Tiny Buddha

Author: Leslie Ralph

  • How to Live an Extraordinary Life, Starting Right Where You Are

    How to Live an Extraordinary Life, Starting Right Where You Are

    “Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” ~Rumi

    “Isn’t this a miracle?” I asked myself in the milk aisle at Whole Foods.

    It was a Wednesday night after work, and I was buying a few staples to get us through the week. It was a completely ordinary moment in a completely ordinary day, and it was miraculous.

    Rewind a few years, same Whole Foods, same shopping list, and you’d find me absentmindedly wandering the aisles, lost in a head full of worries. I couldn’t tell you now what I was worried about then—the house, the kids, money, probably.

    My body would be tense, with a hint of tears right behind my eyes.

    “Isn’t this supposed to be a miracle?” I might have asked if I had the words to describe that feeling.

    For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be one of those interesting people who did interesting things like paint murals or write books. I wanted to see every continent and learn as many languages as my brain could hold. I wanted to feel excited by my life.

    As a child, I had no doubt that this is what growing up would be like.

    But, for just as long as I can remember, I also lived under the assumption that I had something to prove. My intelligence, my worth, my place in this world.

    Somehow, these two ideas became intertwined.

    That part of me that felt so certain that her life would be extraordinary started to have doubts.

    Could I really pull it off?

    Had I really earned it?

    Was I being completely delusional?

    Over time, that vision of an extraordinary life felt like a silly childhood dream, and I stopped myself from following it. I worked hard and earned a good reputation, but that excitement, that fulfillment was always just out of my reach.

    I would let it go saying, it’ll come later, but as I checked off the boxes of life’s to-do list—degree, job, marriage, kids—I wasn’t feeling anything like I thought I would.

    The feeling that something was off fueled a restlessness that I mistook for motivation. I poured myself into school and then work, but not necessarily out of excitement. I think a part of me still believed that if you weren’t happy, you just weren’t working hard enough at it.

    What confused me about it all was that my life was good. I had a beautiful, growing family, a stable job, and a safe, comfortable house. I mean, I was buying organic milk to pour on my cereal. That’s a privilege.

    So, if nothing was “wrong,” why didn’t it feel right?

    I’d scold myself for not being more grateful, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t feel the way I wanted.

    Then, one ordinary day, while squeezing in another email during my lunch hour, a little thought snapped me out of it.

    “You’re missing the point, Leslie.”

    Time stopped just long enough for me to notice my racing heart.

    Maybe you’ve had these epiphanies, where you’re amazed by your own wisdom and you feel so incredibly clear and awake. Maybe it was during a life-changing event, or maybe, like me, it was during an everyday moment, like buying toothpaste or feeding the cats.

    The immediate effect wasn’t anything extreme. There was no out of body experience, no inexplicable knowledge of the universe. Just an ordinary little thought that led to another ordinary little thought.

    What if living an extraordinary life isn’t about the details?

    Every now and then, I’d pull out a list I made that day and add a thought or two to it.

    The point is…

    Overflowing.

    Seeing more magic.

    Doing what you love.

    Being happy.

    Being present.

    Feeling bright, brave, and brilliant.

    Waking up and appreciating the mountains.

    My children knowing how much they are loved.

    Gratefully receiving everything I have.

    Letting myself unfold.

    Alignment, not approval.

    Trusting the wisdom of my own heart.

    A hundred percent up to me.

    And in a gradual, ordinary kind of way, I figured it out. That feeling I wanted wasn’t an outcome. It wasn’t something that would happen “when.” It wasn’t in the details at all. It’s your feelings, moment to moment, that make your life extraordinary.

    There is no committee keeping score and waiting to grant permission to begin. There’s just us, the people we care about, our corner of the world, and those little moments. And we have a choice in what we do with them.

    That feeling that something was wrong wasn’t about my reputation or my checklist. It was about my awareness of the miracles right in front of me and my willingness to take conscious, meaningful steps that felt extraordinary to take.

    Since that day, my life has changed dramatically.

    We live in the same house, we shop at the same store, I have the same job, but now, I’m also one of those people who is curious about everything. Who loses themselves in creative projects just because. Who creates art, writes poetry, and self-publishes books. I’ve become one of those people who sees even the most ordinary moment at Whole Foods on a Wednesday afternoon as extraordinary.

    How did I do it? I simply let myself begin right where I was.

    You may have a completely different version of extraordinary, and that’s what’s so perfect. How to live an extraordinary life is entirely up to you—it’s your life, after all. The action itself isn’t as important as the intent behind it.

    As long as your intent is to make something in your world just a little better, to learn something just a little deeper, to try something you’re just a little curious about, it’s foolproof. You could institute pizza Saturdays or travel the world, saving endangered species. Both are extraordinary.

    If you’re not sure where to begin, here are a few things to try. They changed the world for me.

    1. Be tenacious in your appreciation and optimism.

    First, slow down and look around. Then, appreciate anything and everything you possibly can. Thank the sun, thank the water, thank the air you breathe. Look out for the funny thing that happened on your way to work, beautiful sunsets, and acts of human kindness. Even when everyone around you wants to complain about the boss, be the one who notices that it’s such a nice day.

    When I talked about my day, I used to begin with something that went wrong. Then, I gave myself one tiny challenge: lead with gratitude. I made a point of starting conversations with something positive as often as I could, which meant I had to start looking for those positive things and remembering to bring them up. I discovered so much beauty around me with this one simple switch.

    2. Define your extraordinary.

    What do you want to see in this lifetime? What do you want to learn? How do you want to feel while you’re living your life?

    I’d thought about these things before, of course, but they would quickly get taken over by something more serious. I didn’t want to waste time. My attitude changed when I decided that feeling curious, engaged, and alive was more important than being productive.

    I began setting intentions for the week. I’d write down an idea that excited me, a feeling I wanted to nurture, and something I wanted to learn or create. Then, I gave myself small, meaningful challenges that fit with those intentions. Carrying a composition book with me quickly led to filling that composition book, and then another and another.

    3. Make friends with your body.

    Your body was made for living, so live in it. Use it in a life-affirming way. Don’t just feed it, nourish it. Let it move, let it sweat, let it pump its blood, laugh, cry, and feel. Stretch into it and savor its senses. Rest it when it’s tired, heal it when it’s hurting, love it even when you want to change it, and thank it. And when it has something to tell you, lean in and really listen.

    I used to treat my body like it had no purpose. I didn’t nourish it, I overworked its muscles, and I constantly tried to remodel it.

    It wasn’t until I started paying attention to how I feel now that I asked myself, is this how you would treat a child or an animal in your care?

    My answer was an emphatic NO.

    4. Lose yourself in curiosity and creativity.

    Follow the fun and let yourself overflow. Take on a ridiculous project just because it lights you up, even if it’s silly, you’re “too old,” or it’s “wasting time.” Let it be messy. Let it change directions. And let it fail spectacularly. The outcome isn’t as important as the process of it.

    I practice this by painting with my children. They are experts at following curiosity and creativity. While I’m painstakingly sketching a dog or a flower, they’re creating imaginary animals in underwater kingdoms and then covering the entire thing in handprints when the inspiration strikes.

    Every time, I shake my head with a smile—this is supposed to be fun, remember?

    5. Be of service in a way that’s meaningful to you.

    Share something. Create something. Teach something. Go where you are masterful and add value to the world in any way that’s accessible to you. Feed the hummingbirds, pick up litter, volunteer in your community. Big or small, it doesn’t matter; it’s the meaning behind it that makes all the difference.

    I started by cultivating the kind of presence I wanted to have in my own life. I wanted to feel present at home, for one, so I reduced the expectations I put on myself. The house may be messier, but our weekend adventures at the park are nothing short of extraordinary.

    If you’ve ever wanted to feel differently in your life, take one little, ordinary step. And then another. Let your feelings guide you. Your extraordinary life is waiting for you on the other side.

  • How to Really Live In the Moment and Appreciate Life

    How to Really Live In the Moment and Appreciate Life

    “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” ~Albert Einstein 

    Just when you think you have the whole living in the moment thing down, a four-year-old comes along and shows you how it’s done.

    I’ve been working hard on this, actually, keeping a gratitude journal and everything. I was feeling pretty good about my progress yesterday when I decided to take said four-year-old on a walk rather than rushing through the to-do list burning a hole in the back of my mind.

    “I’m going to be totally present,” I reminded myself as we headed out. I took deep breath and said a silent thanks for the beautiful day.

    Like I said, I was feeling pretty proud of my progress. Then my daughter blew me away. She schooled me in everything I have been working so hard on, and she wasn’t even trying.

    Her commentary on the walk went exactly like this:

    Ohhhhhh, what an amazing house!

    What an amazing garbage can!

    Oh wow, what a wonderful tree!

    Look at the rocks!

    I hear a bird!

    I hear a wind chime!

    Mom, do you hear that dog? It’s perfect!

    I hear a truck!

    Do you feel the wind? It is so soft!

    Look at the beautiful cactus,

    Look! Two trucks. 

    She was so amazed by things that I never notice or worse, complain about. 

    Now, I wasn’t completely unaware. I was thankful for another spring day before the summer heat, and I was enjoying this rare one-on-one time with her.

    But I had no idea that the neighbors had wind chimes. I have never looked at a garbage can and called it amazing (at least not since I was four). This perfect dog is the same one that I complain about to my husband. The wind was messing up my hair.

    There were at least a thousand other concerns competing for my attention while she was content to watch ants on the sidewalk.

