The meal plan and nutritional information shared in this post are based on internet research, personal experience, and general wellness principles. This content is for informational purposes only and should not be considered medical advice. Every individual’s nutritional needs, health conditions, and weight loss requirements are unique. Before beginning any new diet plan or weight loss program, please consult with a qualified healthcare professional, registered dietitian, or your physician, especially if you have any underlying health conditions, are taking medications, or have specific dietary restrictions. The author is not a medical professional or certified nutritionist. Results may vary, and what works for one person may not work for another. Always prioritize your health and safety above any fitness or weight loss goals.
This blog is not intended to teach a particular nutrition pattern but to share what worked for me.
I am in my mid-40s. The last time I attempted to get in shape, I focused on cardio and eating right but made mistakes with my protein intake. I ended up losing weight but did not appear healthy.
I am 46 years old, and with winter came hibernation and a lack of interest in physical activities due to the cold. I enjoy being physically active outdoors, but with chronic sinus issues, I get headaches even when bundled up in the cold and going for walks. I felt disconnected from my strength training and cardio as well, despite having a gym in our condo.
The last few months, however, I have sincerely been making attempts to slowly get back to eating healthy and doing more physical activities. What I have noticed is that despite being more physically active and eating consciously, I was not losing weight. Even a little indulgence showed up on my weight scale.
So, I have been focusing on more protein-rich foods and healthy foods for my age and perimenopause. Through my research on health and nutrition websites, I learned that women over 45 need increased protein intake to maintain muscle mass and that perimenopause can affect metabolism and weight distribution.
During this time, I also committed to strength training 3-4 times a week and cardio through brisk walks or other activities. From my research, I learned that adequate protein intake becomes even more crucial when doing strength training, especially for women over 45. Protein helps preserve muscle mass during weight loss and supports recovery after workouts.
Through this journey, I remind myself of the need to feel healthy and be physically active for my body and mind, and that it is not about achieving a certain size. Honestly, the need to physically lose weight to fit better in clothes is there, but I consciously choose to be gentler with myself and my body, to prioritize what is right for my body rather than how I perceive my body should be. I try my best to listen to my body and skip workouts on days when I truly feel the need to rest or am not feeling good. Some days, even when I feel lazy, I try to put on my shoes and take my dog out. After just a 5-minute walk, I feel the enthusiasm and energy to finish my walk. My reward is my dog’s happiness too. It is a balance between laziness and maybe the true rest our body requires.
I plan on sharing my diet journey and the kinds of food I consume. I am a vegetarian and can eat eggs, so my diet focuses on that. As I do not personally like mushrooms, I have avoided them.
What really pushed me toward meal planning was my tendency to reach out for desserts and fried snacks when I felt like treating myself, or grabbing high-calorie convenience foods when hunger hit unexpectedly. These occasional indulgences were setting me back despite all my conscious healthy eating efforts.
So, I ensured I did proper meal planning on the weekend for the week and planned what foods I would have each day. I planned and packed my snacks too, so I wouldn’t have to wonder what I would eat during pangs of hunger. This helped me a great deal to curtail my urge to eat unhealthy processed foods. Once my meal planning was done for the week, I felt such relief knowing that part of my life was taken care of. Each day, I could focus on cooking for the rest of my family without consistently worrying about what I would eat or whether I was making the right choices for myself.
As I have mentioned in the disclaimer, this is just what worked for me. This may give you an idea of how you can meal plan for yourself.
Please know that we are not alone and we have many others who struggle like us. It is best to not be too hard on us and take this one step at a time. I feel even doing the meal plan and going through each day is a reward and the best thing we can do for our body.
Some of the foods we prepare can be frozen after they’re freshly made and cooled, so we can just heat them up when needed. From what I’ve read, freezing helps maintain nutritional value better than keeping cooked food in the refrigerator for a full week.
Through the end of the first week, I lost 3 pounds of weight – which I had struggled to lose with just physical activity and conscious eating. Meal prep truly helped me eliminate my urges.
If you are someone like me, this will help. This is tailored for 45+ women who may be entering their perimenopause phase.
I hope to improve upon my blog structure for meal planning and share more meal prep ideas. Please share your suggestions, thoughts, and whether this worked for you. If there are any helpful ideas, please share them in the comments. It would benefit me and others who are on their healthy body journey.
As Mental Health Awareness Month prompts us to reflect on what truly nurtures our wellbeing, I find myself thinking about relationships – specifically, the ones that, despite our best efforts, aren’t meant to last.
I recently faced this with someone who once meant a great deal to me. After experiencing hurt, I valued the relationship enough to offer peace, to make things lighter, to do my best from my end. I genuinely tried to nurture what we had, hoping we could rebuild what was lost. Yet despite these sincere efforts, I eventually realized something important: sometimes the same patterns that caused the initial hurt remain, even after forgiveness has been offered and accepted.
Some relationships naturally drift apart, as though they were never truly meant to endure. The pattern can be particularly painful: a relationship forms, hurt occurs, distance grows, forgiveness follows, reconnection happens… only for the same cycle to repeat itself months or years later.
What I’ve learned about mental health through this experience is profound. Our inner voice often whispers the truth long before we’re ready to hear it. That feeling of something not being quite right – that’s wisdom trying to protect us.
I believe that prioritizing mental health means honoring those internal signals. It means recognizing when a connection depletes rather than replenishes us. It’s not about blame or holding grudges; it’s about acknowledging the reality of what is, rather than clinging to what we hoped could be.
Not every relationship that enters our life is meant to remain there permanently. Some connections serve their purpose for a season, teaching us necessary lessons before we continue separate paths.
The most valuable lesson I’ve learned is that forgiveness doesn’t obligate us to restore a relationship that repeatedly shows itself to be unhealthy.
I don’t believe we should forget the experiences that have shaped us. Each relationship – even the painful ones – has contributed to who we are today. These moments have taught us about boundaries, about ourselves, about what we truly need from connections that deserve space in our lives.
The journey toward better mental health often involves making peace with the reality that some chapters in our story are meant to close. This isn’t failure – it’s growth.
As Mental Health Awareness Month reminds us, we must come first in our own lives.
The greatest responsibility we have is to nurture our own wellbeing. No one else carries this responsibility for us – it is ours alone.
Sometimes, protecting that wellbeing means making thoughtful decisions about which relationships deserve our continued investment, which ones should be honored from a distance, and which should be released entirely.
This is crucial to our mental health – recognizing what brings us peace versus what disturbs it, acknowledging those feelings, and honoring them instead of pushing them aside. There’s wisdom in our discomfort that deserves to be heard.
There’s profound courage in recognizing when a relationship consistently disrupts your peace. Sometimes the most compassionate choice – both for yourself and the other person – is to release the expectation that things will be different next time.
Forgiveness doesn’t always mean restoration. Sometimes, it simply means freedom – the freedom to wish someone well on their journey while continuing your own, unburdened by regret or obligation.
In honoring our mental health, we learn that some of the most important boundaries we’ll ever set are the ones that protect our peace, even when others don’t understand. And that’s not just okay – it’s essential.
What have you realized about relationships that has been crucial for your mental health? What wisdom has your journey taught you about the connection between healthy boundaries and wellbeing?
Every time she shares these childhood memories – even though I’ve heard them countless times – I find myself filled with the same joy and wonder that lights up her face. I have gathered here some of the stories she has shared with me over the years. I never grow tired of listening to these tales. Instead, I am marveled at the innocence and plain adoration she has for her siblings. Watching her describe these incidents with such delight, even now at seventy-two, fills me with gratitude for her, for her upbringing, and for the joy she carries through life.
In a recent video call, my mother narrated her times with her siblings. Even though I listened to many of these stories before, I was delighted and engaged in her stories, smiling at her enthusiastic narrations of her childhood times with her cute expressions.
