🌿 Seasons of Self:🌿

 Navigating Growth, Grace, and the Ghosts of Social Anxiety

    I want to stay mindfully youthful while growing in wisdom. I want to keep showing up for my stream, for my little Discord community, for the people who’ve chosen to be part of this space I’ve created. But sometimes, I stumble.

There are days when I feel nervous for no clear reason. Days when the drive to stream just isn’t there. I’ll open OBS, stare at the screen, and feel… nothing. Or worse—resistance. I know I’ve touched on this before: the way I sometimes lose interest in things. (I’m an Aries, it happens.) But lately, I’ve been learning to see these moments not as failures, but as seasons. Every mood, every thought process, every burst of energy or lull in motivation—they all have their time.

Not too long ago, I couldn’t even bring myself to engage in stream chats. People were showing up in mine, and I just… couldn’t reciprocate. Not because I didn’t care. But because mentally, I couldn’t force myself to interact. And that’s hard to admit when you’re trying to build a space that feels warm and welcoming.

I’ve always been awkward with social cues. Maybe it’s because I was sheltered growing up. But I also know exactly where this feeling began: in the quiet moments of my childhood when I was struggling to earn my parents’ attention during their messy divorce. Once it was over, I was left emotionally adrift. And by the time I reached middle school, the isolation deepened—I was picked on, laughed at, made to feel small in rooms where everyone else seem to know the joke. 

Even now, walking into a room and hearing someone laugh can trigger something deep in me. A voice that says, “They’re laughing at you.”

Understanding the Roots

That lingering voice? That visceral discomfort in social situations? It has a name: social anxiety disorder. It’s not just about being shy—it’s a chronic fear of being judged, embarrassed, or rejected. And its roots often grow from a mix of:

• Emotional neglect, especially during formative years.

• Early rejection or bullying, which wires the brain to expect ridicule.

• Overexposure to criticism, either subtle or overt.

• A sensitive temperament paired with a lack of emotional validation.

When you spend your formative years feeling invisible or ridiculed, the nervous system becomes hyper-vigilant—ready to brace for humiliation, even in harmless moments. Understanding this isn’t about assigning blame—it’s about reclaiming your narrative.

Moving Forward with Grace

I’m learning that it’s okay to have off days. That not every season is meant for blooming. Some are for resting. Some are for reflecting. And some are for quietly tending to the roots.

So if you’re like me—navigating the tension between wanting to show up and needing to retreat—know this: you’re not broken. You’re just human. And being human means feeling things deeply, awkwardly, beautifully.

I may not always get the social cues right. I may still get triggered by laughter in a room. But I’m learning to meet those moments with curiosity instead of shame. To ask, “What is this teaching me?” instead of “What’s wrong with me?”

Because healing isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about growing through it.

The Patience of Petals

I didn’t buy this kalanchoe. It wasn’t something I picked out at a nursery or chose for its color. It came to me under heavy skies—sent to my maternal grandmother’s funeral, sent from my Great Aunt on my father’s side. That detail alone feels poetic: a plant that crossed family lines in the quiet wake of loss.

I brought it home and set it on the porch, where it stayed in the sweltering heat, soaking up direct sunlight day after day. I didn’t think much of it—just a pretty little flower holding a quiet kind of memory. But yesterday, I noticed its blooms beginning to curl inward, the edges of its petals browned and tired. I felt that guilt that only comes from neglecting something you know you should have cared for.

I brought it inside, out of the heat, and finally asked myself what this plant even was. That’s when I found its name: kalanchoe. It’s a succulent, resilient by design. And when I learned more, I realized it had been trying to tell me something the whole time.

Kalanchoes are known for endurance and lasting affection—they bloom for weeks, sometimes months, with little need for attention. In Chinese culture, they’re often given during the New Year as symbols of prosperity and good fortune, a silent wish for abundance and renewal. Some say they carry positive energy and growth, making them favorites in Feng Shui. Others point to their resilience and adaptability, thriving in places most plants would wither. Even the yellow ones carry meaning—perseverance and health, blooming through adversity with steady strength.