    Sometimes I wish I could be a little more like her.

    She didn’t care if I sent out that attachment with that email. She didn’t care about how many calories we burned on our walk. She didn’t mind that her clothes didn’t match because she picked out exactly what she likes.

    I was not going to let this fade from my memory to be overtaken by another thousand concerns.

    “Be amazed,” I thought.

    I repeated it to myself the way you do a telephone number.

    “Be amazed,” I scrawled as fast as I could on the first piece of paper I found when we got home.

    Be amazed.

    I set a reminder in my calendar. I made a post-it. I wrote it down in my journal.

    Be amazed.

    I don’t want to forget this feeling. This absolute clarity.

    My mind can be the most hardened criminal against my own happiness. It snatches the joy right out of my hands. It confuses busy with important, urgent with significant, and difficulty with meaning.   

    My mind gives the future and the past too much space. It wanders over to what the neighbors are doing. It reminds me of what I have yet to accomplish. It wants to speed up time, and it plows right through those moments to be amazed by.

    With this clarity also came sadness. My heart broke for the lost opportunities to just be and appreciate.

    I guess that’s the bittersweet part of life. You can’t wait until this one tough part is over, but then it’s gone and you can’t go back. There’s a new stage to take its place, and the cycle continues.

    Soon, you find yourself telling wide-eyed new parents and self-conscious teenagers (and basically anyone in one of those stages that you wanted to rush through when you were there) that these are the best years.

    “Enjoy this while you can. It goes so fast,” you say.

    Be amazed.

    Looking back, the times that I once wished would pass by quickly actually turned out to be the hardest to let go. I could scold myself for this, or I could remember to be amazed now.

    One way or another, time marches on. Old becomes new, new becomes old, and you get another chance to be amazed.

    Each new stage is also another chance to be nice to yourself about the whole thing. It isn’t humanly possible to love every second of life while it’s happening. Even four-year-olds aren’t amazed all the time.

    This little walk with my four-year-old reminded me that even the simple things are amazing, and the things I complain about? They’re life, and they’re doable. Sure, life now is different from life pre-kids (and pre-husband), I’m doing different things than my friends, and maybe my life doesn’t measure up to someone else’s definition of amazing.

    So what?

    I can be amazed anyway.

    Be amazed.

    Starting now, these two words will be a compass guiding me when it feels like I don’t have it all together. They will remind me what direction I want to go even when I feel completely lost.

    Be amazed. Take a step back and look at your life with gratitude every now and then.  

    Be amazed. Squeeze every last ounce of goodness out of what is around you. Savor it. Soak it up. Luxuriate in it.

    Be amazed. When you’re burned out, bone weary, and bedraggled, use amazement to fill yourself back up. Seek out those situations, people, and activities that remind you of what it means and how it feels to be amazed.

    And those painful parts? You know, the ones that really, really hurt. The ones you barely survive. Maybe there’s a little room for amazement there, too.

    Amazement when you make it to the other side.

    Amazement for how much the heart can hold.

    Amazement for your resilience, your ability to heal, and your capacity to keep loving and hoping.

    Be amazed by your spirit. Your tenacity. Be amazed by that part of you that refuses to give up.

    You only get one shot at life, and you don’t have a whole lot of control over what happens to you in it. Take advantage of the choices that you do have.

    I will choose to be amazed.

  • If It Brings You Joy, It’s Not “Wasting Time”

    If It Brings You Joy, It’s Not “Wasting Time”

    “At any moment, you have a choice that either leads you closer to your spirit or further away from it.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

    When I was a kid, I wanted to be an Olympic figure skater. Or an artist for Disney. Or maybe a musician.

    I wanted to be a songwriter and choreographer.

    I made up roller skating routines in the driveway to Tiffany and Paula Abdul. (It was most excellent.)

    I filled notebooks upon notebooks with illustrations.

    And if you were to ask me to describe myself, I might have said, “happy.” Or I would have chattered on about my dreams and all the interesting things I liked.

    Ask me today, and just like any other adult, my automatic response would probably be something along the lines of what I do and how hard I work, as if I’m interviewing for a job.

    I’m a psychologist. I’m a hard worker. I’m dedicated.

    (Adults aren’t always so good at this.)

    Somewhere around junior high, my identity shifted from happy and interested in everything to being studious and serious about everything.  

    Until very recently, I wouldn’t have thought to describe myself as joyful, creative, or inquisitive.

    Whereas I once thought about doing what fed my spirit, I started thinking about earning potential and prestige. Rather than doing things because they brought me joy, I did them because I was good at them. And things that I wasn’t didn’t make the cut.

    This was the time to start getting serious. Win the awards. Get scholarships. Get recognized.

    And stop wasting time.

    Things got competitive, too. Friends started talking about test scores, then it was talk about college and graduate school and publications and careers.

    It was during that time that I also discovered insecurity. I got caught up in not-good-enough thinking, and I felt like an imposter all the time.

    I don’t even think I noticed that I’d forgotten about joy. I’d laugh as I said, “I’ll be happy when…” only to find that there was always another “when” lurking around the corner.

    I’d forgotten what we all know as children, that joy is a part of us. It’s not a place you arrive at when you finally finish all of this serious business. It’s a piece of you that needs to be nurtured.  

    But I didn’t nurture the joy. I let it go because I thought I could live without it. Even the things I did in the name of self-care had lost their joy.

    Running, which once left me feeling as free as the wind, became about getting faster and going farther.

    Yoga, which was meant to be a grounding and compassionate practice for me, became about sticking that handstand a little longer.

    Setting goals isn’t the problem here. It’s just that accomplishments aren’t the same thing as thriving.

    Looking back at all of this, I see that I’d made myself so small, I forgot I was in there at all.

    Oh, my success more than spoke for itself, but joy? Interests? Excitement? I’d shut them down one by one because I wasn’t good enough or because they weren’t serious enough.  

    I stopped drawing.

    I stopped making jewelry.

    I stopped doing things just because they were enjoyable.

    And why? Because I thought I could live without them.

    I did everything you’re supposed to do, and I did everything in my power to do it just right. I got into that fancy private school on a full ride, got the Ph.D., got the license, and got the stable job. And I became so entrenched in this serious, hard-worker identity that I forgot about me.

    I’m truly grateful for the opportunities and privileges and people in my life, but as a human being, it felt like something was missing. Maybe those things I’d been living without might have been more necessary than I thought.

    Little pieces of that happy little girl popped up from time to time, but I’d push them away or turn them into something too perfect.

    And then one of those pieces shouted at me so loudly I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I was sitting on the blue mat in my son’s room reading Pete the Cat when it happened.

    You should do this. Write a children’s book.  

    I could almost see myself step outside of my body and look at me in disbelief.

    Really? You? Write a children’s book?

    I tried to brush it off, but my heart was pounding, and I could hardly breathe. I tried to go about my business, thinking this would go away on its own. But it didn’t.

    After a lot of back and forth with myself, I finally mumbled the words to my husband, “I think I want to write a children’s book.”

    I braced myself for the same look of disbelief I gave myself, but none came.

    “You should do it,” he said, apparently not at all surprised.

    As much as I’d like to say this was some kind of magical transformation, it wasn’t. I didn’t quit my job and whip out a world-famous, award-winning children’s book. But that’s not the point of this story anyway.

    The point is that I found joy again.

    It took a while. I thought about it and analyzed it, trying to make it disappear. I told myself I didn’t know what I was doing and didn’t have the time.

    The thought stuck with me, though, growing louder and louder until, under the cover of darkness in the early morning hours, I pulled a sheet of paper from the printer, sharpened a pencil, and sat down.

    Like one of those scenes from a movie when someone who’s had amnesia suddenly remembers their entire life, the memories of all the things I thought I could live without came flooding back.

    Have I really been living without this all this time?

    I filled pages upon pages with illustrations.

    I made up rhymes and stories.

    And do you know what happened? I didn’t just feel joy. I felt free.

    I could probably go on living without this, but now I see that I don’t have to.

    I didn’t need to quit my job.

    I didn’t neglect my children.

    The house didn’t crumble at my feet.

    Pursuing this didn’t need to make me a cent. I didn’t even need to be very good at it.

    Because it was always about joy, and that’s not something I want to live without anymore.

    Living with joy doesn’t hurt anything. It doesn’t diminish your drive or ambition. It doesn’t make you less intelligent. And it sure doesn’t make you any less important.

    Living with joy makes you free, and that freedom reminds you of everything that is possible. Even the serious things.

    On the outside, my life probably looks pretty much the same since that night I sat on my son’s blue mat, but on the inside, everything is different.

    Since then, I found that little girl that I didn’t even know had gone missing.

    I remembered the roller skating routines, designing t-shirts, setting up photo shoots in the living room, and sitting on the edge of my seat holding my breath watching decorating shows.

    I remembered what it feels like to be happy and excited and inquisitive.

    And now I get it. Just because you can live without something doesn’t mean you have to.  

    What piece of joy have you been telling yourself you can live without?

    What do you think would happen if you said one day, “I don’t have to live without this?”

    You can find that joy, even if that little piece of joy has been buried for a long time.

    To begin, start by saying yes to yourself a little more. Yes to that little spark of curiosity, yes to that little smile that you shrug off, and definitely yes to that burning feeling inside your chest that screams, “Listen to this. This is joy.”

    It doesn’t matter if it feels ridiculous, it doesn’t matter if it’s “wasting time,” and it sure doesn’t matter if you’re any good at it. What matters is the feeling you get when you do it. Because that feeling like you’re going to laugh and cry and sit silently and run through the halls singing all at once, that’s joy. (And you don’t need to live without it.)

