Born in a War Zone, Built for Becoming - healing, heartbreak, and the slow art of coming home to myself

Notes From an Emotional Renovation - Rewriting the blueprint for love, safety, and self-worth

DAY 35 of My Life as Not-Old-Me

Dear Diary,

Turns out the couch isn’t the miracle sleep solution I romanticized it to be. Who knew that throwing your back out on a three-seater while trying to outrun existential despair wouldn’t be exactly... restorative? Honestly, I think my spine whispered “betrayal” around 3 a.m. I woke up cranky. Like, full-bodied, irrational, “I will fight a tree if it looks at me funny” kind of cranky. Never mind. I’m getting used to the pain.

There’s so much bubbling inside me in this season of my life - sadness, frustration, grief with nowhere to land. I feel this restless pressure in my chest, like I need to do something... but I have no idea what. Move to Mexico? Shave my head? Start a hot yoga cult? My body, however, has submitted a firm “absolutely not” to all of the above. It’s achy, heavy, and on strike from all this relentless ‘healing.’ It’s like my cells have filed for temporary leave.

Meanwhile, my mind is pacing like a caffeinated squirrel in a tiny cage. “We should do something! Fix it! Make a vision board! Manifest harder!” It’s having a full-blown spiritual tantrum, while my body just wants to nap, snack, and be left alone without any metaphysical homework. And then there’s me - somewhere in the middle - just watching it all unfold without reacting, like a quiet witness to my own chaos. Because maybe that’s the work now: not escaping the mess, but learning to sit with it. To observe without spiralling too much. To become a softer, wiser witness to my own becoming - one breath, one breakdown, one squirrel tantrum at a time.

This inner tug-of-war is beyond exhausting. It's like my nervous system and higher self are in couples therapy, sitting on opposite ends of the couch refusing to make eye contact. I know something is shifting - some kind of energetic molting, a slow reboot. But it’s happening in the least Pinterest-worthy way imaginable. Think: emotional renovation site, tiles torn up, drywall everywhere, and me in the corner with mascara tears and no idea where the floor went.

And yes. I’m MAD. So mad. The anger acts as a shield. A defence. Because deep in my bones, I can’t help but to feel that the beautiful fucker (my Canadian ex) is going to come back. Like an unwanted calendar notification: “Mercury retrograde. Expect texts from emotionally unavailable men.” It's not psychic ability, it’s trauma fluency and intuitive cynicism. And what pisses me off most? A small part of me still wants it. Not because I want him exactly, but because I want the validation. The closure. The full-circle moment where I hear what I already know - that he ghosted because he couldn’t meet me. Because I was never the problem. His fear was.

It’s this maddening emotional limbo - wanting to forgive, genuinely wanting to rise above and float on a cloud of evolved grace... and yet also wanting to throw a crystal at his forehead. Gently. With ceremony. Maybe sage him afterward and perform a symbolic cord-cutting with kitchen scissors. I keep whispering to myself, “Okay, I forgive him. I choose peace.” And then, five minutes later, I’m back in my imaginary courtroom, delivering an emotionally charged monologue: “Exhibit A: The Audacity”, while my inner child jury munches popcorn, sips juice-box chardonnay, and nods solemnly like seasoned therapists at a TED Talk titled "Why he absolutely had it coming."

No one tells you that healing includes the part where you still want to send a 37-slide PowerPoint presentation titled “Here’s Why You’re Emotionally Inept.” Even after all the meditating. All the journaling. All the freaking cacao ceremonies.

Forgiveness, it turns out, isn’t a lightning bolt from heaven - it’s a series of awkward, everyday decisions not to spiral. Not to weaponize my pain. Not to make a playlist called Songs to Cry and Cyberstalk To. It’s imperfect. It’s messy. It’s deeply, painfully human.

Because yes, I want to forgive. But I also still want answers. Closure. Some damn accountability. And while I know forgiveness is for me, not him, there are still days I want to yell into the universe, “I AM TRYING TO BE ENLIGHTENED BUT I STILL KINDA HATE YOU TODAY!”

So yeah. Forgiveness isn’t a one-time decision. It’s more like yoga. Or quitting dairy. You intend to be pure - but somehow, you still end up crying into your oat milk latte while Adele plays in the background. And then there’s the mystery of love. Lately, I feel like I’m standing at a crossroads - one hand holding everything I was taught about it, the other gripping all the uncomfortable truths I’m starting to unlearn.

Growing up, love meant patience. Kindness. Forgiveness. Endurance - especially endurance. Love stayed, even when it hurt. Love was sacrifice, devotion, martyrdom - quiet suffering passed down through generations of women who held entire families together while slowly unraveling on the inside. But now... I’m not so sure. If love means abandoning myself in the name of loyalty - then what am I actually building? A relationship, or a slow erosion of my soul? Who am I becoming in the name of staying?

