The Walls You Don't See

Most of the walls keeping you stuck...were built by you.

Sometimes the biggest barriers in our lives aren't the ones the world places in front of us. They're the ones we quietly build ourselves unintentionally. Most of the time, these walls form slowly while we're just trying to survive life's friction. A dissapointment here. A betrayal there. A moment when we learned it was safer to stay small, quiet, agreeable, or careful. Little by little, protective habits form. Eventually, those habits become walls. the strange part is that once the walls are there long enough, we stop seeing them.

We just feel stuck.

Preparation is useful. Planning matters. But sometimes preparation quietly turns into something else. We research longer than necessary. We wait until we feel "ready." We convince ourselvees we need a better plan before we begin. What feels like responsibility can slowly become hesitation. The truth is that clarity rarely shows up before we move. It usually arrives because we did.

Action teaches what thinking alone never will.

Life constantly places ideas, opportunities, and nudges in front of us. But every signal gets dissected from every possible angle, momentum disappears. We imagine every outcome. Every risk. Every way something could go wrong. Eventually, the mind decides the safest option is to do nothing. Stillness is still a decision. And the longer we stay still, the harder movement feels.

Another quiet block comes from something that seems honorable: consistency.

We feel pressure to stay the person others expect us to be. The dependable one. The agreeable one. The quiet one. The strong one who never needs help. But growth rarely respects old roles. Sometimes the next version of you requires letting go of identities that once kept you safe. They're not wrong. They were temporary.

Most meaningful changes come with friction. Speaking honestly. Setting boundaries. Trying something new. Allowing yourself to be seen. All of these stretch us beyond what's familiar. And the mind is excellent at protecting comfort. It suggests waiting. Delaying. Distracting ourselves with things that feel productive but don't actually move us forward. But discomfort is not always a warning sign.

Often it's simply the sensation of expansion.

This might be the quietest block of all. Many people move through life waiting for someone else to confirm they're allowed to step forward. Permission to start the project. Permission to change the direction. Permission to speak honestly. Permission to be fully themselves. The approval rarely arrives. It's not being withheld, its just not someone else's to give.

The moment people realize they are allowed to decide for themselves is often the moment their life begins to shift.

Something powerful happens when we begin to notice these patterns. Awareness returns choice. The same mind that built the wall is capable of dismatling it. Not perfectly, and not overnight, but one decision at a time. One step that used to feel intimidating. One moment of honesty. One action taken before certainty arrives. Eventually something surprising becomes clear... the path forward was never fully blocked.

Sometimes we were just standing in front of the door we had the power to open all along.

Life will always contain friction. That part is unavoidable. When we recognize the blocks we've placed in our own path, something shifts. We stop fighting invisible resistance. We stop waiting for the perfect moment. We begin moving again. The road didn't randomly become easy, we just realized we were stronger than the outside obsticals we once believed were permanent. Sometimes, the greatest progress in life begins with a simple, quiet realization. The door was never locked. Sometimes, the only thing standing between you and your next step...is believing you can take it.

Holding Boundaries with Parents: Love, Healing, and Tarot Insights

I've learned something most people don't talk about: cutting off your parents isn't simple. People make it look easy on the surface. Like you just decide one day to stop talking to them, and life magically feels lighter. But the truth? It's not that simple.

For me, boundaries with my parents have always been complicated. I've spent my whole childhood and most of my adult life on the back burner. I made it clear early on that I had my own mind, my own ways of entertaining myself, my own needs. But time and time again, they were deprioritized.

When I was 14, my dad told me he and I were going home to Nevada with my grandparents. I was happy. I smiled. That happiness apparently wasn't allowed, because soon after, I was left behind while he went back to my stepmother. Later, at 17, I ended up in the hospital with seizures. My parents didn't come see me. They barely signed temporary guardianship over to my grandparents so CPS wouldn't get involved. And when I needed something as small as a Utah address to secure a scholarship, they refused. These weren't accidents or forgetfulness. They were patterns. I was always on the back burner.