    Remember to pursue more than success or accomplishment. Those are important, but so are the things that bring you meaning, connection, and engagement in your life.

    Feel the spontaneous moments of joy that seem to bubble up out of nowhere, and plan a few to look forward to. Fill those moments with activities that fill you up. Simply unplugging is not enough when you’re after joy. And above all else, do not cancel on yourself.

    As you do this, stay alert for that voice that says you can live without this. Maybe you can, but maybe you don’t have to anymore.

  • Honor Your Progress and the Path That Led You Here

    Honor Your Progress and the Path That Led You Here

    “In time and with water, everything changes.” ~Leonardo da Vinci

    This is a story about our past and progress. It’s about holding on and letting go, moving forward by moving inward, and time. And like any good story, it’s a love story in the end. I’m talking about the kind of love that eases suffering and restores peace. The love we show ourselves through patience and unconditional acceptance.

    It begins with a box in the back of my hall closet, tucked neatly beneath the snorkeling equipment and board games we always forget about. I’ve moved that box from Texas to Tennessee and back again, to California and Arizona.

    I last opened the box eleven or twelve years ago. I lived in Memphis then in a bright but lonely third-story apartment. There was a thunderstorm that day, and something about the dark afternoon and Clueless playing in the background made me nostalgic.

    I spent hours poring over old family photos and so many trinkets I’d forgotten about. An old nametag from my college dorm, programs from past performances, marching band gloves, complete with cut-out fingers. All proof that I was here.

    I’d unearthed a time capsule of cherished keepsakes mixed with hastily stored pictures of people I used to know. Good memories and bad ones greeted me, both softened and warmed with time.

    I pulled out a caricature of me and my high school boyfriend and braced myself for a punch in the stomach I always felt seeing his face. I’d vowed to wipe him from my memory. “I’ll never be that person again,” I’d promised. And here was evidence that we happened. That, too, had softened.

    It’s a bittersweet mix of pleasure and pain to revisit the past. Compartmentalization and sentimentality, like why would I want to remember this, but also why would I ever want to forget? Our lives are made of days we long to linger in along with those we’d like run from, burning the bridge and the whole city behind us if we must. Both tell the story of us.

    I’m happy to remember what I want to remember. Graduations and award ceremonies, laughing on the swings outside my apartment, sleepovers with the friends I’d grow into an adult with. I want to acknowledge the things I’m proud of, that clearly speak of my strengths.

    I’ve spent many wishes on extracting the other times from my story…the lows and illnesses, ridiculous relationships and naiveté. CTRL+X, like it never happened. Paste in something prettier.

    Opening that box and feeling my heart open just a little wider made me wonder if my past deserves more respect than that. And so much more love. I was out there trying my best and living. Even when I didn’t know where to turn or understand what I was looking at, I managed to find my way through.

    It’s interesting, too, that as much as I wanted to leave behind many aspects of my past, I’d found something worth holding on to in it. Did I know that one day I might see things differently? Maybe. Or maybe I was just as idealistic then as I am now, listening to love songs and hoping the box would keep the good times alive.

    I’ve considered taking the box out and showing it to my kids, but something’s always stopped me. Part of me wants them to hold a little slice of their family legacy, and another wants to leave it alone. Best not disrupt the balance I’ve found. I’ve grown up and moved on, but the fear about what I might unleash opening up the past remains.

    So, I suppose this is a story about trusting in our progress, too.

    I’ve made more peace than I give myself credit for. The hang-ups I thought I’d never get over and the heartbreaks I thought would haunt me forever, shoved down dark and deep, don’t hurt me in the same way. I’m not afraid of the same things anymore. It’s true, I have new fears now. But now, I also trust that they’ll change. My whole relationship with fear is different. I’m not perfect at it, but I’m a lot less judgmental of my fears and their origins.

    This is also the story about the wisdom and peace we seek. And it’s about life, legacy, and forward momentum.

    We want to move forward and grow stronger, braver, and wiser. We’re all caught in that pull between holding on and letting go.

    We can act like moving forward means bottling it all up or leaving it all behind, as if that will make us faster. Sure, we’ll outgrow things. Space will ask for clearing. We’ll bury hatchets, set dreams free, and so on. Parts of us will be reborn many times over. None of this moves us very far into that peace and wisdom we desire if done in anger, rejection, or shame, though.

    Pain becomes wisdom and life becomes legacy through respect for the path that led us here and gratitude for our progress, in whatever form it takes. And transformation happens through our daily decisions. Making amends, apologizing, setting boundaries, or just taking better care of ourselves eases suffering and brings us closer to peace when made from a place of caring.

    It’s not instantaneous, of course. And it’s okay to keep a “box.” We need a place to put those things that we don’t know what to do with or make sense of. But we also owe ourselves the honesty about what happens inside that box.

    The box isn’t magic, and hiding things doesn’t make them disappear. Yet here’s the paradox of it all: time has healing properties. It eases the intensity of old wounds through perspective. Over time, we make sense of our past and reach a new understanding of how it all fits together. The path we’ve traveled often looks clearer through the rearview mirror.

    We don’t move forward by packing everything away and never looking back. Part of the growing process is taking that box out and sorting through it. Letting some things go with compassion and holding some closer to our heart, then breathing a sigh of sweet release as the box grows lighter.

    Above all else, then, this is a story about suffering and compassion. (In the end, it’s always a love story.)

    Whether we’re holding on or letting go, love is the path through. Love may be tender, but it’s so strong. Love gives us resilience. Grit. With love comes acceptance and patience. Love breeds openness.

    Love reminds us of why we’re trying in the first place.

    It speaks to us of our courage.

    Love makes us willing to look at the parts that hurt with kindness.

    Sometimes we need to see the ugly parts to find the beauty again. Sometimes confusion is the first sign of clarity. It’s our willingness to be present with whatever arises that gives us the strength to keep going.

    Dear Traveler, we all have a box of one kind or another. What’s the story that yours tells? What form has your progress taken?

    It’s eleven years later, and I’m still learning how to be more intentional about the holding on and easier about the letting go. I’m learning that I don’t need to rush so much, and I sure don’t need to try so hard to escape where I’ve been.

    I’m seeing for myself that it’s okay to let go of shame. It’s okay to hold on to the positives, too. (Even in the painful times.)

    I’m learning how to nurture the small moments of joy and appreciate the everyday things that tell my story.

    As for the pain, I’m learning to meet that with love. Fear, too. When I’m ready to face it, I face it with as open a heart as I can manage. If it burns, I ease up. When I’m not ready, I give myself permission to set it aside for a while, this time closer to the light. I promise it I’ll be back when I’m a little older and wiser.

  • Never Forget That You Have the Power to Choose

    Never Forget That You Have the Power to Choose

    “If we are peaceful, if we are happy, we can smile, and everyone in our family, our entire society, will benefit from our peace.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

    Dedicate today to the power of choice. Your choice. You can’t choose everything that you experience in life, but what you can choose is mightier than any circumstance, outcome, or other person’s opinion.

    Where you focus your mind, how you use your words, and how you treat yourself and others are all up to you. One chapter at a time, you write your own story.

    We all have the power to choose what we absorb and what we release. We ultimately decide what we share, what we keep, and what we let go. How long we stay mad and how long we wait to reach for hope, when we say yes and when we say no, and how long we say only what others want to hear are all up to us. Whether we see the world with gratitude or resentment begins with a choice.

    It’s not that anyone chooses pain, though. I can’t think of a single person who’d choose despair or insecurity. No one elects shame to be their shadow. Not even boredom is a choice. We just forget our power sometimes or maybe underestimate the power of our intentions.

    For me, forgetting is a quick slide into control or fear. Every doubt, complaint, and fear leads me directly to more to doubt, complain about, and fear. The pressure builds. Tension rises. And even then, as much as I hate to admit it when I’m steeping in it, I have a choice.

    I can choose how closely I pay attention to my thoughts and how I respond to what I feel. Even if hours go by, days, years, it’s never too late to make a different choice. 

    My husband will be the first to tell you that I can hold on to things. I spent months holding on to a comment a friend made about my writing. I mentioned to her that I felt stuck on a project, and she told me, “It’s not it’s like real work. You don’t actually have to do it.”

    I was seething when she said this but didn’t say a word about it to her. I’d let the comment go for a few days, saying “it’s fine,” but as soon as her name came up? That was all I could think about.

    I can go even further back than that. When I was about six, a little boy on the bus called me a hag. It may seem like a small thing for first graders to tease each other, but I cannot tell you how many ways that one comment has worked its way into my self-image since then. At times I thought it was hopelessly stuck in my psyche. And still, thirty years later, I somehow made the choice to process and resolve that memory.

    It’s never too late to choose.

    When I remember the power of my intention, no matter how long it takes me, I come back home to myself with deepened perspective and goodwill. My choices soften the anger, fear, and sorrow I once felt. Remembering my power to choose restores the gentleness in my step and words. I see a completely new world around me. 

    From that place of remembering, all the positive, empowering choices available to me emerge from the mental fog. I can choose to ask a question, solve a problem, or call for help. I can choose to take a walk, meditate, have a snack, water the flowers, or count my blessings.

    Each positive step leads to more and more positive choices.

    So many things are out of my control, and I’m learning to let go of wanting it to be otherwise. I understand now that this only happens through my choice.