My mother with her younger brother Subi Mama
My mom Lakshmi’s face lights up when she talks about her family. At seventy-two, she still giggles like a child when she mentions Subi Mama, her younger brother and partner in mischief. When she speaks of Vicha Mama (Vishwanathan), her elder brother who was thirteen years older, she transforms into a respectful student, still in awe of his wisdom. And then there’s Balamma, whom we lovingly call Pedhamma (which means “elder mother” in Telugu), who was 15 years older than my mother and whose quiet strength has inspired us all.
When Mom talks about her brothers, her whole face changes. Stories about Subi Mama bring out her playful side – she smiles and laughs with that same childhood mischief in her eyes. But when she speaks of Vicha Mama, she becomes almost reverent – still grateful for her brother’s loving guidance.
My mother’s elder brother Vicha Mama
The Salt Surprise
When my mother was a little girl, she had a sweet tooth that often got her into trouble. Whenever she thought no one was looking, her small hands would sneak into the sugar box. She’d keep watch at the door while quickly scooping sugar into her mouth, enjoying her secret treat.
What she didn’t know was that Vicha Mama, her elder brother who was studying to be a doctor, had noticed her sugar stealing. One day, he quietly switched the sugar and salt containers.
That afternoon, when my mother dipped her fingers into what she thought was sugar, her face twisted in shock as salt filled her mouth.
“You think you had sugar,” Vicha Mama said, suddenly appearing in the doorway with a stern face hiding a hint of a smile. “But now it’s salt. I know what you’ve been doing, all that stealing.”
He made her finish what was in her mouth. “You need to swallow it all,” he said firmly.
Tears filled my mother’s eyes as she swallowed, but the lesson stuck with her forever. It wasn’t meant to be cruel – it was Vicha Mama’s way of teaching her to be honest, even when nobody seemed to be watching.
She is 72 years old now and still sneaks sugar and candies when we’re not looking. I’ll catch her with a sweet in her mouth, and she’ll give me that same guilty smile from her childhood stories.
Sweet Mango Days
Summer meant mangoes – sweet and juicy. Vicha Mama would hand-pick the ripest ones and bring them home for his younger siblings. My mother and Subi Mama would sit together eating mangoes, juice dripping down their chins, giggling as they enjoyed their treat.
“This is the best thing in the world even with the fiber that gets stuck in your teeth, it made it even more fun,” my mother would say, with those naughty eyes. I never understood how she could be so excited about something that left strings between your teeth, but her enthusiasm was infectious.
But one day, my mother got suspicious. She thought her elder brother was keeping the biggest, juiciest mangoes for himself. When no one was looking, she stole a large, perfect-looking mango from his room.
Her excitement quickly turned to disappointment when her first bite revealed it was sour and unripe. Before she could hide the evidence, Vicha Mama found her.
“Why don’t you wait for me to give you the best mango?” he asked, looking disappointed but not angry. “The best mangoes have wrinkles on the skin – that means they’re sweet. The big, smooth ones are usually sour.”
He made her eat the entire mango, teaching her another lesson: patience is virtue.
Learning Order from Chaos
Vicha Mama believed in teaching his siblings how to take care of themselves. On Saturday afternoons, he would empty their cupboards, throwing all the clothes on the floor in what looked like a mess. But he had a plan.
“Watch carefully,” he would say, showing them exactly how to fold each piece of clothing. “By the time I come back, everything needs to be back in the cupboard, neatly organized.”
Even the freshly ironed clothes weren’t spared from this weekly lesson. My mother and Subi Mama would work together, their small hands learning to transform disorder into harmony. These Saturday organizing sessions became a kind of ritual – first the chaos, then the teamwork, and finally the satisfaction of a job well done.
Penmanship and Character
“Your handwriting must be neat and very clear. It must reflect your mind,” Vicha Mama once told my mother, and she took this to heart.
He taught his little sister to leave exactly one little finger’s width between each word. He would watch as she practiced, gently guiding her hand across the page. “Make each letter clear,” he would say.
Today, at seventy-two, my mother’s handwriting is still beautiful – whether she’s writing in English, Telugu, or Tamil. Each letter is carefully formed, each word has its proper space. Her writing isn’t just words on paper – it’s a kind of art that shows how clearly she thinks.
Watching her write even a simple note is like watching someone who has practiced the same careful movements for decades. Her pen moves smoothly, never rushing. I marvel at her patience in enjoying the writing process – something never meant to be done quickly – in our world of quick typing and text messages.
Learning Self-Reliance
When school started each year, my mother and Subi Mama would first ask their house helper to cover their books with brown paper and put on neat labels. When her elder brother found out about this, he decided it was time for another lesson.
“You’re old enough to do this yourselves,” he told them, my mother studying in ninth grade at that time.
Step by step, he showed them how to measure the paper, make clean folds, and secure the corners. “From now on, you’ll do this yourselves,” he said.
This skill stayed with my mother her whole life. Years later, I would watch in amazement as she covered our schoolbooks with the same careful attention, neatly binding them. Those bindings weren’t just neat – they stayed strong and firm throughout the school year, protecting our books through daily wear and countless openings.
Paper Bits in the Breeze
While Vicha Mama was the teacher, my mother found a best friend in her younger brother, Subi Mama. When their parents would go out to see a movie, the siblings would say:
“Oh, you go. We’ll be fine at home” with angelic faces masking the playful schemes already forming in their minds.
Once alone, they would tear paper into tiny pieces, gather them in their hands, and run outside to throw them into the air, watching the bits float like snow. They never got caught for these small adventures, their shared secret bringing them closer together.
In the 50s and 60s, when social media was not part of the world and with many homes not having a television, children found creative ways to spend their time and play. I would say back then there was more quality time spent with each other, and people had a lot more time appreciating the little things in life.
As they grew up, their connection stayed just as strong. Being separated by less than two years in age helped them see each other not just as siblings but as true confidants. They became each other’s trusted friends, protectors, and supporters through life’s journey – their deep bond nurtured by those childhood conspiracies.
Strength Through Silence
My mother with her eldest sister (my mother on left, Pedhamma on the right)
Apart from these childhood adventures was Balamma, my mother’s eldest sister. Married young, as was common then, Pedhamma only appears in my mother’s early memories as a visitor who came home with her young son during vacations. But her influence on our family was deep and lasting.
Pedhamma’s life was filled with heartbreak – a genetic disease in her husband’s family took not only her husband but two of her children as well. As a single mother, she faced these terrible losses and many other hardships with a quiet dignity that touched everyone who knew her.
What made Pedhamma so special wasn’t just that she survived these troubles, but that she never felt sorry for herself or became bitter. She never complained, never acted like a victim, never let her own pain stop her from loving others. She would cry for someone else’s problems before even mentioning her own, facing each new challenge with quiet strength and dignity instead of giving up.
When my mother or her siblings had problems in their own lives, they would think of their eldest sister. Their troubles would suddenly seem smaller compared to what she had been through and how gracefully she handled it all.
Today, Pedhamma’s memory lives on in our family. Her name stands for accepting life’s hardships with dignity – not by giving up, but by acknowledging reality in a way that lets you move forward without being defined by your troubles. She showed them that real strength isn’t about avoiding hard times, but about how you carry yourself through them. Her perseverance, patience and love showed all of us how to accept life’s challenges and act from the place of now.
Stories that Bind Us
My childhood summers were filled with fun and excitement of meeting my cousins and staying at my Mamas’ and Pedhamma’s.
At Vicha Mama’s, I’d bubble with excitement as he’d greet me at Warangal station with that precious flask of vanilla ice cream – a small gesture that made me feel so special.
My time at Pedhamma’s house created another kind of joy – simple, happy times spent playing with neighborhood children, exploring freely in a loving space under the watchful eyes of my mother’s eldest sister. Pedhamma spoke little but loved deeply – strict yet never judgmental. Her quiet way of showing affection created a peaceful haven I looked forward to every school break.
