It's the only thing that never quits.

Just like the seasons slip from one to the next, our lives are always shifting, reshaping, turning into something new.

For me, this wasn’t just a lesson—it was the core of my entire story.

The twist, the plot, the whole theme.

Change wasn’t some side note.

It was the headline.

Always was, always will be.

In Hamilton, Ontario, there’s this waterfall—Tiffany Falls.

Like a poem written by nature itself, it stands tall and magnificent.

Unmoving yet always flowing.

Through every high and low of my life, that waterfall stood firm, silently syncing to the beat of my soul.

One summer day, burdened by my past, I felt the need to go somewhere familiar to recharge. Somewhere that didn’t change.

I ended up there, standing in front of that waterfall.

Its steady roar, its endless crash against the rocks, felt like a soothing soundtrack to my chaos. The noise, the power—it cut through my loneliness, providing me with a brief break from the storm inside my head.

And as I stood there, toes on the edge of the falls, watching the water tear down those jagged cliffs, fierce yet graceful, I had a thought come to me.

This waterfall, the one that I always thought of as my constant, wasn’t constant at all.

It was a wild force, always shifting, always adapting, never the same.

My anchor in life was as unpredictable as the water crashing before me.

A living, breathing reminder that change is the only thing you can count on.

Each drop that plunged down had its own story. A blink, a splash, then it was gone, swallowed by the creek below.

The water that crashed against the rocks in one moment was not the same that did so in the next. It never stayed. Each moment brought something new, fresh, unknown.

What looked like the same old waterfall was really a constant cycle of transformation—proof that life never stays still.

The realization washed over me like the mist from the waterfall, its truth as refreshing as the cool spray against my face.

The waterfall wasn’t some steady symbol of forever.

It was chaos, dressed up as calm. Each drop was its own tiny rebellion, part of a bigger, ever-shifting picture. Standing there, with the spray on my skin, I suddenly got it.

The waterfall wasn’t permanent, and neither was I.

I wasn’t stuck, rooted, or some unchanging stone. I was part of the flow, moving with life’s current, caught up in its wild dance.

Always changing. Always going.

Watching the waterfall, it hit me—hard.

Life wasn’t a series of random events, unconnected and chaotic.

Nope.

Every piece, every chapter, was linked.

The struggles and the wins were all part of a bigger, ongoing story. My past, heavy with pain, my present, focused on healing, and my future, full of unknowns, were tied together like the unstoppable flow of water.

Just as the waterfall ceaselessly flowed, carving new paths, reshaping the landscape, my life, too, was an eternal flux, constantly evolving and reshaping my identity. The hard stuff I carried wasn’t holding me down. It was pushing me forward, shaping me into something new.

Every heartbreak, every trauma—it wasn’t just weight.

It was fuel.

To change. To adapt.

The waterfall’s endless motion, its refusal to stay the same, was a poignant metaphor for my life. Change was the only constant.

Standing there, the mist on my skin, I got it.

Finally.

Life’s not about resisting the flow.

Life is the flow.

It’s about leaning into it, letting it take you, knowing you’ll come out different.

Maybe better.

That realization felt like stepping out of a shell I didn’t know I’d been in.

A butterfly, with wings spread wide.

I wasn’t stuck in my past, doomed to repeat it. I was fluid, free to move, change, evolve. Like the waterfall, I wasn’t the same person from one moment to the next.

I was always shifting, always learning, always growing.

Standing there, at that edge, looking into the rushing water, I saw my own reflection.

But I didn’t see someone static.

I saw someone alive, in motion. Ready to flow with life’s current, ready to embrace change. No more fighting it. Just going with it, letting it reshape me, again and again.

I let it pull me under, let it spin me around, and I stopped trying to swim upstream. I got swept up, but this time, it was intentional.

Change wasn’t the enemy.

I was moving with it, not against it, letting it carry me, pushing and pulling like some wild, unpredictable dance. I wasn’t just floating along, either—I was in it, a part of the action, right in the thick of it.

What used to feel like chaos started looking more like opportunity. The noise became less about survival, more about learning to keep my balance.

Day after day, I got better at it.

And what once felt like waves crashing down just became the normal rhythm, something I could handle.

There’s an art to it, really.

This back-and-forth, this constant swing between highs and lows. It’s not always pretty. It’s not always easy. But there’s a weird beauty in the mess.

Joy and pain, strength and doubt, wins and losses—they’re all beats in the same song. And instead of trying to rewrite it, I leaned into it, let the pages turn on their own, one chapter at a time.

Life wasn’t a straight line.

Not even close. More like a river, winding and bending, sometimes smooth, sometimes smashing into rocks.

But the thing about rivers is they keep moving.

Forward, always. And so did I.

My story wasn’t written in stone; it was fluid, changing with each twist, each new wave.

All the fear, the worry, the endless questions—they weren’t massive obstacles.

They were just stepping stones.

They got smaller with time, becoming smoother, less threatening.

I stopped seeing them as barriers, and started recognizing them for what they were: part of the ride.

They shaped me, whether I liked it or not.

The crazy thing is, I stopped fearing the unknown.

The turbulence.

The times I’d lose control.

I started using it all, finding strength where I didn’t expect it.

I wasn’t just surviving; I was steering.

And that river, that constant flow of change—I wasn’t fighting it anymore.

I was part of it.

Flowing. Adapting. Moving forward.

And in that surrender, I found a strength I didn’t even know I had—a peace that came from knowing I didn’t need to stay the same.

Realizing change is everywhere was freedom in disguise. It snapped the chains of fear, kicked anxiety to the curb.

You know, the usual stress about the unknown—it was gone.

I didn’t need to predict every twist or turn anymore. Instead, I let go—no longer locked in fear but leaning into excitement for whatever came next.

With that, I quit trying to control everything.

I wasn’t gripping the steering wheel so hard anymore.

Suddenly, the present felt like... enough.

No more dragging around the baggage of the past or stressing over the future.

I just was.

Here.

Now.

Each breath, each beat—fully present.

This was the freedom that let me ride the waves of change instead of fighting them, shaping me into something stronger. Maybe even realer.

Change wasn’t just happening to me.

It was creating me.

A masterpiece, always in progress, getting molded and refined by the chaos of life. I was the clay, life was the potter, and I didn’t mind the messy hands.

With this mindset shift came something unexpected—awareness.

I started picking up on the tiny details.

The way the sky shifted from blue to orange at dusk. The rhythm of my heart as it slowed, then sped up.

My thoughts matured, my emotions evolved.

I stopped just existing, started really living in the flow of it all.

Change wasn’t some looming force anymore. It became a buddy, a mentor, the teacher I didn’t know I needed.

Welcoming it meant embracing the chaos, finding direction in the unpredictability.

I wasn’t chasing an end goal, I was savoring the ride.

The process of becoming—because that’s the whole point, right?

The journey, not the destination.

Even the tiniest shifts mattered.

They weren’t just background noise; they had weight.

Each ripple in the stream of life could throw me somewhere unexpected, push me toward something new.

I didn’t dread it anymore.

I was alive in the flow, in the messy, thrilling dance of transformation. That’s where I found myself. My real self—always changing, always growing.

My story is more than just some tale I tell.

It's a spark. A flare in the dark.

A push—reminding you change isn’t the monster under the bed.

It's the key to everything.

I want people to feel that fire, to get it.

To wake up to the fact that life is not just days ticking by.

Each moment is growth. A step up. A move forward.

We’re all part of this wild dance, whether we know it or not.

Every pulse, every thought, every laugh and tear—it’s all choreographed by the universe's wild card: change.

We don’t lead this dance. It pulls us in, keeps us moving.

And guess what?

It touches everything. You, me, the stars, the dirt beneath our feet.

All of it.

Every sunrise is a reminder. Every moonrise, a nudge.

Nature is out there, casually sharing that same truth, over and over.

Change is coming. Always.

The seasons show us. Flowers bloom, leaves fall. Time keeps turning, and we’re all stitched into this massive, ever-shifting story.

But you’re not just a spectator.

And my goal isn’t to lecture.

Your life isn’t some static, stuck-in-place thing. Nope. It’s fluid. You’re not trapped in some doomed fate.

Not at all.

You’re painting your own masterpiece. One stroke at a time.

Your past is not holding you back. It’s just the foundational layer.

And your future is not some far-off, unreachable star. It’s something you’re creating right now. With every choice, every breath, every daring move.

Change is not a storm to run from. It’s the wind you harness, propelling you further than you ever imagined.

It cuts new paths like a river.

It’s the flame that sharpens you, making you stronger.

It’s the chisel that turns a rough stone into a work of art.

Change pushes you to adapt, evolve, and, yes—become.

So, through my story, I’m not offering advice.

I’m holding up a mirror. A reflection of what’s possible.

Change isn’t just surviving the tough parts. It’s about grabbing the wave, riding it, letting it take you places you never thought you’d reach.

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. "Change isn’t the storm—it’s the wind that flips your sails, steering you toward the adventure you didn’t know you needed."

Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You

Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.

Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.

Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.

This book is more than just words—it’s our story.

Learn More About Healing Thoughts

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

Life’s rhythm, I found, isn’t some one-size-fits-all anthem. It’s personal. Yours, mine, everyone’s—it’s our own soundtrack, shaped by where we’ve been, where we’re going, and how tough we are. My new rhythm had to capture everything. The wounds that healed. The mountains I climbed. The hope that now colors my world.

Daily Routines

Early on, in the quiet birth of something new, I found unexpected comfort in the mundane—those little things we overlook, dismiss as dull, tedious even. But in those early days, they held me together. The simple acts became the glue, anchoring me when the world felt like it was spinning off its axis.

Imagine it: the first hint of dawn, when the night is reluctant to let go, and the world sits in that fleeting, quiet twilight. That's when my day began. Rising with the sun felt like syncing my pulse with the heartbeat of the universe. I wasn’t just waking up; I was plugging into something vast, something shared.

Then, a morning cup of coffee. Not just a drink—no, it was ritual, comfort in a cup. Watching water and coffee mix into that dark, rich swirl, there was something almost hypnotic about it. The steam curled up like a whispered promise, the scent teasing that today, just maybe, things could be okay.

Reading became another part of my morning, often enjoyed with my coffee. But I wasn’t devouring pages; I was savoring them, letting each word linger, opening doors to other worlds, if only for a few minutes. It wasn’t just reading. It was a bridge—connecting me from one day to the next, a gentle nudge forward in my own quiet battle to heal.

Evenings belonged to my walks. As the sun dipped and painted the sky with its final strokes, I moved. Each footstep was more than just motion; it was affirmation, a part of the day’s rhythm, marking progress, no matter how small. The rustle of leaves, the fading light, the hush of nightfall—they all contributed their notes to this new soundtrack I was composing for my life.

These routines—unassuming as they seemed—were the metronome. They kept time, emphasized the present, and provided the kind of stability that was rare but desperately needed. Slowly, they wove themselves into a melody that was soothing, yet strong, leading me gently through the chaos, note by note, step by step.

Daily Dose of Introspection

As I sculpted the beat of my new life, I tossed in a fresh habit—one part ritual, one part introspection. My trusty sidekick. A journal. Old-school, leather-bound, always ready to catch the flurry of thoughts I’d hurl its way.

To an outsider, it’s just a book. Blank pages. Nothing special. But to me, it’s a sanctuary. A safe space where I unload my chaos. No judgment, no filters, just the raw, unedited me on those pages. Dreams. Frustrations. The whole tangled, beautiful mess of it. My reality, inked.

Every night, like clockwork, I'd escape to a little corner in my place. It was the perfect spot, nestled by the window, overlooking a city that seemed to breathe slower in the evening light. There, under the warm halo of my lamp, I'd pick up my pen and let my thoughts spill out, filling page after page. Nothing was off-limits—fears, hopes, tiny epiphanies, wild dreams.

One night, something small caught my mind. Earlier that day, I'd spotted a tiny plant on my walk. It was stubbornly pushing through a crack in the sidewalk, green and defiant against the grey concrete. It hit me—its quiet fight to survive, its persistence. It was a small but fierce declaration of life.

As I wrote, that little plant started to feel familiar. I was that plant, too—stuck in the rough, placed in a tough spot by circumstances I didn't choose. Heartbreak, loss, whatever it was, I’d been dropped into the middle of it. But somehow, I’d found a way to push through, to grow, to stretch toward the light.

That night, something clicked. Journaling wasn’t just an activity, a thing to do before bed. It was more. It was a mirror, reflecting my journey back at me—a steady companion that listened without judgment. And through that mirror, I could see how far I’d come, how much I’d learned, how the pieces of my past, present, and future were knitting together into something new.

Every entry was a note in the song of my life, capturing the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My journal wasn’t just a tool—it was the conductor, guiding me through this melody, helping me face the mess of it all with open eyes, acceptance, and a growing sense of anticipation for what comes next.

One Daily Promise

In the early part of my recovery journey, among the various habits and practices I embraced, there was one that stood out for its incredible impact—making one daily commitment to myself. This method, inspired by the insightful book "How to do the Work" by Dr. Nicole LePera, seemed straightforward at first, yet its influence spread through all areas of my life, guiding me towards independence and strength.

View Books by Nicole

The concept was simple—every day, set one small, personal goal and stick to it. These goals were not about achieving something big or making sweeping changes but about small, doable actions.

It could be as straightforward as dedicating ten minutes to meditation, going for a thirty-minute walk, or choosing a nutritious breakfast. The aim was to cultivate a practice of keeping promises to oneself.

On a particularly challenging Monday, I was feeling the weight of old struggles. The gloomy weather outside seemed to reflect my inner state. My first thought was to hide. Stay in bed, let the darkness take over. But then, a nudge. A promise—a walk in the park, just thirty minutes.

The thought of moving was exhausting. Every fiber screamed, “Stay!”

But that tiny, stubborn voice wouldn’t shut up.

“You promised,” it reminded me, like a nagging parent.

I recalled the importance of this self-promise, a key aspect of the self-discipline I was trying to build.

Ugh, self-discipline, a word that felt like weights. But I listened.

With considerable effort, I dragged myself up, put on my hiking boots, and headed out the door. Initially, my steps were slow and reluctant, mirroring the heaviness of my thoughts. But as I walked, taking in the clean, fresh air after the rain, I began to notice a change.

The external world started to penetrate my internal chaos. The sound of the wind in the trees, the song of a distant bird, the gentle drops of rain from the leaves created a serene backdrop. Gradually, my mind began to clear, making room for the peacefulness of my surroundings to fill me.

