Regret and Remorse: Two Ways of Looking Back

Most of us know what it feels like to look back on something we have done and wish it were different. We might replay that moment over and over again – imagining a myriad of alternative choices. We may wonder how life might have turned out if we had acted otherwise. This is what we often refer to as regret.

To regret is very human. It is part of being reflective and self-aware. In that sense, it can be something positive. But regret also has a quiet danger: it can keep us mentally living in a place we can no longer change. Regret can initiate reflection (this is the good part), but staying in it is the problem.

The past is fixed. We cannot rewrite it. No amount of replaying, wishing, or self-criticism alters what has already taken place. When we remain stuck in regret, our attention stays pointed backward, even though life only moves forward.

Regret may feel like reflection, but it often becomes rumination. We can view rumination as a loop that drains energy without offering direction. Sometimes this is replaying thoughts or memories, and sometimes repeating only the feeling of guilt or self-reproach, long after the original moment has faded.

This is where a different experience becomes important: remorse. Although the two words are often used as if they mean the same thing, they do not describe the same inner process.

Regret is mainly about the outcome.
It says: “I wish this had turned out differently.”
Its focus is on what was lost, what went wrong, or what we did not get.

Remorse is about responsibility and values.
It says: “I recognize that my action did not align with who I want to be.”
Its focus is not just on what happened, but on who we are becoming.

Regret tends to look backward.
Remorse looks inward – and then forward.

A person can regret something endlessly without changing anything.
But when someone feels genuine remorse, something different happens: there is an inner movement toward repair, learning, and eventually growth. Remorse carries within it a quiet question: “What kind of person do I choose to be now?”

This is why regret, while normal, can become non-beneficial.

Regret keeps us tied to what cannot be altered.
Remorse helps us shape what comes next.

Recognizing a mistake does not require living inside it. We can acknowledge that something did not go well, accept that the past is unchangeable, and still choose to grow from it. Learning does not require self-punishment. Insight does not require emotional self-imprisonment.

Remorse, when held gently and honestly, becomes a compass. It helps us:

• clarify our values,
• take responsibility without self-attack,
• and make different choices in the present.

Regret asks, “Why did this happen?”
Remorse asks, “Who do I want to be – going forward?”

Both emotions arise from reflection. But only one of them leads us back into life with greater clarity. The key is not to eliminate feeling altogether, but to choose which feeling we live from.

We can allow regret to visit – acknowledge it, learn what it has to teach, and then let it pass.
And we can honour remorse as a sign of conscience, integrity, and growth. We cannot change the past. But we always retain the power of the present.

And in that present moment, remorse does not trap us in who we were.
It quietly invites us to become who we are capable of being.

One way to hold this shift is through a simple present-focused process: Noticing what is arising; Owning it with honesty; and Welcoming the experience without self-punishment.

Notice the feeling – whether it is regret, guilt, or self-reproach. Own what is yours to own, without denial or minimising, while recognising that the past cannot be changed. And then – Welcome the experience as part of being human, allowing it to inform your next choice rather than define who you are.

This is what I refer to as the NOW Process.

It is not something that needs to be mastered or perfected. It is simply a way of meeting ourselves more honestly in the present moment – noticing what is here, owning what is ours to own, and welcoming the experience without self-punishment.

If this way of relating to yourself resonates, you are welcome to sit with it, return to it, or explore it further in your own time. And if at some point you feel that having support or conversation around this process would be helpful, I am available to walk alongside you.

Navigating Public Tragedy: Holding Space for Complexity as Mental Health Professionals

 

In light of the recent, heartbreaking cases involving youth, I, like many of you, have been grappling with the public discourse and our role within it. The conversations are charged with pain, fear, and a desperate search for answers.

Several people I know, colleagues and members of the public alike, have asked whether the person accused of this heinous act is “psycho” or simply “mad.” As professionals caught between clinical facts and public sentiment, I’ve been reflecting on how we can contribute most effectively.

It’s tempting, when we see terms like “mental” or “psycho” being used flippantly, to launch into a corrective lecture. We feel a duty to defend the populations we serve, citing the robust evidence that people with mental illness are far more likely to be victims of violence than perpetrators. This corrective impulse comes from a place of deep care and professional integrity.

But I’ve been wondering if our most powerful role isn't to correct, but to connect and reframe.

