Are You Happy?

Back on the treadmill to try to compensate for the abomination of a lunch that I just had: chocolate chip cookies with ice cream. (Yeah, yeah, I’ll go back to eating my healthy foods tomorrow. Promise. Or at least I’ll try.)

Like a kid after a long Halloween night, I’m all shaken up on sugar. So I figured I’d get these fingers moving along with my legs.

I’ve been meaning to write about a question a close friend, who I love very much, asked me:

“Are you happy?”

OOF.

Caught me off guard, not gonna lie.

I mean… where does one, at least one like me, even begin to answer such a question?

I could probably write a book with all the thought rambling that went through my mind before I could answer.

For non-overthinkers, it could probably be a plain yes or no.

Boom. Moving on to the next topic.

For yours truly?

Um, take a couple days of your PTO to read my answer, which would probably still be just the tip of the inner iceberg.

Anyway, it got me thinking. A lot.

Could I say a hard no?

No, because I do have pockets of happiness during my days.

Could I say a hard yes?

No, because I also have the occasional pockets of sadness or emptiness during my days. Although the emptiness has been less intense lately, probably because I took some time to disconnect in order to connect…

—

Sorry, just came back. Had to hop off the treadmill for a moment.

Okay, so… yeah.

I can’t fully give a black-and-white answer to this one. There are too many shades to it.

And to be honest, it’s been very clear to me for a little while now that I value peace of mind more than I value happiness.

Or maybe they’re both in the same ballpark.

Who knows.

I’m no expert.

All I know is that I once read something in a book that resonated with me on a deep level:

Humans are not designed to be happy all the time.

Does that mean we’re not allowed to want to be happy?

Absolutely not.

It just feels right to acknowledge that, so we don’t beat ourselves up too much when we realize we have everything we once dreamed of and still don’t feel that spark of happiness as often as we thought we would.

But do I feel peace?

That’s a question that’s easier for me to answer.

The answer would be: sometimes.

It depends on what my mind is focused on.

When it focuses on things I wish were different and yet have zero control over, I don’t feel much peace.

When I come back to myself and remember that there’s only so much I can do about certain things, and try to trust the process of life to the best of my abilities, I feel a bit more of it.

Being around nature also brings me a mix of peace and happiness.

If not both on equal levels.

And that’s something I didn’t anticipate in the past, to be honest.

I was a city girl.

Part of me still is.

But lately I’ve even cried in awe at nature’s beauty.

Hard to explain, but yeah.

It gives me that air-in-the-lungs feeling that I think I was missing for a long time.

Deep conversations with my closest friends do the same.

And surprisingly, moments in solitude do the trick too.

Of course, like everyone, there’s still inner conflict that blocks my peace from time to time.

Working on that.

Not sure what exactly I’m trying to say here.

I guess I just want to put into words that it’s okay if we don’t feel fully happy, even when, from the outside looking in, it seems like we should.

Only we know what things look like from our own perspective.

And that’s the thing.

I think it’s all about perspective.

Sometimes it differs wildly from person to person.

What would be considered a reason to be happy for one person might not be nearly as meaningful to another.

And now I’m just rambling.

Funny enough, I have this feeling that no matter what we say we want from the outside, obtaining it doesn’t guarantee we’ll be as happy as we think we’ll be.

Whatever “it” is.

In the end, wherever we go, we take our minds with us.

So I can see how, if I’m not at peace in my own mind, it won’t matter what I get or where I go.

That feeling will follow until I’m ready to let it go and embrace the peace that already exists but that I’ve been blocking with my own blurred vision.

It’s Not a Bother. It’s a Calling.

Ok. This is it.

This is the type of post that future me will likely cringe about when she reads it.

But I. Don’t. Care.

Gotta mark this moment somehow, even if it’s addressed to my most faithful crickets.

It’s been a while since I’ve been here. Not just here on this website, but here in my zone. Or one of them, at least.

Walking on the treadmill, listening to one lyricsless song on repeat (today it’s Lone Machine by YOTTO), and being interrupted by J, my husband, giving me a kiss, wishing me a good day, and reminding me to be ready at 6 p.m. to go watch a horror movie.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. My treadmill zone.

Typing on my laptop, which is sitting on the best purchase I’ve ever made (apart from my Brooks shoes): a little gray tray that lets me move my laptop up and down as I please. I place the whole thing on a wooden surface J made for me a while back.