By the end, I was soaked. But also refreshed. That walk wasn’t just a walk. It was a promise kept, a small victory. Not just for my body, but for my mind. A reminder that even in the muck, I can choose to move forward. And that is everything.

Letting Go of Old Habits

Building this new habit felt like chiseling away at a block of marble, revealing something more. Like a sculptor cutting away the excess to find the beauty within, I had to strip away the clutter in my life. Old habits, outdated mindsets, behaviors welded to my identity—they all had to be broken down, chipped away, discarded.

These were the ghosts of who I used to be—sadness playing on repeat, regret stuck in my head, self-criticism dragging me down. They were the soundtrack of my life, a gloomy melody reflecting my struggles.

But standing at the edge of change, I realized I had the power to rewrite this tune, to shift the rhythm, the tempo, the lyrics. I could turn those sorrowful songs into bold anthems of hope, flip the negative script into verses of self-love, swap the bleak for something brave.

It started with a cold, hard look at my daily life—the habits, the routines, the mindless patterns. Were they helping me grow, or just holding me back? Slowly, I began to cut away what didn’t align with my new beat.

Endless scrolling—out.

Toxic thoughts—evicted.

Junk food habits—kicked to the curb.

It wasn’t a smooth ride—doubt and setbacks showed up more than I wanted. But each habit I ditched brought me closer to the rhythm of self-acceptance, optimism, and progress.

A new tune started to emerge. It pulsed with kindness, laced with hope, celebrating resilience. The beat reflected my determination to rise above my past and face the future head-on.

And as that new rhythm took hold, I felt my life shift—a life no longer overshadowed by old sorrows but shining with the light of what’s to come.

Embracing Self-Care

In painting the picture of my new life, I realized that self-care had to make a strong, clear mark. I came to see that looking after my emotional and physical health wasn't just treating myself, but a basic form of self-respect. It meant putting my own needs first, valuing myself, and understanding that to help others, I first had to take care of myself.

I started messing around with self-care, trying out different things. Each one had its own way of feeding my mind, body, soul. Walking in the woods, trekking up hills, all of it brought a strange kind of calm. Moving through the wild, feeling the earth underfoot, tied me to the world around me. Step by step, breath by breath, that quiet space out there gave me something. A bridge, maybe. Linking the chaos inside with the calm outside.

Then, there was meditation. No big deal, just sitting there, focusing on my breath. But it became a lifeline. When everything else spun out of control, I could still sit down, breathe in, breathe out. Quiet the noise, let go of the stress, and reconnect with the raw, unfiltered me. That small, still moment? It turned into a steady beat in the ever-changing rhythm of my life.

I also started showing my body some love. Food? Not just fuel anymore. It was more like a gift to myself. Making meals became an act of care, a way to show some affection through what I ate. Every bite was a promise to keep myself in focus, a quiet nod to my own well-being.

I didn’t stop there.

Treating myself to the little things—a country drive, a soak in the tub, flipping through a favorite book under the soft glow of afternoon sun—those moments turned significant. Not because they were grand, but because they shared truths I needed to hear: “You matter. You’re worth it.”

Bit by bit, these practices fell into step with the beat of my new life. Each one added its own note to the symphony of my day-to-day. Reminded me that I had value, that I could heal, that I could grow. In this self-made orchestra, I found myself leading, creating a melody that was all mine.

The Power of Resilience

On this wild ride of crafting my life's new beat, I stumbled upon something fierce: the raw power of bouncing back and looking forward.

Chaos, hurdles, whatever the past threw at me—it didn’t matter.

Turns out, I could still crank out a fresh tune. One pulsing with grit, healing, and a fired-up hope for the days ahead.

This journey felt like wandering through an expansive garden at dawn, with the morning dew sparkling in the gentle sunlight. Daily, I cared for this garden, cutting away the dead weight with a sharp resolve, feeding my ambitions with quiet determination. Slowly, patiently, a new rhythm took shape—my life unfolding like a melody, each day a note, each moment a new chord.

Some days, the music was soft, reflective, almost a whisper—time to breathe, to think, to simply be. Other times, it roared, alive with victory and forward momentum.

But through it all, a steady beat pulsed.

Unwavering. Resilient.

The heartbeat of progress.

The beat that refuses to look back. The beat of hope.

I learned my new rhythm wasn’t about erasing the past but weaving it into something stronger. It was about taking those experiences—good, bad, and ugly—and blending them into a tune that’s all my own. A melody of grit and optimism.

Staying Present

As things kept unraveling, I stumbled across a book that flipped my world on its head—The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. I remember that moment like it was yesterday. A bright, lazy afternoon. Me, tucked into my cozy armchair. Coffee steaming, its warmth curling up from the cup.

View Books by Eckhart

As I tore through those pages, each sentence hit like a perfectly tuned chord, stirring something deep inside. The core message is simple, yet it cuts deep—be here, now. Tolle didn’t sugarcoat it. The past is just memories, locked away, unchangeable. The future is a wild guess, shadowed by uncertainty.

What we really have is this moment. Right here. Right now.

And that hit home. I’d spent too long chained to what was, or freaking out over what might be. Worrying. Missing out on the simple joys right in front of me. But Tolle’s words shook me awake. My life’s new rhythm wasn’t about erasing history or sweating over what’s next. It was about showing up. Here. Now.

So, I started living it. Every day, carving out moments to anchor myself in the present. Smelling that first sip of coffee. Savoring the sounds of nature during my evening strolls. Feeling the pen in my hand as I wrote. It wasn’t just a practice; it was a revelation. My life’s tune got richer, layered with the notes of being fully alive.

This mix—past lessons, present awareness, future hopes—began to shape the beat I moved to. It wasn’t just a rhythm; it was a celebration. Of resilience. Of savoring the now. Of taking deliberate steps forward. This wasn’t just survival; this was living, full throttle, eyes wide open.

A Transformative Movement

My life—less a symphony, more a wild jam session. I've ripped up the old sheet music, swapped it for something raw, something real. The kind of rhythm that kicks your story out of the shadows and sets it on fire.

Each day, a different note—sometimes sweet, sometimes a bit off-key. But that’s life, right. Eckhart Tolle didn’t just drop wisdom; he shoved me headfirst into the now. Dr. Nicole LePera didn’t just write a book; she handed me the reins, said, "Here, own your mess, make it yours."

Journaling—that’s my therapy, my self-exploration. I don’t just write; I tear open the pages, let the ink bleed with everything I've got inside. Self-care, not a spa day, but the hard stuff—choosing myself when it matters, when no one else will.

My past is not some tragic backstory, but the grit beneath my nails. It’s what makes the rhythm real, makes it mine. I'm not just living; I’m composing, remixing, making something out of the noise.

This rhythm isn’t some neat, packaged journey.

It's messy. It’s relentless.

But it’s mine.

And the future—oh, it's there, drumming in the distance.

The beat might shift, the tempo might stutter, but the core—that’s unshakable. It’s the anthem I carry, a promise that no matter how wild the tune gets, I’ll keep dancing.

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

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P.S.S. “Being perpetually busy is like running on a treadmill—constant motion but no forward movement. True progress lies in meaningful actions, not just in the illusion of constant activity.”

Stepping into yourself—bold move. Props to you for that.

But don’t kid yourself; this isn’t a one-and-done deal. It’s a relentless trek inward, and trust me, it never really stops, just shifts and twists with time.

And to give you a hand, here’s something I’m stoked about: the 365-Day Shadow Work Series. Think of it as your deep dive into self—no fluff, just real, raw reflection.

This series doesn’t play around.

It throws you into the thick of it, with pointed questions that push you through the muck of sadness, self-doubt, and grudges.

Every page, crafted to steer you, challenge you, and yeah, maybe even break you open a little. It’s not just a journal—it’s your new ritual in self-discovery.

Learn More About the Series

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

Subscribe now

Recovery kicked off on an autumn morning. It feels almost poetic now. Crisp air, leaves turning colors. Change was in the air, echoing what was coming. Sitting there, on that park bench, light seeping through the trees, I watched leaves flutter down, one by one. They let go with no hesitation—a reminder, maybe, of what I had to do.

I'd come a long way. The path had been rough. Healing wasn’t a straight line, but I was moving forward. Sure, the discomfort still lingered, a quiet nagging, but it didn’t own me anymore.

My thoughts, once a wild storm, had calmed. They were like a still pond now.

But the past still clung to me, haunted by memories and missed chances. I knew, then, that the only way forward was to let go. Acknowledge it, make peace, but don’t let it hold me back. Keep going, no strings attached.

Confronting the Ghosts of the Past

Before, I buried those shadows. Hid them deep, way down where they couldn’t find me. But guess what? They found me anyway. Avoidance was useless.

It was time to face it all: the memories, the regrets, the “what ifs” that kept me up at night. Standing on the edge of it all, staring into the abyss of what once was, I knew there was no other way. That leap, terrifying as it was, had to happen.

So, I grabbed my journal. My constant companion, my silent witness. It held everything—my fears, my hopes, my darkest thoughts. Flipping through those pages, I relived it all. Some memories brought a flicker of a smile, others, a sharp pang. But with each memory revisited, the weight lifted. Slowly. I started seeing the past not as some haunting specter but as just another chapter. Part of my story, sure, but not the whole damn book.

The past is just one chapter. It doesn’t own the whole narrative.

I’ve changed. Evolved.

The “me” back then isn’t the “me” now.

I’ve grown into someone else, someone new.

With that clarity, I found the guts to forgive—myself, others, all of it. Holding onto that old bitterness only hurt me. Forgiveness wasn’t about them; it was about freeing myself. It was the balm for my scars, the key to breaking free from the past’s grip.

The Campfire of Release

As autumn hit its stride, with days dripping in color and nights cool enough to wake your senses, I tried something new: a letter-burning ritual. I’d heard it was a way to turn your pain into words, then set it free.

Let it all burn away.

One particular episode that continued to trouble me was dealing with betrayal. No matter how much reflecting, accepting, or forgiving I did, it just wouldn’t quit. So, I figured, let’s see if fire can handle what I couldn’t shake.

Dusk came, painting the sky in pink and purple, and I sat down by a campfire, my journal ready. The flames danced, shadows flickering like the turmoil inside me.

Perfect.

Time to face it.

I started writing, addressing the past, the person who cut deep, and the me that survived it all. Words flowed—raw, angry, hurt, confused. But in the mix, something else snuck in—understanding, growth, strength. Funny how that works.

Writing that letter was therapy on steroids. With every word, I could feel the bitterness drain out. It was heavy, yeah, but necessary. A step I couldn’t skip.

When I was done, I just sat there, holding the letter. Quiet. The fire crackled, the only sound. Then I read it out loud, slicing through old ties with every sentence. I was ready.

Then, the big moment. I held the letter to the flame. Watched the edges curl, blacken. I let it go. The fire ate my words, turned them to ash. And as the ashes drifted into the night, it felt like the universe was taking my sorrow and past with it.

Symbolic—sure. But it was real enough.

The fire didn’t just consume paper—it cleansed a part of me. Watching those ashes scatter brought a calm I hadn’t felt in years. Writing, speaking, burning—that was the process. A pivotal step in healing. It let me confront my pain, face it head-on, then let it go. The past wasn’t erased, but I was ready to move forward, lighter and free.

From that night on, the memories—betrayal, pain, all of it—started losing their grip. They didn’t disappear, but they stopped controlling me. They became markers, not chains.

That fire was a turning point. I let go of the past, opened up to the future, unburdened. Proof of my strength, my growth, and my commitment to moving on. Free.

The Winter of Forgiveness

As the colorful fall leaves transitioned to the first layer of winter's snow, I too underwent a deep change, mirroring the shift in seasons.

Every snowflake that descended mirrored my own path, representing a fresh start and revival, reflecting the natural and stunning progression of life.

Winter’s chill, once biting and harsh, now felt different. Invigorating, even. Like each gust was stripping away old layers, leaving me stronger.

The air, sharp as it was, didn’t cut—it healed.

Pain was still there, but dulled, soothed by the cold. I wasn’t running from the chill anymore; I was finding strength in it. My story was changing, evolving with each breath of frosty air.

The weight I carried started to break apart.

The cold seemed to shatter those burdens into something manageable, like ice cracking under the sun. Dark memories and old fears began shrinking under the winter light. They were losing their grip, fading more each day. I was slipping free, feeling lighter, like I could finally breathe.

With this newfound clarity, I realized something important: my past wasn’t the enemy. It wasn’t something to fight but to acknowledge. Embrace, even. Facing those old demons, I found a well of forgiveness I didn’t know I had.

The past is just that—the past.

I had faced it, burned through its lessons, and let the flames consume the sorrow. What remained wasn’t a ghost, but a chapter. One that shaped me, guided me here, to this place of understanding and healing.

The Lesson of the Past

Moving forward doesn’t mean ditching the past. It’s about snagging wisdom from those rough patches, using that intel to shape what’s next.

It’s a balancing act—cutting loose the junk, embracing what helped you grow, and making sure each step lands solid, no backpedaling.

One winter evening, with the sky dripping in orange and purple hues, something clicked. A quote I’d stumbled on ages ago floated back to me:

“The future can’t bloom until the past withers.”

Those words hit hard. My stubborn clutch on what was had been strangling what could be. That lightbulb moment showed me the truth: the past isn’t a ghost to haunt my future but a stepping stone, a foundation, something to build on—not to live in.

Standing there, wrapped in winter’s chill, I realized how far I’d come.

The past wasn’t a chain anymore; I was finally learning to live in the now. Those memories that used to sting were turning into lessons, the pain easing into understanding.

The quiet of that winter night matched the calm settling into my bones. This peace didn’t come from pretending the past didn’t happen; it came from accepting it, forgiving it, and releasing its hold on me. Moving forward, eyes ahead, not back.

My journey’s not over.

Challenges are lurking, no doubt.

But in that still, snowy moment, I knew I was ready.

I’d figured out how to move on, how to live in the moment, how to greet the future unburdened by the past. That’s my win—a victory over yesterday’s shadows, a promise to myself to keep pushing forward, no retreat, no surrender.

Embracing the Present

As winter reluctantly gave way to spring, the world began to shed its icy shell, unfurling into a riot of color and life. Tiny buds dared to sprout on once-bare branches, grass reclaimed its green glory, and the air buzzed with bees breaking free from winter’s grip. Nature’s rebirth mirrored something shifting inside me, too.

