Whispered Truths: Affirmations for the Days After the Mess

Because some mornings, the only victory is waking up and holding on.

What Are Affirmations?

In the quiet aftermath of chaos, affirmations are not loud declarations. They are soft offerings to yourself. They are the truths you whisper when the world has gone quiet and the weight of your own history feels like too much.

Affirmations don't pretend life is tidy. They simply remind you that even in the rubble, there is still something worth holding onto: you.

I used to think affirmations belonged to the shiny, high-achieving people, the ones who made vision boards and had answers. But I’ve found that affirmations often bloom best in the dirt, when you’re still tangled in your own story, aching but still inching forward.

This post is for the ones still rising from what shattered. For those who missed too many signs, lost too much time, and are only now beginning to catch their breath.

These aren’t mantras for perfection. They’re anchors for the storm.

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Grieving and Growing

• I can hold both sorrow and the quiet hope that something new will come.
  
  

• I am allowed to start again without shame.
  
  

• My worth isn’t undone by the things I didn’t get right.
  
  

• Even in silence and shadow, something inside me is still reaching toward light.

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Self-Forgiving

• I release the weight of what I didn’t yet understand — that version of me was doing the best she could with what she had.
  
  

• I don’t owe anyone a polished version of pain — only my truth.
  
  

• My mistakes are not the full story. They are a page, not the whole book.

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Resilient (and Bone-Tired)

• If all I do today is breathe and not give up — that is still a kind of bravery.
  
  

• Tired doesn't mean weak. I carry both fatigue and fight inside me.
  
  

• Rest is not weakness. It is a form of resistance.

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Becoming

• I am not who I was. And that deserves a quiet moment of respect.
  
  

• I am still gathering myself, and that’s okay.
  
  

• I do not have to harden to heal. Gentleness is still an option, even now.

If all you can say today is “I’m still here,” — then let that be enough. Sometimes surviving your own story is the most courageous thing of all.

Your Turn:

Do you have a whispered truth of your own?

An affirmation that helped you hold on when everything else felt scattered?

Leave it below, your words might just be the flower someone else needs to find in the rubble.

For more quiet strength in the aftermath, visit Messy, Missed, but Still Blooming: Mantras for the Soul — a soul-deep reminder that even in life’s ruins, something soft can still grow. - MESSY E.

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When It Rains, It Warms (Not Always in a Good Way)

It had been raining on and off for days and then came the week it refused to stop. The kind of rain that doesn’t just pass, but settles in like an uninvited guest with a suitcase full of mood swings. Thunder rolling, skies brooding, and puddles growing as if they, too, have something to prove.

And right in the middle of all that, our refrigerator broke down.

Yes. While the outside world soaked and chilled, the inside of our fridge quietly gave up. I opened it one morning and was met with a strange, unsettling stillness — no cold breeze, no rush of chilled air like usual. The ice had already melted into small pools of water, and everything inside felt worryingly warm. I was already worried the protein drink might not be safe to consume. Leftovers were no longer edible. It was clear that everything I had just stocked was now racing toward spoilage.

The worst part? I had just gone grocery shopping the day before. A full week’s worth of food. Meats, produce, prepped meals — all meant to carry us through the stormy week so I wouldn’t have to go out unnecessarily.

And then boom — the next morning, the fridge gave up on life.

That meant I had to hustle and figure out how to consume everything fast, before it all spoiled. It felt like a mini food marathon, minus the fun. I was forced to rearrange meals, cook in batches, and snack on things I wasn’t even hungry for just to avoid waste. Argh. All I could think was — “There goes my entire food budget for the week… just like that.” Money down the drain. Literally melting, spoiling, rotting — faster than I could keep up with.

Out of desperation, I even went to convenience stores looking for ice, thinking it might help slow down the spoilage or somehow “revive” the fridge’s function. I turned the refrigerator off for a few hours, then turned it back on, hoping it just needed a reset. Miraculously, it came back to life. But only for one night.

By the next morning, it was back to being warm again. I tried the same trick — turning it off and back on — but that was the last spark. It never cooled again after that.