Then there were the magical stays at Subi Mama’s home in Bhimli. His house, surrounded by mango trees in the ashram grounds, became my childhood paradise. The sound of ocean waves in the nights felt soothing and shifted us to a place of calmness. There was nothing like the thrill of climbing those mango trees with my cousins or playing hide-and-seek within that big compound.
Even now, when my mother and Subi Mama get together, the years fall away and they become those children again – the ones who once threw paper bits into the summer breeze. When she tells stories about their mischief, her eyes light up with that same playful sparkle, her laughter as fresh as it must have been back then. And when she talks about Vicha Mama, her voice fills with the same respect and love she’s felt her whole life for the brother who taught her so many important lessons – sometimes strict, always loving, forever shaping the person she became.
In my mother’s life at seventy-two, her relationships with her siblings remain the strongest foundation in her life. Their love for each other, the playfulness, and wisdom continue to influence not just her, but all of us who came after. The reverence we children feel for our Mamas and Pedhamma mirrors what my mother feels for her own siblings – a cycle of love and respect that continues through generations.
The stories she shares now – about sugar turned to salt, about sour and sweet mangoes, about paper pieces floating in the wind – are more than just childhood memories. They form the foundation of who she is. There is a special joy in watching my mother become a child again, her face lighting up as she relives these precious moments from her past.
In a small orphanage at the edge of a busy city lived a little girl named Eva. Her dark brown curls framed her almond-colored face. While other children complained of boredom, Eva found magic in the ordinary – ants carrying crumbs in perfect lines, raindrops racing down windowpanes, dandelion seeds drifting on summer air.
Unlike the other children who felt the ache of being parentless, Eva carried a different truth in her heart. Years ago, when she was tiny and weeping because she had no parents, her teacher had knelt beside her.
“You are not an orphan, dear,” the teacher had said softly. “Your true Father and Mother live in your heart.”
Those words planted roots deep in Eva’s soul. She embraced them completely, with that pure, unquestioning faith that only children possess. Not once did doubt cloud her certainty. While other children dreamed of being chosen by new parents, Eva already knew she belonged to someone greater than any earthly parent could be.
Each night, Eva knelt beside her small bed, hands folded tight in prayer. She spoke not to some faraway god but to a Father she knew listened to every whispered word:
My Father, please help me be happy My Father, please show me the way towards You My Father, please help me find my dream My Father, please help me know Your Will for me My Father, be my guide in my heart
On the night before her seventh birthday, after Eva finished her prayer, Eva asked her Father.
Father, could I hear Your voice? Could I see You, just once?
This wasn’t her doubt speaking – it was a child’s heart longing to be closer to someone beloved.
She chose her most treasured dress for the occasion – a light blue sleeveless one with white ruffle frills that touched her knees. It had come in a donation box, but somehow it fit her perfectly, as if meant just for her. She smoothed the fabric with care before climbing into bed, certain that tonight, her birthday night, she would finally meet her Father face to face.
Chapter 2: The Forest’s Welcome
Birdsong woke her – not the usual morning chirps but something musical and intentional, like a birthday melody created just for her. Eva opened her eyes, not to peeling ceiling paint but to ancient trees dappled with golden sunlight.
Fear never touched her. Instead, she felt something like coming home after a long journey – as if the orphanage had been the dream and this forest her real home. The air filled her lungs differently here, each breath deep and sweet.
Eva understood immediately – this was extraordinary and more than a dream. This was an answer, an invitation. The feeling of love surrounding her in this place, the happiness bubbling up from somewhere deep inside – this was her Father’s presence. The forest itself spoke His love directly to her heart.
A blue butterfly landed lightly on her curls. A hummingbird buzzed close, carrying a tiny white flower in its beak, which it tucked gently into her hair. Eva giggled, delighted.
Eva sensing that the beauty around her was a language of love meant just for her, whispered:
“Thank you for inviting me, Father“
A family of deer emerged from between the trees, eyes gentle and knowing. The mother deer approached and nudged Eva’s hand with her velvety nose, then gestured with her head for the girl to follow. The fawn pranced around her excitedly, occasionally rushing back to touch noses with Eva before darting ahead again.
As they walked, Eva noticed how different this forest felt from the small park near the orphanage. The air was pure, each breath filling her with energy. The sky above showed patches of clearest blue, with clouds that seemed to hang low enough to touch, as if welcoming her presence.
In the distance, mountains stood like wise guardians, ancient and knowing. The trees along the path swayed gently, creating a refreshing breeze that carried the scent of wildflowers and old bark. And the flowers themselves – they seemed to turn toward her as she passed, their blossoms brightening, as if offering greeting.
“Everything is alive here“
Eva whispered to herself, understanding intuitively that in this place, everything was aware – conscious in ways she couldn’t fully comprehend but could certainly feel.
Chapter 3: The Garden of Wonder
As the deer family led Eva deeper into the woods, more animals began to appear. Rabbits peeked from behind ferns, squirrels paused on branches to watch her, and butterflies danced around her head.
The mother deer stopped in a patch of sunlight. She looked at Eva, then up at the trees. Eva followed her gaze.
At first, she saw only branches and leaves. But then she noticed how the leaves moved together, like they were talking to each other. The birds weren’t just flying – they were carrying messages from tree to tree.
The fawn nudged Eva’s hand and led her to a puddle of water. When she looked down, she saw not just her reflection but somehow the reflection of the entire forest. In that moment, something clicked in her heart.
“Oh,” Eva whispered. “It’s all connected.”
A bluebird landed on a nearby branch and began to sing. A rabbit thumped its foot in rhythm. Then the crickets joined in, and even the leaves seemed to rustle in time.
Eva didn’t know how, but she understood what they were telling her: Here, nothing is alone. Here, everything belongs. Here, even the smallest ant matters to the tallest tree.
She felt tears of happiness in her eyes. The animals weren’t showing her magic tricks – they were showing her the truth that had always been there, if only people had eyes to see it.
Her heart so full it could no longer contain itself, Eva began to sing. The words came to her as naturally as breathing:
Hidden treasures everywhere, In the earth and in the air. Now my eyes can truly see How we’re bound, eternally.
Father’s love flows through this place, Touching each with gentle grace. Tiny seed and mighty tree, All belong in harmony.
Thank you for this gift so rare, This secret world You chose to share. In my heart I make this vow: I’ll remember what I’ve found now.
When her song ended, the forest responded with a sudden chorus of bird calls, as if applauding. A shower of golden light filtered through the canopy above, touching her face with warmth like a loving hand.
The deer motioned with her head for Eva to follow again. Just ahead, sunlight poured into a clearing where an ancient oak spread its massive branches. Beneath it, an old man tended a garden of plants Eva had never seen before – flowers whose petals seemed to glow from within, medicinal plants whose spicy-sweet fragrances mingled and danced in the air around them. His home was a shelter crafted from interwoven branches and leaves, resembling a giant bird’s nest.
“The birds taught me how,” he would later explain to her with a smile. “They are the greatest architects of the forest.”
The old man looked up. His kind eyes showed no surprise at seeing a seven-year-old girl in a blue dress standing at the edge of his garden, accompanied by woodland creatures.
“Ah, Eva,” he said in a gentle voice. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Throughout the day, Eva experienced wonders beyond imagination. She drank nectar directly from flowers that bent toward her lips, tasted exotic fruits that grew nowhere in her known world, and helped the old man prepare a simple lunch of forest vegetables with lemon and creamy milk made from forest nuts that tasted divine.
“Why is there so much food?” she asked, watching animals come and go, each taking only what they needed.
“In this place,” the old man explained, “there is always enough. No being claims more than they require, and so no being ever lacks. The animals are not lesser than humans here – indeed, in many ways, they understand better how to live in harmony with creation.”
