letting go of yesterday
Memories don’t vanish, but they soften—like jagged glass turned smooth by the tide.
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The last rays of the setting sun stretched out, slowly pulling the night closer. I stood there, perched on some quiet edge, staring out at a city that mirrored my mood—still, calm, holding its breath.
Behind me was the heavy mess of today.
The mistakes, the regrets.
Fading, finally, like shadows losing their grip on the light.
The evening sun brushed against my face, warm. Soft. Like a quiet farewell. An ending, if I wanted it. And with each beat of my heart, things began to settle down.
The noise in my head wasn’t so loud anymore. Those once chaotic memories were shifting, falling into some kind of order, like a broken song finding its rhythm again.
I could feel it—deep, subtle—a hum inside.
It wasn’t loud, but it was there. A melody built on forgiveness, stitched together with acceptance, and laced with a thin thread of hope.
The city was wide awake, but I wasn’t lost in it.
Not anymore.
The weight that had dragged me down for so long was lifting, little by little. And in that peaceful quiet, in the glow of the setting sun, I realized the chaos hadn’t disappeared.
It wasn’t erased, not really.
But it had finally found its place in the orchestra of my life.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
Lost in thought, I wandered through the landmarks of my past.
The old coffee shop where promises hung in the air but never touched down. The park bench that soaked up our laughter, our tears, and those deep talks about the future. That street corner, where goodbyes were whispered like secrets, leaving behind scars that felt permanent.
But now, as I looked over the city, something had shifted.
Those scenes didn’t sting like they used to. They weren’t soaked in bitterness or regret. There was a softness, a gentler tone, like time had smoothed out their sharp edges. Like sea glass, once jagged, now polished by the waves.
The breeze picked up, carrying with it, a feeling of freshness that matched the faint scent of blooming flowers perfectly.
I closed my eyes, letting the wind brush against me, as if it were an old friend offering quiet comfort. Every gust had a story to tell—of resilience, of battles that weren’t just survived but won. Of lessons that didn’t break me, but shaped me.
With each memory, the city changed.
Those streets that once felt heavy, reflecting my sorrow, now felt different. There was nostalgia in the air. Buildings that once loomed over my darkest moments now seemed more like silent sentinels—watching over the shifting tides of my life.
I realized then: My story wasn’t one of endless pain. It was about becoming.
Each tear, every setback, every bit of heartbreak had been a carving tool, hollowing out space for strength. A space for love and light to finally move in.
The fading light stretched across the sky, painting it with soft strokes as I stood on the edge of the escarpment, staring out at the quiet city below.
It was draped in twilight, half-hidden, like a secret waiting to be told. From up here, everything seemed still, unaware of the storm of thoughts swirling in my head.
The view stretched out before me like a map of my life.
Every street, every rooftop, was a piece of my story. The places where loneliness hit hard, where I craved my father’s attention but found none. The empty corners where my mother’s voice should have been. The exact spots where promises were exchanged, then shattered by betrayal.
Each building, each outline, wasn’t just stone and brick.
It was a memory. A scar.
A reminder of the pain I thought I’d buried.
But now, from this height, they didn’t seem so random.
They were connected. Every wound, every heartbreak, led to this moment. To me standing here, seeing it all with new eyes.
In the soft evening glow, something shifted. The hurt didn’t feel as sharp. The shadows that used to hang over me weren’t so dark. They were part of the journey. A map of the battles fought and the lessons learned.
I couldn’t say I was proud of every choice, but I could see now how it all fit together.
Up here, looking down on it all, it felt different.
The chaos of my past wasn’t a tangled mess—it was a path.
Twisted, sure, but leading me here.
The city below was like the web of my life—complicated, messy, but with a strange kind of order I hadn’t seen before.
As the sun finally sank behind the horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden light, I felt something shift inside me, too. A quiet warmth. A new beginning.
The city might still hold all my memories, but I wasn’t stuck in them anymore.
I stood there, taking it all in.
The cool air, the ending day, the clarity that had been missing for so long.
Below me was everything I’d been through, but up here, I was ready to move forward.
Stronger. Clearer.
Ready to step into whatever came next, carrying the lessons, but no longer weighed down by them.
As the city below slowly settled into the night—faint car horns, distant murmurs, the hum of life winding down—I felt grounded. I was a mosaic, each broken piece contributing to the whole.