The ghosts of my past had softened. What once loomed like daunting shadows had faded into something more manageable. Like an old photograph—edges frayed, colors faded, yet still holding memories worth keeping.

The hurt, betrayal, sadness, their sting had dulled, but the lessons they left were crystal clear. Those hard-won insights had toughened into armor, ready to face life’s curveballs. Hard to earn, but worth every bit.

The past, that old familiar playground, no longer held me captive. I found myself pulled into the vivid now, soaking in life’s details that once slipped by unnoticed.

The gentle morning sun, spilling gold across the sky, warming my skin.

Pure magic.

The rustle of leaves, turning into a symphony as the wind teased the trees, swaying them into its playful rhythm.

A concert just for me.

Even the distant tunes from a neighbor’s radio, something I’d ignored before, now stirred something inside, layering my days with unexpected emotion.

No longer shackled by yesterday, I became the architect of my today. Moving through life with intention, each step a stride away from who I was, each breath drawing me closer to what could be.

The future, a mystery still, but bursting with potential—waiting for me to paint it with the colors of my choosing.

The Power of Self-Compassion

This journey of transformation taught me one thing: self-kindness isn’t optional.

It’s a lifeline.

I learned to soothe my own soul in rough times, to be my own anchor when life threw curveballs. Sure, old memories would sometimes crash the party, ripping open old wounds, testing the fragile balance I’d worked so hard to find. But in those moments, I leaned into patience—realizing healing isn’t some straight road.

It’s a wild ride, full of twists, turns, and unexpected detours.

Healing is a process. No map, no GPS.

It took me through landscapes I never imagined—some beautiful, some barren. There were days I felt lost, drifting back into old pain, revisiting places I thought I’d left behind.

But you know what?

Those setbacks weren’t roadblocks. They were pit stops.

Time to reflect, regroup, and gear up for the next leg of the journey.

Writing and my online tribe became lifesavers. Writing let me unpack my thoughts, share my story, and connect with others on a level that mattered. It became my therapy, my outlet—a way to turn struggles into something tangible, something I could manage and, eventually, celebrate.

And then there was TikTok.

Yeah, TikTok.

A whole community out there, sharing stories, showing empathy, and proving we’re all a lot tougher than we think. Every story I read, every message of support—it hit home. It reminded me that I wasn’t walking this path alone. Others were out there, battling their own demons, pushing forward.

That shared resilience was like fuel. A powerful reminder that while our journeys might be different, we’re all part of this massive, collective push toward something better. We’re all in this together, each of us moving forward in our own way, forging ahead, scars and all.

An Idea Was Born

In the warmth of community support, the idea for "Trigger Warning III: A Guided Shadow Work Journal for Letting Go of Emotional Pain" started to take shape.

I realized the steps I’d taken to heal could also help others.

Take the letter-burning ceremony, for instance—a ritual I’d used to shed emotional baggage. Writing down your pain, then watching it go up in flames, wasn’t just cathartic. It was a powerful reset, a way to clear the emotional slate and make space for something better.

Meditation and positive affirmations were game-changers too. They helped me tune in, treat myself with the kindness I’d often reserved for others. These weren’t just feel-good practices; they were lifelines. And as I thought more about it, I saw how much I had to offer—tools, stories, wisdom, all carved out of my own experience.

That’s when "Trigger Warning III" really started to evolve. It wasn’t just a journal; it became a toolkit, a collection of proven methods, personal musings, and therapeutic exercises designed to guide others through their healing. I saw it as more than just pages bound together. It was a companion, a spark of hope, a guide for those trying to find their way out of the darkness.

Learn More About Trigger Warning

Creating "Trigger Warning III" became intertwined with my own recovery. Every page, every activity, every word was written with a deep understanding of what it means to suffer, to fight, and to heal.

My mission was clear: to share what had helped me move forward, to offer it to others who might be on the same road, grappling with their own battles.

I wanted them to know they weren’t alone, that the past didn’t have to keep its hold on them, and that even though the road ahead might be rough, it was one they could walk. And conquer.

Accepting the Past, Embracing the Future

Spring didn’t just arrive; it mirrored my own growth. The snow melted, blossoms bloomed, and somewhere in that process, I found my own renewal. Progress wasn’t about erasing pain but learning to weather those emotional storms that still rolled in.

Sure, there were days when sadness hit hard.

Days when old betrayals and faded love felt like weights I couldn’t shake.

Some mornings, I’d wake up feeling like I’d just survived an emotional hurricane, with old scars aching faintly. But gradually, those moments lost their power. They weren’t the immovable walls they used to be—just bumps in the road. Not roadblocks, just hurdles. Signs that the rough terrain was something I could handle.

This emotional journey wasn’t a straight line. It had its dips and peaks. But every stumble taught me a little more about what I could endure, about how much strength I had in reserve. Every wave of sorrow became a pause button—a chance to reflect, to understand, to grow. These weren’t setbacks; they were moments of clarity.

Each tear, each exhale, lightened the load I’d been dragging around.

As the seasons shifted, so did I. No longer trapped by old wounds, I was evolving—stronger, wiser, ready for whatever was next. The past still whispered in the background, but its voice had faded.

It wasn’t calling the shots anymore.

Setting Sail Towards New Beginnings

The closing of this chapter wasn’t the end; it was a pivot. Learning how to move forward without slipping back taught me one thing: acceptance. I learned to see the scars etched on my soul as part of my journey, not something to erase. I stared down the shadows of my past, confronted those old ghosts, and realized they no longer held power over me.

And then it hit me: my past had shaped me, yes, but it didn’t own me.

Who I’d become was up to me. My past didn’t get to write my story; I did.

This phase of growth wasn’t easy. It was messy, full of doubt, discomfort, and confusion. But it was also freeing, like shedding an old skin. Every bit of pain I released, every tear I shed, was like cutting another thread holding me back, letting me stretch out and take flight in the wide-open now.

I felt like a ship finally lifting anchor, leaving a harbor that once sheltered but had become a cage. Heading into uncharted waters, driven by the winds of change, guided by the stars of hope, resilience, and self-love.

The journey is uncertain, with challenges at every turn.

But my heart is solid. And my soul is ready.

Ready to face whatever storms or treasures lay ahead.

The past stopped looming over me like a dark cloud. It became a distant shore, visible but fading with every wave that pushed me forward. This voyage wasn’t just about healing; it was about discovery—finding the real me beneath the layers of hurt and disappointment. It was a journey of learning, growing, and, most importantly, moving forward.

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—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. “In every shadow, there is a source of light. Embrace your inner darkness, and you will find your own illuminating truth.”

Stepping into yourself—bold move. Props to you for that.

But don’t kid yourself; this isn’t a one-and-done deal. It’s a relentless trek inward, and trust me, it never really stops, just shifts and twists with time.

And to give you a hand, here’s something I’m stoked about: the 365-Day Shadow Work Series. Think of it as your deep dive into self—no fluff, just real, raw reflection.

This series doesn’t play around.

It throws you into the thick of it, with pointed questions that push you through the muck of sadness, self-doubt, and grudges.

Every page, crafted to steer you, challenge you, and yeah, maybe even break you open a little. It’s not just a journal—it’s your new ritual in self-discovery.

Learn More About the Series

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

Subscribe now

I craved a break. A sliver of peace.

I wanted to wake up to sunlight instead of this dark, heavy feeling that hung over me like a storm cloud. I thought healing would be some grand, bright morning, but I was wrong. I’d already begun to claw my way out.

Healing isn't a sprint.

It’s more like a song that takes its time, each note building slowly, no rush to hit the high note. Each wave of grief, every tear shed, they all add depth to the melody, making it raw, real.

It’s a bit like creating a masterpiece.

Recovery paints itself in layers, one careful stroke after another. Each realization, every deep thought, is part of a bigger picture, a blend of emotions that shift and change.

This isn’t a quick sketch—it’s a slow, deliberate process.

And like an artist pouring their soul into a canvas, it takes patience.

It takes grit.

The First Steps

My first steps towards healing were stumbled, wobbly, with a side of fear. Like walking into the unknown, unsure if the ground would hold.

Haunted by ghosts of yesterday, unsure of tomorrow, each day felt like a dare. But as the fog of grief started to thin, I realized something.

Every battle, every tear, every time I poured my heart out onto paper—it wasn’t just cathartic, it was a step forward. Facing the pain head-on, not running from it, built layers upon layers of this messy, but real, healing journey.

And let me tell you, this journey wasn’t some straight, paved road.

Nah, it zigzagged, looped, tripped me up.

Some days, I felt light, almost hopeful. The next is was slammed by a wave of sadness. It messed with my head, made me question if I was getting anywhere at all.

But here's the twist—I started to see these ups and downs as just part of the ride.

Healing wasn’t about erasing the pain, but figuring out how to coexist with it. It was about finding strength in the mess, letting myself feel everything—good, bad, ugly—instead of dodging it.

And with each twist and turn, I began to get it: healing isn’t a finish line. It’s a living, breathing process. An ongoing, ever-evolving dance with resilience and growth.

Healing Takes Time

A moment that shifted everything came on a gray, almost dreary afternoon. I found myself on this worn-out bench, tucked away in a quiet corner of the park.

No city noise, just a soft rustle of leaves, a stray bird here and there. The kind of peace that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.

In my lap sat a book, How to Do the Work.

The title hit me like a ton of bricks—simple, direct, no frills.

Just what I needed in that messy chapter of my life. As I read, something clicked. Healing wasn’t about waking up one day and finding all the pain magically gone.

It was slow, almost annoyingly so.

Like a seed pushing through the dirt, it demanded time and patience, things I wasn’t exactly good at.

We live in a world that’s all about speed—get better fast, move on, don’t dwell. But as I turned those pages, the truth sunk in.

Healing doesn’t give a damn about society’s timelines.

It’s stubborn, like a seed that won’t sprout just because you’re impatient. It’s a process that can’t be rushed, no matter how much you want to skip ahead.

And you know what? That realization brought a strange kind of peace. The kind that makes you exhale all the stress you didn’t even realize you were holding onto. I stopped demanding instant recovery from myself, stopped expecting some fairy-tale transformation overnight.

Right there, on that beaten-up bench, I made a deal with myself.

I decided to give myself some damn grace. To accept that my wounds wouldn’t just vanish like magic. They’d take time, they’d need care, and eventually, they’d turn into scars—proof that I made it through.

The Power of Resilience

Another turning point in my healing hit me like a ton of bricks. It was late, the kind of quiet that hums in the background of an empty room. I’d just crawled out of the abyss of homelessness, settling into my bare-bones apartment.

There I was, alone, surrounded by stacks of journals on a rickety coffee table. Each page was jam-packed with raw thoughts, fears, dreams—my mind spilled out over months of survival.

Flipping through those pages, it hit me: I had been unknowingly crafting my own strength.

Layer by layer, word by word.

Even when life was hell, when I thought I was down for the count, something inside me had kept going, kept building.

This recovery thing was like peeling back the layers on an onion I didn’t even know I had. I started to see it—this quiet resilience, lurking there all along, biding its time.

I realized that even when I felt totally shattered, there was this core, unyielding and tough, that refused to give up. Every stumble, every time I picked myself up, was proof. Proof that people, even when pushed to the edge, can find a way to bounce back, to thrive.

Then came TikTok.

Yeah, that’s right. I took a leap into the chaos of social media.

My once isolated life was suddenly not so isolated anymore. Sharing my story on that platform cracked something open. Writing had always been my escape, my therapy. Now, with TikTok, it became more than that. It turned into a ray of hope, connecting me to others walking the same rocky road.

And the stories—Wow!

They came pouring in from every corner of the planet.

People I’d never met, from places I’d never been, telling their own tales of struggle and healing. The realization that I wasn’t alone in this mess was affirming. We weren’t just sharing stories; we were weaving this massive web of resilience, each of us adding a thread to the larger narrative of what it means to endure.

With every post I shared and every comment I received, my courage grew.

Knowing that my pain wasn’t just mine—that others got it, lived it, too—gave me a jolt of strength.

The deeper I went into this recovery journey, the clearer it became: this wasn’t just about stitching up the broken parts.

It was about uncovering a core of resilience, forging new bonds, and rewriting my story from one of survival to one of growth and transformation.

No Longer the Same Man

As I pen these words, I’m not the same guy who started this mess.

Healing has reshaped me, but not by wiping away the scars. No, it’s taught me to rock them like badges of honor. That heartache, which once felt like an Everest, is now just a valley I’ve crossed—a gritty reminder of what I’m made of.

The crushing despair is behind me now.

It’s a battle I fought, a war I won, proof of my grit.

Each day, I add another stroke to this messy, beautiful canvas of recovery. Another note to the chaotic symphony of my survival. Another chapter to the wild tale of my growth.

My journey kicked off in the middle of a storm, right when a relationship fell apart.

But guess what?

That chaos is where I found my core.

Sifting through the wreckage, I unearthed my stubbornness, my will to keep going. And from the darkest pits of my grief, I stumbled upon the seeds of healing.

Now, I’ve learned to sit with my pain. Not fight it, not hate it—just live with it.

Pain’s not the enemy, it’s the teacher. It’s shown me resilience’s depths, the art of patience, and the quiet beauty of healing that refuses to be rushed.

So here I am, seeing recovery as a journey, not a sprint.

An adventure dotted with wins and setbacks, smooth roads and potholes. It’s not some magical transformation overnight, but a dawn that slowly breaks, light creeping in inch by inch.

It’s not an endgame; it’s a never-ending process—a complex composition of my unbreakable spirit. A story, still being written, of how I came out stronger.

Growing from the Ashes

Today, I’m more than just someone patching up old wounds—I’m persistence wrapped in a person, lighting the way for others on similar paths.

I’m a mosaic, a medley of recovery.

Each dawn isn’t just progress; it’s a leap forward, clawing out of the dark, into the light, note by note, step by step.

And you know what?

There’s comfort in realizing I’m part of something bigger, contributing to this collective tale of human grit.

That ship once lost, aimlessly drifting in a sea of sadness has got a compass now.

I’m not just hanging on—I’m thriving.

Sailing with resilience as my North Star, fueled by hope, steering toward a fresh start.

The journey is ongoing.

The music is still playing.

The mosaic is constantly evolving, sketching out the epic of my recovery.