Reading all of that, I couldn’t help but see the parallels. A plant that endures, that asks for so little but offers so much. A gift wrapped in memory, handed to me in loss, and left in the sun too long—only to be rescued right before it gave up blooming.

Now it rests by the window. I'm learning what it needs, and quietly, I think it’s teaching me the same. That love doesn’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes it’s just the act of noticing. Of gently bringing something back inside when it’s had too sun.

What I didn’t expect, though, was just how much depth this little plant carries beyond the symbolism. 

Some kalanchoe species—like Kalanchoe pinnata, known as the “miracle leaf” or “life plant”—have long been used in traditional medicine for healing wounds, reducing inflammation, and treating skin conditions. Recent studies have begun exploring these plants further, suggesting they may have antimicrobial, anti-inflammatory, antioxidant, and even immunomodulatory properties. There’s even emerging research around potential anticancer effects. It’s surreal, really—something so delicate-looking holding such quiet biological force.

But for all its beauty and lore, kalanchoe also comes with a warning: it's considered toxic if ingested, especially for pets and children. Some species contain bufadienolides, compounds that can affect the heart. That contrast—between healing potential and inherent danger—makes the plant feel even more mysterious. Not fragile, exactly, but not to be underestimated either.

And maybe that's what makes the kalanchoe linger in my mind. It's not just a plant, but a quiet tether—to memory, to care, to the unexpected ways meaning takes root. It reminds me that strength can look like silence, and that the things we tend to—once we start paying attention—have a way of tending to us in return.

 🌙No Clear Topic, ✨ Just Thoughts💭

As I sit here, I’ll be honest—I don’t have a clear topic in mind. I just needed to start typing. Partly to keep up with my goal of posting more often, but mostly because this space is mine. My own little corner of the internet. And having it—this outlet—makes me genuinely happy.

Most days, I get caught in my own head. The thoughts are heavy, cluttered, constant. Just the other day, I couldn’t bring myself to engage with the world. It wasn’t the people—I believe most have good hearts. It was me. I didn’t know where I fit.

That sense of misplacement isn’t new. Since childhood, I’ve felt like I was always just... slightly off from where I was supposed to be. Not physically, necessarily. More like... spiritually displaced. Sometimes it feels like I landed in the wrong timeline. There’s a part of me that longs for something past—something familiar and unexplainably distant. Maybe that’s why History was my favorite subject. It’s where my soul feels most at home.

People often say, “Don’t look back—we’re not going that way.” And sure, I get it. Life moves forward. But the past doesn’t always stay behind. The memories linger. Some refuse to fade.

I can still see it so clearly: riding a loud, hot, bouncy bus down a dirt road after school. I remember deliberately telling myself, “Hold on to this.” Why? I don’t know. Nothing significant happened. It was just another day. But that moment etched itself into me. Full color. Full sound. And it still surfaces like it just happened last week.

I guess where I’m going with this is: What are the inner workings of how memories are held? And why does the past continue to call us?

 

💬Between the Chaos and the Calm 💭

I still stream for the same reason I started—to be creative. It’s not just a hobby; it’s a healthy outlet. Something that grounds me, challenges me, and gives me a sense of purpose I can be proud of.

There’s something special about building a space that’s fueled by creativity and not just content. Don’t get me wrong—views are cool. Growth is cool. But I want it to be real. Organic. I want people to find my stream because they resonate with the energy, not just because I showed up on the right side of the algorithm.

When I’m not in the heat of a Call of Duty lobby, I do my best to create something softer. I want people who visit to feel peace. I want them to feel seen, heard, and reminded that they matter—because they do. The world doesn’t always make that clear, so if I can, even for a moment, make someone feel connected, that’s worth it to me.

