.
To build a relationship with myself.
And — more than anything — to not pass this on to Alfred.

Because here’s the question that keeps me up:

What do we teach our kids — to seek approval? Or to trust their inner voice?

Do we raise them to be self-referencing, to know their worth from within?
Or do we condition them to always look outward for permission to feel proud?

For Alfred — I want him to know:
He doesn’t need to earn my love.
He doesn’t need to prove anything.
He’s worthy.
Right now.
Always.

Seeking vs. Surrendering: Why I Think the Fastest Path Is Letting Go (this goes with business and most things in life)

Today, I was struck by something Joe Hudson said in an interview. He spoke about how seeking purpose is like a jealous lover — assuming love isn’t there, and therefore chasing it endlessly. The more they seek, the more the other retreats.

That hit home.

Seeking, he said, often comes from the assumption that something is missing — that we are somehow not already whole, not already connected, not already living it. The act of seeking can become a kind of spiritual insecurity — and in that movement, we may actually push the very thing we long for further away.

That feels true for me.

In my own journey of self-discovery, I’ve often approached it like a performance: trying to do it “right,” to find the most efficient, most optimized path. As if max effort equals max return.

But it rarely works that way.

Emotionally, it feels like being caught in a loop of chasing — subtly telling myself that I’m not enough yet, that the answer is out there, not in here. And from that place of lack, even when I do arrive at answers — logical, sound, well-constructed — I struggle to believe in them. I can’t seem to integrate them.

It’s as if answers born from the tension of striving don’t land in the body.
They don’t soothe. They don’t resonate.
They don’t feel true.

So what’s the alternative?

Perhaps — in the context of self-discovery — the fastest, most natural path is not seeking at all.
It’s surrendering.

Not giving up. Not being passive.
But surrendering the need to chase. Letting go of the mental sprint.
And instead, relating to myself from where I already am.

What if I trust that the purpose, the clarity, the knowing — it’s already in me?
What if it unfolds not through effort, but through allowing? Through curiosity?
What if self-discovery isn’t a mission, but a relationship — fluid, evolving, alive?

Surrender, in this way, becomes a kind of invitation. A willingness to meet myself as I am, without the pressure to optimize or rush. A quiet faith in my own unfolding.

This reminds me of Taoist wisdom — the idea of flowing with nature rather than forcing it.
Nature doesn’t strive, yet everything gets done.
It evolves, slowly and gracefully.
We, too, are part of nature.

We forget that.

We forget that we are worthy of love, of wonder, of awe — as we are.
Not as a project to fix, but as a being to meet.

So here’s what I’m sitting with today:

Maybe the fastest way to become more of myself…
is to stop trying to become anything at all.

Just be.
Be open. Be curious.
And let it unfold.

Faith Is Not the End — It’s the Invitation

Today, I realised something about faith — especially in the context of God, or the relationship I have with myself.

As someone who’s struggled to embrace faith, I used to see it as a kind of compromise. Faith, to me, felt like a substitute for understanding — as if I had to choose between faith or knowledge, but never both. One always seemed to exclude the other.

I’ve seen how blind faith can become dangerous — the kind that justifies harm, like extremists who claim belief while bombing innocent lives. I’ve also known people like myself — intellectually sharp, but inwardly unsettled, shaky. We cling to logic but sometimes feel hollow inside.

But lately, I’ve started to see faith differently.

A healthy kind of faith doesn’t shut down curiosity — it invites it. It’s not an answer that ends the search; it’s the quiet knowing that there is something there… and it’s worth exploring.
It doesn’t kill understanding — it makes the process of understanding feel meaningful.
It’s not the final destination — it’s the beginning of a relationship.

Real faith — to me now — is an openness. It’s a trust that something good is on the other side, even if I don’t fully understand it yet. It’s not the absence of doubt; it’s the confidence to walk with doubt, knowing the answers will unfold.

Faith is knowing, even without all the evidence yet. It’s the first step in a long, beautiful dance.
Faith says: "There’s something here, I feel it. Let’s build the bridge and meet there."