Chapter 4: Father’s Voice
As evening approached, the clouds above the clearing parted, and warm, golden light poured down like honey. Eva felt wrapped in something she couldn’t see but could certainly feel – love, pure and simple.
A voice spoke to her, not through her ears but straight to her heart:
“Few children ever find this place, Eva. You’ve come because your heart has always been open to love.”
Eva stood still, breathing in the golden light. She noticed it dancing around the edges of her blue dress.
“My sweet child,” the voice continued, warm as summer sunshine, “you look so pretty in your special dress. Did you wear it just for me?”
Eva nodded, her face breaking into a delighted smile.
“It’s my favorite,” she whispered. “I wanted to look nice when I met you.”
When the voice fell quiet, Eva gathered her courage. The question she’d wondered about for so long finally found its way out.
“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.
“What would you like me to call you?” she asked softly.
A feeling like a gentle smile surrounded her.
“People call me by many names. You can use any that feels right to you.”
Eva thought for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the ruffle on her dress. Looking up into the golden light, she asked,
“Can I call you my Father?”
The light glowed brighter, like a sunrise.
“I am your Father, Eva. I always have been.”
Tears filled her eyes, happy tears that rolled down her cheeks. For a long moment, she simply stood there, letting the words sink deep.
The light shifted, like someone kneeling down to be at her level.
“You’re wondering about going back, aren’t you?” the voice said gently. “About how to find your way when you return to the orphanage.”
Eva looked up in surprise.
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“I’m always with you, little one. I know you better than you know yourself.”
She nodded, suddenly shy.
“When I go back… how will I hear you talking to me like this?”
The light seemed to come closer, like a father embracing his child in his arms.
“My voice is quieter there, but it’s still the same voice,” her Father explained. “When you feel peace inside even when things are hard outside, that’s me speaking to you. When you know something is right deep in your heart, that’s me guiding you. Just stay open, like these flowers that always turn toward the sun.”
“But what if someone is mean to me?”
Eva asked, thinking of one of the older girls who sometimes pulled her hair.
“What if I need help and I can’t hear you?”
The light wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“I’m with you even then, Eva. Sometimes being brave means walking away. Sometimes it means finding someone who can help you. Love doesn’t mean letting others hurt you – it means finding the wisest way forward. When you’re not sure what to do, just get quiet inside and listen. I’ll always find a way to guide you.”
Eva looked at the light around her and smiled.
“Father,” she asked, “in my prayers I always ask to know Your will for me. What is it that You want me to do with my life?”
Her Father’s presence seemed to brighten around her.
“My Will for you, dear one, is simple: to love and be grateful. To see the world as you see it now, with everything connected. To do all things from your heart, whether they seem big or small. When you wash dishes, do it with love. When you help someone, do it with your whole heart. And always remember to be thankful – for the sunrise, for a kind word, for the air you breathe.”
The light gently touched her cheek, like a parent wiping away an unshed tear.
“I don’t need you to do any one specific thing, Eva. I only ask that you bring love and gratitude to everything you do. Your unique way of seeing beauty in simple things is already a gift to the world.”
Eva pondered this for a moment. Then, looking down at her small hands, she asked her next question.
“Father, I’m just a little girl,” she said. “What difference can I make in such a big world?”
“That doesn’t matter, beloved child. What matters is what you choose in each moment. Every choice creates ripples that spread farther than you’ll ever see.
The results of your choices aren’t yours to control. Once you’ve chosen with love, let go of what happens next. The outcome isn’t yours to keep – it was never yours.
A single kind word to someone hurting might save a life you’ll never meet. Standing for truth might spark courage in hearts unknown to you. The smallest act of love ripples outward endlessly, touching shores you’ll never visit.
This is peace – to act with love and then release all attachment to what comes of it. This is how even a little girl becomes light in a shadowed world.”
Eva felt something heavy lift from her shoulders. She didn’t have to fix everything – just do her small part with love.
Looking up into the golden light, she asked her final question, the one she’d wondered about most of all.
“How will I see you when I go back?”
The light grew softer, and her Father answered in words that seemed to sing:
I’m in the love that fills your heart, In happiness that makes you smile. I’m in your faith that never wavers, In your surrender, filled with trust.
When you share kindness with all beings, From tiniest ant to tallest tree, That’s when you see me most clearly – In love that flows abundantly.
Look for me in passing clouds, In birds that soar on gentle wing. I dwell in people all around you, In every plant and living thing.
I live within the smallest atom, While universes rest in me. I’m found in kindness and compassion, In all the goodness you can see.
I’m in your courage when life’s hard, In strength that helps you stand. I’m in the calm that finds your heart, When dark thoughts cloud your mind.
I flow within your very blood, child, And in each breath that gives you life. Open your heart to feel my presence – I’m always here, in joy and strife.
Eva closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. When she opened them again, she saw the forest differently – every leaf, every creature, every ray of sunlight now shimmered with her Father’s presence.
“I see you now,” she whispered, “everywhere.”
Chapter 5: The Inner Light
From the golden light descended a pendant with an emerald stone that seemed to hold the forest’s essence within its depths. A delicate chain formed itself around the stone and gently floated toward Eva, settling around her neck. The pendant came to rest against her heart, warm and pulsing with the same rhythm as her own heartbeat.
“As you asked in your prayers, my will for you is to experience your world with love and kindness, sharing creation’s beauty with all you meet. This pendant will remind you of what you’ve seen here – a secret knowledge to carry in your heart.”
The golden light gradually faded, leaving Eva standing in the clearing with the emerald pendant warm against her skin, glowing with an inner light that matched her heartbeat.
The old gardener approached, kneeling down to her level and placing his weathered hands gently on her shoulders. His eyes held the same loving warmth she’d felt in God’s presence.
“It is time to return, sweet heart,” he said softly, drawing her into a gentle hug that felt like a blessing.
When he released her, he motioned with a loving sweep of his arm toward the wolf pack waiting silently at the clearing’s edge.
“They will guide you safely home.”
The largest wolf, silver-furred with amber eyes, bowed its head low. Eva followed the wolves through the twilight forest, her heart full of wonders seen and wisdom given.
She woke the next morning in her small orphanage bed. For a moment, she thought it had all been a beautiful dream – until she felt something heavy and warm against her chest. Looking down, she found the emerald pendant, glowing with an inner light that only she could see.
Eva smiled, tucking the pendant beneath her dress. Its origin would remain her secret, but its message she would share through how she lived – with kindness, with wonder, and with a heart surrendered to a wisdom greater than her own.
From the times of Covid when work from home became the norm, remote work has presented unique challenges, particularly in understanding and connecting with colleagues. You learn to interpret coworkers from whatever little they share during meetings or daily standups. Emotionally connecting with peers has been difficult, not to mention how crucial it is to understand each other to work effectively as a team.
Years ago, a new colleague joined our company. He sounded very sarcastic, often cutting people off and calling out mistakes in a somewhat snobbish manner when someone didn’t understand or comprehend what he shared. He quickly developed a reputation as a difficult person to work with, and very soon I had formed an opinion of him as being hard to collaborate with, intimidating, and aggressive. Let’s call him “Jacob” for privacy reasons.
With many new people joining our team at that time, I had suggested at our Retro meeting that it would help us bond if we did a casual team building exercise. I was pleased when my scrum master and manager agreed, seeing value in such an activity. My manager went the extra mile by preparing some creative questions for the team.
One question asked everyone to share something about their childhood – what was their best learning experience or what they wished they had learned better.
When Jacob’s turn came, what he shared caused a paradigm shift in how I perceived him.
Jacob revealed that he was orphaned and didn’t know his birth parents. He had moved between several foster homes as a child before being raised by an elderly couple when he was 8 years old in rural Iowa. His foster parents had a big farm with neighbors half a mile away. There weren’t many children his age nearby with whom he could relate and play. His foster parents were kind enough to teach him life skills and provide him education. He worked very hard to respect the opportunity he had and to thank his parents too.
