Suffocated by the past | A way to breathe again | How can I break free from a past that’s choking me?

Author: Vahid Zekavati

Copyright: NLP Radio

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Chapter One: Why Does the Past Still Take My Breath Away?
📍Core Question: Why do painful memories return so strongly?
🔍 Main Content: Emotional memory, Neptune and Mercury in mental looping
🧠 Tool: A simple practice to separate the “event” from the “emotion”

In the darkness of the mind, sometimes a single phrase, a sound, or even a scent is enough to bring back all the buried memories like a bitter wave. The past doesn’t let go of us—not because it’s strong, but because we still don’t know how to face it. Memory is not just raw footage; it has the scent of fear, the taste of shame, and the weight of helplessness.

When Neptune is active in the sky, memories emerge dreamlike and borderless. Time loses its meaning. But Mercury, with its analytical mind, tries to interpret these memories, judge them, and sometimes exaggerate. A silent battle forms in the mind—between a heart still aching and a mind trying to rationalize.

It all begins with our emotional brain—the part that records experiences during pain and fear without analysis. These memories are etched into us, without dates or logic. That’s why years later, in a similar situation, our body responds the same way: a racing heart, breathlessness, trembling.

But here’s the real question: Are we still the wounded child we once were? Or have we just never learned how to distinguish between the “event” and the “emotion”? When we learn to separate what happened from how it felt, breathing becomes possible. This skill takes practice, patience, and a new lens.

Often, it’s not the event that hurts most—it’s the judgment we attach to it. Our mind loves to interpret everything personally. It says: “If only I hadn’t said that…” or “I should’ve resisted…” and we get buried in these sentences. But did we really have that much control?

The child you were was powerless. Maybe alone. Maybe no one ever explained that the pain wasn’t your fault. But today, you can write to them, talk to them, make space for them. You just need to realize they still live within you, and every time a memory resurfaces, it’s their voice you hear.

The exercise of separating “event” from “emotion” is lifesaving. Sit down and recall a specific memory. Just describe what happened. Don’t judge or analyze. Just write: “It was morning. It was cold. I was alone. They yelled.” Then, write the emotions separately: “I was scared. I felt alone. I believed I was worthless.”

With this, you slowly realize your emotions were not always as big as the external reality. This separation is the first step toward reclaiming control over memory. Because the past feeds on our emotions. When we become conscious of them, the past loses its grip.

Astrologically, Neptune brings those foggy memories to the surface, but Mercury—if in harmony—can illuminate them. You don’t always need answers. Sometimes just observing a memory without judgment is all it takes. And that, my friend, is breathing again.

You may think if a memory returns, it means you haven’t forgotten. But forgetting isn’t the goal. Living with a memory that no longer suffocates you—that’s the goal. That when it returns, you just nod and say: “Yes, that day passed too.”

Memories aren’t wounds. They’re more like scars. Still visible, but they no longer hurt—if we stop scratching them. Instead, whenever a memory comes, take a deep breath, welcome it, and ask: “What do you want me to remember?”

You’re not meant to erase your past. You’re meant to expand your inner world so that memory becomes a tiny star in your vast galaxy—not the sun. And that begins with acceptance. Sitting. Listening. Not asking “why are you back again?”

Sometimes we resist forgiving the past because we’re afraid of forgetting it. But a past that’s accepted isn’t forgotten—it’s transformed into wisdom. Like someone returning from the deep sea with a pearl in hand. But you must first dive deep.

This is the first step: Accept that the past returns—not because it’s stronger than you, but because it still has something to say. When you listen, it calms. And for the first time, you understand how to have a past—and still breathe.

Breathe. You’re now building a healthy relationship with your past. And that… is the beginning of freedom.

Chapter Two: Was It My Fault or Fate?
📍Core Question: What if I had made a different choice?
🔍 Main Content: Common regrets – the mind’s error in reconstructing the past
🧠 Tool: The “Hypothetical Timeline” technique to calm the mind

Humans breathe through “what ifs.” What if I hadn’t said that? What if I hadn’t gone there? What if I had waited a little longer? A thousand “ifs” like unseen roots wrap around our psychological throat. Regret is a hidden form of grief—not for what we lost, but for what never even existed.