    I’ve historically wanted to follow a plan, not go with the flow. And I’ve depended on those plans going off without a hitch to feel safe.

    Here’s an example: When my husband mentioned finding a new job a few years back, I wanted to know all the details. No, I wanted more than that. I wanted to be so involved in the process that I knew exactly what was going on. When he didn’t get a new job, I wanted to know why and what this meant.

    Of course, life doesn’t work that way, and by hanging my security on details I couldn’t control, I gave away my own power.

    When I could acknowledge that pattern, I opened myself up to choosing differently. If I want more certainty, I can choose to look for the things I trust like my values, strengths, and the learning process rather than the things that could go wrong. If I want to feel more at peace, I can choose to speak to myself with more kindness not more criticism. Above all else, I can choose to have my own back no matter what.

    What I’m learning from this is there’s so much to be deliberate about and so many ways to choose.

    You can choose to set a small boundary when you’re exhausted from keeping the peace.

    I choose to be true to myself. May my honesty restore what’s been depleted.

    You can choose to broadcast loving-kindness when you see the images of suffering in the news.

    May all beings be safe from harm. May all beings return to peace. May all beings find freedom.

    You can choose to acknowledge our shared human experience when you feel most alone.

    In this moment, I remember that in my joy and suffering, I am connected to all of humankind. 

    And when you’re on top of the world, you can choose to bask in it.

    I dedicate this moment to the deep gratitude I feel. I choose to delight in this joy today. 

    There’s always something you can choose. So, choose soothing, however you’re able. Choose to look for things to feel good about. And if nothing else, choose to be as intentional as you can. Always with acceptance for the part of you that forgets. 

    Starting now, starting small, remind yourself of your power to choose. Here’s how:

    Begin with yourself. 

    Offer whatever you have on you right now—your beating heart, your breath, your hands, your eyes reading these words—to your power to choose. With that power, dedicate this moment in time to your health or happiness, to a new story, or anything that resonates with you.

    I dedicate this breath to my happiness. 

    I dedicate this day to my health. 

    With every word I read, may I remember my power to choose.

    From there, if you feel inspired, add on to it with another choice: Take a positive step that supports your health and happiness. Make plans to do the same tomorrow.

    If no step calls out to you, that’s okay. Smile and thank yourself for this choice all the same.

    Next, focus your power to choose on someone you love. 

    For just a moment, offer whatever is within reach to them. 

    I dedicate this hour to the people I love the most. May the beating of my heart bestow health, happiness, and security upon them.

    Again, build on this intention with a choice if it feels right. Pick up the phone, lend a helping hand, or send a quick text.

    If no action is needed or accessible now, that’s okay. Smile and imagine them receiving your dedication all the same.

    You can extend your power to choose as far out as you like. 

    Dedicate every step you take crossing the street to the well-being of all passersby. Then, add on as appropriate with another choice. Smile at them. Make eye contact. Mentally send them positive wishes for their day.

    Devote your commute today to bringing harmony to a challenging relationship. If it feels accessible, make another choice. List their positive traits. Name one way you could respond differently. Forgive if you’re able and willing. If nothing else, choose to be alert to how your attention feeds your internal experience of conflict and choose to nurture something new.

    With your power to choose, give a voice to your deepest wishes for the planet and all who inhabit it. Go as big as you like.

    I dedicate my words today to the message of love. May all who I encounter receive this message and help me spread it through their words. May this message proliferate and reach all beings.

    I send my love to the planet. May I aid in the purification of the air, the restoration of our oceans, and the health of all creatures in whatever way is available to me today.

    And then, take whatever action presents itself to you. If no action is available, that’s okay. Smile and know that you’ve strengthened your power to choose all the same.

    If a choice resonates with you, stay with it. Work with it for as long as it feels right. It could be a day, a week, a month, or more. Expand on it with more choices as is appropriate for you in your current situation.

    Pay attention to what happens as you practice this. Perhaps you’ll notice new ideas flowing more easily. Maybe you’ll feel motivated to take a positive step you’ve put off for a while. If all that happens is feeling more awake and empowered, then it’s well worth the effort!

    No matter what arises in your day or in your heart, remember there’s always something you can choose. May we all remember the power we have.

  • How to Trust That You’ll Be Okay No Matter What

    How to Trust That You’ll Be Okay No Matter What

    “The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.” ~Ursula K. Le Guin

    Did you play with cootie catchers as a kid?

    You picked a number and watched anxiously as your friend counted it out. Open. Close. Open. Close.

    You chose a color or picture or word and waited in anticipation as your friend unfolded the flap and read your destiny.

    Or how about that MASH game? Mansion, apartment, shack, house?

    I played these games with an insatiable desire for all the details.

    How is all of this going to play out?

    Where will I live?

    What will become of me?

    I was fascinated with details, and anyone who could supply them. Fortune cookies, horoscopes, and psychic phone readings all held the promise of telling me exactly what I yearned to know.

    Will I be okay? 

    With time, curiosity gave way to hard-core, type A planning. I’d plan everything out in excruciating detail and get my heart set on one specific outcome.

    I’d make a deal with the cosmos. Everything will be okay if it turns out just like this, okay? Okay.

    I craved certainty and the illusion of control.   

    The answer “surprise me,” made me uncomfortable. Playing it by ear was torturous. Penciling it in felt like the easy way out.

    I’ve made a lot of plans along the way: graduation plans, wedding plans, birth plans, career plans. Yet, no matter how painstakingly crafted these plans were, I was always a little surprised with where I ended up.

    My actual wedding dress was nothing like the pictures I collected with friends in high school.

    My thirty-eight-hour, two epidural labor was nothing like my 100% all natural birth plan.

    My house in Arizona is nothing like the one I’d dreamed of having in Northern California.

    And I’ve been okay.

    Okay, universe. I get the message.

    It’s not really about the details.

    We can make the best of difficult times, rising up after we’ve been dragged through the muck. We can surprise ourselves with what it turns out we actually want. And we can rain all over our own parades.

    The details are delicious, though.

    It’s so satisfying to make a list and check things off. It feels so good that sometimes we’ll even write down the things we’ve already done. And there’s something so soothing about having the who, what, when, and where sorted out.

    Best of all is knowing that the whole plan is exactly, perfectly the way you want it. It’s positively intoxicating.

    The only trouble is that the details hardly ever turn out as planned.

    This whole attachment to details thing is getting harder as time goes on. At a time when I most want to know if we’ll all be okay, I suddenly can’t figure the details out. Maybe I’ve lost my touch, or maybe the plans are getting more complicated.

    There are so many more variables and people involved now. Where it was once just me and my cats, there’s now me, my husband, my children, our families, old friends and new friends, employers, clients, school systems, licenses, and a mortgage to consider.

    With each new piece comes countless questions. So many, in fact, that I can’t even picture what all of this is going to look like.

    That’s got to be okay.

    I’m learning to accept that I’ll be okay if I don’t know the details because I know how I want to feel and what I want to leave room for in my life.

    As much as we’d like to take credit for them, the details are often things that just present themselves when they’re good and ready to be seen, anyway. They tend to sort themselves out in ways that we never could have planned.

    We take one step, then another. We prepare the best we can with what we know, knowing how we want to feel when it’s all said and done. Then we reassess along the way.

    Part of me really wants to fight that because it still believes that having all the answers now will guarantee that everything will be okay. Maybe it’s time to start having a little more trust that I’ll find a way to be okay no matter what happens.

    The more comfortable I get with letting the details reveal themselves when the time is right, the more aware I am of all the people who want to know the plan right now.

    They want to know when you’re visiting or moving back to your hometown or having your next child or finally graduating or asking for that raise.

    They ask all kinds of detailed questions about your plan, so much so that it can leave you feeling ashamed for not having figured it out.

    I get it, too.

    People want to feel closer to you or important or useful. They want to be heard.

    Maybe they’re kind of nosy. Or bossy. Or maybe they’re bored.

    Maybe they just really care and want to solve what they think is a problem for you.

    And maybe they also have a deal with the cosmos that everything will be okay if…

    I get it because I’ve been them. I’ve interrogated, and I’ve demanded answers. Even after understanding that I can’t have absolute certainty (or control), I’ve been that person squeezing out the details before it’s time.

    Understanding is different from knowing deep in your bones that you’ll be okay no matter what.

    When you know, you live and breathe it. Instead of seeking control, you seek clarity. Instead of certainty, you seek courage.

    When you know the truth, you also know that it’s supposed to be a little scary to look out into the uncertain future. It’s unnerving to say, “Here goes nothing.”

    It takes courage to walk into the future knowing that you don’t have all the details nailed down. Your next step may be right, it may be wrong, it may lead you nowhere, and people may think you’re crazy, but you have to take it at some point.

    The truth is, no one ever really knows how it’s all going to look, but you probably have a good idea of how you want to feel and what’s most important to you. And if you don’t, maybe that’s why the details are so elusive.

    (But all the same, you don’t need the details.)

    You don’t need to see the details to trust that you’ll figure them out when the time is right, and you don’t need to see your path to know in your heart that it’s there waiting for you to take that step.

    You don’t need to know exactly how every piece will play out to know what the most important pieces are.

    And you don’t need absolute certainty to know that you’ll find a way to be okay no matter what happens.

    I’m not saying, “Let’s all throw caution to the wind from now until forever.” Make plans, yes, but there’s no need to obsess over the details if the details aren’t clear. Meet planning with flexibility and trust. Be curious about what happens next, not controlling.