In this light, faith becomes relational — a living, breathing connection between two entities. Whether that’s between me and God, or me and my deeper self, it’s something that grows. And like any relationship, it needs tending — through understanding, attention, and care.

If what I truly long for is self-intimacy, then maybe it begins here — with a little bit of faith in myself.
Not blind faith. Not forced. Just enough to start.

Enough to say:

“There’s something in me worth knowing. Let me stay curious. Let me be kind. Let me not rush. Let me not demand perfection. Let me trust the unfolding.”

This relationship with myself isn’t a performance. There is no finish line. It’s a rich, ongoing, evolving bond — one where I’ll reap what I sow.

And if I pay attention — really pay attention — I’ve noticed something.
Nine times out of ten, the answers always come.
Not all at once.
But they do come.

So I choose to trust in that.
To walk with open eyes, an open heart, and a gentle posture.
Because there is no not-knowing — only understanding, slowly, beautifully, revealing itself.

Evy’s Story: Love and Money — Maybe Love More?

Yesterday, Evy and Quynh Anh paid us a visit. As always, she was radiant — full of love, warmth, and grace. A brilliant human being.

At one point, she mentioned her brother, a surgeon who just built a beautiful home in Maroubra. Every year, their family gathers there for Christmas and Easter — this year, there were 18 of them. A big, joyful tradition.

I didn’t say it out loud, but part of me felt a quiet envy. I don’t have 18 people to celebrate with every year. I felt the absence of that kind of big, warm, overflowing family love. But of course, I didn’t mention it to her. After all, she’s so wonderful to us.

I did say, “I want that for us — money and love.”
They laughed, said I was being so real.
But was I?

On reflection today, I wonder if it’s really the money I want.
Money is just an idea — a number I can’t quite hold in my hands.
Maybe what I long for is love. Maybe it’s the love I want more.

But even then… do I really want that much love, from that many people?

I’ve been in spaces where people were kind, welcoming, generous —
and still felt unfulfilled.
I often find myself pulled toward one-on-one, deep-and-meaningful conversations — seeking connection, resonance, the magic of being seen and understood.

But those moments are rare.
Not everyone’s available for that kind of connection, and not every occasion makes space for it.

Maybe… what I’ve been longing for all along is self-intimacy.

All those imagined deep conversations with an invisible friend — maybe that was life nudging me inward. Maybe the connection I’ve yearned for is the one I can build with myself.

Maybe the desire to be seen, held, understood, and embraced —
that warm, safe, loving presence I’ve always imagined in a friend —
maybe that’s who I can be for me.

What if I can be that friend to myself?

What if self-intimacy isn’t just possible —
but something I’m naturally good at,
just never given the chance to practice?

Growth Is Returning — Not Chasing

(Why the Version of Me I Long to Be Is Already Within Me)

At 2AM, Alfred is crying.
I’m exhausted.
We don’t understand each other.
And I just want him to drink his milk so we can all go back to sleep.

In that moment, I get impatient.
The part of me that wants to fix, control, move on — it takes over.
And for a few minutes, feeding becomes a task. A checkbox.
I disconnect.

For a long time, I thought growth meant not doing that.
Not getting impatient. Not slipping. Not reacting.
I thought growth meant becoming someone more together, more polished, more “better.”

But lately, I’ve been seeing it differently:

✨ Growth isn’t about chasing an ideal version of myself.
It’s about returning to who I already am — with more awareness, more care, more choice.

That version of me I admire — the grounded, loving, patient father?
He’s not far away.
He’s already in me.

And here’s how I know:

That version must already live inside me — because I feel resonance with him.
He doesn’t feel foreign. He feels familiar.
I’m drawn to him not because I should be like him, but because something in me recognises him.

This is something I’ve come to trust more and more:

🌱 You can’t be deeply inspired by something that doesn’t already live inside you.
Real inspiration isn’t about idolising what’s “out there.”
It’s about something within you being stirred — remembered.

It means the qualities I long for are already part of me — waiting to be nurtured, chosen, and expressed.

