Posts Tagged → Emotional growth

Day 14 – Saturn – Sleeping at Last

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dear Journal,

What a strange thing — to feel like I’m becoming. Like something inside me is rearranging itself, quietly, without permission or warning. There are days when I look in the mirror and think: I know this face, but not quite. I know this story, but not yet.

Growing up, I thought transformation would be loud. I imagined breakthrough moments — some cinematic montage where everything falls into place. But that’s not how it happens, is it? It’s more like slow erosion. A shedding. Tiny, barely noticeable shifts that only make sense in hindsight.

I’ve always felt older than my age. Maybe because I’ve carried so much — questions, guilt, expectations, dreams — all of it wrapped in a soft-spoken shell. People called me wise, but it was mostly survival. I don’t think I was born this way. I think I adjusted. I learned how to be useful. How to be good. How to predict the emotional temperature of any room and act accordingly.

But somewhere along the line, I started wondering: who am I when I’m not trying to be good? What’s left when I stop performing? When I stop curating my existence for the comfort of others?

Psychologists describe a concept called “emerging adulthood,” that in our 20s and even 30s, identity is still very much in flux — not a fixed state, but a space of becoming (Arnett, 2000). I find comfort in that. Because I think I’m still in the thick of it.

I’m learning that healing isn’t a clean narrative. Some days I am proud of who I’m becoming. Other days, I mourn the softness I had before life taught me to harden. I grieve the innocence I no longer have, the certainty I used to cling to. But I also feel — quietly, stubbornly — that I am growing into someone I might love.

And yet, it’s hard not to feel guilty about that. About needing space. About saying no. About not always being available. Especially when my entire identity used to hinge on being the one who showed up. But lately, showing up for myself has meant stepping back from others — and I’m not sure everyone understands that.

There’s a quote I once read that said, “You are not a tree. You are meant to move, to shift, to change.” I don’t remember where I saw it, but it stayed with me. Because for a long time, I thought staying still meant I was reliable. That changing meant I was untrustworthy. But what if growth is its own form of loyalty? Loyalty to the self I’m trying to become.

Maybe that’s what this season is. A quiet promise. Not to become someone else, but to finally become myself.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S.
If you’re in the middle of becoming, too — if you’re navigating the grief, the growth, the ache and the awe of it — I see you. Let me know how you’re holding up.

References:

Title inspired by the song “Saturn” by Sleeping at Last.
All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

Day 11 – Eyes Closed – Halsey

A softly lit photograph shows a lone figure standing before a tall mirror, their face turned slightly away to obscure their eyes. The lighting is warm but muted, casting gentle shadows that create a quiet, reflective atmosphere. The scene evokes introspection, with the mirror symbolizing self-awareness and the turned head suggesting emotional complexity. The composition is minimalistic, intimate, and gender-neutral. In the bottom right corner, the phrase "PANDORA’S CURIO" is delicately overlaid.

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dear Journal,

There’s a peculiar kind of silence that comes with eye contact — the kind that feels like both an invitation and a mirror. As a child, I was shy, not because I lacked anything but because I had yet to learn what it meant to be seen without needing to shrink. At some point, someone told me that confidence lived in the eyes — that to hold someone’s gaze was to hold your ground. And so I practiced. I met stares. I anchored my words with presence.

But somewhere along the way, I started to pull back again — not from everyone, not always, but in conversations that asked too much of my emotional center. It wasn’t out of fear or shame. It was adaptation. A former colleague once bristled at even a moment of eye contact during tense discussions. Out of care, I softened my gaze. I looked away. And maybe, over time, I absorbed that habit as my own.

Now, I find myself occasionally hesitating in moments of emotional depth — not flinching, but navigating. Searching for the balance between connection and overexposure. Not because I’m hiding something, but because I’m feeling something. And when you’re feeling deeply, eye contact can sometimes intensify everything. Especially when the conversation isn’t simple, when hearts are on the table.

That’s something I want to get better at explaining. I don’t avoid someone’s gaze because I feel small. I do it because I’ve learned to sense when a moment needs care — and sometimes, the softest kind of care is space. My gaze isn’t a challenge, nor is it absent. It’s present, just a little more tender when emotions run high.

It’s also worth saying: this isn’t a static trait. We grow into ourselves, and sometimes we overcorrect. I know I have. There were years I practiced eye contact like a performance. Holding it too long. Using it like punctuation. Believing I could “prove” confidence by staring down the world. But strength isn’t in the stare — it’s in the self-awareness behind it.