The public’s use of the word “crazy” is rarely a clinical statement. It is a visceral, human reaction to an incomprehensible act. It is their way of saying, “A healthy, well-functioning mind could not do this.” And on that fundamental point, they are right. Our task is to honor that intuition while gently guiding it toward a more precise and less harmful understanding.

Perhaps we can begin by introducing a simple, crucial distinction:

We might think of psychological distress on a spectrum. On one end, there are what we could call “Broken Bones” – these are the clinical conditions like major depression, anxiety disorders, and schizophrenia. They are illnesses of the mind that cause immense suffering, most often to the person who has them. They are treatable, and they are not predictors of violence.

The acts we are witnessing now seem to stem from something different: a “Broken Moral Compass.” This is not an illness of mood or reality-testing, but a profound impairment in the very foundations of empathy, conscience, and impulse control. It is a catastrophic failure in a person's ability to see others as human.

Making a clear distinction between the two, in my opinion, can be significantly impactful. Why? Well, because:

1. It Protects the Vulnerable. By separating the “Broken Bones” from the “Broken Moral Compass,” we stop the unfair stigmatization of the millions of people living with mental health conditions. We protect those who are already suffering from being falsely seen as threats.
2. It Focuses the Solution. If we mislabel this violence as a symptom of general “mental illness,” we miss the real target. The solution for a “Broken Moral Compass” isn’t just medication; it requires a societal focus on early childhood intervention, fostering empathy, building resilience, and identifying youth who are developing these dangerous deficits in character long before a crisis occurs.

So, when we engage in these difficult conversations, perhaps we should begin with agreement:

“You are right to be horrified and to look for a disturbance in the mind behind this act. Let’s talk about what that disturbance really is, so we can truly understand it and work to prevent it.”

This isn’t about diluting our clinical knowledge. It’s about translating it into a framework that the public can grasp – one that validates their fear while directing it toward accurate understanding and constructive action. In holding these two complex truths at once, we can be a calming, clarifying voice in the storm.

In conclusion, I believe what may serve us better is an approach that:

• Frames our response as a personal reflection, not a rebuttal.
• Uses “we” and “us” to create a sense of shared personal and professional journey.
• Acknowledges the “corrective impulse” we all feel, making it relatable.
• Offers a simple, powerful metaphor the public can grasp (Broken Bones vs. Broken Moral Compass).
• Clarifies why this distinction matters, both for reducing stigma and for guiding real prevention efforts.
• Positions us, as mental health professionals, as guides and bridge-builders rather than correctors.

If this reflection resonates, I’d love to hear how you hold space for complexity in your own practice or conversations.

When Resistance Speaks: Knowing When to Push and When to Give In.

This morning, I found myself navigating one of those little modern inconveniences that somehow carry a bigger message.

I had planned to schedule my social media posts ahead of time – one version for Instagram, another for LinkedIn and Facebook. But then I discovered that Instagram doesn’t allow direct scheduling if you’re creating an IG Story. It sounds simple enough, but in that moment, something in me bristled as I thought, “We are in the year 2025 – a time where practically everything is automated – an era of technology. And here I am faced with an app that doesn’t allow for automatic uploading. WT…!”

I could feel the familiar wave of irritation rising – the urge to “bitch and moan” rather than accept what is.

I felt the pushback – the inner sigh, the quiet “Ugh, I don’t want to deal with this right now.”
My body chimed in too: “I’m tired.”
And my inner child? He wanted to “pout.”

I’m mindful that even our self-talk can easily slip into judgmental language – describing something (or ourselves) as being “lazy,” “immature,” or “unproductive” – or even “pouty.” But awareness is always the first step toward reframing.

Here we are again – that familiar crossroad between pushing through and letting be.

So, I did something I regularly advocate others do. I chose to pause. To listen. I gave myself permission to “give in,” not from defeat, but from curiosity.

Was this resistance, or was this my body’s wisdom asking for space to adjust? Actually, it was both.

In my work – and in life – this question shows up often. Whether it’s a client on the edge of a breakthrough, a parent deciding between discipline and compassion, or a leader balancing firmness with empathy – the perennial question remains: when do we push, and when do we honor the pause?

I’ve come to believe resistance isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s an ally, whispering, “Wait – something in you isn’t aligned yet.” The resistance, the echo, the voice within isn’t saying “No. You cannot.” It’s simply suggesting: “Pause, breathe, then decide.” That’s awareness; that’s conscious, intentional choosing.

