I'm tired of waiting - Recognizing and breaking old relationship patterns.

Why I decided at 53 to no longer sit in the waiting room of my own life.

I am 53. And something happened to me on Ko Samui that grew louder and louder each day, like an inner scream.

I've waited half my life.

It's about someone having time. About someone being ready. About someone being in a good mood. About the right moment coming. About the children growing up. Although I loved that time with my children – don't get me wrong. All the little and big milestones. Looking back on them is wonderful.

But eventually, the waiting just continued.

To a boss who finally appreciates my work. To a raise. To a promotion. To a partner who's willing to make a change. To a life that finally feels like my life.

And on that one morning I asked myself:

What the heck am I waiting for?

The enemy in my bed.

That sounds harsh, doesn't it?

But that's exactly how I felt at some point.

I grew up with my father, whose alcohol consumption and behavior shaped my life. My mother was ill. Even as a teenager, I knew this feeling of constantly being on edge, never quite knowing what mood to expect.

When it will get loud again. When it's better if I say nothing.

When I prefer to make myself invisible.

I learned to observe people early on. Their faces, their voices, their movements. I could tell from small details whether there was trouble in the air. A skill that often helped me later on. But one that also came at a price.

Because if you're constantly busy reading other people's moods, you'll eventually forget to pay attention to your own.

And this very old relationship pattern has accompanied me through my relationships.

My ex-husband. The man after him. The next guy after him...

Different partners. Different stories.

And yet, that familiar feeling keeps returning.

I'm at home. Actually, in the place where I should feel safe and secure. And yet, I'm tense.

Because someone is in a bad mood. Because one wrong word is all it takes. Because I'm once again debating whether to say something or remain silent.

I'm not talking about physical violence – I only experienced that from my father. I'm talking about emotional punishment. Being ignored, silenced, endless arguments, and a bad atmosphere that eventually makes you prefer to say nothing at all. But this kind of atmosphere puts an enormous strain on the body in the long run. And it burrows deep into the system, like the side effects of a medication.

For me, peace was long something that depended on how another person was doing.

Isn't that crazy?

I have repeatedly let myself down.

I adapted so often. Not because I didn't have my own opinion—quite the opposite, in fact—I've always had plenty. But because I didn't want to argue. Or have a bad atmosphere. Or engage in discussions that lead nowhere.

So I waited.

Until the mood improves.

Until it's a good day again.

And while I waited for this moment, weeks, months, and years passed. I wondered why these patterns kept recurring. In Ko Samui, I found the answer. Because through deep release, solitude, and time for myself and my body, I accessed deep-seated traumas and memories that weren't pleasant. That hurt. That almost tore me apart.

But with each passing day I knew more: I am healing. I am alive. I am breathing.

And I can make a new decision every day that the past does not determine my present.

I've written down this journey. In a thousand words and countless chapters. And once I've organized it, I'll tell you everything. Because it's my very personal journey of ROOT. FLOW. RISE.

Because for me, every day is a new day. Every day gives me the opportunity to do things differently.

And I'm learning not to wait anymore.

Not on people who don't want to change.

Not circumstances that restrict me.

And certainly not a life in which I constantly belittle myself.

Because my life isn't waiting for me.

And I've decided not to wait any longer.

Love, Kate Bono