Looking into the Shadow – Part 2: What I Thought I Was Missing

 Yesterday, I got mad at my therapist.

(That was Part 1—you can read it here.)

Last night, I messed up with my kids.
(This is Part 2. You’re reading it now.)

This morning, I felt completely broken and lost.

Then I took a nap. And somehow… things seemed okay again.

I’m not fully back on my feet yet. But I did discover a few things about myself—things worth writing down before they quietly disappear. So this is me, taking notes.

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Part 2: What I Thought I Was Missing

Lately, I’ve realized that my biggest struggle might not actually be finding my life purpose. That question is too big, too abstract, to carry around all day.

What really gets me is something much more ordinary—and much heavier.

That drained, uneasy feeling at the end of the day when I’m exhausted, yet nothing I wanted to do actually got done.

Sound familiar?

What I’m really struggling with is time.

I wish I could press a pause button. Freeze everything exactly as it is.
So I wouldn’t age.
My kids wouldn’t grow up so fast.
My parents would stay healthy forever.

There’s a fear in me bigger than ghosts, snakes, or plane crashes.

It’s the fear of missing out.

Yes—that FOMO.

But what am I afraid of missing?

I’m afraid of getting older before I ever become financially independent.
Afraid I’ll run out of time before I even begin the things I’ve always dreamed of.
Afraid that day after day will pass, and I’ll still be standing in the same place—unchanged, unmoved.

There’s a constant tug-of-war inside me over how I spend my days.

I want to take care of my family—clean the house, cook meals, keep things running.
At the same time, I crave space to meditate, read spiritual books, study psychology, and sit quietly with myself.

But every time I try to sit down and meditate, my mind revolts.

The laundry.
The dishes.
The mess.

So I get up. I clean. I cook. I fix.

I can’t relax until everything else is “okay.”

And by the time it finally is… it’s late at night.

That’s when the nightly battle begins:
Should I go to bed early so I can wake up refreshed tomorrow?
Or stay up late and steal a little time for myself?

Every night feels like a negotiation I always lose. And I’m so tired of it.

Somewhere along the way, that frustration turned into self-blame.

I hated myself for never choosing me.
And without realizing it, I took it out on my kids.

Last night, I snapped at them—loudly.

They were helping me clean. One was washing the bathtub, the other messing around the way kids do—turning chores into play. Joyful. Noisy. A little messy.

And I broke.

Like a camel collapsing under one last straw, all the pressure I’d been carrying spilled out as anger.

At that moment, I saw my children as the reason I couldn’t live the life I wanted. A life where I could do what I loved and take care of them.

They didn’t understand why they were being scolded for trying to help.

That night, my son cried himself to sleep.
My daughter lay quietly under the blanket.

When I tried to hug her in the middle of the night, she turned away.

For the first time ever, I felt her pull back from me.

That hurt more than anything.

What was I doing to the people I love most?
What was I chasing, at the cost of this love?
Would I really be happy if I became successful, accomplished, admired—yet lost my children’s closeness?

That night, I felt like I failed at everything.

I wasn’t making money.
I wasn’t moving toward my dreams.
And I wasn’t being the mother I wanted to be.

So I prayed.

I asked God for guidance.

Should I put my family aside and focus on what I’m passionate about?
Or should I pause my dreams and devote myself fully to motherhood while my children are still young?

And again, the fear of missing out showed up.

What am I afraid of losing this time?

Every newsletter I read tells me to hustle. To focus. To build an audience, a platform, a personal brand. All of it takes time—a lot of time.

If I don’t start now, I’ll fall behind.
And maybe never catch up.

I realized something uncomfortable:
I was grieving the loss of something I’ve never even had.

At the same time, I remembered a book by an older female writer. She said the solution to suffering is simple—give up. Let go of what you want.

That idea terrified me.

Should I give up my dreams?

Then a line from a Mark Manson newsletter hit me hard:

“You can have anything you want in life.
You just can’t have everything you want.
The game of life is trade-offs.”

Trade-offs.

Did I really have to sacrifice one part of my life for another?
Wasn’t there a way to hold both?

Exhausted, I fell asleep and woke up at 4:50 a.m. for an online seminar about getting a book published.

I almost didn’t join.

I showed up convinced I might never publish a book.
Might never even write one.

So why was I so obsessed with becoming a published author?

Because I don’t want to die with the music still inside me.

I know there’s something in me—something unspoken, unfinished. I can feel it pressing against my heart.

And as long as it stays silent, I feel blocked from fully living.

The idea of giving up my dream made life feel empty.
But the idea of giving up my family felt devastating.

Could I live an ordinary life—with an unrealized dream—and still be okay?
Maybe a quiet kind of happiness is still happiness.

The seminar passed faster than I expected. And then a guest speaker, Nancy Levin, shared her story.

She talked openly about her life falling apart.

For years, she had been successful, polished, admired—wearing a carefully constructed mask. Then everything collapsed when her husband discovered her old journals and learned about an affair she’d had years earlier.

The life she had built shattered overnight.

In the aftermath, she began shadow work—facing the parts of herself she had always hidden. Especially the fear of being judged as “not good enough.”

By turning toward that shadow, she found her light.

She published the poems she wrote at her lowest point. And those poems touched people—not because they were perfect, but because they were honest.

Listening to her, something softened inside me.

Maybe what I want isn’t fame, money, or a title.
(Mind you, I wouldn’t reject them if they showed up.)

What I really want is to know myself.

To meet the parts of me I’ve avoided.
To integrate the shadow instead of running from it.

At the end of life, everything will feel like a dream anyway. So why does it matter whether, in that dream, I was rich or ordinary?

What matters is this:
Did I know myself?
Did I face my shadow?
Did I live honestly?

“Know thyself.”

Maybe that’s my real life’s work.

If that’s true, then maybe I don’t have to choose.

Maybe I can take care of my family and know myself—right here, in the ordinary moments.

In morning hugs.
In sudden anger.
In late-night conversations with my husband.

Each moment teaches me something—if I’m willing to look.

And maybe the secret isn’t time at all.

It’s courage.

So slow down, Trang.
Relax.
Life isn’t running away from you.

It’s waiting to be discovered.

You can have everything you want in life. The secret is that all of them don't come at one time. Trust in the process. Life unfolds beautifully if you let it does.

Hoa sakura nở sớm. Ảnh chụp ở chùa hôm nay 28/1/2026.

 

Thanks for reading Góc nhỏ ướp hương! 

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