As an adult, that pattern became painfully clear. And now, as a parent myself, I refuse to put my children in the same situation. I can love and miss my parents, but that doesn't mean I open the door to neglect or disrespect. Access to me and my children comes with accountability. That's non-negotiable.

Here's where my tarot reading recently helped me check in with myself. My energy while holding these boundaries came through as the page of swords, with the two of swords reversed, the seven of swords reversed, and The Emperor at the foundation.

Page of swords reminded me that this was a time of observation and clarity. I wasn't reacting impulsively; I was watching, noticing patterns, and learning how people behaved when boundaries were enforced.

Two of swords reversed showed me that the blindfold was coming off. I was seeing reality for what it is. No illusions, no excuses, no pretending.

Seven of swords reversed confirmed that truth was emerging. I wasn't paricipating in any manipulation or hiding the reality of the family dynamic anymore.

The Emperor anchored me. My calm, firm, and consistent energy was the foundation. I wasn't being cold or punitive; I was being clear, protective, and sovereign.

When my family cried, part of me felt the pull. The urge to soften or justify. But the calm, steady part of me, backed by this awareness and authority, held the boundary anyway. The feeling of discomfort didn't mean I was doing something wrong. It meant I was shifting the system.

Real healing doesn't come from pretending everything is fine or "growing thicker skin." It comes from holding the line, missing and loving your parent, and still protecting yourself and your children. That tension. The crying, the pressure, the guilt...is normal. It's proof that change is happening.

Boundaries aren't punishment. They're protection. And protecting your peace, your mental and emotional safety, and your children, is one of the most loving things you can do. Not just for them, but for yourself.

A closing thought for anyone reading this:

If you're struggling with boundaries, know this: it's normal to feel unsure, shaky, or even guilty at first. That doesn't mean you're doing something wrong. The measure of a boundary isn't how smooth or calm it feels. It's whether you hold it despite the discomfort. The act of standing firm, even when it's hard, is what creates real change.

It’s a Miracle to Be Alive

I was 18 when my body first confused me.

At first, they called them seizures.

Later, I realized some of what was happening were strokes.

There’s something disorienting about not fully understanding what’s happening inside your own body. One moment you’re young. The next, you’re sitting in rooms with medical words being thrown around like they make sense.

Tremors.

Seizures.

Stroke.

I remember thinking at one point that maybe it was just tremors. Maybe I was overreacting. But then I saw my face.

The left side was visibly drooping.

That’s not imagination. That’s not anxiety. That’s not dramatic.

That’s real.

It’s a strange thing to be 18 and realize your body can betray you. Or at least feel like it can. I didn’t have language for it then. I just had fear and confusion and the quiet question:

“Is this happening again?”

Sometimes I still don’t know.

There are moments when the left side gets tingly. Numb. Heavy. It lasts a few minutes and then passes. And there’s no confirmation. No flashing sign that says, “Yes, that was something.” Just me sitting there wondering if my body is reliving something I survived before.

That kind of uncertainty changes you.

It makes you hyper-aware.

It makes you grateful.

It makes you scared.

Sometimes all at once.

Living with that history means living with the knowledge that something serious has already happened. And it could happen again. Or maybe it won’t. That’s the part no one prepares you for…the in-between.

But here’s what I know:

It’s a miracle to be alive.

Not in a cliché way. In a literal way.

There were moments my brain was under attack, and I am still here. Still thinking. Still building. Still loving. Still planning physical therapy appointments and counseling sessions and dreaming about muscle strength and creative projects.

My left side may have been weakened.

My face may have drooped.

My body may have trembled.

But I am still here.

And there’s something powerful about choosing to build strength after surviving something that could have taken everything.

Physical therapy isn’t just about muscle.

Counseling isn’t just about emotions.

It’s about honoring the fact that I lived.

It’s about refusing to pretend it didn’t happen.

It’s about strengthening what was shaken.

It’s about not wasting the second chance I was given.

Sometimes healing looks dramatic.

Sometimes it looks like showing up three times a week to relearn strength in your own body.

I don’t always know what the tingling means.

I don’t always get answers.

But I do know this:

Every ordinary day is something I once could have lost.

And that makes today sacred.