Nothing to Prove, Everything to Give

For most of my life, I believed love, closeness and affection had to be earned. That I needed to be successful and do something impressive to be accepted and loved. If I worked hard enough, performed well enough, maybe then I’d be worthy. I am paying the cost of that belief. Only now—after years of striving—am I beginning to understand I have nothing to prove, everything to give. 

But affection doesn’t come after achievement. It comes before. It’s what makes us whole enough to stop competing, to rest, to soften.

We are touch-deprived not because we’ve evolved past it—but because we’ve been conditioned to fear what it offers: connection without condition. 

“Envy” – A Culture of Deprivation

whatisenvy

Maybe this obstacle started with envy—subtle, ever-present, not loud but constant. My family didn’t name it that way, but it was in the air. I don’t remember anyone saying, “we don’t have enough.”

But I remember my grandfather collecting candy bar coupons from discarded newspapers. My mother scanned the store flyers to stretch our meal budget. The whispered judgments that felt like shields against shame.

I was measured by what others had and what others had accomplished. The unspoken belief was clear: the ones who have, deserve. And we didn’t.

Love, it seemed, to only belong to the successful. Affection was for the accomplished. Touch—unguarded and safe—was only deserved after you earned it.

-You can’t open your arms if you’re always bracing for comparison.

Affection Was Never Meant to be Earned

expressaffectionregularly

In academia, the hunger just changed costumes. Polite competition, professional striving, publication. I was praised for my output, but I lived with a critical voice in my head who sounded a lot like the police rather than a guide towards mutual satisfying lives.

Look at what they’re doing. You should strive to be like that. You should be better than you are.

That critical voice was never satisfied. And I obeyed it for too many years. I called it ambition, but it was control. I let it shape the arc of my days, even the tone of my relationships. I called it “the way to my success.” I thought it was normal.

But now, during this quieter time of my life, I see how envy and the critic has worked together to divide us. Not just from each other, but from ourselves—our softness, our enoughness, our humanness.

If I perform for the people at the top, they will look down at me anyhow. And if I’m trying to show off for people at the bottom, they will only be envious. Status, power and success will get me nowhere. Only an open heart allows me to stand among others, not above or below.

Capitalism teaches us to compete, to win, to accumulate. There was no rest in connection. We’re trained to evaluate, not to witness. We perform to be seen but rarely feel held.

Love is different. Love is being concerned about someone else’s pain as much as you are about your own.

Envy isolates. The critic polices. Scarcity becomes internalized. And touch becomes a luxury instead of a birthright.

-It’s no wonder we’re affection-deprived.

Reclaiming What Was Never Gone

reclaiming

The truth I’m learning—slowly, quietly—is this: we never had to earn love and affection.

I’d been sleepwalking through life. Going through the motions, doing what I thought I was supposed to do—chasing the version of success I’d been taught to want. My cultural programming ran deep: success meant achievement, status, productivity. It meant standing out, rising above, competing. The script that never asked me how I felt—only what I had to show.

What I truly wanted was closeness and affection. The warmth of someone choosing to stay, not because I impressed them, but because I’m real.

That’s the revolution I want to live now. A soft one. A human one.

I spent so much time collecting things I thought would bring me satisfaction—and then one day, I realized they didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, I began to take the most important things for granted: loving relationships, the people who cared, even the beauty of the world around me.

A Soft Revolution: Nothing to prove anymore, just everything to give

Now, when I give my time—when I can make someone smile after they’ve shared their story—that’s as close to happy as I ever felt.

Not when I look in the mirror and match what the culture says I should look like.
Not when I tally the things I’ve collected or the money I’ve made.
Not even when I’ve achieved something that once felt impossible.

It’s when I’m in service to people offering empathy and compassion. Showing up with care. That’s when I feel most alive.

I’ve spent years chasing what I thought would make me feel whole. And I don’t regret what I’ve built or earned—but none of it compares to the feeling I get when I act from the heart.

It’s in that space where envy and scarcity dissolves. No longing for what I don’t have. No comparison. No competition.

When I’m giving—genuinely giving—I’m not depleted. I become filled up. And I don’t think that’s accidental. I think that’s what we’re made for.