The moment something resonates, it’s because that part of me already exists, even if it hasn’t been fully lived yet.
I’m not chasing it. I’m realising it.

That realisation changed everything.

It meant I no longer had to fix myself to be enough.
I just had to relate to myself differently.
To become the kind of person who returns to what’s true — even after I’ve missed the mark.

That’s what I now call compassionate alignment.

So now, even in moments like 2AM, when I’m tired and frustrated, I do this:

• I notice when I’ve slipped.

• I take a breath.

• I acknowledge the part of me that’s reacting — the fixer, the controller, the “get-it-done” part.

• And I say:

“I see you. You’re trying to help. But this moment needs something else. I’m going to lead from presence.”

And just like that — not with force, but with relationship — I return.

Not because I’ve perfected myself.
But because I’ve remembered who I am.

💡 Here’s what I’m realising more and more:

Growth is not something to chase.
It’s something to realise.
And realisation happens when I learn to return — again and again — to what’s already true inside me.

Growth is not about:

• Polishing myself

• Proving myself

• Outrunning my flaws

It’s about:

• Being in relationship with all parts of me

• Choosing who leads

• And trusting that the version I long to be is already here, already home.

That’s self-actualisation.
Not some final destination.
But the daily practice of showing up — not perfectly, but honestly.
Not forcefully, but faithfully.

Not by striving…
But by returning.

✨ If you’ve been chasing growth, try asking instead:

“What version of me already feels familiar?”
“What part of me do I keep returning to when I’m grounded, honest, and at peace?”
“What if the work isn’t to become someone else… but to remember who I’ve been all along?”

You don’t need to be flawless to grow.
You don’t need to be someone else to be enough.

You just need to keep returning — with care, with choice, with compassion.
That’s the real work.
And you’re already in it.

Let me know if you'd like to format this into a downloadable piece for your audience or blog, or if you want to build an accompanying visual or audio version to speak it aloud. This post is core wisdom — it could easily anchor a future talk, podcast, or course theme.

Growth at 2AM: What It Looks Like When I’m Tired, Frustrated, and Still Showing Up

Let me tell you where real growth happens.

Not in a book.
Not on a meditation cushion.
Not in a well-framed quote on Instagram.

But at 2AM.

I’m exhausted.
Alfred’s crying.
I’m trying to feed him, and he’s not taking the bottle. He’s wriggling. Frustrated. We don’t understand each other.
And honestly? I’m impatient. I just want this to be over.

I know I love him. I know I have a big heart.
But in that moment? I’m caught between love and fatigue — between my ideal self and my very human one.

So what does growth actually look like in a moment like that?

Here’s how it unfolded — in real time.

1. I name what’s true. Without shame.

I pause for half a second and say to myself (sometimes out loud):

“I’m so tired. I just want him to drink and sleep. I feel impatient. I feel disconnected. This feels like a task I want to finish.”

That’s acceptance — not a theory, but a nervous-system regulating, self-honoring pause.

I don’t try to reframe it yet.
I don’t pretend to be zen.
I just let it be true.

2. I shift — not into performance, but into presence.

I don’t force myself to be some super patient parent.
But I also don’t abandon myself.

I say:

“This is hard. And it makes sense that I feel this way. I still care. I’m still here.”

And sometimes I place my hand on my chest. One breath. That’s it.
Just a quiet reminder: I’m still with myself.

That’s self-relationship — not fixing, not judging, just being.

3. I turn the task back into connection.

Feeding starts to feel like a to-do list item when I’m overwhelmed.
But when I remember, I soften. I whisper to Alfred:

“Hey little one, I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t understand right now. But I’m still here. We’re still together.”

He might still cry.
But I change.
I return to the moment — not as a duty, but as our relationship.

That’s growth. Not control. Connection.

4. I remember: this is where growth lives.

It’s easy to think growth happens in big revelations or well-rested mornings.
But no — this is the work. This is the practice.

I’m not failing because I’m frustrated.
I’m growing because I’m noticing.
I’m growing because I’m staying.
I’m growing because I care — even when I’m on edge.