Our mind is a storyteller—especially when it comes to the past. It reconstructs events over and over, changes scenes, rewrites dialogues. But in this rewriting, truth gets lost. The mind just wants to fabricate control over something that’s no longer changeable.

At the moment we made those decisions, we weren’t as aware as we are now. We chose with the knowledge, feelings, and context of that time. We forget this because our brain can’t accept that error is part of being human.

In astrology, when Mercury goes retrograde, the urge to revisit the past intensifies. The mind gets caught in review and self-questioning. But this return, if done consciously, can lead to understanding and peace. Otherwise, it becomes a loop of inner torture.

Hard to believe, but often our suffering isn’t from the mistake—it’s from the ideal image we’ve created of the path not taken. In our mind, that unlived life becomes so perfect that reality, no matter how good, always feels lacking. That vision isn’t truth; it’s illusion.

That’s why the “Hypothetical Timeline” technique exists. Pick a decision you regret. Now imagine the path you would’ve taken instead. But go all the way. Not just the moment of relief—also the consequences, the conflicts, the challenges.

Most of the time, when we follow that hypothetical line to the end, we see it wouldn’t have been pain-free either. Maybe just a different kind of pain. Or maybe what seemed better would’ve brought its own suffering. The mind only shows us fragments of a fantasy future—not the full picture.

No one truly knows what would’ve happened if they had chosen differently. But the mind, with a voice of false certainty, insists: “It would’ve been better.” That certainty is a sweet lie. If we knew life well enough to predict the future, we’d never make mistakes. But we are human—not gods.

We often think we erred just because the result wasn’t favorable. But outcomes alone don’t determine right or wrong. Our intention, courage, and circumstances matter too. Sometimes a failed choice helped us grow—or showed us what not to repeat.

Regret, when seen rightly, can be a teacher. But if it only becomes a tool for self-blame, it’s just a wound we reopen daily. Instead, let’s ask: What did that choice reveal about me? My values? My fears?

We were different people back then. This means today you know, feel, and see things you couldn’t have known then. So don’t judge your past self—embrace them. Say: “You had limited awareness, but you didn’t mean harm.”

Maybe this is maturity: to accept you made mistakes and still offer yourself compassion. Instead of fleeing your past, walk into it and hear your own human voice. Regret, when honest, can be a bridge—from yesterday’s ignorance to today’s awareness.

There’s no way to change the past, but there are endless ways to reshape its meaning. You can turn that mistake into a lesson, a story, something that doesn’t choke you—but enlightens you. The very fact that you’re thinking about it now means you’re alive. It means you’re ready to rebuild.

Accept this too: sometimes we didn’t choose between good and bad, but between bad and worse. Maybe that regretful decision was the only way to survive. Some choices weren’t about thriving—they were about not drowning.

Fate isn’t always our ally—but it’s not our enemy either. Sometimes we and fate dance together in strange ways. Sometimes we fall. But that fall can be the start of something brighter. Something that blooms from the ashes of a mistake.

You made mistakes—but you are not your mistakes. You are a mosaic of efforts, intentions, fears, and hopes. If we define ourselves by a single misstep, then all humans are doomed. But we can choose to grow instead of judge.

Try this today: write down three decisions you regret. Then create a hypothetical timeline for each. But make it realistic—not idealized. Then maybe you’ll see your past wasn’t so “wrong” after all. It was simply human.

Breathe. You still have time to make new choices. The past is over—but you’re still alive in the story that continues. And that means you can still save yourself.

Chapter Three: I Am at War with Myself
📍Core Question: Why can’t I forgive myself for the past?
🔍 Main Content: Shame – guilt – internalized judgment from others
🧠 Exercise: A letter from your “future self” to your “ashamed self”

Sometimes the deepest pain doesn’t come from others—but from within. Not because people judged us—but because we judged ourselves more harshly than anyone else ever could. Perhaps the hardest part of the past isn’t when others humiliated us, but when we absorbed that humiliation into our identity.

Shame is a quiet poison. It doesn’t explode like anger, nor flow like sadness. It grows in silence, in the corners of the soul where no light reaches. And strangely, most shame doesn’t stem from something we did wrong, but from believing: I am wrong.

If we were rejected as children, if someone said, “I’m disappointed in you,” we often internalized it not as a comment on behavior—but as a judgment on identity. “I am not lovable.” “I am not enough.” That belief became a mask we wore in every memory since. And we began to hate ourselves.