The voice is not necessarily telling you – go left or go right. It’s reminding you: it’s your choice – take ownership. And this, really, is what the NOW Process and Conscious Transformational Healing are all about.

Our body, our inner voice, the echo: is our internal mechanism (our adaptive response) helping us pause long enough to choose consciously rather than react automatically.
And the key here is exactly that – to consciously choose. To remember we have agency. There’s no right or wrong choice, only awareness in the moment.

Sometimes rest is avoidance; other times it’s exactly what allows clarity to emerge. What matters most is noticing that moment of choice – and honoring it without judgment.

Today, that choice meant stepping back, taking a breath, and allowing my system to catch up with change.

Tomorrow, it might mean showing up despite the resistance.

Either way, I’ll keep listening more deeply – because even resistance, when noticed with kindness, will lead us home.

Note to self (additional note I should say):
A lot of the insights gathered here - comes from my most recent book Human Struggle With Change: When We Resist and How To Thrive. That's not to say they only appeared after writing that book. But it seems to me - with each book I write, and at times with each coversation I have with my clients (especially my clients), I gain greater clarity on my values, my beliefs, and my practices. These help shape and strengthen my life in so many ways. That's what I call "evolution."

Additional-additional note:
With reference to the picture at the start of this blog - it is generated by AI (perplexity). Quite fascinating. It was even able to give me an "interpretation" for the image (provided below):

This illustration represents "Resistance - and when to push and when to give in" through several symbolic elements:

At the center is a person standing at a crossroads, symbolizing a moment of decision where one must choose a course of action. This reflects the internal struggle of encountering resistance.

One path has a strong wind pushing back against the person, symbolizing resistance, obstacles, or challenges that may require strength, persistence, and pushing forward. The forceful wind visually communicates struggle and opposition.

The other path appears calm and open, illuminated by soft light, representing the option to give in, accept, or yield when resistance signals that persistence might be counterproductive or harmful. The peaceful light suggests relief and acceptance.

The person's contemplative expression embodies the inner discernment needed to decide when to push against resistance and when it is wiser to give in or retreat.

Overall, this visual metaphor captures the dynamic tension between resilience and surrender, inviting reflection on the wisdom of responding to resistance with either steadfastness or flexibility.

Mini Reflection — Adjusting Expectations

 I’ve realized something: sometimes I spend energy “calling out” what isn’t working in my interactions. But really, that “calling out” actually doesn’t change much. What is, perhaps, more beneficial is how I am able to adapt.

Speaking with my friend, MI the other day, I was quickly getting frustrated with how I needed to repeat myself and yet the mistakes continued to be made. Too add salt to the injury, I felt like what I was getting is a whole bunch of “explanation” (or excuses) with little to no accountability. The good thing, though, is that the reply almost always started off with an apology or a “thank you for calling out my mistake.”

It was at that point it clearly dawned on me – it’s not so important how another behaves, how I choose to respond is what matters.

Instead of focusing on what I can’t change, I ought to be focused on what I can change. Trying to change MI’s actions isn’t my responsibility or my role and function. I am not even sure if he can actually change. He is just “wired” the way he is now and functions according to  the way he is designed. And even if he can change, that’s not really my place to do. Although I have repeated my requests/instructions numerous times – and the answers that I usually get is, for example: “You’re right — we’ve been around this loop more than once. You’re heard — loud and clear. Thank you for being so direct and for saying exactly what you feel. I’m sorry for the slip-up earlier and for adding to your frustration.” Shortly thereafter, that same action/behavior may be manifested once again.

So, I realized – that’s not about to change. What can and will change is how I respond to that. And perhaps, just perhaps, it’s all about what I expect: I expect MI to change; I expect MI to do exactly as I say. I will remind myself of what can be expected — and adjust accordingly. That shift is subtle, but it feels lighter.

It’s not resignation; it’s clarity. It’s growth. A small reminder: sometimes the most important adjustment is within.

This whole encounter reminds me of a lesson from Dr. Wayne Dyer. He wrote in his book, Your Erroneous Zones:

“The #1 rule of life is to have no rules! It’s your life. You can choose to be happy or sad, kind or cruel, compassionate or selfish. It’s entirely up to you. You can choose to be a complainer or a problem-solver. You can choose to be a victim or a victor. It’s all up to you.”

