I have gathered everything from May below.

What exists right now

On YouTube

Recent May reflections, along with a new free short audio series: Things People Don’t Say

Things People Don’t Say: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOG2XAxlnTvhhRvajkD1pEM8j1IduDtYt

An update about my work:

May reflections:

On Spotify

These free reflections are also available on Spotify.

On Gumroad

The second episode free preview from Spirituality vs Religion series plus two new Soul Series episodes.

Spirituality vs Religion: Episode 2 (The First Crack and The First Connection) Preview: reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/SvsR2-preview

reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/soul-series-21

reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/soul-series-22

More will quietly find its way here through June.

I kept noticing this in different places: in things I watched, in the audios I recorded, and sometimes just in thoughts that stayed longer than they should have. Nothing visible outside, but inside, a lot of fixed understanding felt a little less fixed. And maybe some months are just like that. You do not arrive at new conclusions. You simply stop feeling fully convinced by the old ones.

I have gathered everything from April below.

What exists right now

On YouTube

Recent April reflections, along with a new free short audio series: When Life Feels Heavy

When Life Feels Heavy: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOG2XAxlnTviAZUxcCzOBwySm6hy75gxb&si=2WamBs81TMPPyMHc

April reflections:

On Spotify

These free reflections are also available on Spotify.

On Gumroad

The complete What Stopped Feeling Real series plus two new Soul Series episodes.

reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/what-stopped-feeling-real-complete-series (All episodes are also available individually)

reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/soul-series-19

reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/soul-series-20

More will quietly find its way here through May.

A wave rises in the water. For a while it has a shape. You can point to it and say, “That is a wave.” But eventually it falls back into the ocean. The shape disappears, but the water is still there. The wave was never separate from the water. It was simply water in a different shape for a while. The moment is quiet in the show, but the idea stayed with me long after the episode ended.

We often think about life in terms of clear beginnings and endings. Something starts, something grows, something finishes. We mark phases and try to understand what they meant. But the wave metaphor suggests something slightly different.

Many parts of life simply take shape for a while. A role, a phase, a version of ourselves, or even a way of living that feels very defined for a period of time. We can point to it and say, “This is what it is.” And then slowly the shape changes. Not always because something went wrong. Sometimes it changes simply because movement is natural.

Watching that scene made me notice how much effort we spend trying to hold things in place. We want moments to stay meaningful. We want identities to remain consistent. We want the version of life we understand to keep its form. Maybe that is where most of the resistance comes from, not from change itself, but from our attachment to the shape we have grown used to. But the wave does not resist returning to the ocean. It simply becomes water again.

Maybe many parts of life work like that. Something takes shape for a while. It matters. It teaches something. And then it moves into a different form. Nothing is lost. It has simply changed form. That idea feels strangely calming. It suggests that meaning does not disappear when something shifts. The shape may fade, but the substance remains. And maybe understanding that makes it easier to let certain moments move on, without needing them to stay the same.

A similar thought appears in Episode 9 of my Spirituality vs Religion audio series, where I reflect on the difference between what takes form on the outside and what remains steady within.

Subscribe if this kind of reflection resonates with you.

The show keeps moving back and forth between perspectives. The same moment looks slightly different depending on who is telling it. What one person sees as the truth, the other experiences in a completely different way: small details shift, the tone changes, even the intention behind the same action feels different.

It made me notice how easily we settle into our own version of events. We remember conversations in a way that makes sense to us. Certain details stay sharp in our memory while others quietly fade away. Sometimes we fill in the gaps without even realizing it. Slowly, the way we remember something becomes the story we carry forward. And over time, that story begins to feel complete. The more we repeat it, the more certain it feels.

But watching the same situation unfold from different perspectives made it clear that most experiences are not that simple. What feels obvious from one side can look completely different from another. This does not mean anyone is lying. It simply means that each person is standing in a different place while looking at the same moment. And that place shapes what they see.

The more the story moved between perspectives, the more I noticed how much we rely on the version that feels most natural to us. We explain events in a way that keeps things consistent. We explain people in a way that feels understandable. And over time, we explain ourselves in a way that feels stable. That version becomes familiar.

But consistency is not always the same as truth. Sometimes it is simply the version we have repeated the longest. That thought stayed with me after the series ended.

Not every story needs to be resolved immediately. Not every experience needs a final explanation. Sometimes it is enough to acknowledge that what we see is only one angle of a larger moment. And maybe remembering that creates a little more space for understanding different perspectives.