So I write and I walk.

I walk and I write.

Forgot how good this feels.

Anyways, here’s more of my characteristic rambling.

What can I say? It’s been a long while, and a lot has happened in this weird transition where I went from Mary Bejarano Moore to Mary Jho Moore.

Where I went from being exhausted on all levels, depleted, depressed, and feeling trapped in my own body, to feeling a big pocket of air in my lungs. Feeling alive. Feeling more aligned with my choices. Feeling more connected and more ready to connect with others.

A few months back, I didn’t want to interact with anyone whatsoever, let alone pour my heart out in writing. The thoughts were too dark anyway to feel comfortable sharing, although I’m sure more than one person would’ve related.

I did write sometimes, but mostly kept it private in my digital journal. I didn’t even have the energy to write in my physical one.

I didn’t want to chat with my friends scattered all over the world (the price of being an immigrant), partly because I was afraid they’d ask how I was doing.

And I didn’t want to answer with the truth.

But I also didn’t want to answer with a vague “fine, and you?” because that would’ve felt like a big fat lie.

I was far from fine.

Too depleted to explain why.

Too concerned about being judged.

Too concerned about being treated like people needed to walk on eggshells around me.

So here I am now, finally done with the nitty gritty of changing my domain to reflect my new name for this temporary lifetime.

Not exactly in a “I AM NOW MARY JHO MOORE!” kind of way.

It’s more like, okay, this is the name of the character playing Mary in this lifetime.

My soul has no name, but it’s flexible enough to accept the ones given to it in this realm.

I do feel excited, though.

Relieved.

Because honestly, I could’ve just canceled the whole thing and moved on from blogging.

Why bother?

I haven’t exactly been consistent, and my insecurities and impostor syndrome tend to get the best of me.

But I was reminded of something I used to say back in my MBM blogging days:

“It’s not a bother. It’s a calling.”

So here I am, slowly dipping my toes back into this calling ocean.

No agenda.

No expectations.

No niche.

No structure.

Yeah, I know that’s probably not the best way to do it.

But I’m bringing two things with me:

Heart and action.

This is me taking action on something I feel utterly unsure about.

The tapping on my shoulder gets annoying if I ignore it for too long.

Not in the “ugh, I HAVE TO DO THIS” way, like doing laundry because otherwise you’ll have nothing decent to wear to work next week.

More like:

I have to do this to nurture my soul.

I’m done with the neglect.

This feels as necessary as water and food.

As music for my ears and air for my lungs.

As pens to draw my doodles.

As healthy hands to pet mossy trees.

As having people who get you without much explaining.

As expressing myself in ways that bring me joy.

So I guess all this rambling is just my way of marking the day I come back.

Not as a new me.

As the me that was always there.

Buried under stress, pressure, depletion, depression, overthinking, and insecurities.

Here’s to more moments like this.

Welcome to my little messy, unniched corner of the internet.

If you want to know what to expect from this blog, just expect unexpected things.

Thanks for reading.

Mary Jho Moore

The Message Revealed to Me Before I Got Out of Bed

I was lying in bed this morning, somewhere in that in-between space where you don’t really know if you’re dreaming or already awake. The sheets still felt like a warm hug. My eyes were still closed. My body was relaxed and comfortable, not ready to move yet.

And then, in the middle of that silent, cozy moment, it came.

A sentence that felt like a message.

It landed in my head right before my eyes opened, the way certain phrases do when our minds haven’t had time to overthink yet:

“True wisdom comes to you when you let go of your inner yunque.”

Yunque…

I know that word. Yunque is Spanish for anvil — that heavy iron block a blacksmith uses to hammer and shape metal. Although in that exact moment, I didn’t even remember the translation.

It just popped in exactly like that: inner yunque.

Then I got up — it was about 6 a.m. — grabbed my phone from the nightstand with the intention of writing that sentence before I could forget.

As I was walking to the bathroom, my brain, without me realizing it, swapped the word “wisdom” for “freedom.” Suddenly it became:

“True freedom comes to you when you let go of your inner yunque.”

That one felt good too. So I wrote them both in my notes app on my phone. Both felt like truth.

In that moment, I started to wonder — what is the inner yunque?

My first thought was, maybe it’s just a fancy way of saying “inner garbage.” But immediately that felt wrong. Dismissive.

