Today has felt heavy, not because of one specific thing, but because everything seems to be converging at once. I’ve been trying to finish the last of my purging before the school year begins. My thoughts keep circling around what this new year will look like—my students, my teaching, my business, and the nonprofit that I’m determined to grow. It’s a lot to hold at once, and while I know it can be done, I also know it cannot be done alone.

That has been my prayer lately—that God will send the right team. The kind of team that understands the vision, that shows up with the same heart and drive. My mother was a master at mobilizing people. She had a gift for rallying others, creating harmony, and inspiring action. I admire that so much because these days, it feels harder than ever to find people who are truly committed to something beyond their own interests.

As I worked through this weekend’s purging, I kept returning to one thing my mother always told me: I needed to learn detachment. Not to stop caring, but to stop holding on to emotional baggage that weighs me down. She often reminded me that detachment is a universal law—one of those principles that governs life whether we acknowledge it or not. Like any true law, if you ignore it or violate it, the consequences will eventually catch up with you. You don’t break universal laws—they break you.

For a while now, maybe even a few years, I tend to replay moments, words, and situations far too long, especially when they stir disappointment or hurt.

“Detachment,” she would remind me, “is not about being cold or indifferent—it’s about protecting your spirit so that you can stay open to what God is doing next.”

This final stretch of purging has brought those lessons to the surface. It’s not just the physical act of letting things go—it’s the emotional ties that come with them. Memories, expectations, even unspoken words can weigh as much as boxes in an attic. Truth be told, I’ve been feeling all of it. Maybe that’s why this weekend has felt so tearful, why I’ve been so reflective. It’s like I’m clearing out not just a space, but a part of myself, too.

The truth is, moving forward doesn’t always feel like progress. Sometimes it feels like loss, but I’m learning that letting go is also an act of faith. It’s a way of making room—for peace, for clarity, for the team I’ve been praying for, and for the next chapter God is already writing.

So I’m giving myself grace. I’m reminding myself that detachment doesn’t mean I don’t care. It means I’m choosing to release what no longer serves me so I can receive what God has in store.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-Lillie