Inspir@migas, Sacred Whispers by AnaLo

  Have you ever heard that critical voice every time you dare to try something new? Publishing my first podcast episode in Spanish was a huge step. Not just because of the excitement of sharing my voice with a wider audience, but because, for the first time, I opened up to my family and others about what truly drives me. The response has been incredible—messages of support, recognition, and encouragement. But it has also stirred something deeper within me: a storm of self-doubt, a wave of self-imposed pressure, and, of course, the familiar echo of imposter syndrome that appears whenever I step into something new. The idea of starting a podcast first came to me in 2021, and it has taken all this time of personal growth to finally take the leap. It wasn’t a lack of ideas or motivation that held me back—it was doubt, fear, and the belief that I wasn’t ready yet. I now find myself in a space where vulnerability is inevitable, where putting myself out there stirs up fears I thought I ha...

If you have read my recent reflections, you will know that my journey has recently been marked by self-discovery and the desire to step out of my bubble in a loving yet challenging way. It is a process in which I uncover who I am, confront my own limits, and question what I once considered safe. And throughout this journey, one idea has resonated deeply within me: the notion that my "comfort zone" is not truly comfortable. It is not a space of fulfilment or happiness, but rather a refuge where the illusion of control provides a false sense of security. Recently, I listened to Rubén Jiménez, founder of " El Sendero " , speak about this idea, and his way of describing it struck me: it is not a "comfort zone," but a "control zone." And this idea resonates with what I am experiencing as I expand my bubble. Here, everything seems manageable. The bubble is so small that we believe we can predict and master every detail. But do we really control life? O...

There are moments when I catch myself vanishing—not in the literal sense, not in a way that others can see, but in a way that feels just as real, as if something within me loosens its grip and slips quietly into the shadows, retreating to a place where I am neither fully here nor entirely gone. It is subtle, a gradual dissolving rather than a sharp disappearance, a slow unravelling of presence that happens before I even realize it is occurring, as though my existence itself is tentative, fragile, something that can fade at the slightest disturbance. Last week was one of those times. I felt it creeping in, the dull hum of detachment settling over me, wrapping itself around my edges, numbing sensation, dulling thought. And I knew, without needing to name it, why it had returned—because even now, even in a life that is safer than before, even with the absence of immediate danger, there are parts of me that do not believe it, parts of me that still brace for the impact of something unseen,...

Today, I want to reflect on something simple that happened to me, yet it reveals so much about how my mind works. Sometimes, the smallest things hold the greatest revelations. At every step of this story, there are subtle clues about the mechanisms at play—how the person I am and the character I have built navigate the situation without even realising it. Every morning, I follow a ritual. Not because I have to, but because it gives me structure, intention, a small victory over the chaos that sometimes inhabits the mind. Every time I dedicate time to what I said I would do, I remind myself that I am worth it. Today was no different. I woke up before the first rays of sunlight. I took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the sheets. Before moving, I closed my eyes for a moment longer. In that brief space between sleep and wakefulness, my mind whispered a prayer, and I gave thanks for the new day. No rush in this moment—only gratitude. As I got out of bed, my gaze landed on my small camel...