Unlike guilt, shame doesn’t say “You did something bad.” It says, “You are bad.” And that sentence is the most destructive voice a human can internalize. Shame becomes a wall between us and freedom. Even years later, the wound still feels fresh.

We carry many of others’ judgments inside us. Even if those people are no longer in our lives, their voices echo within us. This is called internalized judgment. We no longer need outer critics—because the loudest critic now lives in us.

Astrologically, shame often hides under Neptune’s shadow. Neptune, the planet of illusion and projection, makes us imagine others judge us—when it’s actually our own voice dragging us down. And Mercury, with its mental loops, keeps replaying that shame endlessly.

Self-forgiveness isn’t easy. The mind says: “If I forgive myself, it means I approve of what I did.” But here’s the truth: you were a human, in pain, in confusion, doing the best you could with what you had. Forgiving yourself means honoring that truth.

Today’s exercise is both simple and profound: write a letter. But not from yourself—from your future self. The one who has healed, survived, matured. Someone who looks at your ashamed self—not with scorn, but with understanding.

Let that future self say: “I see you. I know why you did what you did. I know you were scared. I understand you. And believe me, I love you even for those mistakes. Because those mistakes helped shape me. You fell—but I rose because of you.”

In therapy, when someone hears their kind inner voice for the first time, they often cry. Because for the first time, they see themselves without judgment. Maybe you’ll cry too while writing this letter. Let it happen. Let your shame flow. These tears aren’t weakness—they are cleansing.

We can’t erase memories—but we can change what they mean. When you revisit a memory with compassion, you don’t just soften the wound—you begin to free yourself. And that’s the start of reconciliation.

No one—not even your closest people—knows all the pain inside you. Their judgment is incomplete. But you know yourself. You remember what you felt in that moment of mistake. Maybe they’ll forgive you, maybe not. But real forgiveness begins with you.

This inner war ends only in peace with yourself. The day you say, “Yes, I made mistakes, but I am still worthy of love,” that’s the moment shame loses its throne—and your humanity breathes again.

If you’re reading these words today, there’s still hope alive in you. Maybe faint, maybe weary—but it’s there. That hope whispers: “I want to see myself again. Without shame. Without blame.”

So pick up your pen. Write the letter. Let it be the first conversation between you and your ashamed self. One that may one day lead to a great reconciliation.

Don’t forget: you are still alive, still capable. And that alone makes you worthy of kindness—even if it comes from yourself.

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Chapter Four: The Past Lives Inside Me (Stored in My Body and Behavior)
📍Core Question: Why do I overreact to just one sentence?
🔍 Main Content: Trauma stored in the body
🧠 Exercise: Emotional body scan and therapeutic journaling

Sometimes all it takes is one sentence—and your whole body reacts. Not because the sentence is special, but because something deep within you responds. Your heart races, your mouth goes dry, your shoulders tighten—and suddenly, you’re no longer your present self. You’re right back in that painful moment, maybe years ago.

The body doesn’t forget. Even when the mind tries to, even when years have passed—the body holds its own memory. That’s why sometimes your intense reactions don’t make logical sense: they’re not coming from your mind, they’re coming from your body’s memory.

Trauma, simply put, is an emotional injury frozen in time. In that moment, your body didn’t complete its emotional cycle—didn’t cry, scream, or flee. It froze. And it stored that unfinished energy inside you. Now, even after all these years, that energy is still there.

Astrologically, when personal planets like Mars or the Moon touch karmic wounds like Pluto or Saturn, trauma often resurfaces through subconscious bodily reactions. You might not understand why you’re shaking—but your body is following its own hidden calendar.

Body awareness is returning to truth. That tightness in your throat may not be about today’s embarrassment—but a shadow of the silence you learned in childhood. That tension in your chest may not be from this room—but a leftover from a room where you were once humiliated.

This body is a temple of memory. It remembers through touch, sound, scent. Real healing cannot happen without the body being present. You must listen to your body—even when it seems silent, it’s always speaking.

Today’s practice is an emotional body scan. Close your eyes. Gently move your awareness from your toes to the crown of your head. In any area where you feel tension, heat, numbness—pause. Greet that spot. Ask: “What have you been holding all these years?”

