A Banana for Breakfast — And the Quiet Lesson It Holds

I’ve come to realize that not every morning needs to begin with grand rituals or perfectly plated meals. Sometimes, it’s enough to peel a ripe banana, steam it for a few minutes, and sit with the warmth of it in my hands. Simple. Soft. Honest.

The world is loud about how mornings should look — energizing routines, colorful smoothie bowls, productivity hacks. But in my little corner, I’ve learned that survival can be gentler than that. It can look like a plain banana on the plate, paired with hot chocolate drink, carrying me quietly into the day.

It may sound too simple, almost ordinary. But maybe that’s the point. After the chaos of past seasons, after the messes that drained me and the misses that left me questioning myself, I no longer crave “extra.” I crave what’s enough. I crave the kind of breakfast that doesn’t demand, but instead, reminds me that I’m still here. That even in my simplicity, I am living — fully.

A banana for breakfast is not about taste alone. It’s a small act of choosing to nourish myself, without complication, without apology. A reminder that life doesn’t always have to be dressed up to be meaningful.

Some mornings, healing looks like bold decisions and big changes. Other mornings, it’s just a warm banana on a plate. And either way, it’s enough. - MESSY E.

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The Messy Joy of Reparenting Myself

When I think of my inner child, my memories feel blurred, like old film reels missing frames. I grew up in the province, where life was slower, skies were wider, and the world felt both comforting and small. I don’t always remember the details of my childhood, but I remember the longings.

One of them was simple: the carousel.

I first saw it on TV as a child, the painted horses moving up and down, lights twinkling, music spinning around in circles. Something in me ached to be there, to ride one of those horses, to be part of that magic. It became one of those quiet childhood dreams I tucked away, uncertain if it would ever come true.

Years later, I finally did.

It was at night, and the carousel was lit like a dream, horses painted in gold and pastels, lights chasing each other in circles, music spilling into the cool air as if it had been waiting for me.

I climbed onto one of the horses, the kind I had only seen through a screen as a child, and for a moment the world felt like it had paused not in silence, but in a kind of rejoicing. The music swelled, the lights sparkled, as if everything around me was glad that the little girl in me had finally arrived.

It lasted only a few minutes, but it was enough.

Just a few days ago, I found myself at an amusement park again, this time in the daylight. And as always, the first thing that caught my attention was the carousel. It brought me back to that night, the first time my dream came true.

I don’t have photos that capture the magic of that evening (at least not in a way I can share anonymously), so instead, I’m sharing one from this recent visit. It may not have the glow of nighttime lights, but it holds the same memory: that little girl’s longing, patiently waiting for years, finally being honored.

But most days don’t look like carousels.

Most days, reparenting myself is ordinary and messy. It’s remembering to eat when I’d rather skip. It’s giving myself permission to rest when the world tells me to keep going. It’s catching the old voices in my head that call me lazy, too much, or not enough and replacing them with gentler words: “You’re not alone. You’re precious. I’ll keep choosing you.”

And because reparenting is not something I learned overnight, I keep a gentle checklist with me not as rules to follow perfectly, but as reminders of the small, steady ways I can show up for myself every day.

My Gentle Checklist for Reparenting Myself

✅ Remind myself: “You are free now. Yourself is now your priority.”

✅ Let my feelings be felt, without judgment.

✅ Eat regular meals, even when I’d rather skip.

✅ Drink enough water.

✅ Rest when my body asks.

✅ Say no when I need to.

✅ Step away from what feels unsafe.

✅ Do something fun, just because.

✅ Celebrate small wins — even just getting through the day.

✅ Replace self-criticism with kinder words: “I’m proud of you. You’re doing enough.”

✅ Check in daily: “How are you feeling? What do you need?”

✅ Keep promises to myself, even small ones.

✅ Create a calm space to breathe and reset (mine is my mini BTS corner, surrounded by albums and merch that remind me of joy).

Some days, reparenting looks like laughter. Other days, it’s just making sure I drink water, sleep in, or lose myself in a few hours of dramas, forgiving myself for being human. It’s not always magical, but it’s always worth it.