I’m proud to be the artist, the composer, the captain. I’m the architect of this healing, the voice behind the story, the builder of my own destiny.

To You, I Share This Message

We all carry within us a wild, raw power—one that can rebuild, redefine, and rise from the rubble. Life’s storms may knock us down, sure, but they also carve out the grit buried inside.

That pain. Those challenges.

Are just plot points, not the final chapter.

You, too, can blaze out of the ashes, tougher, brighter, unstoppable.

It’s not about how many times you trip, but how many times you get back up.

Your life’s soundtrack can hit those triumphant notes—if you decide to lead the orchestra. Just like I’ve steered my own course, trust that you’ve got the same fire to chart yours, to pen your own recovery saga, to compose your personal victory anthem.

Own your journey.

It’s yours and yours alone.

Flip your challenges into fuel, turn those roadblocks into stepping stones.

Understand this: your resilience us your secret weapon. Grab it with both hands, and let it guide you—and others—out of the dark.

By celebrating our wins, we light the path for others to find theirs.

Keep moving, keep growing, and remember this: You’re the hero of your story.

Stand tall, thrive, and let your brilliance shine!

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.S.S. "Healing isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon where every slow mile counts. Pace yourself—no one wins this race by rushing."

Stepping into yourself—bold move. Props to you for that.

But don’t kid yourself; this isn’t a one-and-done deal. It’s a relentless trek inward, and trust me, it never really stops, just shifts and twists with time.

And to give you a hand, here’s something I’m stoked about: the 365-Day Shadow Work Series. Think of it as your deep dive into self—no fluff, just real, raw reflection.

This series doesn’t play around.

It throws you into the thick of it, with pointed questions that push you through the muck of sadness, self-doubt, and grudges.

Every page, crafted to steer you, challenge you, and yeah, maybe even break you open a little. It’s not just a journal—it’s your new ritual in self-discovery.

Learn More About the Series

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

It’s been my go-to during the storm, my way to shout from the rooftops when things go right, and—most of all—my uncensored pass to the wild maze inside my head. In the middle of all that mental clutter, journaling became a flashlight, showing me the stuff I didn’t even know I’d buried.

At first, journaling was simple.

Routine.

Just jotting down thoughts, dreams, goals.

Easy enough.

But the deeper I wandered into my own mind, the more those pages shifted. My scribbles turned sharp, filled with reflections that cut deeper than surface-level musings.

I remember that night.

Alone.

Sun sinking, its light creeping through the window, throwing weird, shifting shadows onto the paper in front of me. That day, I cracked open my journal, weighed down by emotions I hadn’t quite untangled yet.

It came after one of those deep, raw moments of self-reflection. A memory I hadn’t touched in years bubbled up, hit me like a freight train.

Left me drowning in it.

My hand shook as I grabbed the pen, the cool metal grounding me.

Just barely.

The words didn’t ask permission.

They spilled out, fast and steady, tracing my tangled thoughts.

The tears lagged behind.

But as I scribbled, something snapped. Something let go.

And then, like a dam breaking, the tears joined the flood of words. They streamed down, uninvited, but needed. Each sentence felt like a mirror. It reflected back the things I hadn’t been ready to see—raw, real, unfiltered.

Not just seeing.

Accepting.

Letting it all sit there, ugly and beautiful at once.

That night my journal wasn’t just some place to scribble down random thoughts. It became my knife and compass, cutting deep, finding things buried too long, guiding me through the mess of myself.

This wasn’t just a journal anymore.

It was more like a secret-weapon for my soul.

The Intellectual Evolution

My journal.

It's seen things.

Ugly things.

Beautiful things.

A silent witness to my chaos and my clarity, from the days when I was just a kid scribbling nonsense to those messy, roller-coaster years that followed.

Back then, it wasn’t poetry.

It was raw. Uncut.

Words scratched onto paper like desperate cries for someone to just get it.

To get me.

Loneliness. Isolation.

The sting of bullying.

That journal soaked it all up, ink-stained, tear-splattered. A mess—but a constant. My corner to scream into when the world was too loud, too big, too… cold.

Then came the teen years.

More complicated. More confusing.

My journal wasn’t just a refuge anymore. It morphed into a mirror. One I didn’t always want to look at. Because what I saw? A kid angry, lost, trying to fit into a mold that never quite fit.

That journal watched me wrestle with myself.

The growing gap between who I was supposed to be and the wreck I felt like.

Rebellion crept in.

So did fear.

The creeping doubt that maybe—just maybe—I’d never figure it out.

But I kept writing.

Kept pouring out the parts I couldn’t say out loud.

Fast forward to my twenties. Enter: network marketing.

I thought, Finally! My ticket out. My shot to reinvent myself.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

The whole thing fell apart. And yeah, my journal captured every shaky moment of it. The quotes, the mantras, the desperate belief that success was just around the corner. Until it wasn’t. Until I was staring at another mess, another failure, wondering what the hell came next.

The journal knew, even before I did. It held the unraveling, page after page.

Marriage. Betrayal. Divorce.

My journal chronicled it all. Every fight. Every doubt.

Every sleepless night when I couldn’t breathe under the weight of it all crashing down. I wrote through it. Scribbled furiously. Some nights, angry. Others, just numb.

And when it all officially imploded, when the papers were signed and I was left homeless, the journal was still there. Still catching every ugly tear and late-night scribble as I tried to piece together what was left of me.

Then came the deep thinking.

Homeless, wandering, lost—but thinking.

Eastern philosophy. Western psychology. Zen Buddhism.

Freud’s theories. Jung’s archetypes.

Even that twisted duality of Jekyll and Hyde.

My journal became something else. It wasn’t just a place to dump feelings anymore. It became my mental playground, my sketchpad for ideas. Slowly, as I scribbled down those complex thoughts, I started unraveling the tangled mess in my head.

Not just writing about it. Working through it.

Journaling became something different then.

Bigger.

Every page felt like a deep dive into the parts of me I’d been too scared to face. Each word was a tool. I was digging up the stuff I’d buried, stuff I’d ignored. And with every entry, I was piecing together the shadows, learning that all the things I hated, feared, or hid were part of the whole picture. I had to stop running from them if I ever wanted to heal.

Looking back now—that journal—it wasn’t just some passive observer.

It was the key.

The backdoor into my subconscious.

Each page a step deeper into the mess of me.

Writing didn’t just help me see the parts of myself I’d hidden.

It made me accept them. It was through those late-night scribbles that I finally stopped fighting the shadows. I embraced them. That’s how I healed. How I grew.

And yeah, in all that mess of self-discovery, nature showed up too. It found its way into the journal. The rhythm of the seasons. The flowers pushing through the cold. Trees shedding their leaves, letting go.

I saw pieces of myself in that.

Every sunrise on a hike. Every quiet moment in the woods. Nature was doing its thing, mirroring my own rough, uneven process of healing. And those little moments of peace made it into the journal too. Little snippets of hope scrawled between the chaos.

So, what started as a lifeline, a last resort, became my teacher.

A guide.

My journal was more than ink on paper—it was proof that the act of writing, of putting thoughts into words, was how I untangled the knots in my soul.

Every messy, scribbled page became my roadmap.

Eventually, all of that—those journal entries—became something bigger.

It became Healing Thoughts.

A newsletter where I could throw my own story into the world, share the struggles and revelations. The journal wasn’t just my story anymore. It became a shared space, connecting those same struggles we all face.

Now that worn, dog-eared journal is a relic.

A survivor of it all.

Every time I flip through those pages, I see the journey. The strength it took to face the shadows, to walk through the chaos. And the growth that came from it.

The journal was never just a place for thoughts.

It was a space to become.

Sharing My Wisdom

My journal didn’t just hold my thoughts.

It became the engine revving up everything I threw out into the world.

Scribbles.

Half-baked ideas.

Quotes that hit deep at 3 AM.

They'd pull at me—begging to be shared. Like the words weren’t meant to be locked away on paper, but tossed into the universe, stirring things up. That urge to take what I’d learned, felt, or stumbled into fueled my daily texts, my TikToks, my every post.

Take TikTok.

It’s where I’d spin those messy, personal journal entries into something real.

Raw.

I’d dive back into pages filled with emotion, with meaning buried between the lines, and turn them into something punchy—something that fit into 60 seconds.

Sometimes, it’d be a quote scrawled in the dark, a flash of clarity I couldn’t ignore. Other times it was deep cuts. Digging into the wreckage of shadow work or untangling emotions knotted up from my past.

My journal was the spark. The origin. Those private reflections transformed into stories, lessons, straight-up calls to action for anyone watching.

And people were. Watching, feeling, connecting.

Same with my daily texts.

I wasn’t sending empty words. I was digging through old entries, mining them for bits of truth. Pieces that could lift someone up, give them clarity, or just remind them that they’re not alone in this messy game of life.

These weren’t “motivational quotes.” They were pieces of me, born from my own battles with pain, joy, and growth. Each message I sent was more than words—it was a sliver of my journey, hoping to land where it was needed most.

My journal was a never-ending source.

Not just for content, but for connection.

Every time I shared a part of me, whether in a TikTok or a daily text, I’d get this flood of messages. People telling me how something resonated, how it struck a chord they didn’t even know was there. My thoughts became their thoughts. My healing became their healing.

That’s when it hit me: this journal wasn’t just a tool for me.

It was a guide—for all of us.

One night, I was parked under some sad, flickering streetlight, feeling like I had nothing left.

Exhausted. Drained.

And yet, there I was, flipping through my journal.

Then it clicked.

The prompts I’d been writing for myself weren’t just for me.

They were keys. Questions that had pulled me out of the darkness, kicking and screaming, could do the same for others. What if my survival prompts could help someone else survive?

That’s when the 365-Day Shadow Work Journals were born.

It wasn’t about my journey anymore.

It was about ours.

I wanted those prompts to be a flashlight for someone else, guiding them through the maze of their own subconscious, just like they had for me. Every prompt was crafted with care, a nudge toward the shadows we all avoid.

They weren’t just questions—they were lifelines. Each one designed to crack open the door, let a little light in, and help people face the parts of themselves they’d buried.

Creating the journals was all about empathy.

Compassion.

The stuff I’d needed when I was at my lowest.

I wanted every prompt to feel like a small push—like I was there, whispering, “Keep going. You’re not alone.” That’s what journaling had been for me. Not a fix-all. But a companion in the dark. And now, I wanted it to be that for others.

When the 365-Day Shadow Work Journals finally came to life, it was like handing over a map I’d scribbled on in the dark. Something that could guide others through their own storms.

The journal wasn’t just mine anymore—it was for anyone ready to dig deep.

And the response was overwhelming.

People picked up those journals, started writing, and suddenly, they weren’t alone. My TikTok community, the people who had been my cheerleaders, became the heart and soul of the project.

Their struggles, their wins, they fueled everything.

My inbox blew up with messages from every corner of the planet.

It was amazing.

People pouring out their stories, sharing how those prompts cracked open something inside. Gratitude. Relief. The stuff that hits you deep.

Every message felt like proof—real, raw proof—that self-reflection, scribbled on paper, can change everything. It was a reminder that while our pain wears different faces, we’re all on this same wild hunt for peace, for clarity, for some version of healing.

Connected. Even in the chaos.

Read Reviews on Amazon

“I've been using this book to document my healing journey and it's been amazing. I've had to face my shortcomings and accept them. There are cute quotes and affirmations that really help brighten up the day. It's about facing the trauma and taking accountability for yourself, self-love, and acceptance but also realizing that your trauma responses and trauma overall is not your fault it is environmentally bred and this journal helps you work through and unpack a lot of that.”

“If you have lots of traumas to heal Id definitely recommend this book. Its a shadow work. You'll laugh, cry, and a whole lot of emotions. Its a must try for someone who wants to get started working on oneself.”

“I wanted a shadow work journal that would whack me over the head and make me reevaluate my life in a meaningful way, and this does that. The questions are deep and thought provoking, and where I get a little intimidated by them, because of how personal they get, that's the point, right? I'll recommend this to others for sure.”

Read More on Amazon

From Pain to Inspiration

In helping others sort through their emotional clutter, I found myself unraveling my own. Funny how that works. The stories I heard, the bonds I made, the realizations that blindsided me—all of it hit home. Hard.

What started as me coping with my own mess exploded into something bigger.

A movement.

A reminder that we, as humans, are wired to bounce back. To grow.

To rebuild from the ashes, no matter how burned we feel.

Every time I write now, I’m reminded of the magic in it. The way words can heal, spark something inside, and maybe even shift your whole world.

My journal, once a dumping ground for my pain, has turned into a launchpad. Not just for me but for the thousands who’ve joined this ride.

It’s incredible.

Journaling isn’t just scribbling your feelings into the void. It’s staring them down, wrestling with them, and coming out the other side stronger.

And as I type these words, I’m hit with this wave of gratitude.

For the messy road I’ve traveled.

For the lessons, bruises, and breakthroughs.

For that journal—a battered old thing that’s always been my ride-or-die, reflecting where I’ve been and lighting the path forward. It’s more than a record of my life. It’s a witness, a reminder that writing isn’t just about documenting—it’s about living wide awake.

Looking back, I see it clearly: my journal wasn’t just a place to vent.

It was a lifeline when I was drowning.

It evolved, just like me.

From a quiet, ink-stained refuge to a megaphone for self-growth, reaching people all over the world. And as I dug deeper into my own healing, I started crafting these writing prompts. Not just fluffy questions, but the kind that get under your skin. That push you to peel back layers, to sit with what’s uncomfortable, and to talk to yourself in a way that feels raw, but kind.

That’s where the real change happens.

Hope for the Future

Reflecting now, I’m floored by the shift.

From drowning in sorrow to lighting sparks of inspiration, it’s been one hell of a ride. Full of roadblocks, doubts, mess-ups.

But every stumble pushed me forward.

Every failure cracked me open just enough to let some truth spill in.

And yeah, the journey’s been brutal.

But I’m grateful for every shaky step, every frantic word scrawled, every little bit of wisdom I managed to squeeze out of the chaos.

Now I’m walking into this next chapter with some fire in my belly. Journaling isn’t going anywhere—it’s my lifeline. And I’m ready to spread the word, to show people just how much power there is in getting real with yourself.

If you’re in the thick of it right now, listen up: you’re not alone.

You’ve got more strength than you think. You’ve got the guts to face what’s lurking inside, and you’ve got the power to come back swinging.

Your story is yours to write.

So don’t skip the tough parts. Embrace the whole damn thing.