He shared with a chuckle that due to his childhood and growing up with elderly parents, he had always struggled with connecting to people his own age. His weakness has been his awkwardness with people, and his communication style has suffered as a result. He acknowledged that he could come across as rude or too direct, but emphasized that he doesn’t do it intentionally – he’s simply struggling with it. He added that he’s actively working to improve.
Hearing him talk shifted something profound in me. It made me realize how quick we are to judge others. We don’t know their full story, and it’s true that to a great extent, our choices and behaviors are heavily influenced by our life circumstances and childhood conditioning.
While it’s important to listen to our instincts when our energy senses something or someone is not good for our mental health, we don’t need to rush to judgment or share harsh opinions. Rather, we can respect our feelings and create appropriate distance when needed, as our primary responsibility is to take care of ourselves.
We tend to waste our energy and time harboring negative feelings towards others or obsessing over “why” or “how could they” behave a certain way. This often leads us to assume things about situations unknown to us. We may never truly understand why people behave the way they do, but we can take care of our wellbeing, know our boundaries, and simply meet people where they are, keeping things uncomplicated. No one is responsible for our happiness except ourselves.
One fine day, I see saggy eyes, wrinkles on my skin Where were you before? Is it stress, is it my tiredness, is it my depression? That brought you to me. Being noticed not just by me but by family I realize I may be growing older.
Is this how getting old presents itself to me? Witnessing a silver hair Fatigue visiting more often Metabolism slower, body shape unpredictable Seeing younger men and women as my own kids Sometimes a reason for my excuse for stillness.
As time went by, I realize the abuse, neglect and being ungrateful My body has gone through because of me I feel remorseful, sorry, but I cannot change my past She has traveled with me for 46 years non-stop and continues.
I thank you, my divine abode, for providing me the space where my life can live in. You are a gift given by Him You were made just perfect in His eyes I ask for forgiveness from you and promise I will take care of you, To serve you, nurture you in gentleness and humility In gratitude for you as you are His blessing to me.
Thank you for this outer skin you have given me To protect the inner body from heat, germs and things not good for my life in you I promise to be present as my skin is touched with gentleness and love As I bathe and do my skin rituals To ensure my skin feels nourished and happy Not for others to compliment or pass me a second look in wonder But for me to ensure you are happy inside and out.
Thank you for giving me the appetite So I know I must eat so you are nurtured I promise to eat healthy Unprocessed food, greens, vegetables and fruits Plenty of water for hydration Not for me to lose weight or look in a certain way But for you to be happy and healthy, So that my life in you can live a minute more.
Thank you for the bones, muscles and organs That function and that work as magic To carry the life in me forward So I have another moment of living I promise to take care of you Through my walks, jogging, exercise Lifting weights so your muscles do not weaken For me to ensure you feel strong and happy.
Thank you, God, for this beautiful body To choose You through my actions this lifetime Giving me another chance This body being one of the most beautiful miracles created by You.
Dear God, please give me the mind, realizations, intention To only choose You To be grateful, loving to my body and all the gifts You have given me To live each day with purpose and meaning Using this most precious gift given to me by You.
The invitation came when I was already exhausted, the kind of bone-deep fatigue that makes even blinking feel like work. A group text: Dinner at Golden Dragon, 7PM. Don’t be late.
I thumbed back a quick response: “Can’t tonight. Deadlines”
The reply was immediate: “You’ve canceled three times. We’re staging an intervention. We’ll pick you up.”
Something about the message made my chest tighten. Not anxiety exactly – something older, more primal. A warning. But I dismissed it as social fatigue and sent back a thumbs-up emoji that felt like surrender.
The day had been endless. Client meetings where I nodded and smiled while my mind screamed for silence. A task list that kept multiplying like bacteria. By six, my eyes burned from staring at screens, and my shoulders had formed a permanent arch of tension.
“Just get through dinner,” I muttered to myself in the bathroom mirror. “Two hours max, then bed.”
The face that stared back looked like a poorly made copy of me – skin too pale, tired eyes, hair limp despite my attempts to revive it. I looked at myself for a few moments forcing a smile and touching my makeup.
Chapter 2: The Quiet Unravelling
Wind cut through my coat as I waited on the curb. When Liah’s car finally pulled up, I quickly hurried shivering, cold winds seeming to cut through my face.
“You look terrible,” she said as I slid into the backseat. Derek turned from the passenger seat, his smile faltering when he saw my face.
“Thanks,” I said. “Been working on this look all day.”
“We could take you home,” Liah offered, but there was reluctance in her voice.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just tired.”
We crossed into the older part of town, where streets grew narrower, the sidewalks emptier. I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass and watched my breath create circles of fog.
Something moved in my peripheral vision – a figure standing motionless on a corner, facing our car as we passed. A woman in a red dress, her face a pale oval in the darkness. I turned to get a better look, but she was already behind us, swallowed by the dark shadows.
“We’re here,” Derek announced, gesturing toward a storefront with faded gold characters painted on a red sign. “Golden Dragon”. The paint was peeling at the edges, the dragon’s tail curling back on itself in an impossible loop.
“I thought this place closed years ago,” I said.
“Reopened last month,” Liah said, already stepping out. “Supposedly the food is amazing.”
The sidewalk felt unsteady beneath my feet, as if the concrete had turned to something less solid. A wave of nausea swept through me, brief but intense enough that I had to close my eyes.
“You okay?” Derek’s hand on my elbow, steadying me.
“Yeah, just…” I opened my eyes and saw her again. The woman in the red dress, now across the street, standing perfectly still beneath a flickering streetlight. Looking directly at me.
“Just dizzy for a second,” I finished, but when I looked back, the woman was gone.
Chapter 3: The Uncanny Gathering
The restaurant’s interior was dimmer than I expected, the overhead lights turned low, most of the illumination coming from red paper lanterns that cast more shadow than light. The air was thick with competing scents – ginger and garlic and something sweeter, almost cloying. Conversations hummed at a dozen tables, but there was something off about the rhythm, as if everyone were speaking on a slight delay at a deliberate pace.
“We’re meeting Trevor and Sarah,” Liah said, scanning the room. “There they are!”
As we wound through the tables, I felt the weight of multiple gazes. A middle-aged man paused with chopsticks halfway to his mouth, eyes following our progress. An elderly couple turned in unison to watch us pass, their smiles identical and fixed. A young woman in the corner stared openly, her head tilted at a curious angle.
I folded my arms tight across my chest, suddenly aware of my heartbeat – too fast, too loud.
“It’s nothing”, I told myself. “Just my social anxiety acting up.”
Our table was near the back, partially concealed by a wooden screen carved with intricate scenes – mountains, rivers, tiny figures engaged in activities I couldn’t quite make out.
Trevor and Sarah were already seated, cocktails half-finished in front of them. Hugs, hellos, the familiar dance of greetings. I went through the motions while scanning the room, trying to understand what felt so wrong.
“Hello Madeline!” Sarah waved a hand in front of my face. “You with us?”
“Sorry,” I forced a smile. “Long day.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Trevor said, pushing a menu toward me. “Food will help.”
The characters on the menu seemed to shift slightly as I tried to read them, as if reluctant to be pinned down to definite meaning. I blinked, and they settled.
“I’m not very hungry,” I said. “Maybe just some jasmine tea.”
Liah rolled her eyes. “You need to eat something. How about a good salad?” She placed her hands lovingly on mine with a smile. I smiled back and said “Yes”
The waitress materialized beside our table so suddenly that I was startled. She was older than I’d first thought – sixty at least, perhaps older – wearing a high-collared black dress that belonged to another era. Her hair was pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and eyes so dark they appeared pupil-less in the dim light.
“What can I get you?” she asked, her voice surprisingly melodic.