    So go ahead, daydream, plan, manifest, make a vision board, or whatever calls to you. Just remember to begin from living and breathing the truth: that you will find a way to be okay no matter what.    

    I have no idea where I’ll be working five years from now, what our house will look like, what we’ll do on the weekends, if I’ll have lost the baby weight, or if I’ll dye my greys, but I do trust myself to make the call when the time is right.

    I don’t know all the when’s, where’s, or even how’s, but I do know how I want to feel and what I hold nearest to my heart.

    I want to feel light, energized, and free.

    I want to find meaning in my work.

    I want to be home in time for dinner.

    I want to create space for contemplation and creativity.

    I think I’ve had enough of the heaviness that comes from dragging around a lifetime of plans. It’s too much pressure, and even the most carefully made plans might change in the end.

    I still make plans, and I’m not throwing my bullet journal away any time soon. I’m just not letting my fear that I won’t be okay or that I’ll choose wrong or that people will disapprove suck the life out of living any more.

    So go ahead, universe. Surprise me. I’ll be okay no matter what.

  • How to Choose Peace When You’re Under Pressure

    How to Choose Peace When You’re Under Pressure

    “Let us fill our hearts with our own compassion.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh

    “Mom’s concentrating,” I tell my kids as I clean up after dinner. I suggest a game to keep them occupied. “How many words start with A?”

    As I inspect the crumbs under the kickboard, I pay just enough attention to hear them play along.

    “Mom. L!” (I must have drifted off.)

    “Right. L is for?” And they’re off again. Be more present, be more present, be more present, I think.

    M…N…O…I laugh to myself when we reach P. P is for pressure, that’s what, I think as I remind myself that I really need to print off those tax documents tomorrow. And call the doctor. And send off those emails. And register for that training.

    The fact that I can share this with you today reflects true progress. I’m learning to notice the pressure now, examine it, and reduce it where I can, trusting that I can still address the valid concerns that are within my control.

    But before, pressure just felt normal. Necessary even. I used to tell myself that this is what discipline and motivation looked like, as if I didn’t believe I could do the things that mattered without the stress.

    It’s only in the last few years that I’ve dared to be honest with myself about what goes on in my body and mind.

    Now, I accept that this is pressure, and it isn’t helping. Now, I know that my thinking patterns and actions can either bring more pressure or more peace. And now, I truly believe that I have the power to choose which way it goes even when nothing else is in my control.

    This doesn’t mean I’ve perfected the process. Far from it. But now I have the clear intention to at least try.

    Recognizing the pressure was the easy part. The warning signs were clear enough: headache, tension, irritability, worry, fatigue. This doesn’t always stop me denying it or trying to power through.

    Recognizing that my thoughts and actions might be intensifying it was a little harder.

    There’s always a kernel of truth (or more) in the pressures we feel. Pressure comes from the real, daily things that keep life running smoothly. It also comes from the deeper, scarier problems we face. A serious diagnosis. Unemployment. Divorce. Loss. Trauma. And either way, whether it’s an everyday concern, a traumatic event, or what we’ve learned to label as a “silly” worry, we feel pressure when we care. The pressure we feel tells us so much about our values, priorities, and expectations.

    However, in my experience and maybe yours, there’s a special kind of pressure that’s internally generated, or at least internally magnified. It’s not made up or crazy, but it can become disconnected from reality the longer it goes on.

    That drone of what if this and what will they think and who will I be is my voice in my head. It echoes a lifetime of internalized messages, but now, as an adult living my own adult life, it’s me sending most of those messages.

    Which leads me to the hardest part of choosing a more peaceful way through: the choice.

    I’ve held on to so many pressures in my life, waiting for the day I’ve finally earned the right to let them go. The trouble is, there’s no referee or judge, no one’s keeping score. I’m the only one who can grant myself permission to change, and it’s me who chooses peace or pressure.

    When life feels secure, the peaceful path is easy to see. It’s right in front of you. You’re standing on it! When I’m there, I can tell myself the most beautiful affirmations, “I decide if I live life in fear of the pain or in devotion to the love. I can choose to let go of that which does not serve me. I love and accept myself fully, completely, deeply.”

    But when things get hard or serious, or when something I really care about is on the line, the doubts can creep in.

    Is it safe to let go of my pressure-filled thoughts? 

    What if I need this pressure to succeed?

    Can I really let myself slow down and relax when there’s still so much I need to accomplish?

    Do I deserve to feel good right now? Have I earned it? I’ll have time for myself when this is all over.

    Every day, I grow more aware of this process, and every day, I feel a little braver. Brave enough to find my way back to the peaceful path.

    I can still act so surprised about the pressure, though. After the big doctor’s appointment, after the wedding, after the funeral, after the visit with the in-laws, after the annual review, I’ll have a moment of clarity. I’ll see as if for the first time how much pressure I’d been under by its absence.

    For a moment, before the space is filled in with something new, I feel peace. And every time, for just a moment, I can talk to myself with true understanding and compassion.

    “You were under so much pressure,” I’ll say. “That was really weighing on you. Of course, you felt pressure. It makes sense that you felt confused about that. It makes sense that you felt so stuck. I know, I know. You were scared.”

    Then, when I could assert my willingness to change, that familiar critical voice sneaks back in. But I thought you’d be over this by now.

    Pressure.

    The things we feel pressure about may change on the surface. Move faster, do more, do better. Underneath, they’re always about the same questions:

    Who am I?

    Am I good enough?

    I am worthy of love and connection?

    Can I get through this?

    And even in the attempt to be compassionate with ourselves, we can easily slip into questioning our worth rather than affirming it. We can intensify the pressure to get over it already. Rather than saying, “I see that I’m feeling pressure and I choose to accept and love myself fully through it” it becomes more, “Really? This again?”

    Here, too, I’m learning how to choose the peaceful path through. I’m learning that there’s no purpose in shaming yourself for the pressure, just as there’s no purpose in minimizing it or bottling it up.

    I’m learning that taking the peaceful path means changing the whole process to one of compassion, not criticism. So, I’m practicing answering those questions in a more caring way.

    You don’t need to hurt yourself like this.

    You can decide how you’re going to approach this.

    Even here, you can choose to accept yourself.

    You can choose the most peaceful path through this.

    There will always be pressure. Pressure, pain, stress, tension, friction—they’re a part of living. Life cannot and will not ever be stagnant, and that’s not always comfortable. Still, we can choose a more peaceful path through it.

    Maybe now you’re under the pressure to do more and do it faster. Or the pressure to be certain. Or to be strong or perfect. Or maybe even the pressure to release the pressure. The pressure you experience may be internally generated or a reflection of the people and circumstances surrounding you.

    No matter how much pressure you’re under or where it stems from, you can find a more peaceful way through it with your own compassion.

    Here’s how:

    1. Practice being aware without the judgment.

    Learn your personal early warning signs and start to label that internal experience as pressure. Practice recognizing it before it boils over or paralyzes you, and be honest with yourself about whether it’s really helping. Even if all you’re able to do is notice its absence when it leaves, start there. Notice the feeling of pressure or relief, call it what it is, and recognize how this process impacts your life.

    2. Validate yourself.

    When you’re under pressure, validate your feelings with statements like you’re under pressure right now and this feeling makes sense. And move toward validating your own worth. Even statements like I’m learning to accept myself can be enough to ease the pressure.

    3. Look beneath the surface.

    Once you’ve recognized you’re under pressure and offered yourself validation, you can look beneath the surface at what’s going on. Be honest and compassionate with yourself as you ask the questions that help you understand your situation.

    What feels threatened? Who’s influencing you? Could you be magnifying this? What would help you ease the pressure? What’s one thing within your control? What scares you about finding a peaceful way through?

    4. Practice new thoughts and actions until they’re your new normal.

    Tell yourself the kinds of things you’d tell a dear friend who’s under pressure. Remind yourself of your true priorities, your strengths, and the choices you can make. Tell yourself why you wish to choose a more peaceful path. And do it again and again and again until the words stop sounding foreign.

    Then, practice building the courage to act from that place, even if you don’t quite believe it yet. Belief might have to come after the action.

    Act like it’s safe to be you, safe to be happy, and safe to choose peace. Take one thing off the agenda. Extend a deadline. Tackle something small and savor crossing it off the list. Take a walk and fill yourself with awe. Whatever you do, remember that the bravest thing isn’t always the biggest or the boldest but the most authentic.

    Practice these steps from a place of love and treat every time the pressure returns, because it will, as another moment to renew your commitment to finding the most peaceful way through.

  • Loving Yourself When You’ve Become Addicted to Self-Improvement

    Loving Yourself When You’ve Become Addicted to Self-Improvement

    “Whatever purifies you is the right path.” ~Rumi  

    I’m tired of being good. It’s time to be deliciously free.

    How I wish I could say that without rushing in to assure you that I promise I’ll still be good.

    The truth is, I worry. Less than I used to, but still, I do.

    I’ve probably had every kind of worry you could imagine. There’s the kind about things that haven’t happened yet, things that didn’t but very nearly could have, things that are highly unlikely if not impossible, things that are commonplace; I’ve worried about the things I want and the things I don’t, the purpose and the impermanence of life.

    Underneath, they all seem to stem from the same big fear that I am not good enough.

    This worry manifests itself as indecision, overthinking, holding grudges, and comparison. My expectations and criticisms originate there.

    Peek inside my head in my most afraid moments and you’re sure to find a motivational poster gone horribly wrong:

    We all have the same twenty-four hours, so what’s your excuse? Hustle! No pain, no gain! Stop playing small. Take massive action, go all-in. They’re crushing it, why aren’t you? The steps to success are quick, easy, and proven. Do whatever it takes. You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. The universe loves speed. #YOLO. 