🌿 Love includes frustration.
Care includes discomfort.
Presence includes imperfection.

✨ The Integration

This moment — this messy, tired, honest moment — holds everything I’ve been exploring:

• Aspiration → I want to be a loving, attuned dad.

• Acceptance → I admit when I’m not there.

• Self-understanding → I see my fatigue, my patterns, my reactions.

• Realignment → I pivot, gently, from resistance into presence.

• Embodiment → I don’t force perfection. I offer what I have: myself.

That’s growth in action.

🌙 A quiet mantra for nights like this:

“This is hard. I am tired. He is learning. So am I.
We don’t need to be perfect. We just need to stay.”

I’m not just feeding Alfred.
I’m growing too.

Not by force. Not by doing it right.
But by returning — breath by breath — to love.

Even at 2AM.

Grow From What Resonates

(Not From What’s Just Impressive)

If you're someone who loves to grow — to evolve, to become — this might be for you.

Because sometimes, in all our striving toward the “ideal version” of ourselves…
we forget to ask one essential question:

Does this version even resonate with me?

There are so many ideals out there:

• The productive one

• The emotionally healed one

• The ultra-disciplined one

• The visionary leader

• The spiritual, grounded one

• The “always calm” parent

And it’s easy to mistake impressive for true.

But real growth — the kind that brings peace, clarity, and momentum — doesn’t come from chasing what looks good.
It comes from tuning in and asking:

🌿 What actually feels like me?
What version of myself am I drawn toward — not driven by fear or comparison to become?

Because even defining your ideal self requires self-understanding.

And if we skip that — if we don’t pause to listen — we fall into the trap of chasing ideals that were never ours in the first place.
We call it “growth,” but really it’s noise in disguise.
We work so hard to become… and still feel off, disconnected, or not enough.

Because sometimes… what looks like growth is just noise in a clever disguise.
And what feels like slowing down is actually the deepest kind of alignment.

So here’s what I’m learning:

✨ Let the question sink in:
“What resonates with me?”
Not what’s popular.
Not what’s expected.
Not what sounds good.
But what feels true.

That’s the soil to grow from.
That’s where aligned becoming begins.
Not from chasing — but from coming home.

Your Aspirations Are Not the Enemy

(Why Becoming Starts With Being)

We all carry an image — a version of who we think we should be, could be, or hope to become.

Whether it’s:

• the confident leader

• the calm parent

• the creative visionary

• the healed, grounded, purposeful self

That ideal isn’t bad. It’s not wrong.
It’s actually… sacred.

It points to our longings.
Our values.
Our desire to grow.

But here’s what I’d say to anyone (including myself) chasing that ideal:

🌱 Your aspirations are a compass, not a measuring stick.
Let them guide you — but don’t use them to beat yourself up for where you are right now.

That ideal version of you isn’t someone you need to become in order to be worthy.
That version of you is actually already inside you — just waiting to be related to with care, consistency, and patience.

It doesn’t need to be forced.
It needs to be nurtured into expression.

✨ You grow into that version — not by striving harder, but by relating to yourself better.
It’s not about pressure.
It’s about presence — staying close to yourself even when it’s hard.

The “ideal you” doesn’t come to life when you’ve eliminated all flaws.
It comes to life in the way you show up when you:

• fall short and still stay kind

• feel scared and still take one small step

• don’t know the answer but stay present anyway

That’s how the future you is built —
Right here, in the now.

So yes, dream big.
Hold your vision.
Envision the person you want to be.

But don’t forget:

🌿 The only way to become more of yourself… is to start by being with yourself.
Not the ideal.
Not the imagined.
But the present, imperfect, unfolding you.

And that’s not settling —
That’s rooting.
That’s what makes your growth real.

Why self-acceptance comes before reframing

Why self-acceptance comes before reframing

Someone once told me:

“You can’t reframe what you haven’t accepted.”

At the time, I wasn’t sure why that mattered.
Why not just jump straight into a new narrative?
Why not just think differently, change direction, and move on?