The others ordered enthusiastically – dumplings, Szechuan rice, noodles, something with black bean sauce. I stared at the waitress’s hands as she wrote, noticing how the tendons stood out beneath paper-thin skin, how her nails curved slightly too long, slightly too sharp. Her plastic smile revealed teeth that seemed too uniform, too white.
“And for you?” she asked, turning to me. Our eyes met, and a jolt of recognition shot through me, though I was certain we’d never met.
“I will have the garden salad and dressing on the side, please. And jasmine tea.” I replied.
As she walked away, I fought the urge to watch her go, certain that her movements would be too smooth, too gliding.
“Does anything seem off to you? About this place?”, I asked my friends.
Derek glanced around. “It’s a bit… offbeat, I guess.”
“Supposedly they serve good authentic food,” Trevor added, as if that explained the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
The conversation moved on – work complaints, diet experiments, dating disasters, movies no one had time to watch. I nodded at appropriate intervals, laughed when required, but remained mostly silent, sipping the scalding tea the waitress had delivered.
Across the restaurant, I spotted her again – not the waitress, but the woman from outside. She sat alone at a small table, a cup of tea before her, untouched. She wore a red dress with mandarin collar, hair pulled back in a style similar to the waitress’s. She stared directly at me, her lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The smile felt lifeless, scary and deliberate without any heartfelt meaning.
I looked away, heart pounding. When I dared to look back seconds later, her table was empty.
The food arrived, steam rising in fragrant clouds. My friends dove in, passing plates, exclaiming over flavors. I watched their chopsticks move from plate to mouth, plate to mouth, the repetition almost hypnotic. The nausea returned, stronger this time, accompanied by a light-headedness that made the room seem to move in angles.
“Try this,” Derek insisted, placing something on my plate. I stared at it, unable to identify what it was supposed to be. The texture looked wrong – too glossy, almost pulsing.
I pushed the plate away. “Maybe just a little rice.”
The waitress appeared again, refilling my water without asking. “I hope you are enjoying everything”, she inquired, her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that felt invasive.
“Just tired,” I said, the explanation wearing thin even to my own ears.
“You should eat some more,” she said, her smile widening a fraction too far. The words felt empty.
As she spoke, I noticed the restaurant had grown quieter. Conversations at nearby tables had paused, heads turned slightly in our direction. The man who’d watched us enter now sat motionless, chopsticks still suspended, food forgotten. The elderly couple smiled identical smiles. The young woman in the corner tilted her head further, as if listening for something just beyond hearing.
All of them watching. All of them smiling.
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Bathroom,” I mumbled, already moving.
The restroom was at the back of the restaurant, down a narrow hallway lined with faded photographs – black and white family pictures. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting alternating moments of harsh clarity and pool-like shadow.
I pushed through the door. Inside, a single bulb illuminated a small space with two stalls and a sink beneath a mirror.
I ran cold water, splashed my face, trying to shock myself back to normalcy. When I looked up, water dripping from my chin, I saw her in the mirror – the woman from outside, from the empty table. Standing directly behind me.
I whirled around, heart slamming.
No one.
The stall doors stood open, revealing empty spaces. I was alone.
Turning back to the mirror, I gripped the edge of the sink, studying my reflection. For a moment – just a moment – my reflection seemed to move independently, the head tilting in curiosity while I stood frozen.
“Get it together,” I whispered, and the reflection’s lips moved in sync again.
When I returned to the table, the others were finishing their meal, plates nearly empty. Liah looked up with concern.
“You were gone a while.”
“Sorry,” I said, sliding back into my seat.
The waitress appeared beside me, making me jump again. She carried a small tray with five fortune cookies arranged in a perfect circle.
“No meal is complete without fortune,” she said, placing the tray in the center of the table.
The others reached eagerly, but I kept my hands in my lap. The waitress remained beside me, waiting, that strange smile still fixed on her face.
“Take one,” she insisted, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “It’s tradition.”
“Madeline, come on,” Sarah urged. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”
With reluctance, I reached for the last cookie on the tray. The moment my fingers touched it, the waitress’s smile widened.
“Good choice,” she said. “That one is specially for you, my dear.”
She walked away, and I stared at the cookie in my palm. It looked ordinary enough – golden-brown, slightly curved, with the characteristic cracked surface. Yet it felt heavier than it should, as if something more substantial than paper waited inside.
Around me, my friends cracked their cookies open, reading their fortunes with exaggerated voices.
“‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,'” Derek read, rolling his eyes. “Profound.”
“‘Your smile is a treasure to all who know you,'” Liah laughed. “At least mine’s personalized.”
“Your turn,” Trevor nodded toward my unopened cookie.
With a sense of inevitability, I broke the cookie in half. The paper inside was folded more elaborately than usual, origami-like in its precision. I unfolded it carefully, revealing elegant calligraphy rather than the expected machine print.
“You will soon see yourself clearly.”
Something cold settled in my stomach. I looked up, scanning the restaurant for the waitress, for the woman in red. Both were nowhere to be seen.
“What’s it say?” Sarah asked.
“Nothing interesting,” I folded the paper quickly, slipping it into my pocket. “Just the usual cryptic nonsense.”
Chapter 4: Shadow Pursuit
Outside, the night had grown colder, the wind sharper. The streets were deserted now, storefronts dark, the sidewalks gleaming with recent rain.
“Sure you don’t want a ride?” Liah asked as the others climbed into her car.
“I need the air,” I said. “It’s not far.”
“Text when you get home,” she insisted.
I nodded, already turning away, drawing my coat tighter. The cold felt cleansing after the closeness of the restaurant, the sharp air replacing the sweet-sour scents that had clung to my clothes, my hair.
As Liah’s taillights disappeared around a corner, I began walking, focusing on the rhythm of my steps, the sound of my breath. The nausea had subsided, replaced by exhaustion so complete it made my vision blur at the edges.
Home. Shower. Bed. The mantra carried me forward.
I was two blocks from my apartment when I realized I was being followed.
The footsteps behind me matched my pace exactly, creating an echo effect that had masked their presence until I paused at a crosswalk. Then I heard it – a second set of steps, halting when I halted.
I turned slowly, expecting to see the woman in red, the waitress with her too-wide smile.
No one.
The street stretched empty behind me, pools of lamplight illuminating vacant sidewalk. I peered into shadows between buildings, searched for movement, for watching eyes.
Nothing.
Imagination. Fatigue. Too many late nights, too much caffeine, too little real food.
I hurried the rest of the way home, fumbling with my keys at the entrance to my building, glancing repeatedly over my shoulder. Inside, the familiar lobby with bright lights and aging furniture felt like sanctuary. I leaned against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed, focusing on my breath as it carried me to the sixth floor.
Chapter 5: The Descent
My apartment welcomed me with silence and the faint scent of the morning’s coffee. I locked the door, checked it twice, then moved methodically through my evening routine – coat hung in the closet, shoes neatly arranged in the cabinet, bag in my closet. I filled fresh water in my electric kettle and turned it on and slipped into the shower.
The hot shower was salvation, steam enveloping me, water pressure working at the knots in my shoulders, my neck. I stood under the spray until my skin flushed pink, until the bathroom mirror fogged completely, obscuring my reflection.
Clean, warm, wrapped in my softest towel, I went through my skin routine. I slathered lavender oil on my skin. Wore my comfort pajamas, lighted a candle and sat on the couch. I leaned back, sitting silently.
My body felt heavy, as if gravity had increased its pull on me alone. Even my eyelids seemed weighted, requiring effort to keep open. Yet beneath the fatigue, something hummed – a strange energy, vibrating just below the threshold of perception.
“You will soon see yourself clearly”
The fortune replayed in my mind, the elegant script appearing against the darkness of my closed eyelids. What had seemed ominous now felt almost comforting, a promise rather than a threat.