Something inside me stopped me from calling it that, like it was telling me that the things that make up the inner yunque… they’re not trash. They came from a real place, for a real reason. They’re more like leftover weight from earlier versions of ourselves. Versions that were just doing the best they could with what they knew back then. Versions that, in their own way, were trying.

So no — it’s not garbage. It doesn’t deserve that label.

What is it then? I kept asking mentally as I finished brushing my teeth and walked to the kitchen to drink my big glass of dandelion tea that I’d premade the night before.

The question kept circling in my head.

Still pondering, I made my way to the room where I keep my treadmill.

I opened my laptop, which I place on top of it right before I start walking, and started trying to make sense of this in writing:

Maybe the inner yunque is all the stuff we’ve bottled up over the years:

  • The leftover resentment we swore we forgave, until someone brushes against that old wound and we snap without knowing why.
  • The accumulated sadness we never expressed because “there was no time for that,” so now even a smell or a song makes us cry for no apparent reason.
  • The old insecurities we thought we overcame, until a casual joke makes us feel unworthy of the air we breathe.
  • The anger we’ve labeled “bad” or “wrong,” so we pretend it’s not there… for the sake of “staying positive” — but then a bobby pin falls on the floor and we explode like somebody just threw dog poop on our face.

I could go on. We probably all could.

To be honest, I do believe that the inner yunque — whatever it’s made of — is there for a reason.

It’s the weight that shaped us. The proof of a past we survived.

It becomes “bad” only when it sits inside too long, untouched. Until it rusts and hardens and keeps us from moving forward.

So maybe the message that dropped in this morning was simple:

Let go of the heaviness you’ve been carrying inside. Feel it. Face it. Process it. Release it.

Not because it’s garbage. But because it’s done its job — and now it’s time to let it go.

On the other side of that?
Wisdom.
Freedom.
Maybe both.

Maybe one is what we gain while we’re working through it. The other is what we feel when it’s gone.

Where Did My Motivation Go?

I used to wake up at 4am to journal, meditate, or read something life-changing.
I used to inhale self-help books like they were oxygen and I was drowning.
I’d scribble mantras in my notebook like my life depended on it.

Back then, I felt like I was becoming someone.
Now? I feel like I’m just… getting through the day.

My old self would’ve rolled her eyes at this version of me — the one who snoozes her alarm more than she’d like to admit. The one who keeps whispering “What’s the point?” and can’t even finish a blog post without second-guessing every line.

I didn’t expect to feel like this — not after everything I’d worked through.

Some days, I wonder if I just imagined that whole phase.
Like maybe 2020 Mary was high on self-help and spiritual dopamine.
But I remember her. I remember the version of me that felt alive.
How certain I was that something was shifting.
That I was going to build something meaningful — something that felt like mine.

Now I’m just… tired.
Not depressed exactly (at least not anymore) — just… flat.
I’ve felt worse. This is just a weird limbo I’m learning to sit with.
Like someone pressed mute on my soul and I forgot where the remote is.

I still believe everything I believed back then.
I just don’t feel it right now.
And no one really talks about this part —
the quiet fog that settles in after the fire.
Where the spark fades but the dream is still somewhere in there, blinking in the background.

The “I know what I want but I don’t know how to reach it” middle.
The “I don’t want to give up but I’m too tired to try harder” middle.
The part that doesn’t look like failure, but doesn’t look like progress either.

I don’t have a motivational ending for this post.
No steps. No revelations. No phoenix-rising moment.

Just this:
I got out of bed today. I wrote this even though I didn’t want to.
That has to count for something.

What I Found After Laughing with “The Dude”

Tonight, my husband and I were watching The Big Lebowski.
And man… I forgot how ridiculous that movie is.

We laughed out loud at Walter being, well, Walter —
and I couldn’t help but admire The Dude himself — completely resigned while everything’s falling apart.
There’s this one scene where the phone keeps ringing… and he just sits there.
Not answering. Not moving. Just… exhausted surrender.
It’s hilarious. And weirdly relatable.

After the movie, my husband went to bed.
I stayed in the living room for a moment — just sitting there, staring at nothing.

That’s when it hit me:
How different I feel now compared to a few months ago —
back when I couldn’t laugh at anything,
when my whole body was stuck in survival mode — like I couldn’t exhale — and my thoughts wouldn’t shut up for a second.