Then take a pen, and let your body speak. Write without filter. “When I reached my stomach, I felt a knot. Like a fear that never had a voice.” Each sentence becomes a bridge between your body and your psyche. This writing is not poetic or analytical—it’s liberating.

Many wounds don’t heal through words—but through a hug, a deep breath, a mindful touch. Give your body space to speak. Maybe today it won’t say everything. But even the desire to hear it is the first step toward peace.

Your body is not just wounded—it’s part of the healing. As it begins to trust again, you’ll start to feel safer inside yourself. You’ll no longer rely only on thoughts—your body becomes your ally.

If one sentence still triggers you, if one voice makes your heart pound—it’s time to listen to your body. It’s telling you something your mind forgot, but your soul remembers.

Don’t see these reactions as enemies. They are signs your body is alive. It still feels. It still waits to be heard. Maybe you just need to say: “I see you. This time, I’m here with you.”

This may be the beginning of the end of a war that’s been raging inside for years. A war not fought with swords—but with neglect. And now, it can end—with awareness, with listening, with kindness.

Your body has never judged you, never left you. It’s always been there. Now it’s your turn—to stand by it. That’s all.

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Chapter Five: It Runs in the Family… I Feel Like I Was Always This Way
📍Core Question: Did my past really begin with me?
🔍 Main Content: Family memories – generational inheritance
🧠 Exercise: Discover repeating family patterns – rewrite your role

Sometimes you carry a pain that you never started. Something that began in a house you hadn’t even been born into yet. A wound. A silence. A moment that never healed. And now, without clear reason, you find yourself crying.

We are not just the sum of our own memories. We are fragments of our parents’ and grandparents’ pasts. The more you explore yourself, the more you realize that some of your fears, anger, or even your way of loving were passed down before you were even born.

There’s an old belief: unhealed pain gets passed down. If you don’t sit with it, don’t see it, don’t name it—it shows up again. In your children. In your repeated relationships. Not as a curse, but as a call to be understood.

In your astrological chart, slow-moving planets like Saturn and Pluto often show these ancestral roots. Invisible threads tying you to events long ago. And when Mercury sheds light on these wounds, questions begin to rise.

Ask yourself: What has been repeated in my family? Poverty? Betrayal? Emotional repression? Write down the patterns that echo across generations. Then, honestly ask: Am I just another chapter—or the first to rewrite the story?

In most families, one person is chosen to break the cycle. That person might be you. The one who sees the pain, and instead of spreading it, chooses to soothe it. Instead of denying it, chooses to embrace it.

Accepting that part of your pain isn’t yours is strangely liberating. Like putting down a heavy bag you’ve carried for years. You’re not responsible for the wound passed from your mother—but you are responsible for healing it.

This chapter’s exercise is about identifying family patterns. Draw a diagram. Place your name in the center. Around you, write the names of your parents, grandparents, and as far back as you know. Next to each, write a keyword: “anger,” “over-patience,” “hidden sorrow,” “forced marriage”…

Then look for the lines that connect. Maybe every woman in your family suffered in silence. Maybe every man confused love with control. Then write one sentence declaring your new role: “I choose to break the chain and create a new path.”

It may seem like just a sentence—but it’s your declaration of freedom from a past you never chose. It’s time to gently open the arms of that past and step away—with love and dignity.

We are not separate from our families—but we’re not bound to continue their unconscious stories either. We can change the narrative—not by fighting, but by seeing, understanding, and rewriting with love.

Family memory is like roots in the soil. If we only look at the tree’s trunk, we won’t understand its bend. We must dig into the roots. And if we find rot, or worms, we change the soil.

You may not be the first fruit of this tree, but you can be the first to ripen with a new flavor. A forgiveness born from insight, not obligation. A love given consciously, not as a transaction.

And when you feel tired along the way, ask: Did anyone before me get the chance to change? Maybe not. But I do. Which means—this past ends here.

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Chapter Six: Memories I’m Too Ashamed to Even Think About
📍Core Question: What do I do with sexual or humiliating memories?
🔍 Main Content: Taboo, hidden pain, and unconscious avoidance
🧠 Exercise: Anonymous writing and burning ritual for cleansing

Some memories make you slam the door of your mind shut the moment they peek in. They wear masks of shame, and a muffled voice inside whispers, “Don’t even think about it.”

