Tag: mindfulness

My April Integration Story: When Growth Feels Like Falling Apart

I started April already feeling drained — emotionally raw, heavy, and confused. It was like my heart was still catching up to all the changes I had been making. I knew this month was supposed to be about integration — that’s what the energy reading at the beginning of the month said. April was meant to help me bring all my parts back together, to move from fragmentation into wholeness. I thought that would feel peaceful, empowering. I thought I’d be soaring by now.

Instead, it felt like I was falling apart.

At the start of the month, I had big intentions. I wanted to use April to work out more, feel strong in my body, lose some weight before my trip at the end of the month. I was ready to take action. But right around my birthday, I got hit with food poisoning out of nowhere. I had no choice but to slow down and surrender. It was a moment that made me realize just how much I do for others — how often I put myself last. And for the first time in a long time, I wished for something simple: peace.

The whole month, I found myself asking: Why is this so hard?
Choosing myself — choosing rest, choosing gentleness — felt heavier than I ever imagined. I thought freedom would feel light, happy, expansive. Instead, it felt like grief. Like standing in the ruins of old versions of myself.

And when the rubble cleared, the parts of me that stepped forward shocked me.

I didn’t meet the free-spirited, peaceful version of myself I expected. I didn’t meet the “healed” shaman-self I thought would be waiting for me on the other side.
I met the critic.
I met the voice that tells me I’m lazy.
I met the part that demands I suck in my stomach at the beach, that whispers I’m not enough no matter how much I do.
I met the old judge — and instead of fighting her, I listened.

Integration, I learned, isn’t about becoming the perfect version of myself.
It’s about making room for all the parts of me I tried to exile.

It’s about seeing my anger, my exhaustion, my inner critic — and letting them have a seat at the table, without letting them run the show.

April was hard because true integration is not about transcendence. It’s about embodiment.
It’s about bringing the rejected parts back into the heart of who I am.

Not to glorify them.
Not to obey them.
But to love them back into wholeness.

As this month closes, I realize:
I’m not falling apart.

I’m not falling apart and
I’m not soaring away.
I’m falling deeper into myself — into the parts that used to scare me.
Even though the ground feels muddy, I’m not afraid to keep walking.
Something in me has changed.
I don’t have all the answers, but I trust myself enough to stay.
I’m grateful I sat with myself through it all.
And that makes me stronger than I’ve ever been.

Posted on by martucia 0

Food as a Portal: Connecting to the Past Through Taste

It started with a bite.

Crispy, salty, tangy—the flavors hit my tongue, and suddenly, I wasn’t just sitting there eating a Filet-O-Fish. I was somewhere else. Somewhere familiar.

I was back in my hometown, inside the Walmart where my mom used to take me as a kid. There was a McDonald’s inside, and because it was Lent, we got the Filet-O-Fish. It was a rare treat. As immigrants, we didn’t eat out often, not even at fast food places like McDonald’s. But on that day, we sat together, unwrapping the warm sandwich, dipping fries into ketchup, and sharing a simple meal.

And years later, a single bite transported me back.

It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was something deeper. A tether between past and present, a connection I could feel in my body.

Nowadays, I don’t eat fast food often, and I almost never order a Filet-O-Fish. In spiritual spaces, fast food is often dismissed as “low vibrational,” something to avoid. And I get it. I grew up picking corn and beans straight from the fields—I know the taste of real, fresh food, the kind that nourishes not just the body but the spirit. I also understand the concerns about processed foods, artificial ingredients, and the impact of what we consume. A Big Mac and an apple from a tree are not the same.

But what bothers me is the judgment.

There’s this idea that spirituality and fast food don’t mix, that eating “low-energy” food somehow makes a person less enlightened. But is that really true? Would people think differently of the Dalai Lama if he ate a Baconator once a week? What if he drank a bottle of wine every night? Would that change how they viewed his wisdom?

I have no idea what the Dalai Lama eats, but I’d bet he doesn’t frequent McDonald’s. Still, does that mean his spiritual depth depends on his diet?

This kind of thinking is a trap—a trap of ego, of judgment, of false superiority. Because the truth is, spirituality isn’t about what you eat. It’s about awareness, connection, and presence. And that’s exactly what I felt as I sat there eating that sandwich.