Not perfect, but complete.
Built from joy and heartbreak, loss and resilience.
As the night fell, so did I, with a sense of purpose that pulsed through me. Not running, not hiding. Just ready. Ready to move forward. Ready to build from the wreckage, stronger than before.
Each street below was its own metaphor.
The busy, wide avenues were the high-energy moments—packed with laughter, celebrations, and the easy flow of life.
But the narrow, dimly lit alleys held the weight of my struggles, my doubts, the rough patches where uncertainty took the wheel. Yet now, instead of fearing those dark turns, I saw them as necessary stops that made the whole journey meaningful.
People moved through the city like mirrors of my own story.
The confident stride of the professional, the commuter running late, the dreamer wandering slowly—all of them had their own scars. They weren’t just going about their day; they were carrying stories, unseen but heavy.
Just like me.
Every step, every breath they took spoke of battles faced, lessons learned.
Quiet resilience lived in every movement.
These weren’t just strangers. They were warriors in disguise.
We all were.
Each of us dragging the weight of our personal worlds, yet showing up.
Scars worn like badges. Our struggles weren’t broadcast for everyone to see, but they were written in how we moved through the day, how we faced what came next.
As the city’s rhythm grew louder, I felt pulled in.
No longer an outsider, I became part of this pulsing, living thing. The faces, the noise, the energy—it all mirrored the ups and downs of my own journey.
Strength didn’t come from dodging life’s punches.
It came from stepping into the ring, taking the hits, and rising again.
With every glance, every step, I felt more connected to the city and its soul. No skyscraper too tall, no alley too narrow. They were all just pieces of a bigger puzzle, just like my victories and stumbles.
I didn’t just exist here—I belonged.
Not as a passing face in the crowd, but as a force.
A survivor.
A beacon of quiet strength, ready to shine brighter, ready to inspire.
The moment I embraced self-realization wasn’t just a new chapter—it was a whole new book. And guess what? I was the author this time. Ready to scribble out my own path, my own narrative, with a fresh dose of hope and grit.
This journey is mine.
No one else’s.
And it’s only just beginning.
Each sunrise felt different now.
Crisp.
Full of potential.
Blank pages just waiting for the ink of my experiences to spill across them, wild and unapologetic. Every day arrived with new adventures, unlearned lessons, untouched horizons.
And I was ready. Pen in hand. To scribble, to scrawl, to embrace it all.
There’s power in taking control of your story, you know?
Before, I let my past hijack the script. I handed over the reins and let it shade my life with regret, loss, and all the things I thought I couldn’t escape.
But not anymore. Now, I grip the quill. I choose the colors. I’m crafting something rich—a tale layered with love, loss, wisdom, and transformation.
Setbacks, yeah, they’re part of the plot. Hurdles, absolutely. Tears, they water the ground I grow from. And laughter is the music that keeps the story alive.
Every single moment matters.
It all weaves together, a narrative of strength, stitched from both joy and pain. And that’s how I got here. To this very point.
And listen—you, my friend, you’ve got a story, too.
One that’s yours alone. Unique, one-of-a-kind. Your pages may be smudged with tears or etched with scars, but those are the moments that got you to now.
And here’s the truth: you hold the pen now.
Your past doesn’t dictate your future unless you let it. So don’t. Don’t carry the weight of yesterday into tomorrow. Every setback is a lesson, every heartache a stepping stone.
Remember, each new day hands you a blank page.
You’re writing your legacy, line by line. So make it count. Make it bold.
In the library of life, let your book stand tall.
A testament to resilience.
To hope. To the unending potential within you.
Every great story has obstacles, but it’s the way we rise, the endings we carve out for ourselves, that people remember.
Write your story like you mean it.
—Ryan Puusaari
P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!
P.P.S. "Some pages are stained with tears, others with triumph. But together, they make a legacy worth telling."
Healing Thoughts — A Journey of Reflection, Poetry, and Healing, Made Possible by You
Healing Thoughts isn’t just another book—it’s a living, breathing collection of reflections, inspiring quotes, and poetry, all pulled from the heart of this community.
Through the highs and lows, the moments of growth and vulnerability, your support made this book a reality.
Each page is a step toward healing, filled with wisdom, introspection, and emotional insight to guide you on your personal journey.
This book is more than just words—it’s our story.
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