You know that kind of stress where even getting out of bed feels like climbing out of quicksand?
That was me.

And yet here I was tonight — laughing.
Breathing.
Remembering.

Then I thought about my “Divine Whispers” Trello card…
the place I save little notes from moments that feel clearer than others.

I opened it — and there it was.
A note I’d written during a rare moment when I actually paused long enough to feel something softer:

“The better I feel, the more I allow.
The more I allow, the more life reveals itself in perfect timing.
And I am safe to keep following what lights me up.”

It wasn’t something I channeled word-for-word.
Just a line I saved during a day of venting — and something real came through in the middle of it.

And yeah… I still needed to hear it.

It reminded me that peace doesn’t always arrive after some big healing moment.
Sometimes it just… sits next to you on the couch, waiting for you to notice.

I Asked the Divine What I’m Meant to Do — Here’s What I Heard

This morning, while brushing my teeth in the bathroom, I said something out loud I didn’t plan to say:

“I’m willing to do what I’m meant to do on this planet.”

I kept repeating it.
Over and over.

Then I started asking — out loud, again and again:

“What is it that I’m meant to do here?”
“What is it that I’m meant to do here?”

It wouldn’t stop.

Then, without thinking, I opened my laptop — like something wanted to be written.

So I wrote.

And this is what I wrote:

What is it that I need to know, Divine team? tell me… I am listening.
I am listening.
I am listening.
Please… I want to hear you.

I’m sorry for the disconnection. I got scared.
I tried to rush the connection last time I “opened the gate.” It got too intense. Too many mixed energies. Too fast.

But I remember that moment. That brief moment we had — or that I believe we had.

I don’t know what it was.
But I do know I’ve never felt so much love in this existence.
It felt like floating inside a cloud made of safety.
The softest, most loving hug I’ve ever known.

I got scared because it was too good. Too much.
And I know now: I’m the one who pulled back. Not you.

So I’m here again. Willing. Listening.

And then something came through:

“You’re meant to do exactly what you’re doing now. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Don’t get distracted by trying to figure out what you already know by instinct.

And you know what that is.
And it cannot be labeled or named. It just is.
You just are.
And that is the truth.”

I stared at the words on the screen like —
Wait… what?
What the heck was that?
I don’t even know where it came from.
But I know I couldn’t have made that up on purpose.

Was it the answer I wanted?
Not really.

But maybe it’s the one I needed.

Maybe we spend so much time begging for signs…
that we forget how often we’ve already heard them.
Or written them.
Or been them.

I don’t have a five-step plan.
I don’t have a polished message.
But I have this moment.

And maybe — that’s enough.

I Haven’t Posted a Damn Thing — And Here’s Why

For anyone who wants to create, but feels different every damn day.

I thought I’d have published a blog by now.

I really did.

But every time I sit down to write, a different version of me shows up.
One day I’m cracked open and deep.
The next, I’m whistling Pink Floyd while painting window trim.
And some days? I feel absolutely nothing at all.

So I don’t know what to say, because I never know who I’m going to be.
Am I writing to the people I said I’d help?
Am I writing to myself?
Am I writing just to feel like I exist?

I don’t know.
And I guess that’s why I haven’t posted a damn thing.

It’s not because I have nothing to say.
It’s because I feel too much.
Or sometimes too little.
Or everything all at once — and trying to make that make sense on paper? Not easy.

Also? I overthink.
Like, a lot.

I have a Trello board full of content ideas I haven’t touched.
Dozens of journal entries.
A blog that hasn’t been published.
A voice in my head that says, “Pick one thing and be consistent,”
and another that says, “Screw that, I’m tired.”

And still…
Even after all the starts and stops and “maybe later” days…
Here I am.
Writing this.

Because maybe it doesn’t have to be perfect.
Maybe it just has to be true.

And here’s the truth:

> I want to create something that feels like me — even if “me” looks different every damn day.
> I want to write for the ones who are tired of trying to keep it together.
> And I want to make space for all of it — the numbness, the laughter, the grief, the karaoke, the paint-stained windows, and the sacred rage.

So no, I hadn’t posted a blog yet. (Until now.)
But this is me starting.
This is me choosing action over waiting for the perfect mood.

And if you’re reading this thinking “same,”
then maybe you’ve got something worth starting too.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.
It just has to be real.