    I’ve spent a lot of time and mental energy on what I thought was self-improvement. Now, I’m seeing it for what it really was: self-medicating. The pressure to always be moving, always be achieving, faster, faster, hurry up and keep up was an addiction.

    This addiction was a symptom of losing trust in my own worth.

    I’d wear the way I treated myself like a badge of honor as if it somehow made me more worthwhile. Yet, I criticized myself about it, too. “Don’t be so rigid,” I’d command myself, followed up quickly by, “But be more disciplined.”

    I thought for a while that my worries were about control, but now I’m seeing that control was never the problem. I thought maybe it was perfection I sought. That wasn’t it, either.

    This was never really about success or approval, and certainly not improvement. What I’ve been seeking all along is freedom, and that’s what scared me the most.

    My indecision wasn’t about the decision itself, it was about doubting my ability to decide freely. Staying in relationships even though they hurt me wasn’t about the love or the loss, it was about doubting my right to choose myself, freely.

    Underneath every fear, every worry, every grudge and comparison was doubt in who I am, what I’m worth, and what right I had to take up the time and space to figure this out.  

    And now that I see things more clearly, I am clear about what I truly want. I want liberation.

    I want to free myself from the ghosts of the past and fears of the future. I long to be free from shame and the barriers I’ve built against my own peace. I want to use my voice freely and heal my steadfast heart. I want to freely and lovingly inhabit this body that’s stood by me no matter how much I’ve abused it.

    I want to rise up, thank the day, and carry on. Freely.

    Even as I’m writing these words to you, I’m learning what I need to do to stop the cycle.

    I need to practice making different choices and voicing different beliefs: Time is not money, it’s medicine. I need not be so disciplined but discerning. Not productive but perceptive.

    I’m learning the difference between moving quickly and moving honestly, and I’m replacing “should” with “I can if I so desire.”

    Oh, and I feel the resistance to this. The resistance is withdrawal, and it’s a natural part of the recovery process.

    But even with this insight, the fear of the unknown and the craving of familiarity are still there.

    Who will I become if I were truly free?  
    What value will I have?
    What if I fail?
    What if I disappoint? 

    Each time I set myself free, I will fly back to my cage until I trust the process of healing and love myself unconditionally.

    This is the painful part about finding and expressing yourself that no one really talks about. Loving yourself and trusting fully in your inherent worth is risky.

    You will surely fail at your previous rules and fall short of your old expectations as you explore new, more open ways of being. Someone is bound to be disappointed when you start existing as yourself, for yourself. The people who thought they knew you when you were only a fraction of yourself will say you’ve changed. They may not know what to do with you anymore.

    There may be judgment and misunderstanding. There may be rejection. You may feel lost. You may get less done, things may take longer, your work may be less popular or less profitable.

    And there will be the trappings of who you said you were everywhere. I still have a drawer full of makeup and hair products, perfume, and high heels that I will never use again. Maybe it’s time to let that version of me go.

    As you move closer to freedom, the ghost of who you tried to be will linger, haunting you. It will show up as a craving for likes and shares, for affirmation from someone else of your worth.

    Little by little, as you shed the security blankets put down over the years, you will move away from the conditions of your worth. Through forgiveness, setting and enforcing boundaries, more authentic yes’s and no’s, and growing more clear in what you want and where your true priorities lie, you will find new depths of freedom and space. It will be empowering and terrifying.

    What I’m discovering now is that you need to meet these challenges with grace and compassion.

    Letting go gives you space, but it needs space, too. Space brings solace and allows expansion. If you need to, stabilize. There’s no need to feel like a complete stranger in your own skin. Seek comfort and familiarity, but do it consciously. If you fall into old patterns, treat yourself with kindness, not judgment.  And then carry on, consciously.

    Have the courage to ride the cravings out. Resist the habit of proving your worth and earning your freedom. The doubts will try to convince you that they’re making you better, more worthy. Remember that it never worked that way before.

    I’m seeing now that what I do or don’t do, how far I do or don’t go, what I do or don’t achieve has never been the question. The question is, what frees me?

    I may not know what my freedom holds, and I may still face that uncertainty with some degree of fear, but I’m learning to trust that the pins and needles of waking up are the cure to what’s really ailing me.

    The greatest opportunities are not found in safety or certainty. Just as in facing any fear, the old beliefs about your worth need to be threatened in order to be changed.

    Each time we practice asking ourselves what will set us free, we’ll learn to speak the language of our intuition that much more fluently.

    Each time we practice validating our own perspective, we’ll learn to distinguish between wisdom and sound bites that much more naturally.

    One layer at a time, we will build a foundation of trust in ourselves and our inherent worth, and I have to believe that this will set us free.

  • You Always Were and Always Will Be Whole and Complete

    You Always Were and Always Will Be Whole and Complete

    “Always engage in the quest for life’s meaning, which is inner peace.” ~Longchenpa

    When is a person complete? When have they finally “made it”?

    Is it when they find love? Success? When they prove themselves?

    I must have asked myself these questions a thousand times growing up. As soon as I recognized that you could be deemed successful or not, accepted or not, loved or not, I wondered where I fit in.

    I questioned whether I was on the right path and when I would finally arrive. I wanted to be a total package. You know, the real deal. A real catch. In a word, complete.

    Of course, at the beginning, I didn’t have much to go on. Just the minor dramas and bothers of middle-class suburbia, but I put those pieces together as best I could and set off to become complete.

    During adolescence, being complete meant getting the good grades, wearing the right sized jeans, and being “nice” or “sweet” or “cute.”

    Later it was awards, relationships, and status.

    Then came the Ivies, the ring, the house, the kids.

    I wanted to be successful, so I did what I was supposed to. I followed rules, checked boxes, and really applied myself.

    I wanted to be happy, so I planned out everything with precision as if my lasting happiness lay in getting the details just right.

    I wanted connection, so I tried to please everyone. I figured it was easier that way and a small price to pay for being universally loved.

    When all was said and done, I was good, but I could have been kinder.

    I did everything I said I would, but I could have done more.

    I was a real powerhouse, but I didn’t feel confident.

    And I still wondered when I would feel complete.

    At least half of me felt unsuitable to be seen by the rest of the world.

    I was painfully shy. I gave myself a pep talk every day just to make it out of my room. I cried without warning. I worked out too much and didn’t eat enough. I wore too much makeup.

    By adulthood, I’d become hurried and hardened.

    I denied myself the simple pleasures, and I didn’t even remember what listening to myself felt like. And as much as I longed to be known, I avoided being seen.

    There was no room in my life for sweet contentment or stillness. Living was about getting to tomorrow, not being right where I was.

    Somehow, I must have confused complete with perfect.

    Complete meant existing within a narrow scope of our human experience. It meant having all of the light and none of the dark. Having flaws or struggles made me less than. (I held my attachment to my ego against myself, too.)

    So, round and round I’d go.

    The more I held on to these beliefs, the more they let me down. I didn’t feel successful, happy, or connected, and I sure wasn’t confident. None of my planning and plotting stopped me from being hurt or rejected. None of the hardness made me stronger.

    How can anyone feel complete when they only ever accept a fraction of themselves?

    There were plenty of times I considered letting it all go and making a big change, but I feared that my empty hands wouldn’t find something else to hold on to. We need a way to understand how the world works and where we fit into it. Once we’ve got it, we’ll hold on—even if it hurts.

    All I ever wanted was to feel secure, connected, and fulfilled, and you don’t just let go of that. But, I also felt misled, and I was ready to uncover the truth.

    I started by asking different questions, like what gives a person meaning, how do you define success, and what makes a person whole?

    Whole. It was an interesting thought. Whereas complete felt like finding the missing pieces and becoming something, wholeness felt like being what you already are.

    Slowly, softly, things shifted.

    I started looking at the whole of me, not just the shiniest parts. This wasn’t easy. We all have that side of us we’d rather not see, and I’d pushed mine far, far away.

    Even with this desire for something deeper and more authentic, I worried that maybe I’d missed my chance. Maybe I really was incomplete.

    Oddly, that’s when it clicked.

    Those parts of me, even the one struggling with this whole being whole thing, are all part of my wholeness. Being whole means seeing perfection and imperfection, hurting and healing, fear and courage as one in the same. It’s the shadows that give the light away.

    Okay, I thought. What if wholeness included all of me?

    Like being a painfully shy child?

    Or the years of abusing my body?

    Or crying in the car outside work?

    What if it included the dysfunctional relationships I stayed in too long and the healthy ones I ran away from?

    Or the ways I allowed myself to be changed and the times I resisted authentic expansion?

    This shift has been richer than being kinder to myself, though I have learned to be my own best friend. And it’s deeper than having confidence, though I feel bigger and stronger than ever before.

    This shift toward wholeness is about loving the whole of me fully and openly. Not in spite of the flaws but including the flaws. It’s those parts of you that you probably don’t want to see, the ones that are struggling to keep up, that need your love the most.

    I’m not perfect about this by any means. Sometimes I forget and slip into old patterns, sometimes on autopilot, and sometimes with full awareness of what I’m doing. But perfect has nothing to do with it anymore.

    There’s nothing to hide or change when you’re focused on wholeness. Being whole is simply a matter of being.

    Whole is complete in itself, and it’s always enough.

    Right now, whether you’re standing in the shadows or basking in the light, you are whole.