But silence doesn’t always bring peace. Sometimes, avoiding a wound just keeps it infected. These are wounds from childhood, from toxic relationships, or from moments when you didn’t even know saying “no” was your right—not a sin.

Especially in our culture, we grow up with taboos. “Don’t talk about it.” “Just forget it.” “You’ll ruin the family’s honor.” And these voices bury the pain instead of healing it. But dirt doesn’t heal—it hides.

Psychologically, shame is one of the most powerful forces that lock memory away. But what’s suppressed shows up elsewhere—in sudden anger, in low self-worth, in an inability to trust love.

Astrologically, when Neptune touches psychological wounds, it brings confusion, shame, and denial. Mercury, weakened in such moments, loses its power to name and process pain. And we remain voiceless in a fog of guilt.

But now is the time for those memories to be seen—even without sharing them. Why? Because you deserve freedom. Even if no one believed you. Even if no one ever said, “You were right.” You know how alone you felt.

This chapter’s exercise isn’t about telling anyone details—it’s about inner release. Take a blank sheet. No name, no date. Just write what’s heavy. A sexual memory, a moment of humiliation, or a buried feeling. Whatever has haunted your silence.

Let the words come—without judgment or censorship. Even if your hand shakes or your heart races, write. This writing is like a wound draining; healing can only happen if the poison is let out.

Then, fold the paper, take it somewhere safe, and with the intention of cleansing, burn it. Not to deny it—but to see it, honor it, and finally let it go. Say out loud: “I saw it. I understood it. I am letting it go.”

You are not to blame. Even if others tried to make you feel that way. You’re alive enough to still hear the echoes of the past. And now, you’re choosing not to fight or run—but to embrace the voice and whisper back, “It’s over.”

Sometimes, healing comes from simply seeing. Like a mother holding her wounded child. No advice. Just presence. You can be that mother for your wounded memory.

You don’t have to forget the memory. But you can stop it from running your life. You can lay it down gently, like a burned letter—not because it didn’t matter, but because you won’t let it define you anymore.

And if tears come, let them. Tears are rivers that extinguish the fire of shame. And from their ashes, new flowers bloom. Even from wounds, life can grow.

You deserve a freedom where even your most painful memories can’t cage you. You don’t have to speak them. But if you want to, you can write, burn, and be free.

Tell yourself: I’m still here. I survived. And nothing—not even that memory—lessens my worth. I’m not perfect, but I am whole. And now, I walk forward—lighter, clearer, and more alive.

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Chapter Seven: Why Can’t I Forgive?
📍Core Question: Why am I still bitter toward them?
🔍 Main Content: Forgiveness as a process, not a decision
🧠 Exercise: “Control Room” visualization and imagined dialogue

There are names that make your face tense, your heartbeat spike, and trigger mental reruns of words you never got to say. Then someone says, “Forgive them—for your own peace.” And with swallowed rage, you just look down.

But the truth is, forgiveness isn’t just a decision—it’s a process. A long journey filled with questions, tears, anger, and ultimately, freedom. We mistakenly believe we must forgive instantly. But no deep wound heals with a smile.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean injustice is okay. It doesn’t mean saying “they were right” or “my pain didn’t matter.” It means reclaiming your life from the grip of that wound. It means taking back control.

Psychologically, we often stay angry at those who violated our boundaries—when we couldn’t defend ourselves or speak up. Forgiveness then feels like betrayal of our pain. Because if we forgive, doesn’t that mean it never mattered?

But no—it means ending the hope of rewriting the past. It means cutting the psychic chain tying you to their mistake. You may still hurt, but you’re no longer their permanent victim.

Astrologically, when Venus and Pluto are in harsh aspect, deep emotional wounds and toxic bonds rise up. These moments ask: What did you lose? Do you still need it?

This chapter’s exercise helps you reclaim your control. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Picture your “Control Room”—a space inside you where life decisions are made. See the central chair. Who’s sitting in it? You? Or the person who hurt you?

If it’s them, gently but firmly ask them to leave. Say, “You’re no longer in charge.” Then, sit in that chair yourself. Feel the power return.

Now, begin an imagined dialogue. No filters. Say all the things you never could. Scream, cry, go silent—whatever you need. Let your voice finally be heard, even if only in your mind.