To add to our own atmosphere, there’s a small corner in our rented apartment that leaks during heavy rain. It’s not new, we’ve been catching it with a container for years. Just a small drip, manageable. This apartment has been home for so long, and honestly, we’ve loved it here. It’s flood-free, quiet, and perfectly suited to our work-from-home routine.

But lately, little mishaps have started piling up. A few too many things now require more than just patience — the kind of repairs that make you pause and rethink how long you can keep adjusting. We’re at that point of asking if it’s time to move on if maybe we’ve outgrown this place or it’s quietly telling us it's time.

And then the fridge gave in.

Of all things — now?

I won’t go into all the other apartment issues just yet (still saving those for a quieter day), but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frustrated. We're in the middle of deciding whether to move, already facing the future hassle of relocating all our things and then this major appliance taps out on us? We even joked that maybe the fridge “heard” us making plans and decided to retaliate. “Oh, you’re leaving? Here’s one more thing to carry or maybe don’t.”

Now we're in a small but annoying dilemma: Should we buy a new fridge now? Or wait until we’ve found our next place? It’s the kind of logistical headache that seems minor until you’re living through it — daily meals, food storage, and the weird silence of an empty fridge all waiting on your decision.

Before I go further, I want to pause and acknowledge that I know my experience is small in the wider picture. I’m aware that while I was dealing with spoiled groceries, many people were facing floods, losing homes, or even losing lives because of the very same storms. This post isn’t meant to be insensitive or to center inconvenience over tragedy — it’s simply a way to make sense of my own little corner of the mess. If anything, it’s a reminder that we can hold space for both: our own struggles and empathy for those facing something much harder.

And somewhere in that mess, a part of me softened. I caught myself saying, “Well, at least it’s just the fridge.”

No flood inside. No injury. No real loss beyond some spoiled food and a week’s worth of sighs.

And yes — despite everything — I’m still thankful that nothing worse happened.

Maybe it’s the way I’ve learned to hold onto small wins. If I stretch my perspective far enough, I can even find a silver lining: no fridge means I go out every other day to buy food, which means walking — which, honestly, I’ve been meaning to do more of. Maybe this is my accidental exercise plan. A forced kind of movement. A different kind of routine.

It’s funny how gratitude sometimes comes not from having more, but from realizing it could’ve been worse. When everything around me was wet and wild, and even my fridge betrayed me, I still had enough peace to say, “Well, it’s not the end of the world.”

Because truthfully, it wasn’t. No real damage. No emergencies. The leaky corner stayed contained, the lights stayed on, and we stayed safe.

And maybe that’s what resilience looks like on the quieter days — not bold declarations or dramatic bounce-backs, but a gentle sigh that says, “This sucks, but I’m still here.”

So yes, it rained. My fridge warmed. My food spoiled. And things got messy.

But even then, I found a little space to be thankful — for all that didn’t go wrong. - MESSY E.

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A Letter to the Me Who Feels Behind

Author’s Note to the Reader:

I wrote this on a day when the noise of other people’s milestones got too loud.
The happy posts, the new cars and houses, the glowing anniversaries — all of it made me feel like I was standing still while the world was speeding ahead.

I knew I wasn’t ungrateful.
I am proud of what I’ve built — a life I’ve held together through quiet strength.
But something still tugged at me:
A feeling that maybe I was missing something.
Or maybe… that I was missing me.

Sometimes, we feel behind, even when we’ve come so far.

So I wrote this letter — to the version of me who forgets how far she’s come.
The one who aches quietly.
The one who shows up, even when the world feels too loud.

If you’ve ever wondered whether your pace, your path, your becoming is enough — this letter is for you, too.

You are not behind. Not really. - MESSY E.

❁ ❁ ❁

A Letter to the Me Who Feels Behind

from someone who’s been with you through it all

Dear Me,

I know you don’t always feel it, but you’ve come so far.
Not in headline ways.
Not in the kind that gets claps from the crowd.
But in the quiet, relentless, deeply human kind.