    You’ve hoped and dreamed, doubted and feared.

    You’ve surprised yourself (for better and for worse).

    You’ve done exactly what you set out to do.

    You’ve fallen flat.

    You’ve succeeded and failed, fallen and risen, hurt and healed.

    You’ve loved, lost, and lived to love again.

    You’ve stood in the shadows and danced in the light.

    You’ve sung and cried, whispered and yelled.

    You’ve been winter, and you’ve been spring.

    In your lifetime, you’ve learned to crawl, to walk, to run, to soar.

    You’ve said just the right thing at the right time and the things you didn’t mean.

    You’ve been right and wrong, hard and soft, fearless and afraid.

    You’ve felt pride, shame, joy, sorrow, serenity, distress.

    And you will again.

    All the things you’ve done and the things you’ve seen, the people you’ve known, the heartbreaks you’ve stitched back together, the plans you’ve made, and the plans you’ve had to let go, the celebrations and growing pains are part of your wholeness.

    Maybe you’re feeling like you’re really not okay. You’re still whole.

    The key to making this shift is trusting in the process of working it out as you go and picking up the little gems along the way. No part of this needs to be perfect.

    So, take a step, any step in the direction that feels closer to whole.

    If you can, give thanks to the shadows as much as you would to the sunlight.

    Thank you falling for teaching me I won’t break.

    Thank you sorrow for reminding me to care for my heart.

    And learn to look at all of yourself from the most loving perspective. You are the exact right combination of experiences, insights, strengths, and imperfections that make a person whole.

    You always were and always will be wholly beyond compare.

  • Feeling Empty? Here’s How to Find Joy (and Yourself) Again

    Feeling Empty? Here’s How to Find Joy (and Yourself) Again

    “Many people are alive but don’t touch the miracle of being alive.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh 

    “Who are you? No, really. Who are you?”

    I stood at my bathroom mirror, towel twisted around my head, inspecting my own reflection. A woman I hardly recognized looked back at me with empty eyes. Empty mouth. Empty insides.

    “Who are you?”

    Silence.

    “What do you want?”

    Nada.

    “What are you thinking?”

    Zilch.

    I sighed and reached for the toothbrush. The truth is, I’d been there before. That empty-sad feeling. The feeling of not quite fitting in. Not quite feeling fulfilled.  

    Before, I’d brush it off. Dig deep, push through, move on.

    I’d say everything was just fine. It sure looked just “fine.” After all, I was a fully functional adult. Everyone said so.

    I had my education, a career, a husband, kids, a house.

    I was chipping away at that mortgage and student loan debt. They’re the good kinds of debt, you know.

    I’d checked the boxes on life’s to-do list. Isn’t this what we should all be aiming for?

    I didn’t know it yet, but this time would be different. That moment would be the turning point after too many years convincing myself that I didn’t know the answer to my questions.

    This would be the moment of renewal, reclaiming the missing pieces of me and offering them the loving care they deserved all this time.

    Later that day, kneeling down at the washing machine, ruminating about I don’t even know what, it hit me: a full-body NO. This is not what life is meant to be, I thought.

    It was a no to this being my everyday experience. No to living on autopilot. No to feeling empty. No to not even recognizing myself.

    It was a punch through the chest. My eyes welled with bottled up tears, and I had the distinct feeling of just wanting to go home.

    I’d been pushed over the edge of the cliff I’d tiptoed for years.

    The real surprise, though, was the laughter that followed. It tickled my throat and escaped through bursts of tears. I reached up to wipe my cheeks and found a smile there.

    The relief of seeing all of this and finally saying, “No!” was the most amazing thing.

    I spent the next few days in quiet observation, breathing through the pins and needles of waking up.

    At first, I didn’t know what to make of the mixed-up, muddy feelings that met me. Was this anguish? Euphoria? Confusion for sure, but I felt I had no choice but to keep going.

    So, I walked softly and resisted the urge to define this.

    The more intently I listened, the more clearly I started to hear and feel yes and no. They curled through my day, winding themselves around everything I’d just accepted as “the way things are.” 

    The no’s felt empty, hallow, fake. It felt like acting. It was resistance and alarm bells and forcing. Even though it had been my usual mode of operation, being in a state of no also started to hurt.

    But yes… yes felt alive. It was light, expansive, and exciting. I felt energized and creative whenever I was there. The best part was, it was easy.

    Of course, as any of us would, I wanted more of the yes and less of the no. I grabbed a sheet of paper and drew a line down the middle. Two columns: yes and no.

    Beside yes, I wrote “lights me up.” Beside no, “drains me.”

    Then, I listed all of the yes’s and no’s I felt during the day. It was nothing fancy, just a quick word about what I did and how I felt. By the end of the week, I’d created my personal manual for living.

    It was my blueprint for calling my lost parts back.  

    There on that sheet of paper, in my own handwriting, were all the things I’d always known but didn’t yet see.

    I saw that there are naturally things that will be unpleasant or less than thrilling, but that my being doesn’t need to feel that way. There is so much opportunity for yes if we’ll allow for it. So, I started to follow yes with more intention.

    I bought a stack of composition books and carried one with me everywhere.

    I started to draw again after almost thirty years.

    I wrote a poem, and then another and another.

    I started writing children’s stories.

    I fed my spirit good music, sunlight, plenty of color, and lots of space.

    And I remembered that lightness is like oxygen for your soul.

    Now I see that that face, those eyes, those insides, they weren’t empty. They were aching with the kind of deep burn that comes from turning your back on yourself, walking away, and never looking back. I’d just numbed it is all.

    I’d let myself get too busy to think of things like who I am, what I dream, and what I believe more than anything.

    I retreated into my day-in-and-day-out and identified with the little dramas, whether they were mine to start with or not.

    It wasn’t all gloom, mind you.

    I was ambitious. Driven, dedicated, motivated. A real go-getter and other fully functional adult-type things.

    I was also grateful for life’s many blessings and aware of the countless privileges bestowed upon me that had nothing to do with my work ethic or worth as a person.

    Like I said, I was fine. (But not really.)

    I was aimless and stuck in a close enough approximation of inner peace and freedom. I existed as a fragment of me.

    Looking back, it was on that day that I decided that even if I was fine, fine was not enough.  

    Fine is not thriving.

    Fine is not complete.

    Fine is not what I came here to experience, and I couldn’t face another day of pretending to be here and whole.

    My sense of wonder and magic, my awe, my creative spirit, and my light had been calling out to me all this time. Only I couldn’t hear it until then.

    I don’t know if I’d been more scared or ashamed of who I was after casting away these important parts of myself. Maybe I didn’t recognize them as my own. Or maybe I thought this was how it’s supposed to feel. It’s just how things are—you can’t be successful and free, whole and at peace.

    Yet, there they were this whole time, turning toward me like flowers turning toward the sun. They held tight to the cracks in this facade I’d created.

    I suppose they never were lost, just watching and waiting until the day I set down my resistance and welcomed them back home.

    Calling my lost parts home didn’t happen in one grand, sweeping gesture. It took a lot of little moments. Awkward, wobbly baby steps that took me sideways and backward just as easily as forward.

    It took me a while, but I finally figured out that when you feel a yes, you follow it. And bit by bit, all those little steps coalesced into what from the outside looks like the one moment I “took the leap.”  

    If any part of my story resonates with you, then maybe you know what it feels like to pretend to be here and whole. And maybe you’ve had those little moments of clarity and mini-epiphanies that “fine” is not what you came here to experience.

    Maybe you’ve heard your lost parts knocking at your door asking to come home. And maybe you’re ready to listen.

    It may seem like an impossibly long journey when you’re in the walking sleep of I’m fine, but calling your lost parts back and welcoming them inside is as easy as following what lights you up one baby step at a time.

  • Practicing Loving-Kindness Even When (Especially When) You Are Hurting

    Practicing Loving-Kindness Even When (Especially When) You Are Hurting

    Hand Heart

    “Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.” ~Charles Dickens   

    All of us have been hurt or angered by someone’s words at some point. Some words are blatantly cruel, and others are deceptive, appearing to be in our best interest but only ever leading us astray. These are the messages that leave us questioning who we are or how we should be.

    I’ve been labeled timid and stuck-up. Speak up more, but stop interrupting. Be more assertive, but don’t complain. Be more outgoing, but be authentic.

    I’ve been called careless and a lousy role model and then questioned about why I am such a perfectionist. Lighten up. Don’t apologize so much.

    And my all-time favorite: your voice is off-putting and might scare the children.

    These are painful messages, and historically I’ve taken them to heart.

    When we’ve been hurt, we might try to get rid of the feelings by distancing ourselves or fighting back. It can be hard to regard these feelings as reflecting our desire for connection.

    We also try our hand at shapeshifting, becoming who we think we ought to be. This approach to connection can actually backfire. While we could feel more connected in the short term, we’ve also reinforced the message that who we are isn’t enough. Any guesses about what that does to us over time?

    Lashing out, hiding away, or conforming do not bring us any closer to connection nor do they leave us feeling validated or loved.

    For me, this is a big lesson in loving-kindness. Loving-kindness is a sense of benevolent affection, unwavering connection, and compassion for ourselves and others, even the difficult people in our lives.

    This lesson has taken a while and is admittedly still a work in progress, but it is powerful nonetheless.

    Loving-kindness does not leave us immune to negative emotions, but it is most potent when called upon in our less than loving or kind moments. Loving-kindness also does not leave us impervious to hurtful messages, though it can lessen their impact.