I don’t want to inherit that version of love. I want something else. Something truer. Not obligation dressed up as commitment. Not fear pretending to be loyalty. I want to love from wholeness. With boundaries. With truth. But breaking that pattern? Messy. Think spiritual exorcism meets IKEA assembly instructions. Lots of screws everywhere and no idea what’s holding the thing together.

Speaking of patterns and legacy... I’ve also been wondering if what I’m feeling right now isn’t just mine. Maybe it’s the invisible thread tying me back to everything that’s currently happening in Iran - psychically, emotionally, whether I like it or not. The grief, the ancestral weight, the cultural ache I was born into it. Born and raised in a literal war zone. Bombs overhead, tension in the air, adults whispering survival between sips of tea and acts of violence. I wonder: How much of what I carry is actually mine? And how much is me holding the grief of a people, a lineage, a land that still pulses through my body like a forgotten drumbeat?

We forget, sometimes, that everything is energy. It moves through time, through bloodlines, through bodies. And the closer I look at my life - really look - the more I see how deeply interconnected everything is. This isn’t just my story. It’s a thread in a tapestry far older than me. Maybe part of my work here is to honour that. Feel it. And transmute it in whatever way I can.

It wasn’t just the war outside - I also grew up in an emotional war zone. The kind where silence was weaponized, love came with conditions, and connection always carried an edge. So it’s no wonder that now, as an adult, I find myself stuck in this maddening loop: the very things I crave are the things I fear most.

I crave love - deep, safe, soul-anchoring love - but when it shows up, I panic. I don’t trust it. I scan for danger, waiting for the withdrawal. I hate isolation, and yet isolation has kept me safe. It’s been my fortress. My familiar. I want what I don’t have and have what I don’t want, and it’s exhausting trying to make sense of any of it.

At my core, there’s a quiet, persistent feeling of “I’m not safe.” A thread that says “I’m not enough.” And underneath that... this haunting belief that maybe I need someone to rescue me. But here’s the kicker: even when someone does come close - someone kind, present, willing - I still don’t trust it. I wait for the catch. I brace for the letdown. I put up invisible defences. So instead, I became the rescuer. The helper. The healer. The emotionally available one. The safe harbour for others while quietly drowning in my own storm.

Because if I was saving them, I didn’t have to admit that I didn’t know how to save me.

And then... there’s him. The Canadian. The one I romanticise. The one who cracked something open in me by simply walking away. The one who, unintentionally became the teacher I never asked for but clearly needed.

Because if he hadn’t ghosted, I wouldn’t have dropped this deep into myself. I wouldn’t have started writing again. Wouldn’t have unearthed this voice, this truth, this fire. And not just for me - apparently, it’s landing for others too. There’s a ripple effect, and I can feel it.

So how do I hold that contradiction? You hurt me. Thank you. Both.

I keep refusing to let go of the love I feel for him. My mind and heart are caught in a full-blown domestic dispute. My heart whispers, “He loves you. You cracked something open in him. Maybe he’s in his own chaos, just like you were when he found you.” And yeah… maybe. Or maybe he’s just a walking red flag with great cheekbones. Who knows? But even when my mind screams, “He lied. He ghosted. He played you,” I still find myself returning to the love. No matter how loud the anger gets, I can’t seem to loosen my grip on that thread. Irrational or not, it still feels... real.

And while I’m stuck in this emotional split screen, I notice the stagnation seeping into every area of my life. It’s like life has quietly hit pause and whispered, “Not yet.”

What if that’s not punishment? What if life is just... rearranging things on my behalf What if I’m not being blocked, but redirected? Maybe I’m not meant to be steering right now. Maybe, just maybe, I’m being lived by life - and not the other way around. And maybe healing doesn’t require a rewrite where he’s either the hero or the villain. Maybe it’s enough to let him be what he was: a catalyst. A collapse. A necessary fire.

After a few client sessions and some soul-searching, I read a beautiful piece about what women don’t understand about men and that reminded me: We don’t see things as they are. We see them as we are… This is the work. This is the becoming…

I’m still figuring out what love is. But I know what it isn’t. And for the first time in my life, that’s enough to begin again.

Still standing.
Still becoming.

Still unraveling,

TODAY’S VIBE:
Emotionally chaotic but spiritually self-aware. Equal parts warrior goddess and exhausted squirrel.

TODAY’S THING THAT STOOD OUT:
Realizing that forgiveness isn’t a divine download - it’s me, choosing not to spiral while rage-texting in my head for the fifth time today.

TODAY’S TRUTH I ALMOST DIDN’T ADMIT:
I crave love with every fibre of my being... and yet, I still don’t trust it when it gets too close.

TODAY’S QUESTION:
What if I’m not blocked, but being gently - and chaotically - rerouted?

TODAY I CREATED:
An imaginary courtroom where my inner children serve sass, wisdom, and wine in equal measure. Also: a damn good piece of writing.

TODAY’S SONG: God went crazy - Teddy Swims - Because I am messy and it’s beautiful

P.S.
If you’re unraveling too - same. Drop a comment if you’re a beautiful disaster with good intentions.