Because joy doesn’t only live in carousels. Sometimes, it lives in the small, steady choices to care for myself.

That night, the carousel gave me magic.

These days, reparenting gives me presence.

Together, they remind me that healing is both the big, sparkling joys and the quiet, everyday ways you keep yourself alive and cared for.

Some days I give her magic, some days I give her rest.

Some days I stumble, some days I soar.

But through the joy and through the mess,

she knows now — I will not leave.

❁ ❁ ❁

And if you’re tired, if the days feel heavy, if you’ve forgotten what joy feels like — maybe this is your reminder. You don’t have to do it all at once. Just start small. Drink water. Rest. Choose kindness over criticism. Create one corner of safety that feels like yours. And when you’re ready, give your inner child a little magic, too.

You are not alone in this. You are precious. Keep choosing you. - MESSY E.

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The Mess I Made in a Moment Meant to Be Quiet

There’s this thing I do, and I swear I never mean to…... I tell people more than I should. Not strangers on the internet (ironically, I keep more secrets here), but colleagues. The people I’m supposed to just talk work with, exchange polite “How’s your weekend?” answers, and then move on.

But sometimes, when the conversation lingers a second too long, I feel this strange pull to fill the silence. And instead of reaching for something safe like the weather or the latest company memo, I reach for… my life. My real life. And I don’t just hand over the basics. No. I unwrap pieces of myself that were never meant for the break room.

I don’t notice it while it’s happening. At the moment, it feels harmless. Human, even. But later, maybe that night, maybe the next morning, it hits me. I think about what I said, about how much of myself I placed in their hands, and I wish I could take it back. Not because they did anything wrong. They didn’t. But because I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve left my diary open on the office desk, pages fluttering for anyone to read.

It’s not the first time, either. It’s almost a cycle now. I overshare. I regret it. I promise myself I’ll be more guarded next time. And then, without meaning to, I do it again. It’s a habit I’ve been meaning to break - the one where I trade my peace for connection I’m not even sure I wanted in the first place.

I guess that’s the thing about misses and messes. Some of them aren’t huge disasters; they’re small spills of ourselves in places where we wish we’d stayed dry. No permanent harm done, but the aftertaste is still there.

So here I am, writing this down not because I’ve figured out the perfect fix but because I want to remember that not everything that’s true needs to be told. Some moments are meant to be quiet, even if my instinct is to fill them. Especially then.

Life after the misses and messes isn’t about never making them again. It’s about noticing when we do… and learning, slowly, how to keep the sacred parts sacred.

Here is my own little reminder for when the quiet comes again.

A Quiet Note to Myself (for Next Time)

Not every silence needs saving.
Not every pause needs filling.

I can keep some pages of my story untouched—still mine.

Holding back isn’t dishonesty; it’s care.
My worth isn’t measured by what I share,
and my peace isn’t the price for connection.

Next time, I’ll let the quiet be quiet.
Some truths can stay with me.
And maybe that’s how I keep myself whole.

❁ ❁ ❁

And maybe you’ve been there too - catching yourself filling a pause just so it doesn’t feel heavy. When was the last time you let the quiet stay, just as it was?  - MESSY E.

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Words I Kept for Rainy Days: My Pantry of Hope

 For the days when healing feels slow and the mess is still loud.

There are days when the sky outside matches the one inside me — both heavy, both gray.

On those days, I reach into something unseen. A quiet shelf I’ve built over the years.

My pantry of hope.

I didn’t always have one. For a long time, I wandered without any kind of storehouse. I’d let life hit me, and I’d crumble with nothing to soften the fall. But somewhere between the mess and the misses, I started collecting.

Not things. Just… words.

A line from a poem.

A whispered prayer I didn’t finish.

A message I never sent to someone who unknowingly reminded me I mattered.

A journal entry I wrote in the middle of the night, shaking but still writing.

I didn’t know I was stocking up. I just knew that when life felt like famine — of peace, of love, of self-belief — some words fed me. They didn’t fix everything, but they gave me enough strength to sit up. To breathe. To go on.

