A letter to myself (A reflection and message of hope)

I believe it was in January of 2021 that I found my current therapist.

I lay there in December of 2020, alone on my birthday, and thought to myself, “I cannot be here again next year. If I come around next year and see myself in the same spot, I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

About eight months after I first started working with my therapist (I also decided to hire a life coach), I made the decision that would completely change my life—the decision that would, in just a few months, put me in that different place for my following birthday.

I separated from my husband.

I grew up in a Mormon fundamentalist church. Men were required to marry multiple women to reach the highest kingdom of heaven. Women were taught to do kegels as young as possible to prepare for the many children they were expected to have. Sexual assault and molestation were common. Narcissistic abuse, gaslighting, and emotional neglect were rampant.

And I was the good Mormon girl. I stayed away from coping with sex and drugs like some teens, and instead dove into reading the Book of Mormon cover to cover—many times. I went to every meeting, sat still in church, and prayed multiple times a day.

But I threw the good girl act away when I went for the “bad” boy at 17. I got married young, as was expected, but we didn’t follow the church’s guidelines. I hurt a lot of people by making that decision—and I lost a lot of people too.

I think that was my first true heartbreak.

Without going into detail, the marriage wasn’t healthy. We were two kids who got married too young, raised in an environment that was emotionally constipated. We were miserable.

So that December, after surviving the first year of COVID (on top of some fresh hurt), I finally realized that no one was going to come save me. And it was time I did something about it.

It’s wild to think that in just a few short months—finally having the right support—I was able to get out the door and walk into a new life.

Nine months and many therapy/coaching sessions later (after that horrible birthday), I separated from my husband. And just as a new life was born (crazy that it was nine months, right?), my old one had to fall apart.

I was moving into starting a business as a personal trainer, or maybe something deeper—like teaching embodiment. A fresh start.

In contrast, my relationships with my family began to deteriorate.

Two months after that initial conversation with my husband (which was surprisingly short, considering we had spent the past eight years together), I woke up in my new apartment with a new roommate—who would luckily become a best friend—and a new start at a new job, continuing my massage therapy career.

Three months into this new beginning, I was officially divorced. The cord was cut. The newness could really begin.

I participated in my first nude photoshoot, started taking dance classes, dyed my hair purple, shifted from coaching to learning online business management, and built a new massage clientele.

But by March, the break with my family deepened, and I stopped talking with some lifelong friends. With so much new pouring in, people would look me up and down and say, “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

By summer—a year after splitting from my ex—I was dancing at raves, making new friends, attending concerts, volunteering in the community. I was learning about life outside everything I had ever known by fully immersing myself in it.

I had sex with the second man ever in my life—an end to a beautiful summer where I finally felt alive again. But the loss hit me like a truck. That man broke my heart open, and I saw everything clearly:

My entire upbringing, my marriage, my lifelong relationships—were grown out of abuse. He mirrored it so perfectly. And despite who he was, I’ll forever be grateful he walked into my life. He showed me what was distorted. That clarity was a gift—one that allowed me to lean into healthier love later on.

After that, no matter where I looked, I saw my world falling apart—because I realized what I was told was love, was actually abuse.

That only being allowed to share how I felt if I had a good enough explanation for feeling something at all, the majority of times shutting my hurt down and swallowing it—wasn’t support.

That being isolated from people who could help me wasn’t safety.


That receiving affection one moment and being deprived of it the next wasn’t love.


That being told “This didn’t happen,” “I don’t remember,” “You’re making this out to be something it wasn’t” wasn’t validation.


That waiting to be told what I was allowed to believe wasn’t acceptance, and having to profusely defend myself when I did have my own opinion wasn’t encouragement.

That fearing touch from another person wasn’t a sign of healthy affection.

That literally having to ask family to show interest in my life, only to walk away feeling like an idiot for sharing my heart, wasn’t actually a safe space.

That being diagnosed with PTSD, C-PTSD, anxiety, depression, bipolar II disorder, binge-eating disorder, having migraines, stomach issues, and panic attacks—were signs of emotional neglect and trauma, not a healthy childhood.

A little over a year after starting over—previously feeling on top of the world—I crash-landed. It was truly shattering for me.