Then ask: What do I want to do with this pain? Does holding onto it empower me—or just exhaust me? Sometimes, forgiveness is born in that one question: “Do I want to be free?”

If yes, remember: forgiveness is a path, not a point. Today you might forgive 5%, tomorrow 10%, and one day, fully. What matters is you’ve started.

Forgiveness ends the endless replay of pain. It creates new space inside—not for others, but for you. So you can love, breathe, laugh again.

You have the right not to forgive. But you also have the right to forgive—if you choose. That right brings peace. Not because they deserve it, but because you do.

You deserve a life where the past no longer rules. Forgiveness is one of the ways to build it. It’s hard—but full of light.

Remember, you’re stronger today than yesterday. And today, you took one step closer to freedom.

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Chapter Eight: The Old Love Still in My Heart
📍Core Question: Why do I still miss someone who left?
🔍 Main Content: Unfinished attachments – unexplained loss
🧠 Exercise: Writing a “chosen ending” + releasing lingering energy

Some loves don’t end—they just go quiet. They retreat into the dark corners of your heart but leave the door open. And sometimes, even years later, you still hear them breathe.

Missing someone who’s gone isn’t just about them—it’s about what’s unfinished. Words unsaid, questions unanswered, feelings that never had a chance to live.

These kinds of attachments are often tied to what’s called “ambiguous loss”—the type where something is gone, but not completely. The person is absent, but the connection lingers like a ghost in your memory.

Psychologically, when a relationship ends without closure, your mind keeps searching for meaning. And when it finds none, it either blames you or idealizes the other. Because we tend to remember fragments, not the full truth.

Astrologically, Neptune’s influence—especially in the twelfth house or in contact with Venus—can produce dreamlike, elusive loves. Loves that feel more real in your inner world than they ever were in reality. Neptune is the master of unfinished dreams.

The question isn’t “Why do I still think of them?”—it’s “What part of this relationship am I still holding onto?” Often, it’s an unmet emotional need, not the person themselves.

This chapter’s exercise invites you to write a “chosen ending.” Write a letter to that unfinished love. Say everything you never said—what you felt, what you hoped for, how it broke you. Not so they read it—but so you are free.

Then, in a quiet ritual, burn or bury the letter. Not to forget, but to close the loop. Let the trapped energy of that love move again—and return to you.

Some loves don’t end because they were part of your soul’s journey. Maybe that person was just the messenger for your growth. Sometimes, the pain of someone leaving becomes a doorway to reconciliation with yourself.

You may still hear their voice or feel tears well up when you see someone who resembles them. That’s okay. But each time, remind yourself: “I am here now, not there.” Freedom is accepting the memory without being trapped in it.

Your heart is like a house. Don’t leave one room half-open forever. Either close the door or enter with awareness. Don’t let that space remain unclaimed and chill today’s warmth.

You’re allowed to still love them. But you’re not allowed to imprison yourself in the past. A love that didn’t help you grow doesn’t define you. You are more than even your most beautiful love story.

Gradually, as the energy of that love returns to you, you’ll fill its space not with another—but with yourself. With your presence, care, and new awareness.

And one day, you’ll think of that love and smile—not from pain, but from growth. And in that moment, you’ll know—you’re free.

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Chapter 9: Should I Forget or Build from It?

Core Question: Should I forget the past or live with it?

No one can change their past; this is a rule of life. But there is a big and complex question: Should we completely forget the past to find freedom? Or should we learn to live with it and build something meaningful out of the pain?
This question is especially serious for many of us Iranians, burdened with suppressed memories, shame, and regret. A past that weighs heavily on our shoulders like a shadow and sometimes causes pain instead of lessons.

To better understand, we first need to distinguish between forgetting and acceptance. Forgetting means erasing memory and suppressing memories. When we forget a memory, we just push it into the depths of the unconscious. These memories, like time bombs, can suddenly and unexpectedly erupt as anxiety, fear, or anger. Complete forgetting is sometimes a way to escape that only postpones the problem.

On the other hand, active acceptance means acknowledging that the past happened and cannot be changed, but instead of resisting or denying, we cope with it and draw meaning and lessons from it.
Active acceptance means allowing ourselves to fully experience feelings without judgment or blame, and then constructing a new narrative that turns us from victims into heroes of our own life story.