Celebrate your wins—big, small, whatever.

And when it gets rough—be gentle with yourself.

Every time you read a Healing Thoughts newsletter, you’re getting a piece of me—my struggles, my triumphs, my proof that we’re all tougher than we look.

There’s light here, even when things feel pitch black. And there’s a crew, ready to walk with you, offering support, understanding, and a whole lot of heart.

Together We Can Change the World

Come with me.

Let’s rip open the layers, wade through the mess of self-discovery, and feel the ache of growth together. It’s going to hurt, sure. But there’s healing on the other side.

And who knows…

Maybe the ripple we start—together—spreads far beyond us. Maybe hope, empathy, and understanding trickle out, one journaling prompt at a time.

To the future keepers of the 365-Day Shadow Work Journals: buckle up.

It’s going to be a ride—one filled with epiphanies, breakthroughs, and change.

I hope the prompts give you comfort when things get tough.

I hope you find strength in your story and hope in the pages you fill.

As you write, may you see more of yourself, appreciate the struggle a bit more, and find fresh hope for whatever’s next.

My name is your name because my story is your story.

And like mine, your story is proof of how damn resilient we are. A reminder of the power that comes from getting knocked down and still choosing to stand up. Of how connection saves us when we think we’re too far gone.

The hardest moments usually hit right before everything changes.

And trust me, that change is coming.

Believe in where you’re heading, even if the road looks rough.

Trust your strength.

Hold tight to hope, even when it’s barely a flicker.

Keep pushing. Keep healing. Keep growing.

Because you are a walking testament to resilience. A reminder that persistence wins. And you inspire more people than you know.

Thanks for being part of my story.

Here’s to the next chapter, the adventures waiting to be written, and the journey that’s just getting started.

Here’s to healing. To growth. To transformation.

Here’s to you—yes, you—and the collective journey we’re on, step by step, toward clarity and recovery.

One thing: you’re not doing this solo.

We’re a community, building each other up, healing side by side.

Let’s keep moving. Tomorrow’s waiting.

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. "Journaling: because sometimes the best therapist is a blank page and a pen that doesn’t judge."

Stepping into yourself—bold move. Props to you for that.

But don’t kid yourself; this isn’t a one-and-done deal. It’s a relentless trek inward, and trust me, it never really stops, just shifts and twists with time.

And to give you a hand, here’s something I’m stoked about: the 365-Day Shadow Work Series. Think of it as your deep dive into self—no fluff, just real, raw reflection.

This series doesn’t play around.

It throws you into the thick of it, with pointed questions that push you through the muck of sadness, self-doubt, and grudges.

Every page, crafted to steer you, challenge you, and yeah, maybe even break you open a little. It’s not just a journal—it’s your new ritual in self-discovery.

Learn More About the Series

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

Big dreams, bigger plans.

I came from nothing, but I wasn’t staying there. I wanted to flip my family’s story, rewrite the ending.

Standing at the edge of something huge, my eyes were wide open.

I saw change coming—thought I could touch it.

But life’s funny.

Cosmic jokes, all of them.

I got sucked into this shiny, too-good-to-be-true trap—Quixtar.

Multilevel marketing wrapped in a bow. They’d rebranded from Amway, or as the smart ones called it, Scamway. They promised the moon, but that pitch was rotten at its core.

It wasn’t wealth—it was a ruse.

As disillusioning as this was, getting conned woke me up in ways I didn’t see coming.

In crowded rooms and buzzing workshops, I stumbled onto something bigger than cash.

A hunger.

No, more like a craving—a craving so deep it could swallow galaxies.

Learning became my obsession, eclipsing any short-lived thrill of chasing cash. These weren’t just business crash courses. They were mind-bending shifts, shaping me in ways I never saw coming.

Even as the facade of Quixtar fell away, I didn’t flinch.

I stayed locked in.

What started as a quest for family cashflow morphed into something much bigger. I found fire—an insatiable drive for knowledge. That’s what stuck.

Year after year, I waded through books, drowning in thoughts from minds far beyond my reach. Each one cracked open a new corner of my brain.

No distractions, just me and the words. The kind of quiet that buzzes with ideas.

Slowly, a library took shape.

Every book added a layer, feeding this bottomless need to know more.

Five years in, I was two hundred books deep.

Every one, a step. A breadcrumb on this endless path of discovery.

With every page turned, my journey stretched out before me. From humble beginnings to a horizon that shimmered with possibilities. Ideas became my hideaway, my place to feed that insatiable need for more.

As life rolled on, it threw new titles at me. Each one shifted my course in ways I didn’t expect. Then came my kids—chaos and joy wrapped in tiny bodies.

They didn’t just walk in—they burst onto the scene like a full-blown symphony, every moment a note, every tantrum a shift in tempo.

Was it chaos?

Sure.

But the kind that makes you grin.

Their arrival rewired everything. The quiet hours I once guarded for myself were gone. Now, it’s giggles and nonstop chatter.

The books that used to fly through my hands now gathered dust while I played with bright blocks and stuffed animals.

But don’t get it twisted—I never lost my obsession with learning.

It just took a new form, stretched in a different direction.

I flipped the game. Turned time into a tool, not a trap. Every commute became a classroom on wheels. The hum of the engine mixed with audiobooks dropping knowledge bombs. Breakfast became a time for caffeine and podcasts. Learning while sipping coffee was multitasking at its finest.

And when night crept in, wrapping the world in darkness, I wasn’t done.

Not even close.

That’s when I plunged into the digital abyss of YouTube. Educational videos lined up, each one opening a new door, leading me down a different rabbit hole.

One video after another.

New ideas. New thoughts. A flood of information.

But, funny thing. Even with all this info, something gnawed at me. Like an itch you can’t scratch. It wasn’t enough. I was stockpiling knowledge like it was going out of style, but the pieces didn’t quite click.

It felt like I was building a puzzle, but the picture was missing.

The more I learned, the more I wondered—where was the real change?

All that input, and yet the output…

Flat.

Betrayal hit like a freight train. In my late thirties, I was blindsided by the person I thought was my forever. My fiancée was gone. My anxiety was at full throttle. And somehow, I ended up baring it all on TikTok—messy thoughts, shaky breaths, and everything in between. What started as venting turned into something else, but I wasn’t ready for what came next.

Around the same time, I stumbled across Dr. Nicole LePera on Instagram. Her posts felt like medicine disguised as memes—connecting childhood patterns to grown-up chaos in a way that just clicked.

I devoured her book, How to Do the Work, page by page. It didn’t teach me something entirely new, but it felt like validation—a reminder that healing is a real, tangible thing, not just some abstract, feel-good idea.

But buried in all that wisdom, one little phrase stood out.

Shadow self.

A concept I hadn’t encountered before.

The words lingered like a dare. I didn’t fully understand it, but it planted a question that refused to go away. What was hiding in the parts of me I didn’t want to see?

TikTok’s algorithm must’ve read my mind because suddenly, shadow work videos were all over my feed. Like the universe had slid me a playlist.

Each video peeled back a little more, poking at the uncomfortable bits I’d tucked away. It was addictive. Pandora’s box with a play button.

I wanted more.

YouTube became my next rabbit hole.

That’s when I discovered old university lectures by Jordan Peterson. His words hit like a lightning strike—sharp, relentless, and weirdly comforting.

Every lecture was another breadcrumb, pulling me deeper into myself.

I wasn’t just watching; I was unraveling.

This wasn’t just content. It was excavation. A search for the parts of me I’d locked away without even realizing it. And somewhere in the chaos of algorithms, old ideas, and personal wreckage—I found something I didn’t expect.

Me.

The road ahead buzzed.

Not a light hum—a full-on static charge under my skin.

With no map, no GPS, just a gut feeling pulling me forward.

Instinct kicked in.

Curiosity took the wheel.

I wasn’t flipping through a few psychology books for fun. Nah, this was a headfirst plunge into the weird jungle of human consciousness.

No shortcuts. No easy answers.

Just dense forests of thought, tangled motives, and emotions hiding in the underbrush, waiting to ambush. And honestly, I was ready to get lost.

Analytical psychology hit first—sharp and steady, like a compass spinning back to true north. Not some feel-good theory but a toolset. A way to pry open the strange gears running our everyday actions.

Growth, awareness, all that self-improvement jazz—it started to click. Like puzzle pieces falling into place, only the picture kept shifting the more I stared.

And then came Jung.

Boom. The door blew off its hinges.

Archetypes. Symbols. The collective unconscious.

His take on the shadow self was all brutal, yet needed. The kind of truth you dodge until it punches you in the teeth. This wasn’t about collecting knowledge—it was about staring down the parts of myself I spent years pretending weren’t there.

But Jung was just the warm-up act.

The big names rolled in like a rogue wave.

• Skinner, laying bare how rewards yank our strings without us even noticing.

• Piaget and Erikson, sketching out how we stumble through life, stage by messy stage.

• Maslow’s pyramid, yeah, that smug stack of needs, pointing the way to self-actualization like a road sign to someplace you never quite reach.

• And Rogers—reminding me that real healing doesn’t come wrapped in applause. It starts quietly, with the kind of acceptance you give yourself when no one’s looking.

Each thinker held a shard of the truth.

Like spinning a crystal under the sun, every angle bent the light differently. One theory dragged out shadows; another illuminated them. Every framework cracked open my understanding a little more, scattering familiar ideas into new, unsettling shapes.

But here’s the thing…

There’s no blueprint for this ride. No step-by-step guide to the self.

Just a mess of jagged edges and unexpected clarity. It’s layers—some sharp, some smooth, some that cut deep when you’re not careful.

And the only way through is to keep going.

Piece by piece.

Soon enough, life yanked me sideways, straight into the depths of Eastern thought. No polite nudge. More like a cosmic hand on my back, shoving me toward wisdom wrapped in strange metaphors and ancient paradoxes.

These weren’t just lofty ideas drifting by like incense smoke.

No, they moved like rivers—each with its own beat, carving deeper into the mind’s murky waters. Every one of them promised a peek into the shadow I was hell-bent on charting, the twisted maze I couldn’t resist mapping out.

Zen hit first. Quiet, sneaky.

Like a breeze rearranging the room without touching a damn thing.

No rituals, no robes, no big “aha” moments.

It didn’t teach me—just pointed inward.

Toward stillness. Toward noticing without judging.

Sitting there felt like staring into water so still it reflected every crack, every scar, without filter or flattery. No rush, no noise. Just you, naked under the weight of your own reflection.

And let me tell you, sitting with yourself like that is no picnic.

Then Daoism barged in and flipped the script.

No binaries. No “this or that.”

Just opposites waltzing together—yin and yang, chaos dancing with calm, shadow cozying up to light.

Daoism didn’t ask me to fix anything.

Just flow.

It smirked and said, Stop fighting. Move with it. And suddenly, my shadow wasn’t a problem to solve. It was just... hanging out.

Waiting for me to stop freaking out and sit beside it.

Other traditions—Hinduism, Jainism, Sikhism, Confucianism—brought their own vibes. Some got deep into karmic loops, others shared wisdom about breaking free.

But the consistent theme was balance.

Inner peace.

None of it was fast or flashy.

It took its sweet time, each philosophy another slow spark in the kindling. The kind of lessons that sneak up on you—small at first, until they’re too big to ignore.

Then mythology stepped in, dragging old stories with it.

Dusty, ancient things, crammed with truths disguised as monsters.

The Hydra made an entrance—heads sprouting faster than you can kill them.

One down, two more take its place. A classic.

That one hit hard: demons don’t just vanish on command.

You gotta wrestle with them. Face them. Every. Single. Time.

Then came Jekyll and Hyde.

That story was brutal. It was not just good vs. evil. It nailed the truth—how we split ourselves, mask the mess, try to stuff what we don’t like deep down.

But it’s all still there.

Both sides. Side by side, whether you want them or not.

That story left me with one uncomfortable question: How much Hyde is hiding behind the parts I let the world see?

And then Prometheus showed up.

Fire in hand. A gift, sure, but dangerous as hell.

His myth wasn’t just about light—it was a warning. Shine that light too bright and you’ll see things you wish you hadn’t.

But hey, that’s the trade-off.

You want knowledge, then be ready to burn a little.

Every story, every idea, clicked into place. A collage—philosophy, myth, psychology—all swirling together, revealing more than I’d bargained for.

Layer by jagged layer.

By the time it was done I was no longer the same.

The shadow self was not a monster anymore.

It was just... there.

A little wild. A little broken. Part of the whole messy picture.

And that was the breakthrough: self-acceptance isn’t about scrubbing out the dirt. It’s about sitting with it. Letting the ugly parts breathe.

Days bled into each other, and somewhere along the way, I added mirror work to my daily rhythm. Just me, a reflection, and the uncomfortable silence between us.

I’d stand there, locking eyes with myself, peeling back the layers that kept the shadows hidden behind the mask I wore.

No pretense. No small talk.

Just me—face-to-face with the parts I avoided for years.

It felt strange at first.

Almost too simple to matter.

But it wasn’t.

It was like sneaking into a room you thought was empty, only to find parts of yourself sitting there, waiting. Each session became a quiet unraveling. The kind of conversation that doesn’t need words but cuts deeper than any you’ve had with another person.

There’s one session that clings to me.

Like it just happened.

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, soft and indifferent. I looked in the mirror, expecting the usual face—confident, put-together, the guy people listened to when he spoke. But what stared back wasn’t that man. It wasn’t the polished persona I’d built.

It was a child. Small. Fragile. Scared.

He looked like he’d been waiting forever, lost in the noise, begging for someone to notice. And in that moment, I did.

The walls I’d built around my emotions didn’t just crack—they crumbled.

My throat tightened. My chest caved.

The tears came hard, fast, relentless. They weren’t polite tears, either. They were messy, ugly—years of unspoken pain crashing down like a dam finally giving out.

I cried for him—the little boy who never felt seen.

I cried for the young man who thought success might finally buy him peace.

I cried for the version of me standing there in that mirror, exhausted from carrying things that were never his to hold.

It wasn’t just sadness pouring out—it was everything.

Grief. Regret. Relief.

A lifetime of emotions squeezed into those few minutes.

It hit me like standing under a waterfall, the weight of the water knocking the air from my lungs, but somehow making it easier to breathe.

And in the middle of that flood, something unexpected arrived: understanding.