    When we are hurting or angry, loving-kindness can be especially challenging. It is therefore empowering to practice loving-kindness not simply in spite of feeling hurt but because we have been hurt.

    Finding loving-kindness relies on three things: our ability to love and be loved, maintaining our composure, and acting with good will.

    Have a heart that never hardens.

    Loving-kindness involves wishing peace, joy, and tenderness for others. It means celebrating successes, easing suffering, and cultivating feelings of friendliness and affection.

    We cannot do this with a hardened heart.

    A hardened heart is closed or blocked off. It may expect the worst or interpret hostile intent. A hardened heart is surrounded by not merely a wall but by a fortress of steal.

    With a heart that never hardens, there is ample room for warmth, forgiveness, patience, and compassion. Having a heart that never hardens also reflects our ability to love and be loved.

    Yes, being loved is actually an ability. Let me be clear. By ability to be loved, I don’t mean lovability or worthiness of love. I mean being able to allow others to love you.

    We make decisions about vulnerability, trust, and love when we’ve been hurt. We protect against vulnerability or we try again, decide that people are or are not to be trusted, and either open ourselves up to or block ourselves off from love.

    The key to having a heart that never hardens is to remember that your heart is strengthened, not scarred, by heartache. When words sting, know that this pain reveals an open heart.

    Trust in yourself to be able to handle it if and when you are hurt. Treat yourself with compassion in life’s painful moments, and take a healthy risk on vulnerability even when you’ve been hurt in the past. Allow yourself to be at peace when you are hurting or angry, and cultivate benevolence and goodwill rather than stewing in bitterness or breeding ill-will.

    Have a temper that never tires.

    Composure is another major component of loving-kindness. We all vary in our natural ability to keep a level head in the face of pain or anger.

    Anger is normal and natural, and it is even helpful when understood. Anger lets us know when something is amiss. It alerts us to threat or injustice.

    In truth, you will probably get ruffled from time to time. That’s just part of being human. However, this does not mean that you need to lose your temper.

    When we lose our tempers, we say and do things that we don’t mean. We can lash out, blame, and deny. This usually leads us to do anything but communicate.

    Acting without thinking often makes a bad situation worse. Not only do we still have the triggering event to contend with, but we now have the fallout from whatever we said or did when we lost our temper. It can become difficult to resolve the situation, and rather than cultivating peace, we create a crisis.

    Losing our temper doesn’t just harm those around us but also ourselves. We can experience regret and shame after losing our temper, and we ruminate about it later and work ourselves up further.

    Loving-kindness allows us to recognize our anger and breathe warmth and peace into it. It gives us a bit of extra reaction time and reminds us of our connection to this person pushing our buttons.

    To have a temper that never tires, know your triggers. Common triggers for anger are feeling threatened or vulnerable, having our goals blocked, and feeling mistreated.

    Also pay attention to the times when you are more susceptible to losing your temper. It may be when you are feeling overworked, overtired, and underfed, or you may be under the pressure of high expectations or demands.

    To keep your temper, knowledge is power, and knowledge plus acceptance is even more powerful. Acceptance doesn’t mean agreement, simply acknowledgement. Acceptance that it is what it is can go a long way toward defusing your anger and redirecting that energy toward positive action or loving-kindness.

    Have a touch that never hurts.

    Acting with tenderness and good will is the third component of loving-kindness. You can’t have a touch that never hurts if you have a hardened heart or a quick temper.

    A harmful touch can have two main functions: getting rid of pain and inflicting pain.

    Quite often, anger is secondary to pain. Somehow it seems easier to be angry than to be hurting. When we’re angry, we can place blame on someone other than ourselves and act out accordingly.

    When we are hurting, we can also turn our anger inward. We can inflict pain on ourselves in a variety of ways and for a variety of reasons.

    In contrast to this, loving-kindness is benevolent and gentle. It is approaching others with sympathy and care and using your touch to heal and comfort yourself and others.

    Having a touch that never hurts refers to both physical and emotional harm. Certainly, our hands can be used as weapons, but so can our words and our actions.

    When you are hurting, resist the temptation to hurt someone back through name-calling, gossip, or blame. Put revenge aside and focus on moving forward.

    Use your touch for healing, not hurting. Reach out to hold the hand of someone you care about. Scratch their back, give a massage, or high five. Extend a loving gesture toward yourself by putting your hands over your heart and simply breathing.

    Using your hands to build or create can also help you cultivate loving-kindness. Try writing a caring note to a friend, pitching in through volunteering, or simply creating something for your own enjoyment.

    Hand heart image via Shutterstock

  • Releasing Pressure and Expectations to Make Room for Life

    Releasing Pressure and Expectations to Make Room for Life

    Free

    “For things to reveal themselves to us, we need to be ready to abandon our views about them.” ~Thích Nhat Hạnh

    My husband and I bought our first house two years ago. Expecting a child and excited to move on to the next stage in our lives, we listed all of the ways we would make the house perfect.

    As first-time homeowners and parents, we assumed this list was manageable. Surely the house could be painted in a weekend! Of course we can get work done while the baby naps!

    Indeed, it seemed manageable and, therefore, (to me) mandatory.

    To kick off the home improvements, we tested a few new paint colors on the wall in the hallway, and they are still there today. For two years I looked at that paint and reminded myself of what I didn’t accomplish. What were once radiant, bold, and playful colors had become glaring, critical, and mocking.

    It can be easy for our expectations to get the better of us. What may have begun as aspirations transform into laws that must be followed precisely. Who we are and how we live are suddenly not enough.  

    Our internal critic bombards us with well-rehearsed and compelling judgments and criticism. Expectations and judgments masquerade as the truth and influence our emotions and our actions. It can be difficult to detect when our expectations don’t really match reality.

    Upon reflection today, it’s clear to me that we had no idea what we were in for when we made that list two years ago; yet, these expectations had become non-negotiable. Where was the room for living in these expectations?

    Discrepancy between our expectations and reality can be uncomfortable. We may blame ourselves and tighten our grip on our expectations. We believe that it is only once they are met that we can let go and be happy.

    It is also tempting to place blame on another person or our circumstances. Again, we believe that if only he/she/it/this would change, we could let go and be happy.

    The trick in all of this is that there will always be new expectations to be met preventing us from letting go and truly embracing our lives.

    While I struggled with this discrepancy between what should be and what really is, my daughter smiled at the paint on the wall. She doesn’t know what we were “supposed to” finish. She doesn’t know how a wall “should” be.

    My moment of clarity came when she looked up at the wall and triumphantly stated, “Green! Red! Purple!”

    I asked myself then how the same paint on the wall could hold such a different meaning to me. If the walls were painted, what would really be different? Not only that, but what did this unfinished wall make possible and what had I been missing all this time?

    I realized then that the wall more accurately reflects the richness of my life than it does any shortcoming of mine. This wall reflects dancing in the living room and weekends at the park, not failure as a person. I was inspired then to frame the paint on the wall rather than wish it were gone.

    It was both liberating and humbling to acknowledge that this isn’t about the paint on the wall at all. This is about me. It is not the paint that needs to be changed, but what I see when I look at it.

    We can be easily persuaded by the false promises that control and perfection make. We can forget that perfection will never be achieved, and we mistakenly believe that this means we are not enough.

    We might even believe that our self-talk, as negative as it may be, is reality. When thinking errors overshadow the good that is within our lives, it can seem that life must always be something else.

    To find release from the emotional toll of the “shoulds” and “good enoughs,” we focus on what must be different: ourselves, a loved one, a stranger, circumstances, or that irksome wall.

    Why is this so hard to change? Change often brings with it the fear of the unknown. Change is not certain.

    However, when we can change this, not only do our expectations change, but so do our happiness, contentment, and gratitude for what is. We are more likely to fully see things as they are when we can detach ourselves from unyielding expectations.

    We are free to live when we make room for life.

    To begin to see your “wall” through different eyes:

    1. Remind yourself that you are enough.

    It isn’t even necessary to be good enough. You are simply enough.

    We might need to remind ourselves of this often. After all, that inner critic has had a lifetime to develop.

    2. Slow down and take notice of your self-talk.

    What has your inner critic convinced you of? Explore this question with curiosity, not judgment or criticism.

    When we can do this with non-judgmental curiosity, we are able to see with clarity and compassion. We can begin to identify those things we tell ourselves that just make us feel worse and don’t change anything anyway. We can reduce our suffering, even in a naturally painful situation.

    3. Reevaluate your expectations.

    Have you made room for life? Do you have new information now that you didn’t have before? Are these expectations compatible with your priorities?

    When we can make our expectations more fluid, we have the freedom to live in the present moment, and enjoy it. We are free to decide what our life is about, and we are free to change our minds about this at any time.

    4. Get at the underlying fear.

    What are you really afraid of these “walls” revealing? Are these fears accurate?

    Quite often, our fears take the form of “what if” and “what this says about me.” Even when there appears to be a kernel of truth behind the fear (after all, it was true that I hadn’t painted that wall), there is more to the story. The belief that we are unworthy, irresponsible, weak, unlovable imposters is simply a fear, not a fact.

    5. Consider how this “wall” might be described in your biography.

    What is the whole story? How boring would the biography be if it were just about a wall?

    Perhaps we are focused on the small, inconsequential details of life. Perhaps we take our lives for granted. Intentionally taking a step back and really looking is how we get to appreciate the fullness of life.

    Although taking these steps requires the conscious effort to make a change, the result is far more rewarding than a newly painted wall could ever be.

    Photo by Graham