I lost weight, broke out in the worst cystic acne of my life, all over my face, neck and back, and had intense PTSD flashbacks. My system was in total overwhelm.

But I kept going. I danced, I modeled, I expressed myself. I stayed in therapy. I got the support I needed. I kept going.

I started expanding my virtual assistant business, gaining expertise in running an online space. A new business idea was hatching. Again, I kept going.

Relationships came and went. Intimacy came and went. Hurt and emotional abuse came and went. But I got better at recognizing gaslighting. I got good at walking away from unhealthy relationships. I also lost people I loved when they walked away from me.

I learned that every relationship uncovered deeper parts of me—parts I had locked away. I began to detach more from the people around me—sometimes in a healthy way, sometimes not. It was trial and error. I focused more on building safety within myself and my body.

You’d think it wouldn’t go deeper than that. But it did.

Two years after I first started over, I uncovered shadow work: truly facing the parts of yourself you hide—even from yourself. The parts you’ve deeply shamed and hated, and integrating them just as you would the prettier parts.
I also think it was around this time that I understood that I had been sexually assaulted, but I hadn’t had the understanding before this point (Google sexual coercion if you don’t know what this is).

This broke me open again. I felt like I didn’t know how many more hits I could take.

I saw how deeply PTSD and C-PTSD haunted my life, and I had to address how I was managing it.

I felt like I had to lose that bright, bubbly, shiny version of me.

The purple hair turned to brown, then to black.

I chopped it short. I dove into the shadow.

By January 2024, after a hard autumn and start to winter, I found my spark again—in Mexico. I realized there was a girl in me who was charming, loved, whole. Who had something bigger to offer than just herself. Perhaps it was because I had learned to surrender, that this gift came to me like a light switch in the night.

Almost overnight, my signature program, Concept of Self, was born.

I came home on fire. I developed my first beta coaching program and took on my first clients.

They saw results immediately.

I was on top of the world. I let this version of me unfold—the one who wanted connection, friends, and love. I wanted to experience life again. That shiny, curious, hopeful girl began to re-integrate with the dark feminine I had embodied. Still hesitant, still cautious—but grounded this time.

And again, the third summer of my new life, still quite a baby, I started to lose myself. Another initiation.

But this time, it was different.

This time, I was present with it.

This time, I knew the process.

This time, I knew I would be okay.

By winter—three years after my divorce—I hit another huge rock bottom. Another loss. I asked myself, “How did I get here again? After everything I’ve been through?”

But despite the exhaustion, I let myself have the process I now knew by heart. I stayed present with my grief, immersed in its darkness—and within a month, I was back on my feet.

Quicker. Stronger.

I knew I had what it took to go through it again. My self-confidence was only growing.

It’s only been a couple months since then. This summer will mark just four years since I started my life over. Just four years.

And now, when I look in the mirror—it’s different.

I see a woman now. Not a girl.

I see someone powerful, radiant, confident, and strong.

I understand now that this is the process: an upward spiral. Even when we circle back, we learn more deeply each time. We come back wiser.

But the biggest takeaway I can share—why I’ve written all this down—is this:

When I notice myself repeating something and my body says, “We’ve been here before,”

I don’t say, “Learn your lesson already. What are you doing here?”

I say:

Thank you.

Thank you for a chance to love myself more deeply again.

Thank you for the opportunity to prove that, despite being told I’d always be inadequate—I’m actually everything I need.

I’m capable of healing.

I’m capable of strength.

I’m capable of change.

The core lesson was never “Why do I keep choosing relationships like this?” or “When will I feel safe to express myself?” or “If I have more symptoms, I must be doing something wrong.”

The lesson is this:

Tora, how can you not see you’ve always been enough?

You’ve always done everything required to pull through.

You’ve always examined your wounds and asked, “What can I do differently next time?”

You’ve always been exactly who you needed to be.

That’s the real lesson I’ve been trying to receive.

This spiral of healing was never about becoming enough.

It was about remembering—

I was never incomplete to begin with.

So if you’ve made it this far, please take this with you:

Whatever you’ve been chasing, you’ve had it the whole time.

That’s what the lesson always was.