With every bite, I was reliving that moment with my mom. I could feel the warmth of that memory, as if I were there again, as if time had folded in on itself. A surge of energy shot through me, something so profound that I still feel chills writing about it.

Food is more than just nourishment. It’s a bridge.

If a simple sandwich could connect me to my past self, then food can connect us to our ancestors, too.

For me, eating pierogies brings me back to my grandmother. I can still see her in the kitchen, her hands moving quickly, shaping dough into small discs, filling them with potatoes and cheese. I remember the mountain of flour on the table, the rhythmic pressing of each pierogi shut. And when I eat them now, I feel her presence. I feel my ancestors, even the ones I never met.

Food carries memory. It carries energy. It carries love.

So maybe it’s not about whether food is “high vibration” or “low vibration.” Maybe the real question is: what does this food connect you to?

Posted on by martucia 0

The Art of Letting Go (When It’s the Hardest Thing to Do)

I’ve always prided myself on being someone who can let go.

People. Places. Things that once made me happy.

I’ve walked away from things before—without looking back. Not because I wanted something new, but because I learned early on how to let go. I took pride in being strong enough to move on.

But lately, I’ve been clinging to something. And I don’t understand why.

It reminds me of something that happened in high school.
I quit the volleyball team after junior year. My best friend was furious. We’d started on the team together as freshmen, but her experience was different from mine. She was fast, athletic. Me? I was a little slow. I had good hands, but my body just didn’t move fast enough. I didn’t get a lot of play time. And when I did, I was a ball of nerves. I got anxious about serving the ball. The simple stuff.

Then we got a new coach our junior year. He did things differently—he broke the game down into drills, played us videos, explained strategy. He even gave us a test. And I aced it. He told me I understood volleyball better than anyone else on the team.
But I still couldn’t get my body there.
I agreed with him.
And looking back now, I wish someone had explained that it was simply a matter of training. That I could have worked at it. Conditioned. Strengthened.
But at the time, I was working after school at a pizza shop. My family was going through some things. I didn’t have the energy to sit on the bench every game, watching my teammates play and feeling like shit because I wasn’t better.
So I quit.
And sure, it was sad to lose the team, the bus rides, the friends. But I had grown-up shit to deal with. And I made peace with it.

Now here I am, years later, dealing with grown-up shit again.

And I find myself clinging to this job.
I’ve come full circle with it—hated it, loved it, hated it again, and somehow, I’ve landed in a place where I kind of love it again. But I know it’s time to go.
I feel it.
And yet, something in me hangs on, claws in deep.
I don’t know why.
And honestly, I’m tired.
Tired of the push and pull. Tired of circling the decision. Tired of holding on when I know I need to let go.

I’ve been sitting with this for a while. Trying to figure it out.
And then last week, I pulled the Magician card in a reading.
The Magician pointed to the ground. The message was clear—it’s time to bring what I know down to earth. To live it. To embody it.


So I did.
I meditated. I journaled. I went for walks. I cleaned the house and tried to appreciate the mundane stuff. I thought a lot about what it means to embody something, instead of just knowing it.
Because I know it’s time to leave this job.
But I haven’t embodied that truth yet.
And I realized—it’s the same lesson I learned back on the volleyball court.
Knowing something isn’t the same as doing it.
Understanding the game isn’t the same as playing it.
Wanting change isn’t the same as living it.

Embodying is about grounding.
It’s about getting out of my head and into my body.
And the thing that would have helped me then—the thing that would have gotten me closer to who I wanted to be—was movement. Training. Showing up for myself, physically.
And I think that’s what will help me now.

I need to move.
Not just walk circles in my mind, but move my body.
Work out. Sweat. Breathe. Feel grounded in something real, something present.
Letting go isn’t just a mental decision—it’s something I have to do, fully, with my body and my actions.
And maybe writing this is part of that action.
Maybe this is me naming it.
Maybe this is me taking the first step.

Just because I’ve carried something for a long time doesn’t mean I have to carry it forever.
Just because I’ve built something here doesn’t mean I have to live inside of it.
It’s okay to walk away—even if I love it.
It’s okay to leave—even if I’m good at it.
It’s okay to outgrow a place that once fit me perfectly.

I’m ready for something new.
I’m ready to let go.
And this time, I’ll let my body lead the way.

Posted on by martucia 1