Some days, all I have is a sentence. A soft one.

“You are not too late.”

Or maybe:

“This is not the end of your becoming.”

And sometimes, I reach for this one — a line I found somewhere, wrote down, and held close ever since:

“No matter how many times life leaves me broken, I will rise amongst the shattered pieces. Holding them together until I am whole again.”

Not all words are dramatic or aching. Some arrive quiet and clear like a compass. I once wrote down a line during a devotion session (the exact name escapes me now, but the message stayed):

“Less of what doesn’t matter and more of what does. What matters most is to be rich in God.”

It reminded me that even in seasons of scarcity or confusion, there’s a richness that can’t be taken from me. And that’s something I can always return to.

We all have a different kind of pantry.

Mine just happens to be made of words.

They don’t always taste sweet. Some are bitter truths, others dry like crackers. But when the soul is starving, even a single line can feel like a feast.

So on rainy days — the inside kind — I remind myself to open the pantry.

Not everything is gone. Not everything is lost.

Somewhere on the shelves, I left myself reminders that I’ve made it through worse.

From My Pantry of Hope: The Lines I Return To

(For the days when I forget, these remind me.)

A Small Note on These Words:

Some of the lines I’ve kept in this pantry are things I wrote. Others, I copied from books, talks, devotionals, or messages that once moved me — often without remembering to jot down who said them first. I don’t claim them as my own. If you recognize a line and know the original author, please let me know so I can give credit where it’s due. I’m simply sharing the words that carried me — in case they carry you, too.

“Spend time with yourself and you will learn that there is so much to love about you.”

“Rejection does not mean you're not good enough — they just can't handle what you can offer.”

“There are no things you can't do as long as you put your heart into it.”

“Let go of the past. Live with the present. Embrace the future.”

“With man, this is impossible, but not with God; all things are possible with God.” — Mark 10:27

“Sometimes God wants to do something in you before He does something for you.”

“Your breaking is your blessing. You're broken because God is working miracle for person around you.”

These are just a few. There are more tucked in old journals, voice notes, margins of books.

Some sit sealed like jars I haven’t opened in years.

But these? These have fed me when I had nothing else.

And that’s enough hope to hold me until the sky clears again. - MESSY E.

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A Blue Morning After a Long Night

At 5:15 AM, the sky was turning blue over the city. The lights in the buildings hadn’t fully dimmed, and the river was reflecting the last traces of night. I was ending my day while everyone else was beginning theirs, and for a moment, I felt the quiet relief of knowing I made it through. At that hour, everything feels familiar — routine, almost forgettable. I don’t always notice who else is out there or what the city is doing. Most days, I’m just in a rush to go home, mind focused only on getting there. But this view caught my attention. Just for a second, it made me stop and look.

There isn’t much room for romanticism in the night shift. The hours blur. Your world gets quiet while the rest of it sleeps. And when the shift finally ends, there’s no big moment, just the pull of your bed, the ache in your legs, and the silent countdown until you get to do it all over again. But that morning, something in the way the city held its light felt like a small reminder: I was still here.

I didn’t feel energized. I didn’t feel inspired. I was drained physically, mentally. But there was a kind of peace in that, too. The work was done. The day, "my day" was over. Another long night crossed off the list. It wasn’t extraordinary, but it was enough.

I used to think “living fully” meant chasing something big. Always moving toward some version of more. But now, I think it might also mean noticing the sky when you’re too tired to think. Pausing in the middle of your autopilot morning to see the reflection on the river. Letting relief count as a kind of joy.

The world was waking up as I was winding down. I didn’t have the energy to match its pace and maybe I didn’t need to. I was moving in my own rhythm. And that morning, that rhythm led me back to myself, slowly, quietly, honestly.

There are days that end in regret or frustration, and there are days that end like this, not with clarity or celebration, but with stillness. A small inhale. A bigger exhale. A simple, thank God I’m done. A fleeting view that makes the familiar feel just a little less heavy.