But now, I’m starting to understand:

💭 Without acceptance, reframing becomes resistance.
It becomes a way to avoid, to bypass, to push past what’s real — instead of meeting it.

And what we don’t meet with honesty and care… doesn’t go away.
It just hides. It lingers.
In our stress, our shame, our “what’s wrong with me?” moments.

🪞 Acceptance is turning the lights on.
It says: “This is where I am. I see it. I understand why.”
It calms the nervous system.
It makes space for compassion.
It creates a solid ground to stand on.

Then — from there — reframing becomes real.

Not a forced spin,
Not a performative positivity,
But a grounded, powerful choice:

“This is where I am. And now, I choose a new way to relate to it.”

🌿 That’s when reframing actually sticks.
Because it’s not about denial — it’s about integration.

And I’ve learned this the hard way:
You can’t skip the “I hear you” part of the inner dialogue.
That’s what your inner self, your younger self, your present self — needs most.

Reframing is not a shortcut. It’s a second step.
And it only works when the first one — acceptance — is fully felt.

✨ So here’s a gentle invitation:
What part of you is asking to be accepted before it can shift?

You don’t need to rush it.
Just start by saying:
“I see you. I hear you. I’m here with you.”

That’s where real change begins.

What is “relationship,” really?

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the word relationship — especially in the context of self-growth, healing, and inner work.

We hear it all the time:

“Build a better relationship with yourself.”
“Change your relationship to discomfort, to fear, to your thoughts.”

But what does that actually mean?

Here’s what I’m learning:

🌀 Relationship is not a fixed state.
It’s not something you have — it’s something you’re in the process of doing.

You don’t have self-trust — you practice it.
You don’t have self-love — you return to it, over and over again.
You don’t have a relationship with your ADHD, your fear, your uncertainty — you tend to it.

Just like a garden. With time. With patience. With care.

💭 Relationship holds space for complexity.
You can be struggling and still be worthy of care.
You can feel lost and still be trustworthy.
You can be growing and still messy.

That’s what relationship makes room for:
Not one single truth, but the ability to stay with many truths at once.

🌿 Relationship is how healing happens.
It’s not about fixing every flaw.
It’s about changing the way I relate to myself when I fall short or don’t have the answers.

That shift — from self-judgment to self-support, from shame to presence — that’s where the real work is.

Not a quick fix. Not a bandage.
But a new posture toward myself.

So now when I catch myself asking:

“Am I doing enough? Have I figured myself out yet?”
I gently reframe it:

🕊️ “Am I relating to myself with honesty and care — even in the not-knowing?”

Because relationship isn’t something I achieve.
It’s something I show up to — again and again.

And that, I’m learning, is enough.

What Feeding My Son Taught Me About Trust

Entry 001 – CEO of the Everyday

It’s 2:35am.
I’m tired. Alfred—my 10-day-old son—is flailing in my arms, clearly upset, hungry, and unable to tell me what he needs. I'm trying to feed him, but he’s frantic, twisting, unsettled. I respond with control—trying to command the moment, to get him to “calm down,” so I can help him.

It backfires.

Then Michelle—gentle and wise—says softly:
"Be patient."

I pause.

And in that pause, I see it.
I’ve been trying to fix the discomfort—his and mine.
I’ve been trying to control what simply needs to be held.

So I choose to trust.

Not in some perfect method, or in having the right answer.
But in Alfred. In myself. In the moment.
Even though it’s chaotic. Even though I’m exhausted.
Even though we don’t yet fully understand each other.

I choose to believe that we can hold more than this.
That we don’t need to “solve” every tension—we can just be in it, together.

And something shifts.

As I trust the process—trust him, trust me—my energy softens. I begin to feed him again, not from a place of pressure or performance, but from grace.
From presence.
From love, without agenda.

It’s still messy. But it’s beautiful.

I’m learning that moments like these are the practice.
That holding the tension—between what’s happening and what I wish were happening—isn’t a weakness. It’s a form of strength.
It’s the work of becoming. It’s what real care looks like.

