A Reflection on A Perfect Christmas

A Perfect Christmas by Jose Mari Chan has always been close to my heart. This year, we sang it during our Christmas Carols or Kolęda in Polish at our church Christmas carol concert. It is a song filled with hope, longing, and the desire for love and togetherness.

This year, however, singing it felt different.

During rehearsals, I struggled to get through the song. Every lyric spoke directly to my heart, reminding me that for me, there is no longer a “perfect Christmas.” Not because of a lack of blessings but because someone I love deeply is missing. I lost my brother, and with him, a part of the Christmas I once knew.

Last Christmas, I longed for home and for family that felt so far away. This Christmas, the ache is deeper. It hurts to imagine the season without his presence, without his familiar greeting, without the simple but precious words, “Merry Christmas… I love you, Ate (big sister).” Those words now live quietly in my heart.

I am still grieving. There are moments when my heart aches deeply, longing for a hug I can no longer give or receive. In my humanity, I mourn what was lost. But in my faith, I hold on to what is eternal.

And yet, even with all the loss, I have also found peace peace in knowing that my brother is no longer struggling, no longer carrying the pain he once endured. I trust that he is now resting in God’s presence, reunited with my dad. I believe they are at peace, praying for us, watching over us especially over his children. This faith does not erase the pain, but it gently steadies my heart. It reminds me that love does not end with death; it is transformed by God’s grace.

I also believe that wherever he is now, he is still wishing me the best Christmas, ending it the way he always did with an “I love you.” This belief was especially close to my heart when he appeared in my dreams on the second day of Christmas a quiet reminder that love remains, even beyond this life.

Though I can no longer see my brother or hear his voice, I carry him with me in my prayers, in my memories, and in my heart. God reminds me that He is present in my grief, near in my sorrow, and faithful in every season.

I may never experience a “perfect” Christmas again by the world’s standards. But I am learning that a Christmas filled with faith, love, remembrance, and hope is still holy.

I love my brother deeply, and I trust that one day, by God’s promise, we will meet again. Until then, I walk forward with faith entrusting my grief to God and holding on to the hope of eternal life.

much love,

xo

Ai

✨Between Loss and Becoming✨

2025 was a defining year for me. It wasn’t an easy one, but a meaningful one.

I lost my brother, learned how to sit with grief, and had to navigate my emotions with patience, honesty, and courage. This year asked me to trust again: people, life, and my own strength to slow and with intention.

Also, I learned that I will no longer accept the bare minimum in any of my relationships. Loss sharpened my clarity: energy, presence, and honesty are precious, and I deserve depth, reciprocity, and care in every connection.

At the same time, 2025 marked a milestone as a mum. My daughter turned 18, and watching her grow into a well-rounded, independent, and deeply loving young woman reminded me of the growth I’ve invested in her and in myself. Seeing her confidence, compassion, and authenticity is a reminder that nurturing, patience, and presence truly matter.

This year was also a year of risk and learning in my young entrepreneurship life. I started a business I had no experience running, figuring things out one step at a time. Along the way, I discovered people I never expected would step up to support me and, conversely, those I thought would be there didn’t show up. It taught me so much about true support, loyalty, and the power of community. The process tested my patience and perseverance, but it also reminded me that growth often happens outside comfort zones and that taking risks can create new opportunities for learning and success.

All of these experiences reinforced my GROW 2025 vision: growth in resilience, relationships, authenticity, and purpose. Even in grief, uncertainty, and challenge, transformation is happening quietly, steadily, and powerfully.2025 wasn’t gentle, but it was honest. It stripped away what didn’t matter and highlighted what truly does. Some years don’t bring comfort, they bring depth. And that, too, is a gift.

How’s your 2025? Is it more of a gift or a loss?

 

My Year in Reflection: Learning the Art of Not Giving a F*ck

This year 2025, has been one of the most painful and eye-opening chapters of my life. I’ve been on flights I never imagined taking, especially the one where I lost my brother. Yes! I just lost my brother. It has been a month since (That deserves a different post. ).

Loss came in many forms, and each one forced me to sit with myself, face the truth, and grow in ways I didn’t ask for, but needed.

In the midst of all the grief, change, and emotional exhaustion, I started to understand something deeply: the art of not giving a f*ck.

Not in a way that shuts me off from the world, but in the way Mark Manson writes about it in his book The Subtle way of not giving a F*ck, recognizing that my energy, my love, my peace are limited, and only a few things truly deserve them.

And learning that has been humbling.

This year taught me that I don’t need to give parts of myself to everyone. That not every opinion deserves space in my head. That not every situation is worth breaking myself for. I learned to build boundaries like real ones. The kind that protect my spirit, my time, and my emotional health.

I learned that loving myself isn’t selfish. It’s necessary.

I learned that choosing myself isn’t abandonment. It’s strength.

I learned that the person I must care for the most… is me.

Through all the difficult goodbyes and quiet realizations, I found my way back to what truly matters, my inner core. My truth. My peace. My growth.

