mindfulness

Learning to Love the Self That Suffers

In his day dreams, he’s seen it all.
Since young, since before he’s seen it, he has seen it all.
Running away from his present and escaping his past—
that of which he had not known back then,
that it had even hurt him—
he fell into day dreaming.

Day dreaming of a future of love, happiness, and joy.
Yet, he ran away from his pain in that present moment
into day dreaming.

Every day he’d day dream
a continuation—
sometimes a heartbreak,
sometimes a new relationship,
and sometimes anything that could numb the pain that was present:
the sadness, the loneliness,
and the deep awareness of his incapabilities
to build friendships or relationships.

He knew very deep inside, as an insight,
how fragile, insecure he was,
but had one tool only:
to escape to his beautiful day dreams.

A day dream with wealth,
with a caring partner and a loving group of friends.
Or a day dream with a powerful position and loving partner,
and being a fair and loving ruler.
Or another with love, betrayal, and heartbreak.

All that he missed, he dreamt about.
All that he longed for, he dreamt about.
All that he thought would bring him happiness, joy, and love.

Meanwhile, the present kept ticking—
and the days, the weeks, the months,
and the years kept pouring by,
and he kept letting them pass by
like a river over pebbles.

He dreamt of being an emperor, a fair one,
a lover, a husband, a father, a friend, a carer,
and so much more.
He dreamt of being and feeling secure, safe, and loved.
He dreamt of being taken care of,
of being saved,
of being rescued.

He walked in his eyes
the path of a Buddha, of a Bodhisattva—
but he was day dreaming all along this time.

Years passed, seasons switched and turned,
and he dreamt his years away.
He’d dreamt not to feel;
he dreamt to avoid the pain,
the suffering,
the deep wounds from very early on.

And the feelings remained.
The pain remained.
And the wounds remained—
unhealed, untouched, unattended for,
for so many years.

The pain remained there,
and so did the day dreaming.

Every moment he had difficulties,
he went into day dreaming.

A young teenager,
a teenager,
a young adult into adulthood—
he day dreamed his life away,
afraid of feeling,
afraid of touching the pain,
loving the pain
and afraid to love himself.

One day—
one day life brought him a gift.
One day, it offered him wisdom
coming from his suffering.
One day, he was shown
the tip of the rope—
of how to feel,
how to love oneself,
and how to bring awareness to one’s pain.

He knew, down inside,
that this was it—
what he wanted,
what he needed,
and what he sought for
all these decades.

He took the rope and walked the road.

He learned—
he learned how to feel,
stay with his feelings,
and allow them to manifest
without being taken back to the past.

He learned how to enjoy the present moment,
how to be in the present moment,
and how to try to enjoy this present moment.

He learned that to love
is to love himself first.
He learned that the darkest rooms in himself
are worthy of love, of light—
so he learned how to place windows
to let the sun shine into these rooms.

He learned that all his faults
are a matter of others’ perceptions (almost always),
and that if he lived from a place of love,
he can never be faulty.

He learned so much.
He learned to forgive his unskillfulness
and ask forgiveness from others for it.
He learned how to understand himself and others,
and through that—
he learned how to love.

To love.

He learned how to love
in a way beyond himself,
his needs, and his lacks.
He learned to love wholesomely,
without the need for words,
for expressions,
or for language.

He learned to love—
and that has been
his greatest lesson.

As his hair became grey
and his years became many,
he cherished his love—
that he could lean back on
every time and any time he suffered.

He rarely day dreamed,
yet, he looked back
and contemplated in gratitude
for his younger version of himself—
gratitude and love
for the love and survival,
for what was possible then
with the youth,
knowledge,
and wisdom then.

In gratitude,
he looked at his younger years—
and with love. 💛

Part 4 — Gratitude and the Heavy Luggage

As he walked through the nights that married the days,
with the dawns and the dusks on their shoulders,
he sensed a feeling of gratitude growing within him.

Walking through the rough, yet by the kind and shy sun
he had decided, and became determined,
on cultivating this energy of gratitude further within him.

Father Sun raised his rays onto the meadows,
the darker forests, the little creeks,
and the vast valleys he walked —
with Father Sun bringing non-fear
and while he cultivated gratitude
to the multitude of conditions he’s been walking through.

He walked, and on the way he began to realize
that his luggage has been weighing him down —
dragging him more and heavier has it been
with the more time he has spent on the road.

And time — how he spent much on the roads.

Every road he walked on,
he took a memory from his memories
that linger and last.

He took one of them and walked with it.
He walked with it, stayed with it,
and felt its weight on him.

He cried with it,
and his tears watered the drought of Mother Earth.

He cried the mothers of all cries,
the fathers of all cries —
he cried till he had no tears left,
till his body became weak,
till his heart no longer beared crying,
till he could finally stop walking.

He stopped just for a while,
because his body collapsed —
out of grief, out of loss,
out of this deep memory of sadness
that came out of that memory.

He stopped just for a while.

Enjoy my other reads:

Stop Blaming Your Parents: Turning Mindfulness into Self‑Responsibility. On this link.

Living in Peace: How to Find Inner Peace in this World? On this link.

How to Transform Self-Sabotage with Mindfulness and Love? On this link.

Emotional Identity and Pain: Who Are You Without the Struggle? On this link.