Whether I’m leading a team or rocking my son in the dark, I’m learning that:

Leadership isn’t always about control. Sometimes it’s just about staying—open, grounded, kind—through the unknown.

This, I believe, is what it means to be a CEO of the Everyday.

If this resonates with you, I’d love to hear your story. Parenthood, leadership, growth—they all ask us to hold more than we think we can. But we’re capable of more grace than we realize.

Until next time,
Andrew - CEO of the Everyday

Empowered in the Unknown

They say when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.
But that only works if you remember you’ve got hands. That you can move. That you still have choice — even when the path ahead feels blurry.

I’ve come to realize something, through both business and life:
No one really knows what they’re doing. We’re all figuring it out.
There’s no map. Just a series of steps, decisions, and adjustments.
Some people have foresight, some don’t — and that’s okay. We all move at our own rhythm.

What matters is this:
Even in the face of the unknown, I can still be settled inside.
I can choose based on what I know now — and let that be enough.
If tomorrow brings surprises, it doesn’t mean I failed today.
It just means tomorrow is asking for something new.
A new step. A new choice. A new adjustment.

That, to me, is empowerment.
Not having everything figured out, but being honest with where I’m at,
Trusting myself in this moment, and moving forward from here.

It’s not about being certain.
It’s about being with myself — present, grounded, and open.

Playing With My Default Go-To

Today I learned something that didn’t come from a book or a quote — it came from knowing myself, with Irene’s help. I learned that I have a natural loving tendency and a fast-paced mind, likely tied to my ADHD traits. That’s not a contradiction. It’s just… me.

I used to think that taking my nature into account when making decisions was a constraint. Like I was adding more steps, slowing myself down, being less efficient. But now I’m starting to see it differently: maybe it's not about slowing down — maybe it's about choosing well so I don’t spin in circles.

For example:

• I know I thrive on spontaneity and randomness.

• I also know I don’t cope well with overwhelm and anxiety.

These aren't flaws — they’re facts. Like gravity. Like how metal reacts to acid. My default go-to is a real force — and pretending it’s not there doesn’t make it disappear. If I want to work with myself instead of against myself, I have a choice:

• I can treat these tendencies as constraints, things to overcome so I can chase some idea of who I think I should be.

• Or I can acknowledge, accept, and even bank into them — design my approach with them in mind. That might actually boost my wellbeing, not weigh it down.

And maybe, just maybe… that’s not slower at all. Maybe I’ve been “powering through” for years, and it hasn’t made me any more productive — just more stubborn, more reactive, more drained. Have I even looked at the results of that method honestly?

What if this self-knowledge — this gentle, grounded kind — is the very thing that lets me play better, create better, live better?

Because when I trust that I know myself well enough to make decisions that work for me… that’s when I get to bring my full self to the table.

And that’s when I really get to play.

Reframing is not a bandage

Let’s be honest — I’ve doubted the whole "reframe it" thing before.

Sometimes when I hear a reframe, even from my therapist and friends, I find myself thinking:
"Is this just a clever way to spin things so I feel better in the moment?"

There’s a part of me that resists — that believes it can’t be that simple. That it’s too good to be true. Just change how I think about it? Just tell a better story? That can’t really shift anything… right?

But here’s what I’m learning:

Reframing isn’t a spin. It’s not a bandage.
It’s not about glossing over pain or slapping on a positive thought.

Reframing — real reframing — is choosing a different intention, a different internal posture, a different relationship to what’s happening.

It’s a physical, emotional, and mental shift.
It’s a change in the energy I carry, the motivation I follow, and the presence I bring.

And let’s be real — it’s not easy.

Choosing to reframe doesn’t mean the problem disappears.
It means I meet it differently.
With more compassion.
With more clarity.
With more trust in the part of me that gets to choose again — even if I’ve been here before.

And yes, it takes effort.
It takes practice.
Because I’m not just repeating affirmations — I’m building a new way of relating to myself.

That’s the work. That’s the shift.
And it’s not a shortcut.
It’s the path.