There’s another layer to this I rarely admit out loud: eye contact, for me, isn’t just about interpersonal confidence. It’s also about energy. There’s something uniquely draining about being highly observant — about noticing micro-expressions, micro-shifts, the subtle cues that others might overlook. I don’t mean this in a romanticized way. It’s a genuine cost. When you’re naturally tuned into people’s internal states — noticing the flicker of discomfort behind a smile, the way someone’s fingers tense before they speak — prolonged eye contact can feel like opening every channel at once.

Studies have found that eye contact can increase cognitive load, particularly in socially demanding tasks. One study by Helminen et al. (2011) showed that eye contact not only increases arousal but can impair cognitive control during complex tasks[^2]. In simpler terms, sometimes when I look someone in the eyes, I lose track of my words — not because I’m weak, but because I’m tracking everything.

This hyper-awareness isn’t always a gift. It can be exhausting. And when compounded by emotionally charged settings — conflict, vulnerability, shame — it becomes even more taxing. That’s where the silence begins. Where I turn my eyes away, not out of avoidance, but as a way to stay grounded.

This hesitation isn’t unique to me. Studies show that how we learn to process eye contact varies across people and cultures. For example, in developmental models of atypical gaze behavior, researchers have found that our early experiences can shape how we view eye contact as either engaging or overstimulating (Senju & Johnson, 2016)[^1]. And while that study focused on autism, it still echoes the idea that not everyone arrives at eye contact from the same starting point — or with the same response.

It’s a gentle reminder that adaptation doesn’t always need a diagnosis. Sometimes it just needs a story. And in my case, I can trace a change in gaze back to a moment of empathy — when I adjusted to someone else’s discomfort. But the longer I held that adjustment, the more it settled into muscle memory.

And now, I feel like I’m working on it again. Business environments reward assertiveness — and with it, sustained eye contact. I’m back in the rhythm of re-practicing that presence, not for performance this time, but for connection. For clarity. For trust. It’s different now. Less about proving and more about tuning in without draining myself. That line is thin, but I’m learning to walk it.

The energy depletion is also cumulative. On some days, after multiple conversations, meetings, or simply existing in emotionally rich environments, I find that even casual eye contact can feel like too much. It’s not social anxiety. It’s more like social fatigue. There’s a difference, and I think more of us need to acknowledge it. Especially those who are seen as strong, composed, or emotionally intelligent. Sometimes the person holding space for others needs space too.

And there’s still more. Beyond culture and energy, there’s the invisible pressure of what eye contact has come to represent. Power dynamics. Dominance. Reassurance. Even flirtation. We project so much meaning onto a glance that it’s no wonder it carries weight. A study by Adams and Kleck (2005) found that direct gaze can intensify emotional interpretation, especially when the face displays ambiguous emotions[^3]. That explains a lot — especially when I find myself wondering, “Did they think I was upset?” or “Was that too much?” after simply holding a glance a few seconds too long.

I suppose this is all a long way of saying: I still care about being present. About being someone who sees and is seen. But I’ve stopped trying to meet someone’s eyes just to prove I can. Now I do it with intention — not as a default, but as a decision.

And in moments where I do look away, I hope it’s not mistaken for disinterest. Maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe it’s because I care enough not to let my gaze push someone away — or burn through what they’re not ready to share.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S. Eye contact is often framed as a test of courage, but sometimes it’s a gesture of compassion — to soften the space between two people. Do you feel seen when someone meets your eyes, or when they look away with care?

[^1]: Senju, A., & Johnson, M. H. (2016). Atypical eye contact in autism: Models, mechanisms and development. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, 71, 768–778. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neubiorev.2016.10.001

[^2]: Helminen, T. M., Kaasinen, S. M., & Hietanen, J. K. (2011). Eye contact and arousal: The effects of stimulus duration. Biological Psychology, 88(1), 124–130. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.biopsycho.2011.07.002

[^3]: Adams Jr, R. B., & Kleck, R. E. (2005). Effects of direct and averted gaze on the perception of facially communicated emotion. Emotion, 5(1), 3–11. https://doi.org/10.1037/1528-3542.5.1.3

Title inspired by the song “Eyes Closed” by Halsey. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

Day 9 – Growing Pains – Alessia Cara

A softly lit hallway stretches into the distance at dusk. A solitary figure walks away in quiet determination, bathed in a blend of warm gray and dusty rose tones. A soft beam of golden light cuts diagonally through the corridor from a partially open door, illuminating floating dust in the air. The atmosphere is peaceful yet reflective, symbolizing the moment of letting go. In the upper third, text reads: “Calm isn’t always peace. Sometimes it’s quiet survival.” At the bottom left corner, the signature Pandora’s Curio appears in delicate type.