Not the kind you find in books or conversations, but the kind that sneaks up on you when you finally stop running from yourself. The mirror wasn’t just showing me a reflection—it was a reunion. A meeting between who I’d become and the parts I tried to bury along the way.

The tears stopped eventually, but the shift stayed.

There was no going back from that moment. Each wave of emotion had carved a deeper channel into my awareness, making room for a truth I couldn’t ignore: Every part of me—light, shadow, fear, strength—belonged.

The reflection didn’t change that day.

I did.

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. What are the traits you dislike in others? Often, they are a mirror to the parts of your shadow self. How can acknowledging this change your perspective?

Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You

Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.

Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.

Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.

This book is more than just words—it’s our story.

Learn More About Healing Thoughts

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

Whatever gets the job done.

It’s less about the how and more about the release.

It’s personal. But somehow, it pulls others in too.

Like a signal flare from one soul to another, saying…

“You feel this too, right?”

It digs into shared experiences, crossing lines where words alone just won’t cut it.

It’s also a mirror.

A way to map the uncharted corners of your own mind.

When you create, you confront parts of yourself you didn’t know were hiding—turning feelings into shapes, thoughts into colors, chaos into something you can hold.

And yeah, it’s therapy, even if it’s messy.

It drags emotions to the surface, gives them form, and helps you breathe through them. Whether it’s heartbreak, joy, or everything in between, creative expression makes space for it all—and sometimes, that’s the only thing keeping you afloat.

At its core, it’s a snapshot of the human experience.

A way of telling the story we all carry—our fears, dreams, losses, and hopes—each creation another breadcrumb on the trail of who we are.

This is my story of how creating became my lifeline.

At dawn, the world smelled like wet earth and possibility.

Phone in hand—my trusty sidekick—I was ready to catch whatever moment begged to be remembered. Deep in Ontario’s woods, I used that tiny lens to pin down nature’s beauty, hoping the videos would somehow tame the storm inside me.

My phone stopped being just a gadget; it became a lifeline. A way to turn the noise in my head into something visible. Each tap of the screen felt like translating thoughts too slippery for words.

It wasn’t random.

My heart called the shots, guiding my hands to focus, shoot, and capture exactly what I needed to say. The wind-tossed leaves were a snapshot of inner chaos. Ripples breaking across the lake acted as a mirror for everything unsettled.

And when my soul quieted down, the lens found stillness—a lone flower, a tree’s cracked bark—videos that shared moments of introspection, delicate but steady.

Every video told a story, but not the kind you spell out.

These weren’t just videos—they were maps. Each frame, each clip, charting a path through the mess, the quiet, and everything in between.

At first, my posts were all scenery.

Forest trails. Waterfalls roaring. Trees swaying in the breeze. You’d see wild landscapes, but never the person behind the lens.

No face. No voice.

Just the crunch of twigs beneath my boots and the occasional breath caught on camera. It was like I was there and not there all at once. Present, but not exposed.

Those videos were a tribute, in a way.

A way to capture the peace I found outside, even if I wasn’t ready to say much about the storm inside me.

Nature was my escape hatch.

My quiet rebellion. But eventually, things shifted.

It happened slowly. Without planning. Landscapes gave way to something more personal. My voice started slipping in, small at first. A comment here. A thought there.

A face—mine—finally appeared.

What once was just footage of trails and trees morphed into stories.

Not just where I was, but what I was carrying.

A turning point snuck in through the simple act of brewing coffee on a tiny camp stove. My hands in the frame, setting up the pot. The hiss of the flame. Steam rising against the forest background.

It felt like a small scene, but in those moments, it wasn’t just about coffee. It was about showing myself—bit by bit. The ritual of making that cup became a symbol. Of patience. Of finding warmth in wild places.

Each post became a little more open, peeling back the layers.

My restless nights.

My tangled thoughts.

Hopes I barely admitted to myself.

I went from silent observer to participant, one upload at a time.

And then came the night under the streetlight.

I hit record, exhausted and wired from a sleepless night. I didn’t script it. Didn’t overthink it. Just started talking. About my fears. About the insomnia that clung to me like a second skin. About the doubts that kept me up and the peace that always felt just out of reach. It was raw, messy truth.

And when I pressed “post,” something inside me cracked open.

The response hit like a tidal wave.

People from every corner of the world flooded the comments with their own stories. Some thanked me. Some shared their struggles. Strangers connected across pixels, stitching together threads of empathy, fear, and understanding.

Each video after that carried more weight, but not in a way that dragged me down. They became markers of progress, entries in a public journal I didn’t know I needed.

What started as solo reflections turned into conversations.

A scattered collection of moments became a web of shared healing.

It was never just about the videos. It was about showing up. Letting the world see the messy, unfiltered parts of me—and finding, to my surprise, that I wasn’t alone in it.

In the jumble of photos and videos, I found another outlet: journaling.

A leather journal sat stashed in my car, worn and frayed, its pages crammed with every unfiltered thought I couldn’t say out loud.

Every day, I let it all spill.

Ink soaked into paper, dragging along whatever feelings bubbled to the surface.

Rage, joy, fear, hope—they bled together, uninterrupted.

Writing wasn’t just an outlet. It was release. Therapy without the therapist. That journal caught everything, no judgment, no interruptions.

I started small—mundane stuff. The cold grip of the steering wheel. The distant hum of traffic. How canned soup tasted better than it had any right to.

But soon, simple thoughts cracked open deeper ones, and my words began pulling the past into the present, knotting them together like threads in a fraying sweater.

One bitter night in February, I wrote about a friend I’d lost to time. A few pages later, I unraveled a nightmare I couldn’t shake, rooted in the haze of my old rave days.

Some entries came out in messy bursts—half-sentences, scribbles, arrows pointing nowhere. Others were neat, deliberate, almost poetic, each word a stone carefully placed on a path toward meaning.

The pages mirrored me—chaotic on some days, peaceful on others.

They carried song lyrics, random doodles, and lines I stole from philosophers and psychologists, as if their words could steady me when my own failed.

That journal became more than paper and ink.

It became a lifeline. A ritual.

Each page was a marker.

Another day survived. Another lesson tucked under my belt.

With every entry, I wasn’t just writing. I was weaving my own story—one of resilience, of finding beauty tangled in the mess, strength buried under fear, and hope rising from the ruins.

Somewhere between the writing and the videos, I found a language that made sense. A way to translate feelings I couldn’t explain, mapping out the chaos of my own mind. Each post, each page, was a breadcrumb, leading me deeper into myself and offering others a glimpse of the journey.

At first, TikTok and journaling was just for me. A way to tackle my anxiety, one awkward post at a time.

Each video and journal entry was a small step forward.

A quiet win. A move toward reclaiming my mind from the chaos.

What started as a mindless distraction turned into my battlefield. This wasn’t just for fun anymore. It was war. Me versus the thoughts that never shut up.

A fight for peace in a brain that refused to stay quiet.

Then, something wild happened.

People I didn’t know—silent watchers—started showing up in my messages. They told me how my videos reflected their own struggles, like holding up a mirror to their pain.

Somehow, by sharing my mess, I was giving them hope.

Some even said my posts had saved them. I stared at those words in disbelief.

Me? Life-saving?

How could my clumsy, messy truth help anyone?

It was humbling in a way that words don’t quite capture.

And just like that, the game changed. What started as a personal fight became something bigger. It wasn’t just about quieting the noise in my head—it was about letting others know they didn’t have to battle alone.

With that shift, my TikTok took on new life. My feed stopped being a personal diary and grew into something else—a space for those struggling in the dark.

A place to rest. To connect. To feel seen.

Looking back now, the shift feels surreal.

What started as me trying to make it through the day became a movement—a collective pursuit of healing, hope, and resilience. My little corner of TikTok became more than a platform.

It became a place to be real.

A space in a crowded, noisy world reminding us all: You’re not alone in this.

But TikTok wasn’t enough. The connections we built there needed more room to grow. I wanted to make sure no one got left in the dark between posts.

So, I started a daily text service. A way to reach out directly.

No fanfare—just a simple text saying, “Hi, you’ve got this.”

That little text line—+1 (256) 685-4443—became a lifeline.

A cornerstone of everything we’d built. Each message sent was a spark of encouragement, a reminder that even on the hardest days, you’ve still got another step in you.

Those texts were tiny seeds of resilience, scattered across phones, taking root wherever they landed.

Something incredible happened. The text service created momentum. It wasn’t just about sending messages—it was about building something bigger than ourselves.

A community that didn’t just connect; it healed. Together.

Day by day, these small actions sparked real change. Every text, every video, every shared story nudged someone forward—maybe just an inch, but forward all the same.

And somewhere along the way, those tiny sparks became something unstoppable—proof that healing isn’t something we have to do alone.

It’s something we build together. One step. One story. One message at a time.

Learn More About the Daily Texts

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. “Creativity isn’t about the finished product—it’s what you find along the way.”

Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You

Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.

Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.

Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.

This book is more than just words—it’s our story.

Learn More About Healing Thoughts

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

White walls closed in like a cage.

Outside, the soundtrack was wild—sirens wailing, people yelling, and the constant growl of Hells Angels' bikes tearing up the street.

The air was tainted with the stench of cheap booze, burnt tires, and the sour sting of illicit drugs.

This wasn’t some distant nightmare.

This was home. My playground, my reality.

A world built from chaos.

Despite the wreckage around me, I didn’t question it.

It was my normal.

My friends and I would roam the streets, turning crime scenes into scavenger hunts. Bullet casings scattered like confetti on our walks to the corner store. To us, it wasn’t shocking—it was a twisted game.

A morbid scavenger hunt.

Looking back, I realize we were collecting more than shell casings; we were collecting lessons about the gritty underbelly of the world we called home.

Addiction left its own trail: needles glittering under streetlights like broken stars, condoms lurking in alleyways. I learned to weave through that minefield like it was second nature. A dance I didn’t fully understand, but one I had to perfect.

Survival had its own rhythm.

My first brush with crime was wrapped in candy.

I was six.

I found myself succumbing to the thrill of my schoolmates' mischief, stealing candy from the neighborhood store. They pocketed sweets by the handful. But me, I just took a five-cent piece of gum.

They all laughed at my modest theft—calling me a coward.

But it wasn’t fear, it was guilt that I was feeling.

And it was huge. I couldn’t shake it.

That night, I went back, slapped a quarter on the counter, bought four five cent gums, and told them to keep the change. I remember the confusion in the shopkeeper's eyes, a confusion I shared in feeling towards my skewed morality.

In the storm of crime and madness that defined my world, home was my flickering lighthouse. My father was a puzzle.

A man who worked his bones to dust, but slipped into his own head more often than not. He was paradoxically both a protector and a source of torment.

A walking contradiction.

He'd warn me about the dangers outside, laying out the risks like he had it all figured out. Yet his own demons hovered nearby, their grip on him tighter than anything lurking outside.

His words of caution about our volatile surroundings were punctuated by his own inner demons, casting a hazy, shadowy illumination on our already uncertain path.

And in a place already unpredictable, it wasn’t much of a guide.

One day, my uncle—always the carefree, smiley type—decided to pay us a visit. He had that kind of clueless innocence that worried my dad.

As night fell, he casually mentioned hitting up the local bar. A place he’d never stepped foot in before.

And my dad was not having it. The bar was known for all the wrong reasons, and he wasn’t about to let my uncle walk in blind.

But my uncle just brushed it off.

“I am just gonna grab a drink, I ain’t bothering nobody,” he laughed, like he was invincible or something.

He wasn’t.

Fast forward a few hours.

Our front door slams open. I swear, it rattled the whole apartment.

My uncle stumbles in, and he's a wreck—arms slashed up, blood everywhere. Apparently, some lowlifes followed him from the bar. They jumped him, and he fought back, hands sliced from trying to wrestle a knife away.

Breathless, he spills the whole horror story. He barely made it back.

Fear hit me like a freight train.

Everything my dad warned us about, here it was, alive and in color. My uncle, who had always been the happy-go-lucky guy, was now a broken shell of himself.

It wasn’t just a scare. It was a wake-up call, a sharp slap of reality. The kind of thing that stains your childhood and sticks with you.

Another incident that sticks with me happened when I was maybe eight, maybe nine, hanging out with Matt and Paul behind the school, as usual.

We weren’t looking for trouble. Just messing around, but then, we saw them. Older kids. Teenagers. Messing with stuff they shouldn’t—drugs.

Everything went south, fast.

One of them grabbed Paul, slammed him against the wall. The other dangled a filthy needle, aiming it at Paul’s arm like it was no big deal.

My brain went blank. Followed by a mix of fear and confusion.

But then something flipped. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe we were just plain stupid. Whatever it was, Matt and I ran straight at the guy. Hit the back of his knees like we were linebackers.

And he buckled.

Just enough to lose his grip on my friend.

Paul broke free and we took off.

And man, did we ever run. Hearts beating like a bad techno track. Fear fueling every step. We didn’t stop until we were halfway across town.

With chaos all around me. My world was messy. Noisy. Dangerous.

But inside my head is where the quiet lived. Where things made sense.

Nature helped, sure. But the real escape wasn’t in the trees or the breeze. It was right there, in my imagination. My little world of make-believe, full of things that could be.

While the neighborhood fell apart—drugs, crime, all that—I found a way out.

Not physically, but mentally.

I built houses in my mind. With just a pencil and paper, I designed homes that didn’t exist but should’ve.

I wasn’t playing around either; these places were the opposite of the world I knew. Each line I drew, each floor I planned—it was a little piece of hope. A life that wasn’t, but maybe someday could be.

I drew like my life depended on it.

Maybe it did.

These weren't just houses. They were getaways.

No yelling.

No fistfights.

No needle-stained streets.

Just... peace.

I filled those rooms with a future that didn’t look like my past. A future where everything made sense, where safety wasn’t something you had to chase.

Sometimes, I’d show my dad. Talk about how I’d make a fortune, pull us out of this mess. “One day,” I’d tell him, “you won’t have to bust your back anymore. You’ll have a house with real walls, not just the cockroach infested crap we’re stuck in.”

I could almost see it: his rough, calloused hands, finally at rest. His face without the lines of stress and alcohol. Us, together, not broken by the weight of everything.

I clung to this idea.

That somehow, someday, I’d earn enough to save him.

Pull him out of his own personal hell, the one he drank himself into every night. I’d free him, if only I could. Maybe then, we’d get to be what we never were—a family.

No fights. No guilt. Just... peace.

