“The best is yet to be.” – Robert Browning
There’s something about anniversaries that sneaks up on the soul.
Sometimes they arrive with balloons and cake, celebration in the air.
Sometimes they come quietly, pressing into your chest like a hidden bruise.
And sometimes—if you let them—they crack you wide open and help you breathe again.
In 2016, I was approaching an anniversary that held far more weight than any birthday or holiday. It marked 21 years since I tried to end my life. Twenty-one years since the darkest, loneliest moment I’ve ever known.
And here’s the irony: in the world’s eyes, 21 is supposed to be the age of celebration. Legal drinks. Freedom. Adulthood. A bright threshold into “real life.”
But for me, 21 was when I began to unravel.
Back then, I met someone I trusted—someone who, at the time, seemed like a friend. They told me I came from an abusive family. That conversation, that moment, shook the ground under me. It was like hearing your reflection lie to you—suddenly I couldn’t tell what was real, or safe, or mine. That seed of doubt grew wild, and so did the chaos. And before I could make sense of it, I was drowning in pain and confusion.
Fast forward to 2015—20 years after the attempt. I needed to do something to acknowledge it. Not a party. Not a cry-fest. I just needed stillness.
I chose Santa Barbara, a quiet monastery tucked into the Montecito hills. The moment I arrived, something inside me exhaled. The space held peace in a way I hadn’t realized I craved. No noise. No demands. Just earth and sky and silence.
The monks were gentle, their presence like trees—steady, rooted. I still remember how the kitchen sink sputtered unexpectedly and sprayed my wristwatch. I smiled at the symbolism. Time—always slipping, always messy. A part of me wished I could turn back the clock, pause it right before everything began to fall apart. But of course, we can’t.
That weekend, Easter Sunday coincided with my anniversary. Resurrection and remembrance all wrapped in one. A poetic, almost sacred alignment. I spent most of my time there walking slowly through the grounds, sipping tea at little wooden stations, breathing in eucalyptus and jasmine. The air was thick with reverence and softness. It wrapped around me like a whisper.
There was a labyrinth nestled among trees, the kind where every twist and turn mirrors your own journey inward. I walked it barefoot. Slowly.
There was no TV, just a small library filled with quiet stories and old souls. There was a chapel where light slanted through stained glass, warm and golden on the floor. Everything about that space was gently holy.
And in that stillness, a question rose up like a fragile bubble:
What has my life become because I stayed?
Before I left for the monastery, my friend Kim had told me about a man she heard on the radio. He had also survived a suicide attempt—and, like me, was marking 21 years. He celebrated by writing down 100 things he was grateful for in the years since.
So, I brought that idea with me.I began my list slowly, tea in hand, the mountains watching me like quiet sentinels. The first few entries were small:
But soon, the list began to carry weight. Memory. Warmth. Meaning.
Most of the items were moments. Not achievements. Not milestones society might clap for. But tender threads in the fabric of my life.
So many of them centered around my niece and nephews—our “special days” full of messy art projects, flour-dusted baking adventures, and handmade lemonade stands. They were my brightest lights. Their giggles, their tiny hands tugging mine, their imaginative questions that made me believe in magic again.
And then, it hit me.
If I had succeeded in leaving this world that day…
I never would have met them.
Never heard their voices or wiped their tears or watched them grow.
I would’ve missed everything.
That realization cracked something open in me.
There is a unique kind of grief that comes with recognizing what you almost missed. But there is also a fierce, bone-deep gratitude that follows.
I kept writing.
More memories. More joys.
Unexpected blessings. Quiet miracles.
And somewhere between line 47 and 88, I realized something else:
My pain had given birth to my purpose.
Without that experience—the one I used to resent—I never would have become the life coach I am today. I wouldn’t have had the depth of empathy I now offer to those navigating their own darkness.
I’ve worked with people who’ve lost children and now want to build something in their honor. People who’ve emerged from soul-draining marriages and are tentatively stepping toward love again. People who are stuck, tired, grieving, and don’t know how to move forward.
I help them. Not because I have all the answers. But because I understand.
That list reminded me: the deepest wounds can become the richest soil.
If you’re facing an anniversary of your own—something tender, raw, complicated—I want you to know that you’re not alone. Whether it’s the day you lost someone, or the day a dream ended, or the date of a diagnosis, it matters. It deserves to be held with care.
And maybe, just maybe, there’s a thread of beauty hidden inside the pain.
So here’s my invitation:
Make your list.
100 things you’ve loved, experienced, survived, or created since that moment.
Big things, small things. Silly things. Sacred things.
Write them all.
And then celebrate. Light a candle. Eat the cake. Pop the champagne. You made it.
You’re still here.
And that is everything.
Because despite everything you’ve been through—
The best really is yet to be.
Action Nibbles (For Your Beautiful Soul):
- Got an anniversary coming up? Whether joyful or heavy, try making a list of 100 things you’ve lived through or loved since that moment.
- Don’t worry if you can’t hit 100 in one sitting. Start with five. Let the list find you.
- Light a candle. Sip tea. Let the memories come gently.
- Honor your life. You’re here for a reason.
- And if it feels right—get some cake and celebrate. Quietly or loudly. Alone or with others. Celebrate you.
Clarity Cookies 
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