Diary of a Curious Mind | Entry Two

Diamonds from Darkness

This week, I had a wobble.

Not from conflict. Not from criticism.

But from something more confusing: friendly fire.

It came from people who care.

From words that weren’t meant to hurt.

I know it was meant to support—and yet, the words found their way straight to an exposed soft spot.

And in those post-impact, wobbly moments, I did what I always teach others to do—retreat, regulate, and then recalibrate.

Not to escape.

But to listen.

To attend to the wound.

Because when pain comes—whether it’s loud and obvious or subtle and surprising—it always carries an invitation:

What do I do with this?

One of the truths I live by—personally and in my work—is this:

If we’re going to go through darkness, it has to be worth something.

We have to find the diamonds.

Not because the pain was good.

Not because “everything happens for a reason.”

Not even because “no rain, no rainbows”

Because what we learn, and how we change, is what makes the experience meaningful.

Otherwise, we go through the awfulness for nothing.

And that, to me, feels like the real tragedy.

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Diamonds are only formed under extreme darkness, heat, and pressure.

They are forged.

And while none of us would choose the conditions that create them, they remain a symbol of what’s possible on the other side of intensity.

That’s the work I do when I’m shaken.

That’s the work I teach and hold space for with my clients.

Not just recovery.

Not just coping.

But reclaiming.

Finding strength, clarity, and growth from the chaos.

Asking:

• What am I learning here?
• What old belief is being poked?
• What needs tending, reworking, or releasing?

And when the answers don’t come quickly (they rarely do), I turn to the tools I trust:

Journalling.

EFT (tapping).

Getting support from people who feel safe enough to hold space for my vulnerability.

Giving myself time to feel what’s mine, and let go of what’s not.

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Sometimes, the diamond that comes from all that isn’t something big or bold.

Sometimes it looks like:

• Setting a quieter boundary
• Challenging an outdated belief
• Learning to pause instead of pushing through
• Remembering that the wobble doesn’t mean failure—it means human

And even though it doesn’t always feel like transformation… it is.

Because when we choose to meet our pain with curiosity instead of shame—when we let it soften us rather than harden us—something changes.

That’s the diamond.

That’s the gift we carve out of the dark.

It’s what we’ve earned from walking through our darkness; from feeling the pressure and pain.

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So if you’re walking through something now—if a moment, a word, or an unexpected sting has unsettled you—I’m going to share with you what I say to my clients, and what I use myself:

You’re allowed to pause.

You’re allowed to take stock.

You’re allowed to need help, tools, time, and truth.

You don’t have to bounce back quickly.

But when you’re ready… look for the glint.

Let this pain be worth something.

Scars do not mean failure.

They mean battles fought and survived.

And I, for one, would always choose to follow the battle-scarred warrior over someone who’s never stepped into the dark.