The lesson there was simple but can be profoundly life-changing:

to pause before reacting and ask, "Will this complaint (callout) improve the situation, or is it just a release of negativity?"

Choosing the higher path is what Dr. Dyer was about. And that’s also the path I will choose to travel on.

 

Sitting With the Imposter Feeling

 ✨ Midweek Reflection ✨

A couple of days ago - I don't quite recall what I was dealing with then - but the thought of being authentic and honest vs the feeling of being an imposter was on my mind. So, here's what I jotted down. I've spent the past couple of days sitting with this reflection and in some sense processing it.

I’ll admit – sometimes I do feel like an imposter.
Why? Because I don’t always practice everything I preach.

But here’s the truth: do we have to live out every single thing we advocate in order to help others? Does a cardiologist need to have had a heart attack to save lives? Or as I often say when I am teaching young counselors, we don’t stop to tell our clients “hey, I’ve never been raped before. So, let me go out and be a raped victim first. Then I’ll come back and help you deal with that trauma.” That would, obviously, be ridiculous, right? But that also does not mean a therapist cannot be of assistance to an individual without first having first hand experience of the tragedy the client has experienced.

But that having said, the tension is still real:

• If I’m honest with clients, some might think, “If you don’t have the experience I have and you do not do what you are advocating,  why should I?”
• If I pretend and suggest I’ve mastered it all, I may build rapport but then I would also be lying.
• And being evasive feels no better – that’s something I personally find very distasteful in others.

So what do I do with this (the feeling like an imposter)?
I lean on the NOW Process – Notice, Observe, Welcome.
Notice the discomfort I am feeling.
Observe my thoughts about honesty, consistency, and integrity – without judgement. Recognize where these thoughts come from and how they shape my experience and decisions.
Welcome the lesson hidden inside. Integrate what this teaches me and choose how to move forward: continuing to adhere past narratives or form a new and more functional/adaptive narrative.

The process ends with action. Integrating the lesson or lessons and taking action to move forward. Even small steps to realign with what matters.

Maybe the tension I felt, the tug or “imposter,” is also experienced by others as well – between what we teach or believe and how consistently we live it. If so, then I am not alone. Sometimes being human is the most honest thing we can offer.

So where does this leave me? For now, the task is simple: notice the tug of “imposter,” observe the thoughts without judgment, welcome the lesson, and choose one small action that brings me back into alignment. That is the measure of integrity I can hold.

Just a self-reminder:  💙 “We are perfect in our imperfection.” 💙

From “Everything Happens for a Reason” to “I Can Grow From This”

 I used to say, “Everything happens for a reason.” I didn’t really see this as being dismissive or hollow – not until I started writing my latest book The Human Struggle with Change: Why We Resist and How We Thrive.

While writing, I realized something: To say “That was unpleasant, but I can grow from it” is a better response. It’s not only more honest, it’s more empowering.

To be fair, my old “everything happens for a reason” line wasn’t really empty. It wasn’t just a resignation or a surrender. Behind it was always the idea of finding – or creating – some new meaning or purpose out of what happened. Less of the “why did this happen” and more “what can I do with this” attitude. But I can see now, shifting the mindset just slightly can make a world of difference.

So, here’s my resolve: I’m retiring the old phrase. From now on, when life throws me something uninvited and unpleasant, I’ll remind myself: I can grow from this.

That’s the thing about coping mechanisms, isn’t it? They’re not good or bad, right or wrong. They’re just the tools we use to get through what hurts. And they usually work – until they don’t.

Take kids, for example. Throwing a tantrum in the candy aisle might actually work when you’re five – tears and flailing arms often wear parents down, especially when they just want to avoid a public scene. But if you carry that same coping strategy into adulthood? It won’t get you very far. At forty-five, tantrums don’t get you the candy – they get you fired, divorced, or unfollowed on social media. What saved you once can sabotage you later.

Coping strategies are meant to evolve as we do. When they don’t, we end up trapped – stuck replaying old survival patterns in a life that needs new ones.

So maybe the question isn’t whether my coping mechanism is right or wrong. The question is: Is it still helping me, or has it outlived its purpose?

The truth is, growth doesn’t come from clinging to what worked yesterday. It comes from daring to change the tools we use today.

