Eat Pray Love — The Lessons I Carried With Me

When I think of Liz Gilbert, I feel love — a deep warmth and familiarity that comes with recognising a kindred spirit. It’s that feeling of finally having language for something you’ve always felt but never quite named. Much like Frida, Liz gives me context for living as my truest self. She is honest, vulnerable, insightful, funny, and entirely human — qualities I value intensely. If I were ever to be compared to someone, I’d hope it would be either Frida or Liz. (Of course, I'm my own person, but the comparison would be a great compliment.)

Liz is the ultimate self-acceptance warrior. She brings her experiences into the open — in her books, in podcasts, and in how she chooses to live. I admire her courage, the way she speaks about shame without flinching, and the grace she brings to even the messiest parts of being human. I return to her work because I see myself in it. I recognise my struggles in hers — and I take courage from how she continues to grow through them.

Like much of the world, I first found Elizabeth Gilbert through Eat Pray Love. I read the book before watching the film — and I love both, for very different reasons.

The Film — Revisiting Old Lessons

The film tells Liz’s story rather than the full depth of her process — which makes sense. I’ve always found it to be a beacon of hope after (and sometimes during) failed relationships. There were times when I’d finish it and immediately press play again. It became a kind of checklist of lessons:

• Oh yes — here’s the part where I used to give up all of myself in relationships, then resent that there was no space left for me.
• Here — this was when I realised I needed to know who I was first, before expecting someone else to know how to love me.
• And this — the era of hopping from one relationship to the next instead of sitting with myself.
• This moment — where I first experienced God in a way that felt real and deeply personal to me.
• And this one — the reminder that busy isn’t the same as productive, and that rest isn’t failure.

In the past, I would unpack each scene like an emotional autopsy. Why did I disappear in relationships? Why couldn’t I articulate my needs? What default settings kept pulling me back into the same patterns?

I needed to understand them — and then learn how to reset them.

Over time, those conscious pauses became instinctive boundaries. The triggers softened. The lessons landed. Now, when I rewatch the film, it feels less like a deep therapeutic excavation and more like paging through an old photo album.

(Not because I’m “fixed”, but because those particular wounds have healed, and I no longer live outside myself because of them.)

The Book — Shame, Truth, and Wholeness

The book is different. Raw. Honest. Unfiltered in a way that invites every part of the self to sit at the table — including shame.

Liz doesn’t deny shame or bury it. She lets it speak — but she doesn’t let it dominate the room. She treats it like one part of a whole, neither more important nor less worthy than any other part of her.

Whether she intends it or not, this reframing gives shame purpose.
It becomes context rather than condemnation.

From a young age, we’re taught to treat shame as something dark and corrosive — something to hide. But Liz reframes it as a guide:

The cause.
The impact.
The learning.
The evolution.

This approach allows space for self-forgiveness. Because when we constantly dig at our wounds — keeping them raw and open — healing doesn’t happen. We stay stuck in pain instead of processing it.

I love the idea of sitting with our demons rather than exiling them — understanding them, integrating them, and using what they’ve taught us to move forward. That, to me, is where real recovery lives. Not erasing what happened — but acknowledging it as part of the story of whom we’ve become.

Liz, Writing, and My Becoming

Liz didn’t just influence my self-acceptance journey — she also inspired me to write my memoir one day.

People have encouraged me to tell my story for years, but I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to write from the centre of the wound. I didn’t want to bleed on the page just for the sake of confession.

As I heal, I’m more able to face my truth — not as a victim of my life, but as its witness and participant.

My story will not be written out of pain.
It will be written as a lighthouse.

Why This Book Still Matters to Me

Eat Pray Love changed me — not because it handed me answers, but because it helped me see where I was still abandoning myself.

It helped me become quieter with my shame, gentler with my growth, and far more patient with the messy, repeating lessons of becoming.

If you’re ready to look at yourself honestly — with courage, compassion, and humour — this book won’t just entertain you. It will walk beside you.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

NOT YOUR AVERAGE BOOK REVIEW

I’m not here to critique structure, plot, or literary style.

These reflections are about how I connected with the book;
what it surfaced in my life and healing; and
the lessons, echoes, and reminders I carried forward

Books don’t just tell stories — they become mirrors, companions, and catalysts.
I explore how they shape the way I see myself and the world,
and how they influence my ongoing journey of growth, self-acceptance, and becoming.