A similar reflection appears in my Soul Series episode The Mirror of Reality, where I speak about how certain moments reveal what is actually true, beyond what we assume.

Subscribe if this kind of reflection resonates with you.

They talk about money. They talk about the risk. They talk about whether it makes sense at this stage of their lives. They are not young and reckless. They understand responsibility. They know that if they start something, it will require time, effort, and patience. They weigh all the pros and cons before taking any step further. And most importantly, they are building on a childhood dream, even though they are all individually caught up in their work and personal lives.

What stayed with me in that scene was the seriousness of the decision. No one is offering them the opportunity. No one is confirming that it is the right time. They are simply considering whether they want to build something of their own. And that it is them who make that choice, not their family and not their circumstances.

Watching that conversation made me notice how often we imagine work unfolding differently. We picture moments where something shifts suddenly. Someone notices. Something opens. Recognition arrives and the path becomes clearer.

But most building does not begin like that. It usually begins quietly, with uncertainty sitting at the same table as the idea. That comfort with uncertainty is often the first step toward dreams that seem larger than your reality in the beginning.

The women in that scene are not chasing visibility. They are choosing responsibility. They are deciding that if something is worth building, it may have to begin before anyone else sees the value. There is something very grounded about that kind of decision. It is not romantic, and it does not promise quick results. It simply asks whether you are willing to continue even without immediate confirmation.

Watching that scene made me see ambition a little differently. Sometimes it is not about waiting for the right moment to appear. It is simply about deciding that something is worth beginning.

This thought also appears in my book 40 Lessons I Lived Through, where I share reflections gathered across different stages of life.

Subscribe if this kind of reflection resonates with you.

I recently finished watching Only Murders in the Building, and what stayed with me had nothing to do with the murder mystery, although I am a murder mystery fan. It was the way three strangers slowly became close without ever having a dramatic bonding moment.

They did not confess their deepest fears to each other in the beginning. Instead, they were awkward, guarded, from different generations, and with completely different personalities. They started meeting because they were investigating something together, not because they felt emotionally connected.

They kept showing up in hallways, in apartments, sometimes around a table covered in clues. At times, they disagreed and misunderstood each other. They made dry jokes, basically irritated one another. And then they met again the next day. There was no turning point where everything suddenly became meaningful, and yet something steady was forming.

While watching it, I realized how much I have equated intimacy with intensity. Somewhere along the way, I began believing that if something does not feel emotionally deep, if there is no visible breakthrough, if we are not processing something significant, then maybe the connection is surface level. I had quietly assumed that depth must feel heavy.

But this trio built something different. Their closeness did not come from emotional excavation. It came from shared focus, repetition, from choosing to meet again. They were involved in something together, and that involvement created attachment without ever demanding it.

It made me question what I expect from adult relationships. Maybe closeness does not always need to feel intense to be real. Maybe it does not need constant emotional validation to stay alive. Maybe companionship grows through rhythm more than intensity. There is something very mature about that kind of bond. It does not demand attention. It does not try to define itself. It simply strengthens because people continue to show up in the same space.

Intensity is kinda loud. It does feel significant in the moment, and even convinces you that something important is happening. But rhythm is quieter, it builds slowly, and stays longer.

This month, I am noticing that steadiness does not mean distance. Calm does not mean disconnection. Not every meaningful connection has to feel deep in order to be strong.

Some bonds are not dramatic. They are practiced. And maybe that is enough.

The Morning Walkers in my Soul Series carries a similar thread about daily showing up. I think I understand that rhythm a little differently now.

Subscribe if this kind of reflection resonates with you.

Additional note about The Reflective Audio Room for April:

Registrations are currently open for the upcoming Reflective Audio Room.

This month’s theme is: When You Quietly Become Responsible for Everything

A quiet pattern many of us recognise only after we are already carrying too much.

The group is small (maximum five women), and the room is designed for calm reflection rather than advice or problem-solving. If you’ve been considering joining, you can find the details here: reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/the-reflective-audio-room

Generally I don’t explode easily or want to shout, but my tone sharpens in moments like these. My reaction is sometimes faster than my wisdom. My voice comes out faster than my brain can process. And I justify it because my feelings are valid. And they are. But even when my feelings are valid and true, the speed and tone of them coming out of my mouth is not the same truth as my feelings. Sometimes I just express to release already built tension due to many other previous events. And honestly the release is just a release and not communication. Sometimes I don’t even know after exploding why I did explode.