Those drawings were my anchor in the storm, my only way to keep from getting sucked under like everyone else around me.

I watched my friends get swallowed up by the streets, one by one.

But I wasn’t going there.

No way. I had my houses, my plans. I had something more, and I wasn’t letting go. I was going to change our story, no matter what it took.

Those sketches weren’t just lines on paper. They were my lifeline.

Then adolescence came.

It felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net. Everything was off-balance.

The world in my head, the little hideaway I’d crafted over years of solitude, suddenly smashed into reality like a brick through glass. And I wasn’t ready for that.

The cold isolation I’d grown used to started cracking under the heat of something new—social acceptance, peer pressure.

It was like melting ice, and I found myself slipping.

Fast.

That’s when they showed up.

A group who didn’t just like my graffiti—they got it. They saw the soul behind the spray paint. And, man, that feeling of belonging. I didn’t just want it. I needed it.

It was a rush.

And it scared the hell out of me.

They weren’t just friends; it was like an unspoken pact. But that acceptance came with strings. Strings I didn’t even notice tightening around me until it was too late.

I gave in, folded like paper.

One puff turned into another, and suddenly, I was knee-deep in the fog of cannabis.

Harmless, right?

Wrong.

It was the start of a spiral. A spiral that sucked me down for two years.

Weed became ecstasy, then crystal meth, and before long, I wasn’t just high—I was gone. Shoplifting, fights, dealing drugs—I was numb to it all. Numb to everything. Reality was a blur, and I liked it that way.

Until that night.

The one where everything fell apart, when the lines between fun and destruction blurred beyond recognition.

My best friend and I had been running with the wrong crowd for a while, tangled up in the chaos of the rave scene. But this wasn’t just any scene—it was the scene.

The gritty underworld where the real players thrived.

One of those players was a dealer. Flashy, cocky, the kind of guy who’d scoop us up for wild rides through Toronto, blowing cash like it was water. New clothes, fancy dinners, the whole thing.

We felt invincible, like kings in his twisted game. And we had no idea how deep we were sinking.

That night, though—that was the night everything flipped.

This dealer laid out a plan. A bad one.

He was going to rob another major player at the rave. This wasn’t just a quick grab-and-go. No, this was going to be big deal and he needed my friend’s car.

Not as a ride, but as a stash spot for his gun. Cold steel, waiting in the trunk like a bomb ready to go off.

My friend handed over the keys like it was nothing. And I just stood there, heart pounding, mind racing, realizing how far gone we were. This wasn’t just partying anymore; we were playing with fire, and the flames were getting higher.

Inside the rave, the music was pounding, lights flashing like a strobe nightmare. The air thick with smoke and heat.

I tried to drown it all out, just lose myself in the moment.

That’s when I met her. She seemed like more than just another girl in the crowd. We started talking, her laughter cutting through the chaos like something real, something solid. For a second, I felt grounded.

But it didn’t last. It never does.

In the blink of an eye, that laughter turned into something far darker.

She collapsed. Right there.

Shaking on the floor, her body a twisted wreck. My mind froze.

It didn’t seem real.

One minute we were talking, and the next, they were carrying her out.

Overdosed. Gone. Just like that.

It was an overwhelming shock to my core. Reality slapped me hard, the kind of slap that wakes you up. Youth felt so fragile in that moment, like we were all just teetering on the edge of a cliff, waiting for a bad wind to push us over.

And I was right there, staring into the void, wondering how close I was to falling in.

When the rave ended, we stepped outside, hoping to catch our breath.

But what waited for us wasn’t any relief.

My friend’s car was gone.

Well, not gone.

Worse.

Shattered windows, slashed tires, flames that had reduced the inside to ashes and twisted metal. It was a message, a violent reminder of how deep we were in this mess.

The car wasn’t just a pile of burnt wreckage. It was the embodiment of how far we’d strayed. How much we’d lost.

Standing there, smelling the smoke, looking at what was left—it hit me.

Hard.

The dreams I used to have, the ones where I’d build something real, something good were gone. Burnt to nothing, just like that car. I was building a life of destruction, not creation.

That night is seared into me.

The girl, the car, the fire, the chaos. It was a wake-up call, one I couldn’t ignore anymore. I couldn’t keep dancing this close to the flames.

It was either step back or get burned.

Those old dreams, the ones I buried under all the madness were still there, faint but alive. And I knew, right then, I had to turn things around. Fast. Before the fire consumed everything.

I looked around at the people who once made everything feel alive—my crew.

But something had shifted.

The spark that used to define us was gone.

All that was left were hollow eyes, faces worn down by the grind of addiction. Drugs had taken more than just their energy. They’d stripped away their fire, left them husks of who they used to be.

That hit me hard. But it was clear. I couldn’t keep walking the same road as them.

So I cut ties. Just like that. Brutal but necessary.

We’d shared so much, but it was over. My sanctuary was no longer safe. The things that used to bind us now felt like chains, and I wasn’t about to let myself get dragged down any further.

With a heavy heart, I let go.

It wasn’t easy. But I pulled myself out of the mess.

The haze of ecstasy and meth was now gone. Tossed aside like an old coat I didn’t need anymore. It was freeing, honestly. Like that first breath of spring after a brutal winter.

I walked away from it all—raves, late nights, the chaos.

Sure, I left behind the noise—the pounding music, the reckless rebellion. But what hit me hard after the rush faded was solitude.

Not the cozy, creative kind I’d known as a kid.

This was cold. A price for choosing the right path.

Lonely, yeah. But necessary.

In the quiet of my self-imposed isolation, something clicked.

Clarity.

That elusive thing I’d been chasing, lost somewhere in the noise and wreckage of my old life, finally caught up to me. Dreams I’d buried under all the chaos started to resurface.

I could see them again. The blueprints of future homes, the ones I used to sketch when I was a kid, came back like a flash. They weren’t just scribbles. They were promises. A future, untangled from the mess I’d left behind.

I realized something then. No matter how rough it gets—how much life tries to sink you—those dreams are still there. My personal lighthouse. Always standing. Always pointing me toward somewhere better.

Now, as I write these words, I’m not that scared kid anymore. The one dodging bullets in the streets, trying to make sense of a world that didn’t care.

I’m not even the reckless teenager, high on stupidity and bad decisions.

I’ve survived. I’m an artist. I feel things deeply.

I’ve become a guide, even. A little light for anyone stumbling down those same crooked paths, whispering, “Hey, you can make it out.”

My story is still unfolding.

Every day’s got its own battles, its own moments of reflection. Some days hit harder than others, but here’s the thing—I’m not just a byproduct of where I came from.

I’m calling the shots now.

I’m building something new. Not perfect. Messy, sometimes.

But mine.

That road to recovery isn’t straight. It’s bumpy, full of backslides, sharp turns, moments where you think you’ll never get it right.

But I’m moving forward.

Armed with lessons, bruises, a bit of wisdom, and a lot of stubbornness.

If I’m proof of anything, it’s that no matter how deep you go, no matter how pitch-black it feels, you can crawl back to the surface.

There’s always a way back to the light.

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. "Life might burn your blueprints, but you can always grab a pencil and start sketching again."

Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You

Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.

Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.

Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.

This book is more than just words—it’s our story.

Learn More About Healing Thoughts

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

My parents, like most, weren’t exempt from this cycle.

They did the best they could with the knowledge and tools they had. They carried their own hurts, inherited from their parents. Their choices, shaped by their struggles, weren’t entirely theirs but a reflection of a past they hadn’t fully dealt with. Looking back, I don’t see them as villains, but as victims of a pattern of suffering passed down over time.

Now that I’m a father, I know my own children may one day look at my mistakes. No parent is perfect, and the path to becoming a better person is always a work in progress.

My hope is that we can do better than those before us—learning from their missteps and, ultimately, breaking the cycle of generational trauma.

I’ve made my share of mistakes.

But I believe that being aware is the first step toward change.

The ability to reflect, admit our faults, and actively work on them is what makes us human. It's what helps us grow and break free from the past.

Let’s start this journey with compassion and an open heart...

From the jump, my life was chaos.

My parents had divorced before my conscious mind could store the memories of their union. As a toddler, I was left to figure out life in my mom’s cramped little apartment.

My only recollection of that era is a hazy image of a smoke-filled room. Loud music shaking the walls. Strangers, in and out, quick to lose their temper if I even thought about stepping out of my room.

But that was just the beginning.

As I got older, life went from messy to straight-up chaos filled with constant shifts.

I ended up in a dingy basement—one bedroom, rough part of town, cramped with my dad.

The place was a joke.

A broken window, a flickering bulb hanging by a wire like a bad horror movie, and cockroaches always on the move.

Not exactly cozy.

Then things took a weird turn.

We ended up back in the apartment where I used to live with Mom.

Déjà vu, minus her.

She’d moved on. New place. New guy. New problems.

She showed up sometimes, arms full of stuff. Toys, clothes, you name it.

Didn’t matter.

The gifts, they don’t hug you back. They don’t fill the gaps where love should be. I craved something you can’t wrap in a bow—real care, the kind only a mom can give.

Living with my father was far from consistent.

No, it was a disaster on repeat.

The man was married to his booze.

Work, bottle, repeat.

Hours blurred together while he left me stuck in that apartment.

Time crawled.

Every minute felt like torture, like the clock itself was mocking me, dragging its hands while I waited, hoping he’d come back, knowing deep down I’d feel that same sting of being abandonment.

Again.

When he did show up—beer and books. That was his thing.

Attempts to pull his focus were met with repercussions I quickly learned to avoid.

Far too often, I saw the impact of his addiction firsthand—his sloppy stumbles, coming home with one shoe like the other one is optional, and one night, when things hit a nasty low—he got arrested for driving under the influence.

But if there was one thing that was rock solid with him, it was discipline.

And not in some gentle, “let’s talk about it” way.

Nah.

He had a spoon. A wooden one.

And he turned it from kitchen tool to weapon of choice.

His method was archaic, reminiscent of a time when physical punishment was deemed acceptable. He swung that thing like it was a cure for all bad behavior. His belief was that a firm hand, or in this case, a wooden spoon to my rear end, was the best way to instill obedience and respect.

Was it misguided?

Obviously.

But he believed it. And he believed it hard.

Each swat was not just an act of punishment, but also a misguided act of love from a man caught in the clutches of addiction. Despite his flaws, his intentions were aimed at keeping me from walking down the same path he had. It was a screwed-up attempt at saving me from a future that looked a little too much like his.

Breaking the Spoon

I was eight when rebellion lit its first spark inside me.

I was a cold, bitter night. Snow piled high outside. While inside—a storm was brewing. Tense. Thick.

I don’t remember what set it off. What I do remember is the fallout.

Clear as day.

My father's voice, stern and resolute, clashed against my defiant protests. And then, there it was. The rising tension led him to reach for that infamous wooden spoon, its presence in his hand a daunting threat of the impending punishment.

The wood felt cold. Solid. Unforgiving.

Fear shot through me.

But something else did, too—something reckless, bold, stupid maybe.

I grabbed it.

Yeah, you read that right. I took the spoon.

My dad froze, eyes wide, not sure what to make of it.

And then I did it.

Snap. Over my knee.

The crack was like a gunshot in the dead silence. I didn’t just break the spoon. I broke something else. The power it held.

For a second, my dad just stood there, staring at the splinters in my hands as he processed what had just transpired.

Shock. Pure shock. But it didn’t last.

His face shifted, his expression hardened. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He just put his hand on my shoulder and led me to what I knew was coming next.

No spoon this time. Just his hand.

And yeah, it hurt. A lot. Turns out, snapping the spoon didn’t mean the end of the punishment. It just meant it came another way.

That night changed things.

I found my voice. Took a stand.

But I also learned the hard way—actions bite back.

Sometimes, with sharper teeth than you expect. And most importantly, it was the day I realized that I probably should have just kept the damn spoon.

Solitude was my constant companion in those days.

As an only kid, I'd hide in my bedroom closet, rigging up a makeshift lock. Flimsy as cardboard—because it was. But in my chaotic world, that thin barrier felt like a fortress, providing me with an illusion of safety.

Had to build toughness out of necessity.

I became the "perfect" child: quiet, compliant, always aiming to stay off the radar.

My imagination was my escape hatch. I'd sketch out grand designs of my future home, dreaming of a life miles away from the poverty strangling us.

Didn't realize it then, but all that turmoil was shaping me.

The relentless push for perfection turned me into an overachiever, a workhorse, a quick study in new skills. Yet, shadows of the past clung tight, leaving me with lingering anxiety and a tendency to choose solitude over social scenes.

There are silver linings though.

Despite the mess, my childhood handed me some strengths: grit, an unshakable work ethic, and a wellspring of creativity.

I learned to set goals, focusing on the future, always pushing to escape the confines of my past, to make a better life for myself.

It's a strange thing to say, but I think the conditions of my childhood shaped me in ways that I can now appreciate.

I wouldn't wish that kind of upbringing on anyone, but I see now it taught me priceless lessons. It didn't just light a fire under my ambition; it showed me life's tough edges and the power of resilience.

Looking back, one thing stands out: dreams matter.

Not in some fluffy, fairytale way, but as fuel. The kind that keeps you going when everything around you says stop.

My fantasies weren’t just some random escape—they were my engine, pushing me forward. My way out. When life felt like a never-ending storm, those dreams were the flicker of light cutting through all that dark.

They weren’t just fantasies, though.

They gave me fire.

A stubborn refusal to get stuck in the same mess my family had always been trapped in. They lit a spark inside me, pushing me toward something bigger—education, growth, change.

Obstacles, yeah, there were plenty.

But those dreams made me run right through them.

Being a self-taught polymath became a crucial part of my identity.

Yeah, that became my thing.

Looking back, the rough edges of my childhood had a strange upside—they turned me into a quick learner, someone who could pick up new skills like it was nothing.

It’s a double-edged sword, though.

A gift that allows me to excel but can also overwhelm me at times.

Just too much, too fast.

Living through the chaos and volatility of my early years has had a lasting impact on my social behavior as well.

Crowds overwhelm me. I prefer solitude, often seeking refuge in my own thoughts and reflections. I pull back, hide in my own head, where it’s quieter.

I struggle with anxiety and depression, and I am often withdrawn, content with my own company. It’s easier to stay in my own space, just me and my thoughts.

The absence of siblings further entrenched my reclusive tendencies. However, this solitude also granted me an ally in silence, a trait that has followed me into adulthood.