There is nothing to prove anymore, just everything to give. What comes from the heart never leaves us dissatisfied. It returns us to the wholeness of ourselves.

You get what you give—and sometimes, if you’re lucky, what comes back is even more than what we could have expected.

As the Zen saying goes, “When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.”

 

 

In the Company of Belonging: Finding Home in Aloneness, Loneliness, and Solitude

Ashe' Cultural Arts Center, New Orleans, LA
Ashe’ Cultural Arts Center, New Orleans, LA

 

Can you believe it’s been a full year since I moved to Thailand?

In that time, I’ve been navigating the shifting terrain of a new life—balancing spiritual practice, creativity, friendship, and solitude. A second ten-day silent meditation retreat, batches of soap made by hand, some meaningful connections, and many long video calls back to ‘Merikkkah have shaped this year. Daily walks and bike rides, cooking with ingredients from the open-air markets—all of it has become part of a larger rhythm of self-care.

But in the quiet of this new life, three words keep surfacing like mantras: aloneness, loneliness, and solitude. They’ve become more than feelings. They’re questions. Invitations. Echoes of a deeper inquiry into what it means to belong—not to others, but to myself.

 

stopfightingtobelongAloneness: The Belonging to Self

The fear of aloneness isn’t about being physically alone. It’s waking up in a room by myself and meeting the version of me that no longer hides behind the masks I once wore. The government job. The family scapegoat. The person quietly believing they didn’t belong

Now, there’s no audience. No applause. Just me asking—sometimes gently, sometimes sharply—Do I belong to myself?

This stage of life has asked for a new kind of presence. Not to prove anything, but to simply be with who I am now.

In the words of John O’Donohue:
“You are most deeply yourself in the space where no one is watching.”

That space is where my writing lives—not as performance, but as reflection. Aloneness isn’t emptiness. It’s a place where my own voice can rise, and where belonging begins not with others, but within.

 

burningmanLoneliness: Aching for Connection and Home

Loneliness is different. It’s the ache for connection—for someone to look me in the eyes and say, “You are seen. You are not too much.” It’s not just the absence of people. It’s being in a room full of others and still feeling invisible.

This kind of loneliness holds grief—not just for company, but for places, roles, or versions of myself that I no longer inhabit.

And yet, inside that ache, something else stirs: movement. A strange dance of tension and possibility. As much as I want to retreat from it, I try to stay. To let it stretch me. To believe it might be preparing me for a new way of being.

Morrie Schwartz once said: “The pain of loneliness is real. Don’t deny it. Feel it, then use it to reach out.”

His words remind me to not harden around the ache, but to stay open. To recognize that loneliness, too, is a bridge—to others, to my inner life, to what still matters.

Even in loneliness, a whisper persists: You still belong—right here, right now.

 

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Solitude: The Deepening of Belonging

Solitude isn’t about isolation. It’s about integration. It’s the spaciousness that allows me to remember I was never separate to begin with—only distracted, disoriented, or trying too hard.

This is the hardest lesson for me. That belonging doesn’t require performance. That I don’t need to earn a seat at the table. In solitude, I start to hear the difference between noise and truth. Between ego and essence.

This writing is part of that process. Not to create something “useful,” but to reunite the fragments of myself. To name what’s hard and still choose presence. To become someone who can return to others—not from need, but from wholeness.

Solitude becomes a kind of sanctuary. A warm shelter, as John O’Donohue might say, from the wild weather of the world.

 

peacebelongingloveBelonging: Beneath It All

Belonging isn’t always something I find in others. Sometimes, it shows up quietly, beneath the louder gremlins of self-doubt, rejection, and abandonment. It’s the voice that says: Even here, even now, I am worthy of love.

It’s the act of reclaiming myself—without waiting for permission. Of recognizing that even in the darkest moments, something in me endures: dignity, resilience, and self-respect.

But I also know the shadow of belonging. The sting of being cast out or overlooked. The deep ache of being told—explicitly or silently—that there is no place for someone like me.

Still, even in the midst of all this transition, the ember doesn’t go out. It flickers when I choose to stay with myself through heartbreak. When I return, again and again, to my own center and remember: No amount of rejection can undo my fundamental worth.

I’ve learned that belonging lives in the place where:
• Aloneness becomes presence,
• Loneliness becomes a quiet hope,
• And solitude becomes a homecoming.