External Resources:

Zen & Engaged Buddhism:

Plum Village 

EIAB

Part 3 — The Walking and the Moon

He walked his road, with his luggage.
He walked with his backpack, heavy on a winter eve,
with his suitcase dark on that same winter eve,
and his side bag that held all his wishes, hopes, worries, desires, and past.

He walked terrified of what lay for him in the next turn —
of what lurks beneath his feet,
of his own breath,
of his own thoughts,
of life itself —
that life that has led him places and took him away from them.

He walks alone.
Lonely.
Terrified.

He walks because he had to walk — he must.
He has no place to go.

Very little he has he achieved in the past — or he thinks to himself.
No silver lining, no horizon to walk towards —
just him on his road, wide enough to share
but none there to share it with.

The moon, she shone upon his nights
in these winter times that even the trees slept during —
the flowers snoozed, and the shrubs and bushes took some time off —
but him, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he mightn’t.

He had to breathe even involuntarily —
he had to breathe,
even in the darkest days and nights,
even when the air became too thin, too heavy, too enormous —
he had to breathe.

The moon was his only counsel.
She led the way during these dark nights
and made space for the sun during the cold and frosty day times.

She shone not only onto his road but also onto his bravery —
onto his mighty existence,
onto his willingness to keep walking,
to keep moving even after all the loss,
all the sadness,
the suffering,
loneliness,
and despair.

She shone onto him.
It was personal,
it was intentional,
and it was lovely.

Enjoy my other reads:

Stop Blaming Your Parents: Turning Mindfulness into Self‑Responsibility. On this link.

Living in Peace: How to Find Inner Peace in this World? On this link.

How to Transform Self-Sabotage with Mindfulness and Love? On this link.

Emotional Identity and Pain: Who Are You Without the Struggle? On this link.

External Resources:

Zen & Engaged Buddhism:

Plum Village 

EIAB

Discovering Anxious-Preoccupied Attachment and My Experience With It

Growing up, I never thought I was witnessing what’s called “anxious-preoccupied attachment” — a pattern that often shows up as protest or pursuer behaviors. I just felt that my parent wanted the best for me — that they were a bit too pushy, a bit too worried, a bit too anxious that I wouldn’t make it in life. It came from love — genuine love — but it had its consequences.

My approach to life was shaped by this environment. I felt I needed to perform — to outperform — to compete. I had to try to be the first in class, and when I wasn’t — which was often — I felt like my efforts, or even I as a child, weren’t fully appreciated.

Gratitude to my Parents

As I write this, I’m also aware that these experiences are part of my present moment — part of who I am today. And I can cherish this moment. I can feel gratitude for my parents, and for everything that led me here. That gratitude doesn’t stop me from learning about myself, or from releasing what no longer serves me.

A Life Journey

As a teenager, I rebelled against the constant push to perform. Eventually, I realized that if I wanted to reach my own goals, I needed to at least maintain passing grades. The anxious-preoccupied attachment I grew up with showed up as constant connection-seeking — an urge for me to study more, to check if I was reading enough, doing my homework — and a great deal of negative talk, passive aggression, and shame when I fell short.

Over the years, I came to understand that passive aggression and shaming often grow from fear-driven attempts to motivate or keep connection alive. The constant monitoring? That was intolerance of uncertainty — the unknown feeling dangerous. The nagging tone? Hypervigilance that hadn’t found a regulated outlet.

Understanding this shifted my perspective: so much of what felt controlling and emotionally unsafe to me was actually anxiety speaking through their behavior.

With that understanding came a moment of insight: “Yes, of course!” Knowing how my parent lived, I could see their own need for safety, for reassurance, for connection — and for acknowledgment that they, too, mattered. It made sense.

But insight alone didn’t erase the residue those years left in me.

How It Shaped Me

All that externalized anxious attachment turned inward. It showed up as:

Negative self-talk.

A constant need to do the right thing — and perfectly.

Pressure to paddle against the wave, even at the cost of losing relationships.

Anxiety around decisions and the future.

A drive to stay busy, productive, always achieving.

At times, demanding too much from people — colleagues, friends, even loved ones.

How I Deal With It

Mindfulness has become the key to understanding and softening these patterns.

Mindfulness of thoughts, feelings, and body: Not hyper-vigilance, but gentle noticing. Catching when a thought loop or physical tension signals that the pattern is rising.

Checking in: Asking myself, “How am I feeling right now?” Often, the answer is a mirror showing me what’s really going on in the background.

Boundaries with kindness: Setting boundaries softly but firmly — with compassion for others (because they, too, are suffering) and compassion for myself (because I no longer want to suffer from their suffering).

Mindfulness hasn’t erased these patterns overnight, but it has helped me see them clearly, hold them gently, and begin to let them go.

That, for me, is where healing — and freedom — truly begins.

Anxious-preoccupied attachment isn’t a clinical diagnosis — it’s a lens through which many therapists and researchers describe a pattern of relating marked by deep fear of abandonment, reassurance-seeking, and low self-worth. It helped me make sense of my experience.

Enjoy my other reads:

Recover Your Sovereignty: On this link.

Stop Blaming Your Parents: Turning Mindfulness into Self‑Responsibility. On this link.

Living in Peace: How to Find Inner Peace in this World? On this link.

How to Transform Self-Sabotage with Mindfulness and Love? On this link.

Emotional Identity and Pain: Who Are You Without the Struggle? On this link.

External Resources:

Zen & Engaged Buddhism:

Plum Village 

EIAB