The quiet wasn’t just a break—it was a sanctuary. A place to think, to breathe.

It’s where I could sketch my dreams.

Line by line.

Planning a future that was still mine to create.

Today, I see it.

The mess, the chaos—it’s clearer now.

Saying my childhood was complicated doesn’t even cover it. But it carved me into this weird blend of an introverted overachiever.

Anxious, sure.

But also tough as nails.

I crave quiet, hate crowds, and somehow, I pick up new skills like it’s nothing.

The wreckage of my past shaped the person I am now.

Every hit, every stumble, it left its mark, sure, but it also gave me grit.

Made me adaptable. Gave me a drive that’s hard to stop.

Resilience—check.

A work ethic that borders on obsessive—absolutely.

And creativity—that’s my secret weapon.

Yeah, my childhood was rough.

But it’s the fire I walked through that built the parts of me I lean on today. Even in the worst storms, I’ve learned to steer. Eyes always forward, locked on that sliver of light in the distance.

Chasing whatever’s next.

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. "Surviving chaos doesn’t just teach you to swim—it makes you build the boat, sail it, and somehow, fix the leaks along the way."

Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You

Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.

Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.

Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.

This book is more than just words—it’s our story.

Learn More About Healing Thoughts

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.

This is where my story begins.

Welcome to my life—a journey through a rough childhood, a battered adulthood, and a redemption found in the darkest of places.

I won't be your hero nor your villain.

Instead, I'll be the man who stumbles, trips, but always gets back up.

The Beginning

Life’s a madhouse. Everyone’s got a story.

We all march forward, squinting at the sun, while the shadows we drag grow longer. But what happens when they stop following, and start swallowing? Drowning you, suffocating you, burying you deep under piles of everything you never wanted to admit was true?

There’s only one way out: face it.

No shortcuts.

No skipping chapters.

This is my story—one of survival, grit, and finding something like hope when everything said give up.

I was born in the heart of a city that never sleeps, in a neighborhood where dreams often crumbled under the weight of reality.

As a kid, I faced my own monsters. They weren't lurking under my bed or hiding in my closet; they were sitting right there at the dinner table, sipping on beer.

My home was anything but a safe place—it was filled with endless arguments and fights. Every raised voice and hand left a lasting mark on my psyche.

Growing up, I was surrounded by the bold colors of street art and the ongoing threats of drug-related violence.

This shaped how I saw the world and life itself.

My childhood innocence was overshadowed by the tough reality of the streets, cluttered with discarded needles, condoms, and bullet shells.

I grew up in a world where money was always tight, and emotional support was scarce. Trusting someone was a luxury I couldn't afford.

Loneliness turned into my loyal friend, keeping me company as I braved each day.

The Battlefields Of My Youth

School should have been my sanctuary, but it was a battlefield, a daily fight for survival. There, I was not the smartest, nor the strongest.

I was the short, skinny, quiet kid, the easy target.

Taunting words and thrown fists were my constant companions, their razor-sharp edges slicing through my self-esteem.

They called me weak.

Told me I would always be a loser.

And like a seed sown deep within, I began to believe them.

In the not-so-quaint biography of my life, I found myself at odds with a cruel paradox of existence: my pain was the protagonist and I was the spectator.

In the mighty words of Jung…

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.”

My fate, it seemed, was to play a lonely man, marooned on an island of perpetual pain.

The quiet emptiness of a shattered home carved deep into my memory.

Bullies were outside, chaos was inside.

Screaming, slamming doors, empty bottles clinking—this was my life’s soundtrack. Add in the constant stress of bills piling up, and you've got the perfect storm.

And in all that chaos, I was lost. This was my reality.

Yet, I always dreamed of a different life, a life adorned with peace, acceptance, and belonging. This was my aspiration. It was in this chasm between my reality and aspirations where my life took a detour.

As Leon Festinger, an expert in human discomfort would argue, it was cognitive dissonance at play. But in my layman's language, I was neck-deep in life's muddy waters, and I didn't like the taste of it one bit.

As I dealt with the truths of my world, I found a lifeline—the world of art and nature.

Seeing a wall covered in graffiti sparked my creativity, while the few trees that managed to grow in the city became symbols of strength.

Within the chaos, I found comfort and a sense of direction in these places; they became my safe haven.

Stepping Into Adulthood

My life was wreck.

Everything safe, solid—gone by my thirties. It wasn’t just a storm anymore, but a tornado. One hit, and my whole world was obliterated.

My marriage—poof.

The one thing I thought I built right was erased. Just like that.

The divorce threw me into a wild, messy chaos.

Fake love.

Deceit. And Lies.

I was sucked into the orbit of a woman who said all the right things.

She made me her center.

Her gravity.

She had me wrapped so tight, I didn’t even notice she was destroying me. Secretly ruining my reputation with family and friends—cutting me off to make sure she was all I had.

Leaving me isolated.

I believed her every word. Looking back now, I feel like a fool.

As my good name faded, a much harsher truth emerged. Those sly messages, hushed phone calls, her sneaky lies. The cheating. It all came crashing down.

The moment I saw it, it felt like my heart had been torn out.

There it was—my reality, laid bare.

In the end, I was left alone, again. Drifting through the bitterness, haunted by her twisted games. My only company being the solitude of my car.

The wakeup call was anything but quiet.

It was brutal.

It hit me like a loud thunderclap, impossible to ignore.

Divorced. Betrayed. Broke. Homeless.

Pain wasn't just a constant hum in the background of my life anymore; it turned into a blazing fire, surrounding me with its relentless heat. Consuming me.

Choosing Transformation

Morning crept in, sharp and cold, holding up a mirror I didn’t want to face. But there it was, glaring back at me: the time for change was now.

The sun sliced through the night, blinding and unapologetic.

Change wasn’t just needed.

It was screaming at me.

I was on the edge—no, teetering—about to fall into something new, something raw, something that wasn’t what I’d been before.

As I gazed upon the broken pieces of my life scattered like shards of glass, I saw the reflection of a man, lost and homeless, but still not gone.

And in that mess was a flicker. Not some grand stage light—just a flicker.

One of hope, maybe.

I started to get it.

All the chaos, the pain—it wasn’t here to crush me.

I began to realize that the trials and tribulations life had thrown my way were not meant to break me, but to shape me, to mold me into the person I was destined to become.

A whole new version.

And that meant I couldn’t look outward for some fix or distraction.

The only place left to run was inside.

Me vs. me.

Sharing My Story Through Social Media

At first, social media became my confessional. A stage where I aired out my messy thoughts, fears, dreams—everything.

I wasn’t just posting; I was creating.

An artist with pixels instead of paint. Each video was a raw, unpolished truth. Every caption was a little splash of my soul.

It wasn’t just a hobby.

It became my launchpad. My medium for expression. And, ultimately, my catalyst for transformation.

Carl Rogers once said

“What is most personal is most universal”

And guess what?—He wasn’t wrong.

My pain, suddenly it wasn’t just mine. It started to hit home for others, linking us all through the universal language of struggle and growth.

TikTok became my megaphone. My stage.

I bared my wounds to a world I couldn’t even see.

And it felt good. Cathartic, even.

Each clip I posted, each piece of me I shared, lightened the load. Weird, right? Like standing in the middle of chaos but finding a perplexing sense of calm in the middle of it all.

But it was never about going viral.

It was bigger than that. It was about finding a tribe.

About knowing someone, somewhere got it.

The real magic was the community. Those comments that told me I wasn’t alone. It was a loop of healing, bouncing between me and them. Each comment acted as a reminder that my experiences, however painful, had the power to touch and possibly heal others.

Seeking Solace In Nature

Nature didn’t just show up—it called me.

In all the chaos, it became my quiet anchor.

No matter how messy life got, it was always there, solid and still.

Each hike was an escape. A reset button.

I’d find myself listening, really listening, to the trees leaves rustling secrets, the twigs crunching beneath my boots, and the birds gossiping somewhere in the distance.

It was like nature had its own language, and somehow, it got me. Wrapped me up in its arms without saying a word.

That first breath of damp earth after the rain—Magic.

The sunlight streaming through branches like it was trying to find me—Perfect.

And that breeze was just enough to remind me I was still here—Still standing.

I started to see beauty in the small stuff.

Not just in the “wow” of mountains or oceans, but in a single wildflower pushing up through dirt. In the brief song of a bird nearby. In the softest touch of wind on my cheek.

It wasn’t just nature.

It was something else, something deeper.

A place that didn’t ask for anything.

Just let me be.

Journey Into Shadow Work

At the same time, I set off on this wild trek of self-discovery.

No map. No compass.

Just me, wandering through the chaos of my own mind.

Every step forward felt like tiptoeing into an abyss. What was lurking in there? I wasn’t sure. But the deeper I went, the clearer it became: these forgotten corners held truths I’d been avoiding forever.

Enter shadow work.

Yeah, Carl Jung—Swiss shrink, deep thinker—basically tossed me a flashlight and said, "Go." Into the dark, into the mess. "Why have I shoved these parts of me so far down?" I’d ask myself as I trudged through the muck of my own psyche.

It wasn’t a casual walk.

Shadow work meant diving headfirst into the parts of my subconscious that I’d locked away.

The fears—Oh yeah, they were there. The doubts showed up in full force. The buried emotions were heavier than I thought.

But instead of running, I sat with them.

Let them press down on me.

I asked myself, "Where did this all start?" as old scars I’d long hidden away surfaced, layer by uncomfortable layer.

The trick with shadow work is that you don’t shine a light just to freak out and shut it all down. Nah, you have to drag those forgotten bits into view and sit with them.

No judgment. No pushing them away.

"Am I really ready to accept the stuff I’ve spent years pretending doesn’t exist?"

That’s what I kept wondering.

But slowly, it hit me: the darker parts, the messy, complicated bits are part of the whole package.

Not something to fear. Just a balance.

The weirdest part—Once I stopped running from it, I found this odd calm.

Like, the stuff I’d been hiding was always there, just waiting for me to acknowledge it.

And finally, I did.

Embracing The New Narrative

The road was rough. But man, it changed me.

Every step, I found fragments of myself scattered in the chaos.

I didn’t run from them.

I leaned into the mess, faced my baggage head-on, and started writing a new story. One where I wasn’t some helpless victim but a damn survivor.

The shadows, they’re still there.

Lurking.

But I learned to dance with them, let their darkness amplify my glow.

And let’s get real—this wasn’t some neat, straight line of progress.

Nope.

I hit plenty of bumps, highs mixed with deep, gut-wrenching lows.

Some days, I stumbled hard, almost falling back into the trap of my past. But I always got back up. That’s the thing about progress—it’s not about racing to the finish. It’s about making sure you’re headed in the right direction.

And as long as I kept moving, I knew I was good.

Over time, I started to see the scars for what they really were: proof.

Not just of pain, but of survival.

They weren’t marks of defeat; they were my badges of honor.

The taunts, the sneers, the junk that once tore me down became the fire that built me up. The taunts that had once eroded my self-esteem had become fuel for my resilience. That crime-ridden neighborhood wasn’t a prison anymore. It was the gritty backdrop of my story, proof that I made it out.

I learned that it's not the crap life throws at you that defines who you are—it's what you do with it. You can let your past chain you down or let it launch you forward.

It’s all in how you see it.

So, here I am. Not shaped by my past but busy designing my future.

My Intention

As I share my story, I'm not looking for sympathy or admiration.

Nope.

I’m sharing this to spark something—maybe a little hope, a pinch of strength.

To let you know, even when life gets pitch-black, there’s always a flicker of light hiding somewhere, waiting for you. You’re tougher than the mess behind you, braver than whatever freaks you out, and way more resilient than you give yourself credit for.

Every life is a story made up of moments of joy and sadness, love and loss, bravery and fear. My story is just one part of this grand saga, showing the strength of the human spirit. A reminder that we're shaped not by our past but by the decisions we make now.

The road ahead may still be fraught with challenges.

Bumps, potholes, maybe some cliffs.

But I am prepared.

I am a soldier, armed with the wisdom of my experiences and the courage of my spirit. I’ve mastered the art of finding beauty in the wreckage, hope in the ruins, and power in my own vulnerability.

And so, the story continues.

Each day, a new page is turned, a new chapter begins.

The scars of yesterday are still there.

But they’re soft now.

Gentle reminders of fights I didn’t lose, not weights dragging me down.

My past doesn’t own me anymore. It no longer defines me.

It’s just one piece of the puzzle. A part of my evolution—a journey that’s still unfolding.

My Invitation to YOU

Every scar, every uphill battle, every gut-punch moment has carved me into who I am now. And honestly—I'm damn proud of these marks!

They're proof of survival.

But hey, I’m not alone in this, my story is not unique. Millions of others wear their own versions of these badges.

However, the real power isn’t in just surviving. It’s in flipping the script—taking the pain, the fear, and turning it into fuel.

And that power is yours to wield.

So, no, my story doesn’t end here.

Actually, the wildest parts haven’t even been written yet.

And you’ve got a front-row seat.

You get to dive deep into the nitty-gritty of my story—raw, real, still evolving.

By subscribing to my newsletter, Healing Thoughts, you're not just signing up for regular updates. No, you’re stepping into a circle of tough, resilient souls, all carving their own paths toward self-discovery, just like you.

Each newsletter is packed with hard-hitting truths from my struggle, my wins, and the gritty shadow work that keeps me grounded.

Subscribe now

Healing Thoughts isn’t just words.

It’s a toolkit.

You’ll find prompts that make you pause and think, exercises that dig deep, and reflections from my own journey. All carefully crafted to stir something in you, spark growth, and nudge you toward healing.

And listen, in this sea of subscribers, you matter.

Your story, your setbacks, your wins—they matter.

Together, we’ll wade through the messy waters of our pasts, find our footing in the now, and sail toward something better. Something brighter.

—Ryan Puusaari

P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!

P.P.S. "Scars aren’t reminders of what broke you—they’re proof you fought, fell, and still wrote the next chapter."

Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You

Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.

Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.

Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.

This book is more than just words—it’s our story.

Learn More About Healing Thoughts

Before You Go

• Dive into the latest posts in the archives.

• Learn more about me, this newsletter, or my daily texts.

• Explore my journals and books over at Wood Island Books.

• Follow me on social media for daily inspiration and updates.

• Check out my recommended reading list for must-read books and authors.

• View my exclusive merch collection—designed to inspire and uplift.

• Have questions or thoughts? I am just an email away—reach out anytime.