The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

Dearest Diary,

There are things I’ve clearly outgrown. The obvious ones: old clothes, outdated habits, people who spoke to the smallest parts of me. But what’s harder to admit are the things I’ve outgrown that I still carry anyway. Like the need to explain myself all the time. Like the silent shame that comes with saying “no.” Like the fear that if I don’t earn love, I won’t deserve it.

Today, I found myself apologizing in a conversation I didn’t need to apologize for. The words slipped out before I could even catch them. It made me think about how long I’ve been rehearsing these habits. How early I started fine-tuning myself to make others comfortable. Even now, I shrink a little without realizing it. I adjust my tone, smile when I’m not okay, become smaller so someone else can feel big. And I hate it. Because I also love that I care. I just don’t want that care to come at the cost of myself anymore.

Some of these tendencies are deeply rooted. They were survival strategies once. According to Young et al. (2003), schema modes like the “compliant surrenderer” or the “overcontroller” develop as protective patterns—we adapt early to avoid rejection, criticism, or abandonment. But when we grow, those same strategies become heavy. We carry them even when they no longer serve us.

I used to think letting go meant completely shedding something. But maybe letting go is more like loosening a grip. Like walking with something until one day you set it down, not because you’re forced to, but because you no longer need it. That’s where I am with a lot of my coping mechanisms. I see them now. I name them. And slowly, I challenge them.

When someone told me recently that I “seemed so calm all the time,” I smiled, but a part of me winced. Calm isn’t always peace. Sometimes it’s just emotional restraint in a world that never asked how loud I could be. But that same world taught me to believe calm meant good. So I wore it like armor. And now I’m tired of being so well put together that I can’t fall apart when I need to.

I don’t want to hold it all so tightly anymore. I want to make space. For joy that doesn’t have to be earned. For anger that isn’t punished. For softness that isn’t hidden.

And I don’t want to demonize what got me here, either. I needed those patterns once. They protected me. They helped me be safe, accepted, and survive environments I didn’t know how to navigate. So I don’t aim to erase them in shame—I want to honor them by evolving beyond them. I still want to be what I needed when I was younger. And some days, I wonder if that version of me could see who I’ve become, maybe we’d both feel a little more whole. That thought carries comfort, even if I know I’m still learning. Still unlearning. There are places I may have overcorrected, habits I’ve misunderstood, moments I’ve surely messed up. But even in that, maybe growth isn’t linear. Maybe it’s layered. Looped. Forgiving.

Maybe that’s the work of growing up: not just outgrowing what we once needed, but being kind to ourselves while we learn how to live without it.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S. If any part of this felt familiar—know you’re not broken for holding on. You’re healing, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Leave a comment or connect with me on social. I’d love to hear what you’ve outgrown, too.

Study Reference: Young, J. E., Klosko, J. S., & Weishaar, M. E. (2003). Schema therapy: A practitioner’s guide. Guilford Press.
Link to reference

Title inspired by the song “Growing Pains” by Alessia Cara. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

Day 4 – Quiet — MILCK

A quiet field blanketed in fog at dawn, with silhouettes of wild grasses in the foreground and soft pastel light rising on the horizon, evoking stillness and new beginnings.

Dearest Diary,
The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

There used to be a version of myself I thought I needed to become.
Louder. More direct. Sharper at the edges.
The kind of person who fills a room without hesitation — who never has to explain they belong there.

I tried to wear that version like armor. I thought maybe the right words, the right volume, the right delivery would make me feel less invisible, less misunderstood. But no matter how I adjusted the shape of my voice, it never felt like it truly fit. It always felt borrowed.

The truth is, I’m quieter by nature — or maybe by choice.
And for a long time, I thought that meant something was wrong with me.

I remember once, in a room full of people all speaking over each other, I stayed silent for a long while. Not out of fear — but because I was watching. Weighing what felt real.
And someone turned to me and said, half-laughing, “You’re too quiet. Say something, will you?”

What they didn’t realize is that silence was me saying something.
But because it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t heard.
Because it wasn’t loud, it wasn’t respected.

That memory has stayed with me longer than it should have.

There’s a lyric in Quiet by MILCK that echoes in my mind even now:

“I can’t keep quiet, no-oh-oh-oh.”