If there’s any proof that I’m still living, fully, it’s this: I keep going. I keep working. I keep walking home — tired, unnoticed, but present. And sometimes, catching a glimpse of the sky is all the reminder I need that even in the blur, I’m still here. - MESSY E.

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The Power of “What If”: Gentle Affirmations for a Messy Becoming

Because certainty can be too loud and maybe is a soft place to begin.

What Are “What If” Affirmations?

When life has handed you a heap of regrets, wrong turns, and too many almosts — when the misses add up and the mess feels unlivable — traditional affirmations can feel too bold, too distant, too untrue.

That’s where “what if” affirmations come in.

They don’t speak from certainty.

They ask softly. They offer possibility.

They don’t demand belief. They offer a place to rest.

After the detours you didn’t choose, the chapters that collapsed, and the versions of yourself you’re still grieving, you may not be ready to say “I am healed.”

But maybe you can whisper: What if I’m not as broken as I thought?

These are not declarations.

They are gentle openings for those still becoming, still healing, still holding the pieces, still here.

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Tender Heart

• What if I don’t have to rebuild everything at once?
  
  

• What if softness is not failure, but proof I’m still open?
  
  

• What if healing doesn’t look like strength  but like staying?
  
  

• What if it’s okay to be gentle with the version of me that’s still hurting?

❁ ❁ ❁

For Shame’s Quiet Exit

• What if my regrets don’t cancel out the person I’m becoming?
  
  

• What if the wrong turns were part of the way forward?
  
  

• What if I can hold my past not as shame but as something I lived through?
  
  

• What if I don’t have to hate the person I was to love the person I’m becoming?

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Ones Who Feel Behind

• What if I’m not late…  just on a timeline that no one else can measure?
  
  

• What if the detour gave me what I needed to become who I am?
  
  

• What if I didn’t miss it… what if I’m just preparing for it?
  
  

• What if starting over is sacred, not shameful?
  
  

• What if my slow pace is still something to be proud of?

❁ ❁ ❁

For Slow Resilience

• What if pausing is part of the process, not proof I’ve failed?
  
  

• What if every unnoticed effort was still an act of courage?
  
  

• What if I’m still growing, even when no one sees it?
  
  

• What if I am enough, even if I’m not done?

❁ ❁ ❁

For the Days That Feel Heavy

• What if I don’t have to be okay to still be moving forward?
  
  

• What if rest is part of the healing… not a break from it?
  
  

• What if the mess is not proof I’ve failed  but proof I’m still trying?
  
  

• What if the feelings I keep avoiding are where my softness lives?
  
  

• What if I can carry doubt and still take the next step?

❁ ❁ ❁

For Rebuilding

• What if the pieces don’t have to go back the same way?
  
  

• What if something beautiful is still forming under the grief?
  
  

• What if this imperfect version of me is more honest than the polished one I used to chase?
  
  

• What if I don’t need to bloom fast… only truthfully?
  
  

• What if what’s missing is only making room for what’s meant?

❁ ❁ ❁

For a Quiet Hope

• What if there’s something gentle waiting on the other side of this?
  
  

• What if the next version of me is not perfect but whole?
  
  

• What if this isn’t the end… just a becoming in disguise?
  
  

• What if I’m allowed to believe again, even after everything?
  
  

• What if I’m closer than I think?

❁ ❁ ❁

For Hope, When It Feels Far Away

• What if it still turns out beautiful… not despite the mess, but because of it?
  
  

• What if today’s breath is tomorrow’s beginning?
  
  

• What if I don’t need to bounce back but build forward?
  
  

• What if I’m not lost… just somewhere in the middle?
  
  

• What if I’m already enough, even in my unfinished form?

❁ ❁ ❁

Your Turn

You don’t have to believe them all.

You only have to wonder.

Let one question settle beside your doubt.

Let one small “what if” carry you through the quiet.

Which “what if” speaks to your mess?

Or maybe you’ve whispered your own — share it below. Someone else may need it, too. -MESSY E.

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