Belonging isn’t about being accepted everywhere. It’s about being able to move through the world without shrinking, hiding, or abandoning yourself.

It’s the inner reminder that rises like a whisper:
You were never lost. Only searching.

May I find, in aloneness, a sense of home. In loneliness, a prayer. In solitude, a return to the fullness of who I am.
And may you, too, find within yourself a quiet, brave belonging that holds you—especially when no one else does.

 

The Paradox of “Saving Face”

posted in: Adventure 1
savefaceart2

Verb
save face
 – third-person singular simple presentsaves face
 – present participlesaving face
 – simple past and past participlesaved face

1. (idiomatic, intransitive) To take an action or make a gesture intended to preserve one’s reputation or honor; retain respect; avoid humiliation
He tried to make reparations to those he had injured, partly to save face.

conceptoffaceThis concept called “saving face” is deeply rooted in many cultures—especially in East and Southeast Asia—but you’ll find versions of it all over the world. At its core, it’s about the actions taken to avoid public embarrassment, preserving one’s dignity/reputation, honor, and upholding social harmony—for ourselves and for others. It’s particularly important when someone may be perceived as having lost respect, self-esteem, prestige or social standing. Like most social constructs, it has two sides: one that uplifts, and one that restricts.

“Saving face” is delicate—and often full of contradictions. It walks a thin line between grace and suppression, kindness and avoidance, compassion and control. Lately, I’ve been living in the middle of that paradox.

I’ll admit, I’ve felt cynical about it. I tend to see the shadow side more easily, probably because I crave truth, emotional honesty, and relationships where dignity doesn’t need to hide behind a mask. Still, I’m learning to recognize the other side—the part that’s built on care. Especially now, because Thailand is guided a lot by this pronciple. 

When “Saving Face” Is an Act of Kindness

savingfaceOn its good days, saving face is about kindness. It helps avoid unnecessary conflict or public embarrassment. When someone messes up and you choose not to call them out in front of others, you’re preserving their dignity. You’re saying: “Your worth is intact.”

That kind of subtlety can be an art form. Instead of bluntness, there’s nuance. Instead of shaming, there’s gentleness. It’s about knowing how to soften a truth without erasing it—choosing tact over triumph. And in a world where everyone’s vulnerable to shame, that approach can build trust.

There’s also a sense of emotional discipline in it. Holding back anger, not lashing out in public, learning to manage reactions—those are signs of maturity. That kind of restraint can create a space where people feel safe and respected.

wantingtoberightWhen “Saving Face” Becomes a Mask

But here’s the flip side. When saving face becomes more important than honesty, problems start to grow in the dark.

It can lead to denial, cover-ups, and avoiding responsibility. Instead of acknowledging harm, people might focus on protecting their image. It can be used to shield authority figures from accountability—or to keep the peace at the expense of the truth.

In these situations, vulnerability becomes taboo. Admitting you’re struggling—emotionally, financially, or personally—starts to feel like a risk you can’t afford to reveal. And when that happens, people become isolated, burned out, or even dishonest.

Sometimes, the need to avoid conflict pushes people into more passive-aggressive territory: gossip, sarcasm, backhanded compliments. On the surface, everything seems calm. Underneath, there’s resentment and tension that never really gets addressed.

To Speak or Not to Speak?

stuffitSo here’s the tension I keep sitting with: when is it better to stay quiet for the sake of harmony, and when is silence just another form of harm?

It’s not easy to know. It takes emotional intelligence, cultural awareness, and a lot of trial and error practice.

“Honoring others’ dignity shouldn’t come at the cost of silencing your own.” True grace isn’t about shrinking yourself for harmony—it’s about making space for both your truth and theirs.

Emotional intelligence and saving face can be at odds here, especially when face-saving is rigid or fear-based. Emotional intelligence requires self-awareness, vulnerability, and the ability to express and manage feelings. Saving face, especially in traditional or hierarchical systems, often means concealing emotion—particularly “messy” ones like anger, sadness, or shame—to avoid embarrassment or social disruption.

It’s about making space for feeling within a culture of dignity, and, honestly, I’m still figuring it out.