And yet — my form of not keeping quiet doesn’t always sound like a roar.
Sometimes it’s a breath held a little longer.
Sometimes it’s choosing to walk away without offering an explanation.
Sometimes it’s the decision to feel everything fully — without performing it for anyone else’s comfort.

That, to me, is a kind of rebellion.

There’s a psychological concept called expressive suppression, where individuals deliberately withhold outward emotional reactions. It’s often criticized as unhealthy, associated with internal stress and poor well-being. But a study by Gross and John (2003)¹ reminds us that suppression isn’t inherently harmful — when it’s conscious and intentional, it can be a strategy of emotional regulation. It’s not about bottling things up. It’s about discerning what, when, and to whom we give emotional access.

And maybe that’s what I’ve been practicing all along:
Not silence out of fear, but quiet as a form of self-protection.

But it’s still lonely sometimes.

Because people often misread quietness.
They confuse it with weakness. Or indifference. Or insecurity.
They see the absence of a raised voice and assume there’s nothing underneath it.

What they don’t see is the storm that has already been weathered before the words ever reach the surface.

There have been days when I wanted to speak up — not to be heard, but to be understood.
And still, I held it.
Because I’ve learned that some people listen only to respond, not to receive.
And some silences are kinder than the truth they’d reject.

There’s a cost to that, though.
To always being the one who filters.
To being the emotional buffer in the room — soft enough to absorb tension, quiet enough to be dismissed.
It builds up, invisibly.
It teaches you to brace.

But today, for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like I had to explain my restraint.
I didn’t second-guess it.
I didn’t feel like I owed anyone the noise they were expecting.

I just… held the space.
Let the tension pass through without letting it settle.
Chose my softness — again — as a conscious act.

And in that, I felt something close to sovereignty.
Not control over others, but clarity over myself.

Quiet doesn’t mean I’ve lost my voice.
It means I’ve stopped offering it up to people who don’t know how to hear it.

—

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S. If you’re reading this now, welcome to my late-night musings. If you’re catching up later, I’d love to hear your thoughts—leave a comment or connect with me on social!

Title inspired by the song “Quiet” by MILCK. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

📚 Footnote (Study Reference)

Gross, J. J., & John, O. P. (2003). Individual differences in two emotion regulation processes: Implications for affect, relationships, and well-being. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 85(2), 348–362.
→ HTTPS://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.85.2.348

Day 1 – Start Again – OneRepublic

A close-up of a single wooden matchstick burning brightly against a black background, its small flame casting a warm, soft glow.

Dearest Diary,
The day’s end, another moment to reflect.

They say everyone wants a do-over. Not because they hate who they’ve become — but because they wish they’d arrived here sooner. I don’t think that’s true for everyone… but maybe, quietly, it’s true for me.

This space — Pandora’s Curio — wasn’t built for attention. It was built to let things out. Gently. Privately. Like smoke through a cracked window. Most of the time, no one even noticed it existed. But now, for reasons I’m still figuring out, I’m ready to let it be seen — not for validation, just… to let it breathe.

There’s a line in Start Again that always gets me:

“Can I just turn back the clock and forgive myself for the mess I made?”

It’s not theatrical. It’s not dramatic. It’s the kind of quiet question you only ask yourself when no one else is around to hear the answer. And maybe that’s what this post is — a soft way of saying, “I’m still here. I’m still trying.”

I’ve learned (and keep relearning) that self-forgiveness isn’t about forgetting or erasing. According to Dr. Kristin Neff’s work on self-compassion, people who respond to their own failures with kindness instead of criticism experience better emotional resilience and healthier motivation.¹

That’s the energy I’m carrying into this. Not a relaunch. Not a reinvention.
Just a continuation — with a little more honesty.

This isn’t a polished blog. There are no 5-step guides here. Some days, the thoughts will be clear. Other days, they might arrive jagged and half-formed. But they’ll always be mine.

And if you’re here, quietly reading this —
You haven’t missed anything.
You’re right on time.
We all are, even if we’re just trying to start again.

Yours in letters, always,
Pandora

P.S. If you’re reading this now, welcome to my late-night musings. If you’re catching up later, I’d love to hear your thoughts—leave a comment or connect with me on social!

Title inspired by the song “Start Again” by OneRepublic. All rights to the music and lyrics belong to the original creators.

🧠 Study Cited¹ Neff, K. D. (2003). The development and validation of a scale to measure self-compassion. Self and Identity, 2(3), 223–250. https://doi.org/10.1080/15298860309027