You built a home — not just walls and a roof, but a real, lived-in place of safety.
A space stitched from effort, sacrifice, and your silent prayer to give your family better.
People may ask how big it is.
But only you know what it really holds: security, dignity, and a version of stability you fought for.
It may not look like much to the world,
but it is your triumph in concrete form.

You’ve put food on the table.
You’ve showed up at work, even when your spirit was threadbare.
You’ve carried others — gently, quietly — without needing applause.

And somehow, you still made room for joy.
You fangirl. You let yourself feel the rush of a concert.
You didn’t let the weight of responsibility silence your wonder.
You’ve kept a soft heart in a sharp world. You even traveled — across the sea, from city to island. To breathe different air. To feel your shoulders drop. To remember there’s a world beyond routine, and you are allowed to enjoy it.

Still, I know there are days when something aches.
Not for fame or luxury —
but maybe for a kind of love that feels like home.

You see their stories — the milestones, the partnerships, the shared lives — and you tell yourself, “I don’t need that.” And maybe you don’t. But maybe… you long for what it quietly represents: To be chosen, gently. To be known deeply. To not always be the one holding it all together.

Maybe you’re not envious of the life.
Maybe you’re longing for the feeling underneath it.

And that’s okay.
It doesn’t make you greedy. It makes you honest.

You’re allowed to say, “This life is enough,”
and still whisper, “But I’d like a little more ease. A little more love.”

Because your success isn’t missing —
it’s just been growing underground, in ways only you can feel:

• In the resilience you never named.
  
  

• In the patience you’ve practiced.
  
  

• In the softness you’ve preserved.
  
  

• In the healing you’ve chosen, even when no one’s watching.
  
  

You are not behind.
You’re on a road with no rulebook. A path that doesn’t post updates or offer milestones.

Your story is not delayed.
It’s just unfolding at a quieter pace.
And that’s still a life worth celebrating.

You’re allowed to carry pride in your heart and still feel a quiet space that hasn’t been filled yet.

So today, breathe.
Honor what you’ve built.
Trust what you’re becoming.
And know this:

You are not the mess.
You are the quiet strength rising through it.

With deep belief,
Me

❁ ❁ ❁

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The Eldest Breaks: Not Every Yes Should Last Forever

This is a story that sits across the table from my last one.

If “The Eldest Life: Misses, Messes, and the Most Beautiful Yes” was about the quiet joy in choosing love, then this is about the ones who said yes for too long until it broke them.

I didn’t live this story myself.

But I’ve seen it, read it, felt its echoes in the words of others.

And it deserves to be told with tenderness, without judgment.

Not every eldest ends up proud of what they’ve carried.

Some end up crushed beneath it.

Because sometimes, being the eldest isn’t about love — it’s about survival.

About being handed the weight without ever being asked.

About playing roles no child should have to play: fixer, provider, emotional cushion, peacemaker.

Some gave so much they disappeared in the process.

Some stayed because they thought they had to.

Some left because staying meant losing themselves entirely.

Some stopped saying yes after years of being met with silence, or worse — with demands, disrespect, and disregard.

They weren’t just tired, they were taken for granted.

Their efforts became expectations. Their boundaries were ignored. Their love was weaponized.

They were called ungrateful for wanting peace.

Selfish for needing space.

Cruel for refusing to break themselves open one more time.

But the truth is — they didn’t stop loving.

They just stopped bleeding for people who never learned how to hold them with care.

You are allowed to stop.

You are allowed to walk away.

You are allowed to choose rest, healing, and softness even if it looks like rebellion to others.

Choosing yourself isn’t betrayal.

Sometimes, it’s the most honest act of self-love.

You were never meant to carry it all.

You just did, because no one else would.

But now? You don’t have to keep proving your worth through sacrifice.

Not every eldest blooms in the mess.

Some have to walk away from it.

That, too, is brave. That, too, is a kind of love — one that chooses truth over pretending, boundaries over burnout.

If you're the eldest who broke, this isn’t your failure story.

This is your freedom story.

Not every yes should last forever.

And you?

You’re still enough, even when the answer becomes no.