I’m still healing. I’m still learning. But I’m moving forward with a deeper sense of clarity about who I am, what I value, and what I will and will not accept in my life. And this time, I’m choosing me. This time, loudly, boldly, and without apology.

Here’s to honoring what matters, releasing what doesn’t, loving myself fully, and holding boundaries that protect my heart. 💛

Cheers,

xoAi

When Life Changes Faster Than the Nervous System Can Heal

Understanding Adjustment Disorder, grief, and the courage it takes to choose healing after life-altering change

In 2024, I was diagnosed with Adjustment Disorder. At first, the diagnosis felt unfamiliar and heavy, but over time it became a language. A way to understand what my mind and body had been trying to communicate for years.

As a psychologist myself, I can sense when something is shifting in my mind and body. I notice the subtle tensions, the racing thoughts, or the fatigue before they fully surface. When life changes faster than the nervous system can heal, these signals become essential clues—reminders that we need space, reflection, and care.

Adjustment Disorder is a stress-related mental health condition that occurs when the brain and nervous system struggle to adapt to significant life changes or prolonged emotional stress. It is not a personal failure. It is not weakness. It is the result of being human in the face of experiences that require deep and repeated adjustment.

When Life Changes Faster Than the Nervous System Can Adapt

My journey toward this diagnosis did not begin in one moment. It unfolded over time.

It began with a complete change of environment: moving to Poland and learning how to rebuild a sense of stability in a new country, culture, and rhythm of life. It continued while I was living far from home when my father died in a tragic accident. Grief experienced at a distance has a particular kind of loneliness that the body remembers.

Then also came motherhood. Giving birth to two children is not only a physical transformation but an emotional and psychological one. It demands constant adjustment, identity shifts, responsibility deepens, and the nervous system is asked to stay alert for long periods of time.

Each of these experiences required strength. And I survived them.

But survival does not mean the body forgets.

How Adjustment Disorder Shows Up

Adjustment Disorder often appears quietly. For me, it showed up as emotional exhaustion, heightened sensitivity, difficulty focusing, and a constant feeling of being on edge. My mind understood that life was moving forward, but my nervous system stayed in survival mode.

Recently, unresolved stress was triggered again by family circumstances and the untimely passing of my brother. Grief has a way of reopening stored pain. The nervous system does not distinguish between past and present loss. It responds to both as if they are happening now.

This is the reality of stress-related disorders: the brain learns to protect first and regulate later.

Choosing Healing Instead of Silence

I am not sharing this story to ask for sympathy. I am sharing it to normalize truth.

It is okay to say that life-changing events impact mental health. It is okay to admit that sometimes we are not okay — even when we appear strong, functional, and capable on the outside.

Seeking therapy was not a sign that I was breaking down. It was a conscious decision to take responsibility for my healing. Choosing support, learning how to regulate my nervous system, and allowing myself to process grief and change was one of the bravest decisions I have made.

What deserves more questioning is not therapy but the normalization of mental, emotional, and sexual abuse that pushes people to the edge of losing themselves in silence. Healing requires courage. Speaking requires courage. Ending cycles of harm requires courage.

What Healing Has Taught Me

Healing from Adjustment Disorder is not linear. It is not about returning to who I was before loss, before change, before grief. It is about becoming more aware, more grounded, and more compassionate with who I am now.

I have learned to listen to my body instead of judging it. To slow down without guilt. To set boundaries without apology. To understand that adjustment takes time especially when life alters you in ways no one prepares you for.

A Closing Reflection

It is okay not to be okay sometimes.

And asking for help is not weakness. It is self-respect.

Healing has also taught me something simple but powerful: kindness changes a lot, and it doesn’t cost much. We never fully know what someone is carrying, the losses they are grieving, the transitions they are navigating, or the quiet battles their nervous system is fighting every day.

A gentle word, patience, empathy, or simply choosing not to judge can make a real difference. Kindness does not fix everything, but it can soften the weight someone is carrying.

If this resonates with you, let this be a reminder: be kind to people. Be kind to yourself. You are not broken, you are responding to life. And healing is not a destination, but a relationship you build with yourself, one honest and compassionate step at a time.

Cheers to those struggling but still living...you are not alone. And to everyone, a gentle reminder: be kind...always.

 

Much love,

Aixo

 

A week in the Philippines...

 A week in the Philippines...

It was quick, heavy, but divine!

I flew home to attend my brothers’ funeral, to hold my mum, my brother, and the rest of my family for even just a moment.

Everything happened so fast that my heart is still catching up. There wasn’t enough time to fully digest what was happening. It’s just moments that felt both painful and precious.

But in the middle of the rush, the grief, and the quiet moments in between, I found something I’ve been asking God for a very long time: clarity.

It’s an answer that hurts… but it’s also an answer that brings peace. And deep down, I know that when God closes one door with pain, He is opening another with purpose.

This trip broke me a lot, but it also grounded me. And I’m choosing to believe that something better is on the way.