But that isn’t an excuse, even if sometimes it feels like one. Of course my feelings can be real, but they can still wait a bit. Not that they need to change, but perhaps they need a clean up before they make an appearance. It’s not that feeling irritated has to be suppressed, it’s just about timing. I noticed how just delaying that response by even a few breaths makes my body posture better. My shoulders don’t feel stiff, my throat isn’t dry, my eyebrows aren’t zig zaggy, my voice lowers and my words become clearer and cleaner. The context doesn’t change, but the change in delivery makes all the difference. I realized what I need is not silence. What I need is to regulate how I express.

So, for the next few weeks, I am practicing a pause. Whenever I feel that voice rising, I tell it to wait till I take three deep breaths, and it allows me to, because it knows I am not suppressing it. I am just asking for a moment. And even after that sometimes I slip, but I also repair myself within the same hour. I don’t defend myself, neither do I justify myself, nor do I pretend I didn’t lose it. I just accept that I did slip and I promise myself I will do better next time. I am not perfect and I have no idea if I can ever be, but what I can do is practice and that’s enough.

This feels like another small crossing, similar to the phase of my life from where The Book of Thresholds was written, at a moment of internal crossing.

Subscribe if this kind of reflection resonates with you.

Additional note about The Reflective Audio Room for April:

Registrations open for the next Reflective Audio Room on April 19.

This is a small, audio-only space where we spend an hour looking at one pattern honestly and calmly. It’s not therapy, and it’s not a space for advice exchange. The intention is simply to observe a pattern clearly, without fixing it or explaining it away.

The upcoming theme is ‘When You Quietly Become Responsible for Everything’

Exploring the pattern of over-functioning in everyday life and relationships. Many of us recognise this pattern only after we are already exhausted. We step in first, manage emotional tone, anticipate needs, hold more so things stay stable. Often no one explicitly asked us to, but over time it quietly became our role.

In the room, we won’t try to fix the pattern, but we’ll simply observe where it appears and what it costs. Sometimes awareness alone changes how automatic something feels.

The group is intentionally small (maximum five participants) so the space stays calm and reflective. If you’d like to join, you can find the details and registration link here: reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/the-reflective-audio-room

It’s not that I was looking for huge applause or words of praise. I was just looking for some resonance, for someone to say or feel yes, I see you, I know what you mean. Because that response could have been reciprocity for me. Sometimes when responses stay on the surface, I feel slightly separate from them and I don’t always know the right reaction to acknowledge. It’s not that I consider my words superior or that I am hurt. It’s just those surface layers feel separate from my inner world. I notice I scan people for depth. I want someone to catch that layer beneath the layer. And when that doesn’t happen, I do either of these two things. Either I simplify myself next time or I slightly withdraw myself from that environment. Maybe depth is a lonely frequency sometimes. But I prefer that instead of lowering my frequency most of the time. I am still working on that though.

This working on began when I realized I was unconsciously adjusting my tone depending on who seemed to understand. I was adding extra lines, extra explanations for words that actually don’t need explanation, making it easier for others to understand. But in that process I was not staying true to myself. It’s not that I keep myself in a cocoon if I don’t meet the depth I am at, but now I stay where I am even if it is not mirrored immediately. I wait. I am not scared to lose connections just because I am not being understood and that I should simplify to maintain connections. I neither harden nor soften anymore. I don’t over clarify. I stay and say what I feel as I feel without mincing my emotions. Yes, externally the reciprocity lacks most of the time, but my body responds better, far better. It’s relaxed, not overburdened or heavy. It just is. Like a steady body. And maybe that feels slightly alone, but that overburden does not collapse my body anymore and that’s a win for me.

And when I now know how this small shift in how I hold myself affects my body in a far more positive way, I know what I will do. I don’t dilute my writing to increase relatability. I don’t add emotional padding to my voice to make it easier to digest. I don’t lower my depth to accommodate connections. If someone meets me where I am, good. If not, my writing and my voice still stand. That’s the commitment I made to myself.

And from this commitment my Soul Series was born. It is spoken from processed depth, not from reaction. This space continues that practice.