I felt myself drifting, consciousness spiraling inward like water down a drain. Circles within circles, pulling me deeper. A curious sensation of both falling and watching myself fall, as if I were simultaneously the experience and the observer of the experience.
The vibration intensified, rising from subliminal to palpable. My body felt both impossibly heavy and curiously insubstantial, as if I might sink through the couch, through the floor, or simply dissipate into the air.
Something was happening. Something was changing.
With enormous effort, I opened my eyes.
And saw myself, still seated on the couch, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.
I stood – or rather, I experienced standing – moving away from the couch, from the body still occupying it.
There, on my couch, was someone in deep sleep, mouth slightly open, doing that weird snore-breathe thing that we all insist we never do.
Was it me?
I see myself from an out-of-body experience. Did I die? Is this an afterworld? As true as that sounds and feels, it does not. I am seeing myself sleeping.
And I am not alone in watching.
Chapter 6: The Fragmenting
I hover near the ceiling, weightless yet anchored by the sight below me. Somehow, I’ve become something else—a consciousness separate from my body. There I am – Madeline – asleep on the couch, vulnerable and unaware.
“No, not just asleep. Exposed.”
A strange detachment washes over me as I observe this body that has carried me through life. I’ve never truly seen myself this way – not in mirrors, not in photographs. Those were always filtered through my own perception, through the voice that has whispered critiques since childhood.
Now I see everything with unforgiving clarity.
Her thinning hair when her head tilts forward. The rounded shoulders curved from years hunched over keyboards and phones. The stomach that rises and falls with each breath, soft and unconstrained by daytime garments designed to flatten, to minimize, to hide the bubble of fat all around her body, her aging skin.
“Look at you,” I hear myself think, with disgust and embarrassment.
The thought comes with practiced ease, an old script I’ve performed thousands of times. But something is different now. I’m both the critic and, strangely, a witness to the criticism.
Below me, Madeline stirs. Her brow furrows slightly, breath catching. Her eyes dart rapidly beneath closed lids.
“Someone’s here,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. Her hand gropes blindly for her phone. “Someone’s watching.”
I drift closer, fascinated. Has she always sensed me? This other presence sharing her consciousness?
Her phone screen illuminates, casting a bright blue light across her face. The time reads 12:30 AM.
Madeline’s eyes open suddenly. She bolts upright, scanning the room with panicked intensity as if sensing a presence watching her.
For a moment, I think she’s addressing me. But her gaze is fixed on the darkest corner of the room.
I turn my attention there and see… something. A darkness with dimension. A presence more substantial than shadow yet less definite than form.
“We are not alone.”
“Who’s there?” Madeline demands, clutching her phone.
The shadow does not respond, does not move, yet somehow gives the impression of patient observation.
Has it always been there? Watching us both? The watcher of the watcher?
“I’m losing my mind,” Madeline whispers, and I’m unsure if she’s speaking to the empty room or to herself or to me. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
She stands, moving to the bathroom. I follow, drawn by an invisible tether. The darkness in the corner remains where it is, unmoving.
Madeline flicks on the harsh bathroom light, confronts her reflection in the mirror. I hover just behind her, expecting to see my translucent form reflected beside hers. But the mirror shows only Madeline, dark circles under her eyes.
Then – just for an instant – two reflections appear in the mirror. Madeline in the center. To her left, a woman in the red dress looking at Madeline smiling at her.
Madeline screams, stumbling backward. When we look again, the mirror shows only Madeline’s terrified face.
“What’s happening to me?” she gasps. She pops in two sleeping pills.
“It’s not real,” she repeats like a mantra. “It’s stress. It’s exhaustion. It’s the medication.”
But her eyes keep darting to the corners of the bathroom, searching for watchers.
I drift closer, wanting to communicate, to understand what’s happening. As I move toward Madeline, my attention is suddenly diverted…
I notice the woman in the red dress looking at me, smiling at me. Madeline cannot see her this time.
The fortune cookie message flashes in my mind: “You will soon see yourself clearly.”
But what self am I seeing? Which of us is real? The sleeping woman? The critical observer? Or something else entirely, watching from the shadows?
Madeline’s breathing slows as the second pill takes effect. Her eyes grow heavy. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs. “I’ll call Dr. Levine tomorrow. Something’s… wrong with me.” She walks towards her bedroom trying to sleep.
As she drifts back to sleep, slumped awkwardly on her bed with her knees drawn to her chest, I feel something on my back. Not pulling me toward Madeline, but away – as if something is trying to sever the connection between me and her.
The bathroom door swings open by itself. The light flickers. Something pulls me by force towards the bathroom. I am now in the bathroom.
In the mirror, the woman in the red dress appears again, alone this time.
She raises one finger to her lips in a shushing gesture, then points to wall behind me with a strange smile.
“We are not the first,” she mouths silently. “And we will not be the last.”
The mirror cracks suddenly, a spiderweb of fractures spreading from the center. In each fragment, a different face appears – all women, all with the same hollow eyes and desperate expressions.
I try to scream but have no voice. I try to wake Madeline and warn her but cannot touch her.
I’m suddenly pulled back to the bedroom, hovering weightlessly on the ceiling, looking down at Madeline. And there, in the corner of the ceiling, I see another observer. And another. And another.
All watching. All waiting for Madeline to wake up. The woman in the red dress standing beside the bed looking at Madeline, smiling strangely at her.
I look at the others like me who are watching Madeline, each one waiting for their chance to speak to Madeline once she is awake. They do not seem to care much about the woman in the red dress, or can they even see her?
But then I notice something even more disturbing. From each observer, smaller fragments are beginning to split off – miniature critics watching the critics, judging the judges. One whispers, “You’re not harsh enough with her.” Another protests, “Please be gentle on her. Share some love.” Another murmurs, “You let her sleep too peacefully but why?” Each fragment spawns another, and another, a fractal pattern of judgment multiplying endlessly.
The woman in red walks among these multiplying parts, touching some, whispering to others, her smile growing wider with each new fragment that forms.
The fortune cookie was right. I am seeing myself clearly for the first time. But, who is “I”?
I try to return to Madeline, to merge with her, to wake her but I cannot. Am I the only one that feels sorry for Madeline?
One of the shadow figures steps forward. When it speaks, its voice is familiar – the same voice that has criticized Madeline’s every move, every choice, every flaw. My voice.
“It is time,” the woman in the red dress talks to all the shadows. “She is ready.”
Ready for what, I don’t know. But as the shadows advance, I understand one terrible truth:
This has all happened before.
And it will all happen again.
The woman in the red dress now directly looks at me. I cannot breathe. It feels like I am being eliminated from her glance. I seem to suffocate. I have not felt anything like this before. I do not have a physical body but what is this feeling I feel?
Chapter 7: What Follows
Madeline jolts awake with a gasp, heart pounding. Sunlight streams through the living room blinds, casting striped shadows across her body. She’s on the couch, still wearing yesterday’s clothes.
10:07 AM.
“God,” she mutters, rubbing her face. Her mouth is dry, head foggy. “What a nightmare.”
She tries to piece together what was real. The invitation to Golden Dragon had been real – the text messages from her friends asking her to join them. But she hadn’t gone. No, she remembers now: declining the invitation, walking home through the cold, collapsing on the couch fully dressed.
Everything else – the restaurant, the woman in red dress, the fortune cookie, the observers – all of it had been a dream. A vivid, terrifying dream that still clung to her like cobwebs.
“Stress dream,” she tells herself firmly. “Anxiety manifestation. Classic symbolism.”
The bathroom door is ajar, light off. She approaches it cautiously, pushes it open with one finger.
The mirror is intact, showing only her pale, frightened face.
But as she turns to leave, something catches her eye. A business card on the counter that wasn’t there before.
She picks it up, turns it over in her hand.
“Dr. Amelia Levine, Psychotherapist” “Specializing in dissociative disorders and trauma”
Madeline has never heard of Dr. Levine. Has never seen this card before. Has no idea where it came from.