In psychology, structuring painful memories is a key step in healing. Our minds are deeply reliant on narrative. When we can build a story from a memory that caused us pain, that memory shifts from being raw and scattered to something understandable and, therefore, more controllable. This transformation activates the prefrontal cortex responsible for logic and decision-making and helps us manage intense emotional reactions.

This process is especially vital in cultures like Iran’s, where talking about personal pain and suffering is often accompanied by shame and silence. Recounting and creatively reconstructing the past in the form of a story, poem, or even a podcast is a way to release suppressed energy. When we express our experience and narrate it ourselves, we transform it from a dangerous place into a manageable and even inspiring one.

Astrologically, this process relates to Pluto’s energy in the eighth or twelfth houses or Scorpio sign. Pluto symbolizes rebirth from death and destruction. This planet gives the power to build new life from the ashes of our pains. If your chart shows active energies there, you naturally have this transformative capacity, though the path may begin with fear and resistance.

But what is the practical solution? The exercise in this chapter asks you to select a painful memory and turn it into a creative work. For example:

• Write a short story about the experience,
• Compose a poem,
• Write a letter to your past self,
• Or record an audio podcast.

The goal is to bring that experience out of your dark inner space into something tangible and controllable. Your work does not have to be professional or beautiful, just honest and intended for healing.

As you do this, you may experience many emotions: crying, laughing, anger, peace, or a mix. All these reactions are natural parts of the liberation flow. Do not blame yourself or let fear or shame stop you.

If you wish, you can share your work with others. This means mutual empowerment; when one person tells their story, another gains hope and may start to construct their own life narrative.

Ultimately, this chapter reminds you that your past does not define you; you are the one who transforms your past into a tool for growth and flourishing. This power is in your hands, and with every re-creation of your memories, you take a step closer to freedom and true breathing.

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Exercise:

Choose a painful memory. Then creatively reconstruct it: story, poem, letter, or podcast. Do this without censorship and with the intention of liberation. If you want, share it with others.

Chapter 10: Breathe – Today, Not Yesterday

Core Question: How can I stop carrying the past every day?

Living caught up in the memories of the past is like breathing underwater; the harder you try, the less air you get. This may be the best description for someone who still carries the burden of the past and cannot free themselves. But how can one escape this trap?
Real breathing means living in this moment, without allowing yesterday’s burdens to weigh down today. This chapter is a guide for building the habit of living in the now, where past and future blend without drowning you in themselves.

In psychology, living in the now is one of the keys to mental health. Our minds tend to wander in the past or future, especially when the past is full of pain and the future full of worries. But full attention to the present moment brings calm and reduces stress.
Practices such as meditation, deep breathing, and mindfulness help us break free from this trap. Breathing, especially, is so simple yet profound that it can spark returning life to this very moment.

Astrologically, the energy of Jupiter and lunar nodes in houses related to the present time and balance help us overcome the trap of the past and open the path forward. Jupiter symbolizes growth, development, and new opportunities; when these energies are active, your capacity for acceptance and release increases.

One of the biggest challenges for those trapped in the past is the fear of letting go of memories. Sometimes the past, even if painful, is the most familiar friend because we do not know how to be without it. This fear traps us in a cycle of repetition that is hard to break.
But the truth is, you can take a deep breath, over and over again, and each time get a little closer to freedom. Building a “daily liberation ritual” makes this possible.

A daily liberation ritual is a set of small habits you perform every morning to prepare your mind and body to live in the now. For example:

• Five minutes of deep, mindful breathing,
• Reading a positive affirmation,
• Writing one thing from the past you want to let go of,
• And planning to be fully present in your daily activities.

These tasks may seem simple, but their daily repetition creates profound changes in mental structure and behavioral habits. This repetition gradually lightens and finally dissolves the shadows of the past.

Remember that liberation from the past is a process, not an event. You are not alone on this path, and every step you take is a step toward a life full of light and peace.
This final chapter of the book is an invitation to breathe freely, to live in the now, to break the chains of the past, and to open the gates of a better tomorrow.

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Exercise:

Every morning, perform your five-minute liberation ritual:

• Take deep, mindful breaths,
• Repeat a positive sentence to yourself,
• Write one thing from the past you want to release,
• And decide to be present today.