🔥 What I Haven’t Said—Until Now 💬

Some gifts look like love but turn out to be traps.

As I enter this stage of life, people begin expecting things they have no right to demand. My time. My energy. My savings. My health. Even my voice. I’ve willingly given these away, believing it would secure a deeper place in my children's hearts or those around me.

But the truth is, if I keep giving away what I should protect, I risk losing myself.

I’ve noticed recently how often people assume my availability just because I’m retired. Suddenly, I’m the default caregiver, errand-runner, emotional support. And at first, I say yes—because that’s who I’ve always been: dependable. But each "yes" to others becomes a quiet "no" to myself.

A friend recently said something that stopped me cold: “I don’t even know what I like anymore. I’ve always been useful to others—but when did I last do something for myself?”

Her words resonated deeply. She’s not alone. Many of us were trained to serve but never taught to ask, "What do I want?"

Somewhere along the way, I confused love with constant availability. Having free time began to mean handing it over to others. Now I clearly see the cost: each time I postpone my own needs to prioritise someone else’s urgency, I reinforce the lie that my freedom has no value.

I’m done apologising for setting boundaries. My time is not infinite—it’s sacred. Like a deep well, I must refill myself before letting others draw water.

But this isn’t just about time. For too long, I also traded away my peace, silencing my truth to avoid conflict. I stayed quiet, smiled through discomfort, ignored subtle hurts—thinking silence would preserve harmony. But silence only built resentment until it erupted, months of suppressed frustration exploding all at once.

I’ve been the peacekeeper, the provider, the silent one—until my threshold is crossed. A successful businessman once told me, “You’re the most misunderstood person I've ever met in Mauritius.” He died shortly after at 61, but his words lingered. I realised how long I allowed myself to be misread, my truth muted by a need for acceptance.

Today, I choose clarity over false peace. I speak my truth calmly, without apology. Not to provoke, but to reclaim my voice, dignity, and visibility.

Money, too, has taught me hard lessons. For years, I equated financial generosity with proof of love. But giving without awareness fostered quiet dependency. Driven by guilt for past absences, I gave from fear of rejection if I stopped.

Now, before I give anything away—my savings, my property—I ask myself: does this enhance my freedom or diminish it? My worth isn't financial. If someone values me only when my wallet is open, they value my resources, not me.

Health, I've discovered, requires similar vigilance. For too long, I ignored my body, believing self-neglect noble. Fatigue, pain, and missed meals were duties, not neglect. Now I listen carefully to my body. Daily exercise, swimming, sunbathing, and disciplined fasting—these are my intentional choices. I’ve lost weight purposefully, not passively. Caring for myself isn’t vanity—it’s survival.

I no longer glorify exhaustion. I care for myself because without health, I can't genuinely show up for anyone, including myself.

Guilt is another heavy burden many silently carry. I used to overcompensate, giving excessively out of guilt for past mistakes or absences. Yet guilt doesn’t erase pain; it sustains it. My children don’t need endless atonement—they need a father standing upright, at peace, fully present.

I believe I’ve succeeded as a parent—not by degrees or societal standards, but by raising children who remained whole, free from addictions, crime, or self-destruction. I never pushed them toward university solely to fulfill my uncompleted education. Some chose higher education, others didn't—I saw their choices as freedom, never failure.

Today, I grant myself the same freedom.

There’s something else I haven't shared publicly—until now.

Very few people know this. Only three people were informed directly, unless they've shared it despite my request for discretion. You know how it goes: "Don’t tell anyone," quickly becomes everyone knowing.

I have been diagnosed with cancer.

When hospitalised for a biopsy over Christmas, only one person knew. I kept it private—not from shame or secrecy, but because I needed clarity, space, and strength.

I refused chemotherapy—not out of rebellion but out of belief in my body's capacity to heal. I've embraced disciplined intermittent fasting (16:8 daily), regular 24-hour fasts, and as I write, I'm concluding a 72-hour fast today at midday. Depending on my blood pressure and electrolytes, I may continue longer or break fast with a high-protein meal, intentionally restoring my strength.

This isn't desperation—it's discipline. I'm not merely fighting cancer; I'm reclaiming my life. Years ago, I read You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay. Her journey empowered me—now I share mine, hoping someone else may find courage here.

I battle for my life, and I will succeed. But now, I need peace: no emotional distractions, no draining relationships, no guilt.

And I’m still me. Still exercising, swimming, suntanned, absorbing vitamin D, embracing joy. Cancer hasn't taken my humour or vitality—it has sharpened my resolve.

This isn't the end of my story.

This is my turning point.

#FrenchieGrignon (#Mauritius)

#CancerJourney #HealingCancerNaturally #FastingForHealing #MentalHealthMatters #SpiritualHealing #SelfHealing #WellnessJourney #IntermittentFasting #VoiceAndVisibility #LifeLessons