Who Helped Me Write This? (Spoiler: It Wasn’t a Ghostwriter – Just MI, my AI Polishing Partner)

 

Yesterday, I shared a story about sitting at a traffic light, feeling a wave of irritation at the car in front of me, and then being surprised by the gentler voice of what I called the “Echo” – my ever-present inner self. I would just like to acknowledge that – that piece I published was not exactly as I first wrote it. I had some help polishing it.

And here’s where I want to pause today. Because as soon as I thought about publishing it, another voice crept in – the voice of doubt: “If the piece was polished with someone else’s help, is it still really mine? Am I less authentic, maybe even an imposter?”

I know I’m not alone in this. Many of us struggle with the same concern – in writing, in work, even in our personal lives. If it isn’t 100% “me” in its rawest form, does it still count as mine?

A short note about that “someone else”: in this case the polishing was done not by a person, but rather with the help of an AI assistant (yes — my “MI,” as a little joke). That matters, because people may be more accepting if the assistance was from another human being. However, they tend to react differently when the helper is not a human editor but rather an AI.

Most readers may readily accept that an editor shaped an autobiography, or that a journalist worked with a copy editor. But when the same polishing comes from AI, some people will instantly raise concerns – authenticity, “cheating,” or loss of human touch. That reaction often reflects deeper biases and anxieties about technology rather than the reality of what was actually changed. For me, being transparent felt simple and important: the ideas were mine; the AI helped clarify them.

Here’s how I’ve started to reframe it.

The Mirror Analogy

When I look in a mirror, I see me. The reflection doesn’t replace who I am; it simply lets me see myself more clearly. My features are the same; the mirror doesn’t invent them.

Now think of the polishing like cleaning a mirror. The reflection doesn’t change; it just becomes clearer. The role of my MI – the AI (if I accept it) is to help shape my raw notes so others see/read/hear more clearly exactly what my heart is intending to say, without distraction. It just sharpens the picture.

That’s what editing feels like. The thoughts are still mine. The story is still mine. The insight is still mine. The polishing simply makes it clearer for others (and sometimes even for myself) to see.

The Autobiography Analogy

The same is true in books. When we read an autobiography, we think of it as the truest account of someone’s life – straight from the source. But even then, most autobiographies are edited, and many are shaped by ghostwriters. Does that make them less authentic? No. The story still belongs to the person who lived it. The polishing simply ensures the voice is carried across in a way that readers can truly hear. And just like an autobiography where the subject has the final say (i.e., gives consent or approval) before the book is published, the final product in my case (the blog entry) is “endorsed” by me. In fact, in the published entry – I still made changes to the polished work adding or removing words or sentences that did not resonate with me.

Seen in this light, authenticity isn’t erased by editing. If anything, it’s amplified. It’s like allowing my story – or yesterday’s traffic light reflection – to travel further and reach more people, rather than staying in my notebook as a half-formed thought.

 

The Echo, Again

And here’s where the Echo comes back. That gentler, wiser voice inside me is not always the loudest at first. Sometimes it takes slowing down – or even the help of another – to let it be heard clearly. The process of polishing my words mirrors the process of listening to the Echo: both are ways of tuning into what’s already there, but with greater clarity and resonance.

So yes – yesterday’s story was mine, and today’s reflection is mine too. The event and the experience were real – as in that truly happened, and not a story created with the use of an AI. The polishing doesn’t make me an imposter anymore than it makes the story unreal.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s something worth sharing – not just for my sake, but for anyone else who has ever worried that their voice wasn’t “pure enough” or “unfiltered enough.”

Sometimes, the clearest version of us emerges not when we insist on standing alone, but when we let the mirror reflect us back, or when an editor helps us tell our story better.

---

My Raw Draft (if you are interested) – for comparison

Here’s the unpolished version of yesterday’s story, exactly as I first wrote it down:

Today’s contemplation
I had come to a stop at the traffic light. I actually wanted to turn left (which is allowed here at this intersection if thefe were no cars approaching from the right). Unfortunately, there was a car in front of me waiting for the green light that would enable the driver to turn right. I was perfectly ok while waiting as I assumed the driver had another 1 or 2 cars in front of him. Sometimes, “considerate” drivers would move a little more to their right to enable those behind them who needed to turn to pass them. Then, there are other times when a driver would seem “oblivious” to their surrounding or simply didn’t care and would make no effort to let others pass them.