I mean there are also days when I have graphs going up in all areas and the responses I have, and those days I feel like I am constantly swinging in the air on an invisible swing. And then there are days when I just want to do cold outreach to everyone, looking everywhere for breadcrumbs. And then there are the next days after those breadcrumb days when I feel completely foolish even imagining what I was thinking. It’s like on days when flow is slow, I feel like I should urgently push the flow and do something, take some initiative to increase it. And then there are days when I just avoid doing absolutely anything and name it as being a dignified take towards life. I notice how quickly my sense of authority shifts with the inflow. Why the inflow decides how much I feel authority in what I do?

So much dependency of myself on these things made me ask myself what kind of days am I living. Why do my swinging days depend on money and validation? Why does the inflow decide how much I feel authority in what I do? My work is my rhythm and rhythm decides the song, and I realized I was letting the response decide the rhythm instead. The adrenaline I feel was tied to the inflow. I was waiting for proof before I allowed myself to feel steady. That is what I noticed.

I can create even when no one’s watching. Because consistency is something that always brings me into rhythm. I never stop on days I don’t feel like working. I may work less or more but I keep up with my discipline, and yes some days have a swing and some are flat, but each day can still be consistent. Eventually when I followed this, I felt the shift. The shift is subtle but there is a shift. Yes consistency is sometimes boring, but it’s also less dramatic than swinging only on selected days. I am not chasing any proofs anymore, I am just being consistent and creating my craft. Whatever comes with it is bonus, and in return the small doubts drumroll party is quieter.

For me, stability in work has not come from inflow. It has come from repetition. I now have my daily working hours when I sit to create. I don’t waste my time in checking analytics, sales, or responses during those hours. I don’t keep strategizing every day. I make a plan and follow it. Yes there is still an impulse to check the stats, still an itch to be distracted, but I stay and I do what I have to do.

I have been in this content space for too long and I have done consistent writing and editing for months on months even when I didn’t feel like it. My editing work was built on repetition, not momentum.

Additional note about The Reflective Audio Room for March:
Registration closes March 10.
If this theme feels relevant, details are here: reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/the-reflective-audio-room

It is difficult for me to practice silence in situations like these, it has always been. But lately I have realized that silence has its own language, where you do not need to speak up yet it conveys the most accurate words. With words, I usually oscillate between softening or maybe pulling back or perhaps pushing or being fierce, but at times words misjudge the situation and in times like these the silence feels cleaner with a clean cut and zero external push. The push is still there, but that’s internal for me as I am still getting accustomed to this new tool. Silence is not a fancy tool, I would say, but it’s better than over explaining because when I am over explaining to someone I am more reassuring myself that I do have a point. And in all this hullaballoo I feel others miss the core point, as most of the time I am trying to explain yet regulating my tone to soften the blow, and in trying to achieve this balance I lose the point and the tone both. The art here for me is finding the right balance between silence and over explaining because neither works alone, as in withdrawal or pursuit. I am still learning when to move and when to stay.

This authority voices out when I don’t need a second message to stabilize myself or regulate myself through another explanation. I do not withhold warmth or softness or empathy, but I don’t chase clarity either. It is like holding my emotional temperature at a steady marker. When this temperature is regulated properly, my body feels calm, as in no clock is ticking, no exam is ending, no deadline is approaching, as in everything is just okay and at its right pace. There is no urgency of finishing this task and filing it as done, and there is no sadness over that loose thread. It’s like I know what I have to say irrespective of what response comes or not. It’s like I know where I have to regulate and then just let it be. It’s like my breath is steady and I am not a part of some race. Overall, everything feels stable and steady and reliable within the body.

And once I knew this and felt it in my body, I started craving that sensation every time I wanted to cross into coldness or chasing. I know neither will regulate me. And the time span when I figure out the right emotional temperature keeps decreasing with each attempt. I keep realizing when I want to send a second message, when I need to hold in, when I need to push, when I crossed the stable temperature and what burn I got, and I quietly note it for the next time when I can be more precise. Finding the right balance between passive silence and escalation is tricky. Yes, it feels very uncomfortable at first, like I am betraying my own rhythm. But my body replies differently when I cross that discomfort. It feels clean. And that begins with the body before it reaches my mind. And again, I notice I crave that sensation when the gap lessens between the impulse and the stable temperature.

What Love Is Not has been teaching me the difference between attachment and steadiness. I am still learning it here.

Additional note about The Reflective Audio Room for March:
This month’s theme is The Cost of Over-functioning.
It’s a small, intimate space for deeper reflection.
Registration closes March 10.
Details are here: reflectionsbyrashi.gumroad.com/l/the-reflective-audio-room