I think a lot about communication and how to do it well. What makes someone a good listener? How do I speak honestly without making someone feel attacked? Will I lose my integrity if I raise my voice or get emotional? How will my words land?

Over time, I’ve learned (and am still learning) when to speak up and when to stay silent. If staying quiet means allowing harm, lies, or injustice to continue—then it’s time to speak. Silence, in those cases, doesn’t reflect who I am. But the question remains: is the person I’m speaking to even ready to hear it?

It’s tempting to offer advice or truth when no one asked for it. But if I’m speaking just to be right or prove a point, I’m not coming from a wise heart-centered place. Sometimes truth needs time and space. Sometimes timing is everything. And sometimes, even the truth can do more harm than good if it’s not offered with care.

Compassionate Protocol for Truth-Tellinggoldenruleisalie

  1. Speak the truth, but not to destroy.
  2. Don’t hide the truth to protect illusions that are already falling apart.

At its best, saving face is a graceful act. It gives people a way to preserve their dignity without shame.

At its worst, it becomes a mask—used to protect ego, suppress honesty, or avoid discomfort.

But when done with integrity, saving face isn’t about appearances. It’s about preserving connection—even when there’s conflict, error, or shame in the room.

So maybe we can create something new. Not a rejection of emotional restraint or social respect, but a way to let truth rise to the surface without burying it under politeness. A culture where people are allowed to stumble, speak, and grow—without losing face.

(Video) Saving Face, Understanding Thai Culture & Language

Letting Go to Begin Again

It’s been anything but quiet, and not by accident.

A lot has changed. Some of it was planned—some of it arrived like a wave I couldn’t stop. And didn’t want to stop. I quit my job after 25 years. Sometimes I call it retirement, but at 56, I feel too young for that. I sold and gave away nearly everything, left the United States, and moved to Thailand. And most profoundly: I lost my dad—along with, once again, becoming estranged from my immediate family. That family part still echoes through me in ways I can’t fully articulate.

It’s a kind of storm where everything shifts—yet somehow, it still feels like I’m standing in the eye of it.

I’m writing this from a place I never expected to be, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. It’s been a mix of grief, discovery, and overwhelming change. The noise—the rush, the striving, the constant urgency of daily American life—is gone. But the questions, the loss, and the adjustments? They’re loud. And yet, in this new place with its slower rhythm, I’ve come to find that quiet and a slow life mean something different than I thought.

I’m learning to embrace something softer. Simple living. Slow rhythms. Letting time unfold on its own—rather than chasing it, watching my life race past.

Thailand doesn’t demand hustle. It doesn’t force you into endless motion. Life here moves slower, but my mind, my heart, haven’t quite caught up. There’s still a lot to reckon with—lessons to process, emotions to feel. I won’t pretend it’s easy. The grief of losing my dad and the betrayals within my family are still fresh. They follow me into this new chapter. But even so, I’m finding moments of clarity—brief, yes, but real—that remind me of the value of simplicity, and of space.

Life here feels less violent. More human. And I’m allowing myself more space—to breathe, to grieve, to reflect. I’m not chasing anything right now. I’m sitting with what is, and with what’s left in my life that I still want to experience. And it turns out, that’s more than enough.

This move wasn’t about escape. It was about returning—to myself, to life. It’s about clarity. Stripping away the unnecessary and returning to what truly matters. To stillness. To the feeling of being alive in my own skin, without needing to prove anything. Not to anyone.

twilight

I miss my family deeply. Or maybe it’s just that I miss the idea or concept of family that I never had. But this absence has made room for something unexpected: a kind of clarity. I can hear myself more clearly now. I want less drama, more connection. And I feel more.

This next chapter isn’t about reinvention. It’s about concentration—on what’s most essential. It’s about stripping away the excess, whether physical clutter, relational drama, emotional baggage, or old patterns of thought, until only the purest, most meaningful parts remain. Like a refinement of my own essence.

So if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, or what I’ve been up to—that’s it. I’ve been learning to live with less. Less stuff. Less noise. Less pressure to be productive. And a whole lot more feeling. It’s messy. It’s complicated. But it’s real. And it’s revealing a smaller, slower, more honest life for myself.

I’m still figuring it out. Still learning. And I’m grateful for every moment.

If you’ve made it this far—thank you for walking with me.

 

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