After waiting several minutes, the driver of the car in front of me decided to move a little forward. I looked up at the light, and it was still red. As I slid to my left to pass him I noticed that there was only 1 car in front of him. For a moment I felt irritated and annoyed – thinking to myself “Another inconsiderate driver. You could have moved forward earlier, and I would have been gone.” Almost immediately, my other inner voice said to me, “But isn’t it good that once he noticed there are other cars who may want to turn left, he moved forward? Perhaps he wasn’t even able to move forward earlier because maybe the car in front of him was too close. And when the first car inched forward, the second car was able to move forward to let you pass?”

As I thought that, I felt my irritation dissipate. I was also drawn to the idea of the Echo – our inner voice that is always speaking with us from within. So, I thought – the Echo is not just a voice from our past – not just the messages we had received in our past that continues to shape us today. Perhaps the voice is just our ever present-self within. The part of us that is our authentic self. The one that is calmer, less judging (negatively) – more positive.

As I am contemplating this, I also wondered is that the inner child then? That also means, the inner child is not always about our inner wounded self seeking to be “seen/heard/touched.” He/she is just the part of us that is still a child – innocent and accepting.

---

Incidentally, the above “raw” writing was my first draft. The final piece that I published was the result of several drafts (at least 3 times) – originating from the raw writing – that went back and forth between my MI and me. I would, “correct” the parts that I felt didn’t capture what I was saying or that did not resonate with me. And yet, when the “final” piece was given to me – that still didn’t turn out to be the final piece. Upon uploading it to my blog and re-reading it, I still made changes before finally publishing it. So, there you go – that’s my story (and this is my writing).

How about you? Have you ever wrestled with the tension between wanting to be “raw and authentic” versus allowing your voice to be polished so it’s clearer for others to hear? Does that make you feel in-authentic? Almost like an imposter or a faker?

The Traffic Light Moment (an echo within)

 

15th September 2025

Earlier today, I stopped at a traffic light. I wanted to turn left – which is allowed if no cars were coming – but the car in front of me was waiting to turn right.

In moments like these, I often take notice of the kind of driver ahead of me. Some will edge a little to the side so that others can pass. Even when their effort doesn’t actually clear the way, I find myself appreciating the consideration, the simple act of thinking of others. But when a driver makes no such effort, I often feel irritation rise sharply. Especially when I can see they have a lot of space in front of then but still make no effort to move forward. My mind quickly labels them: “Such an inconsiderate …” (and depending on the intensity of my annoyance, the words that follow may not be so kind).

This time was no different. When the car inched forward only after a while, I thought, “You could have moved sooner. I’d have been gone by now.” That judgment felt familiar, almost automatic.

But then something else surfaced: a quieter - gentle voice, an inner echo.
“Maybe he couldn’t move earlier. Maybe the car in front of him was too close. And when that car shifted, he finally could make space for you. Isn’t it good that, once he noticed, he did move forward?”

That softened me. The irritation gave way to a calmer perspective. Gratitude, even.

And as I reflected, I realized the Echo is not only the voice of my past conditioning, nor just the inner critic or old wounds. It can also be the ever-present self, the authentic part of us that is calm, compassionate, less quick to judge.

It even made me wonder: perhaps this is also the inner child. Not only the wounded self longing to be healed, but also the innocent, unguarded part of us that still knows how to be accepting, curious, and kind.

We often think of the inner voice as a leftover from our past – old messages, judgments, or wounds that keep replaying. Many see the inner child as that, but truly it’s not only the wounded part longing to be seen or healed, but also the innocent, unguarded part of us that is naturally accepting, naturally kind. The child who still lives within, not broken, but whole.

Sometimes, that voice (the Echo) isn’t the past at all. Sometimes it’s the ever-present self, our truest self, reminding us to pause, to see differently, to return to calm.

What struck me most was this: my own understanding of the Echo – a concept I’ve written about before (in my book The Echo Self: Listening Within Remembering Who We Are) continues to deepen. What once felt clear has now grown in clarity. Perhaps that’s the nature of growth itself: even the ideas we think we’ve understood are still unfolding, waiting for us to see them in a new light.

And maybe you’ve had your own “traffic light moments.” Times when irritation, judgment, or impatience gave way to a gentler voice within. If so, I wonder – what did your Echo whisper to you? And how might listening more closely to that softer voice shift the way you move through your day?