Streaming culture tends to spotlight numbers: average viewers, sub count, followers, retention. But numbers can’t measure presence. They can’t track the moment someone smiles quietly at a joke, or finds comfort in the background noise of the stream while life feels a little too loud. That’s the stuff that lingers long after the session ends.

I put that energy out there—not because I expect anything in return, but because I believe that what we give to the world has a way of circling back when we need it most.

Do I hope for some income from streaming? Absolutely. It takes time, heart, and more behind-the-scenes tweaking than most people know. But at the end of the day, the motivation isn’t financial. It’s relational. If someone tunes in and feels even a little better because of it, that means more than any tip or metric ever could.

I also think a lot about karma. Not in some spiritual scoreboard way, but in how we move through the world. “Treat others how you want to be treated” has layers. I’ve been on the receiving end of bullying—both quiet and loud—and if I’m honest, I’ve been a bit of a bully too. In-game. In life. Sometimes it’s survival. Sometimes it’s projection. But I’m learning to pause before I react. To lead with compassion even when it’s uncomfortable.

This whole thing—streaming, connecting, expressing—is about frequency. Not the internet kind, but the emotional kind. And I’ve decided I want mine to be honest, imperfect, and intentional.

So if you’ve tuned in, engaged, or even just lurked for a bit—you’re part of this. And I’m truly grateful.

✨The Weight of Yesterday, the Hope for Tomorrow ✨

Last week, I truly felt like I was finding my groove with streaming. I was beginning to settle into a routine that worked. Each day brought in a decent number of viewers, and Thursday turned out to be my best day yet—a rare four-hour stream. I was having fun, gaining momentum, and really enjoying myself.

But not long after I ended my stream that evening, I got a call from my mother. It was news I never wanted to hear. My nanny—my grandmother—the woman who helped raise me, had passed away. She was one of the few people who ever really stepped up for me. She was my rock when I didn’t have anyone else, especially during the time when my mom was navigating life after a messy marriage.

To say my childhood wasn’t pleasant would be putting it mildly. And these past few days, the flood of emotions has been nothing short of overwhelming. I haven’t streamed since then—no stream Friday, Monday, or yesterday. But as I write this, I fully plan to go live today. Still, I needed to get these words out. Maybe more for myself than anyone else.

I know very few people actually read these blog posts. And that’s okay. This writing—it makes me happy. So I keep doing it.

Monday was the funeral. It was emotional in more ways than I can count. I drove three hours back to my hometown, and stepping into that place felt like walking through a time capsule. The town hadn’t changed. Only time had passed. I saw familiar faces now wearing gray in their hair, fine lines tracing their once youthful features. And still, in my 37-year-old heart, I felt like that same broken child—hurting, searching for closure.

It’s a broken family. One where so many are still fighting their demons silently.

My aunt, bless her pitiful soul, never could quite let go of the jealousy she seemed to harbor—for the fact that her mother chose to care for me. She barely spoke to me. And my uncle, the one I used to look up to, said very little too, though he at least offered a kind word. Neither of them reached out to my mother—or to me—when nanny passed. Not even a message. Not even a whisper.

Bless them.

I’m still hurting. Still feeling wounded and scorned for not fitting into their mold. I’m still grappling with the weight I’ve carried all my life because of my mother’s choices, and the position I was always placed in.

But I want more. I want to grow. I want to heal. I want to close those doors that bring so much pain. I want to learn how to forgive, even if I’ll never understand those who hurt me. I want to let go of the ache that comes from knowing I’ll never get the answers I’ve been aching for.

And even in the midst of grief, I’m learning that healing doesn’t look like forgetting. It looks like showing up—fragile, imperfect, but still trying. Today, I choose to move forward, one step at a time, with love for those who stood by me, grace for those who didn’t, and hope for the version of me that’s still becoming.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own hurt: you’re not alone. There is still joy to be found, growth to be had, and peace waiting just beyond the pain. We don’t need all the answers to begin healing—just the courage to keep walking.