And maybe — just maybe — that no becomes a mirror, a message, or a lesson for the family to finally see what love without conditions should look like.

❁ ❁ ❁

I’ve carried a different kind of eldest story.

One that still held weight but also warmth.

To my own family — thank you.

Because of your love, I never had to live this version of the story.

I’ve carried things, yes, but never alone. Never unloved. Never unseen.

And I don’t take that for granted — not for a second.

That’s why I wanted to write this.

Because I know not every eldest is met with the same grace.

And those who weren’t — they deserve tenderness too.

If you carry a different kind of eldest story — one still rooted in quiet love and willing sacrifice — you might also want to read: “The Eldest Life: Misses, Messes, and the Most Beautiful Yes.” Together, these two stories tell the full truth: that love looks different in every life, and each version is worth honoring.

Salute to all eldest out there! - MESSY E.

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The Eldest Life: Misses, Messes, and the Most Beautiful Yes

In the end, it wasn’t the mess or the miss that defined me, it was the love that made it worth it.

There’s something no one quite prepares you for when you’re the eldest in the family.

You don’t apply for the role, you’re simply born into it. And before you even understand what it means, you're already saying yes. Yes to helping out. Yes to stepping up. Yes to staying strong when things fall apart.

And over time, those yeses begin to shape your life.

You miss things - chances, choices, moments that might have belonged just to you.

You carry things - responsibilities, expectations, and sometimes, guilt.

You learn to navigate the mess - not just of life, but of emotions, decisions, and growing up faster than you should have.

After I graduated, I felt a quiet pressure settle in - the urgency to find a job right away, not just for myself, but so I could start providing for my family. There wasn’t time to pause, to explore, or to figure out what I wanted. The priority was clear: help, give, support. And somehow, without saying it out loud, I understood that my journey wouldn’t start the way others’ might.

Since then, I’ve been doing what I can. I asked my parents to stop their exhausting work in the fields, watching them carry so much for so long was something I couldn’t unsee. I help send my siblings to school, and I take overtime shifts not just for the paycheck, but for the peace of mind it brings. It’s not always easy, but it’s never a question. I do it out of love, the quiet kind that shows up, stays late, and keeps giving.

Instead of planning big purchases for myself, like gadgets or trips I once dreamed of, I find myself planning for them. For a sturdier roof, a better fridge, a more comfortable space to call home. It turns out, I’m not just chasing my own dreams anymore. I’m chasing ours. And there’s a quiet kind of joy in that - the kind that doesn’t always feel like sacrifice, because it’s rooted in something deeper.

Because here’s the part we don’t talk about enough:

It’s not all burden. It’s also love.

Some of the most beautiful parts of my life have come from being the eldest.

From watching the ones I love grow and rise, even when I had to bend.

From learning how to care without needing applause.

From realizing that even in the silence, I am seen, maybe not always by others, but by the life I’ve helped build.

I’ve missed a lot. My life hasn’t always gone the way I imagined.

But being the eldest? That part I would never trade.

Because in all the mess and all the misses, it’s also where I said yes to love in its most selfless, imperfect, powerful form.

It’s not always easy. And I still have a long way to go in learning how to care for myself with the same devotion I give to others.

But that, too, is part of the journey, figuring out how to stay whole, even while holding others.

Is this what they call the sacrifice of the eldest?

Maybe.

But more than sacrifice, I think it’s something softer. Quieter. Stronger.

It’s love in motion. Choosing others even when no one asks.

It’s trading comfort for contribution not because you have to, but because your heart leans that way.

Even in all the giving, there’s pride.

Even in the exhaustion, there’s purpose.

Even in the mess and all the misses, there's a kind of joy that only the eldest might know - the joy of seeing your family rest a little easier because of you.

So to the ones who’ve carried more, not out of obligation, but out of love - this is for you.

Not because you need to prove anything,

but because your presence has always been enough.

You’ve held things together when they could’ve fallen apart.

You’ve given without being asked.

You’ve loved in ways that may never be fully seen but deeply felt.

Even with the misses.

Even in the mess.

Especially because of the yes. - MESSY E.

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