Her phone chimes with a text notification. Unknown number.
“Did you sleep well, Madeline? You’re not alone anymore.”
She stares at the message, a chill running through her. Probably just spam, she tells herself, but how would a random spammer know her name? And the timing, so soon after her nightmare…
She moves to the window and pulls the blinds fully open, needing daylight, normality. On the street below, pedestrians move about their morning routines. A man walks his dog. A woman checks her watch.
And there, directly across the street, standing perfectly still beneath a tree…
A woman in a red dress with a mandarin collar, face a pale oval, looking directly up at Madeline’s window.
As their eyes meet, the woman’s lips curve into that same lifeless smile from the dream.
Madeline backs away from the window, heart hammering against her ribs. Something in the apartment feels different now. The air seems heavier, charged with an unfamiliar energy. The space behind her feels occupied, as if the empty rooms are no longer empty.
She turns slowly, scanning the room. Nothing visible, but she cannot deny the feeling that something feels off. Maybe she is still recovering from her nightmare?
“Hello,” she whispers.
Only silence answers, but it’s a silence that listens.
Happily walking towards my mom’s car, Orange leash tethered to my harness. Walking sideways with a wiggle and joy, I hear my mom opening the car with her keys.
“Ready, Tuffy? Jump!”
I finally figured the way in, that is right. Sitting in the rear seat of my mom’s car, A little whine and she understands. Mom lowers the windows just for me.
Cool fresh breeze tickling my whiskers, Smelling Spring’s sweet air. Shedding season it is, but I don’t mind, My scent is strong, Mom reminds me all the time!
Riding on my mom’s car at the back seat, Adventures with her are always unique. The last time she tried the small trunk instead, I tumbled down when the door opened wide. Pressed against the door like jam in a jar, Poor mom felt guilty – that went too far!
My hair floats free in golden clouds, Dancing in sunlight like summer dreams. Mom wrinkles her nose but I don’t know why. The smell of the car mixed with spring’s delight, the feel of breeze caressing my fur, pure joy I cannot hide.
The sounds of vehicles passing by, A rock music to my ears under the spring blue sky. The people who wave at me as we drive along, Their friendly waves make my tail wag with glee. The dogs in other cars catching my eye, Some friendly and some shy as we pass by.
Sometimes I bark at dogs we pass by, Some get a wag, others a fierce “Hi!” Mom laughs at my selective hellos, The way I choose friends, nobody knows. So many humans smile when they see my face, My Labrador joy spreads all over the place.
My nose pressed to the window glass, Taking in scents as landscapes pass. Mom says, “Tuffy, you smell so bad!” I tilt my head – why is she sad? I notice her cracking the window more wide, As I continue enjoying the ride!
At traffic lights, I sit up tall, Gazing at people and places we pass by.
Where are we going? I wonder with glee, Our favorite trails with trees to see? Is it the wooded trail where squirrels play? Or just a simple neighborhood walk today? Perhaps the groomer’s where I happily recline, The brushing and pampering feeling simply divine!
Each place holds joy, each trip a treat, With mom beside me, life is sweet!
Five years into our journey together, You joined our family, changing us forever.
The Beginning
Ecstatic to know new life grew within, The changing shape, a joy I’d never been. Though skinny all my life before this time, Each flutter in my womb felt so sublime. Cravings strange and new consumed my days, The sweets I sought – now your beloved ways.
March light was shining when you came to be, When placed within my arms, all pain set free. A joy so deep, no words could ever convey, Your serious eyes, my father’s look at play. A legacy continued, wise and true, A story spanning generations through you.
Little Explorer
As a toddler quiet, rarely did you cry, Drawers and cupboards caught your watchful eye. The kitchen was your playground, full of charms, Utensils scattered freely by your arms. On dishwasher doors perched with pure delight, Forks and spoons in vents – a puzzling sight. We’d rush our chores before you’d hear and run, Your ears so sharp, determined, quick to come. Unstoppable your spirit, bright with fun.
Growing Mind
Your childhood days were focused, sharp, precise, With puzzles, presidents, and Legos to entice. So trusting was your heart, so kind your way, Your brother’s tricks you’d fall for day by day. We captured every moment, smile and tear, Each memory a treasure we hold dear.
Compassionate Teen
As teenage years arrived, your heart stayed true, Birthdays at shelters showing what you’d do. “Bring food, not gifts,” you’d tell your friends with care, Your simple giving spirit, rich and rare. You taught us how compassion lights the way, Your wisdom far beyond your years each day.
Letting Go
Now independent, strong you’ve grown to be, Though part of me would keep you close to me. Sometimes I wish to pull you back within, With love I’ve learned to let your spirit win. Your happiness, the gift I’m thankful for, As you explore what life has held in store.
From our safe nest you’ve flown to distant halls, A college journey heeding learning’s calls. Each month we meet, our arms stretched wide to hold The man you’re fast becoming, brave and bold.
The Man Today
Still focused, loving, steadfast in your ways, Unconditional our love through all your days. We thank you for the person that you are, A guiding elder brother, like a star, Supporting siblings with your gentle hand, A role you’ve always seemed to understand.
Forever Love
My baby, boy, and man—all three in one, From heartbeats beneath my skin to who you’ve become. A young man standing tall with strength and grace, My love grows deeper as you set your pace. Know that your mother’s heart is always near, Through triumphs bright or mistakes made from fear.
Twenty years of watching wonder grow, Twenty years of love that overflows, Twenty years of memories we treasure so, And countless more as life continues to unfold.
After winter’s grip, when darkness falls at four, And cold restricts my breath, my walks, and more, Boredom and laziness creep like frost across my mind, As sinus troubles leave me slow, confined. Headaches plague me when I dare to step outside, Despite layers double-covering me, head to toe, I hide.
But March arrives with warming, gentle rays, Inviting me to venture out with confidence these days. Without the fear of sinus pain and strife, I breathe fresh air that reinvigorates my life.
The birds return, their songs fill morning skies, Virginia’s Warbler notes so crisp and clear, The Towhee’s gentle mew, a sweet surprise, Grosbeak’s calls that make each pathway dear, Titmouse chatters as the sun does rise, While Sapsucker’s odd voice brings springtime near.
Their symphony, a healing music so sweet, As daylight stretches, winter’s grip retreats. My dog bounds joyful on our lengthened walks, Smelling gleefully the fresh grass wet from night’s rain. While nature silently, yet deeply talks Through tender buds and leaflets, bright and new, And cherry blossoms, pink in morning dew.
My body freshens with the vitamin D, As sunlight bathes and sets my spirit free. The people, too, emerge with brightened face, With random chats and smiles in every place. The elderly venture out to feel the sun, Acknowledging that spring has now begun.
This season celebrates renewal’s power, As hibernation ends with every flower. My hibernation’s physical souvenirs Dissolve with steps that banish winter’s hold, As longer trails and warmer days unlock The energy that winter had suppressed, My limbs feel lighter, spirit less distressed.
Spring whispers promises of life reborn, As butterflies and honeybees swarm blooms just formed. Tulips unfurl in vibrant celebration, Virginia Bluebells carpet forest floors with blue elation. Bloodroot – lovely and delicate – dots leaf-covered ground, Where Shenandoah trails with spring’s treasures abound.
My balcony awaits its freshly potted flowers, A tradition kept through countless springtime hours, Each year to nurseries with my son I go, A cherished ritual since he was five years old. We carefully choose blooms, his picks and mine, Our balcony transformed to my happy shrine.
This special place where hours slip away, As I watch sky and trees throughout the day. I meditate and listen to the birds, Their evening murmuration needs no words, Inspiring me to write, my journaling, poems and stories.
Happy, cheerful, fresh – the words that fill my heart, When spring approaches and winter’s clouds depart. My inner landscape mirrors spring’s release, Each blossom bringing undoubted peace.
