“As a solid rock is not shaken by the wind, the wise are not shaken by praise or blame.” ~The Dhammapada, Verse 81
Some moments lift you like moonlight. Others break you like a wave. I’ve lived through both—and I’ve come to believe that the way we move through these emotional thresholds defines who we become.
By thresholds, I mean the turning points in our lives—experiences so vivid, painful, or awe-filled that they pull us out of our usual routines and bring us face to face with something real. Some come in silence, others with sound and light, but they all leave a mark. And they ask something of us.
The Night the Frogs Were Singing
Years ago, I was in San Ignacio, Baja California Sur—a small town nestled in the middle of a vast, harsh desert. But this desert hid a secret: a spring-fed river winding quietly through thick reeds and groves of towering palms.
One night, I walked alone along the water. The full moon lit everything in silver. The town was asleep, but the frogs were wide awake—thousands of them—and their voices filled the night.
It sounded like a million. A strong, unstoppable chorus rising into the sky, as if they were singing to the gods in heaven.
Insects danced in the air like sparks. The river shimmered. I stood in the stillness, listening.
And then, something in me lifted.
My breath slowed. My thoughts stopped. I felt unbound—present, light, completely inside the moment.
I felt like I could fly.
Not in fantasy—but in my body. As if for one rare instant, the weight of everything had fallen away. I wasn’t watching the world. I was part of it. Connected to the frogs, the moonlight, the pulse of life itself.
That was a threshold I crossed without knowing. Not a dramatic one, but sacred. A moment of wholeness so complete it continues to echo, years later.
Not All Thresholds Are Joyful
That night by the river was one edge of the spectrum. The other is something far harder.
I recently read about a mother who lost her entire family in the span of a year. Her husband died unexpectedly. Then her son, in a car crash. Then, her only surviving daughter was swept away in the Texas floods.
From a full home to unbearable silence—in just twelve months.
I can’t imagine the depth of that grief. But I recognize it as a threshold too—a point from which there is no going back. Loss like that doesn’t just wound—it transforms. It alters the shape of time and identity. It demands a new way of living.
And it reminds me: thresholds aren’t always moments we choose. Sometimes, they choose us.
The Man in Ermita
I also think of a man I used to see every day on a busy street corner in Ermita, Metro Manila. The intersection was chaotic—taxis, vendors, honking horns, kids weaving through traffic. And there, beside the 7-Eleven, was a man rolling back and forth on a small wooden board with wheels.
He had no legs. His arms were short and deformed. That wooden platform was his only home, his only transportation, his only constant.
He didn’t shout or beg loudly. He just moved. Quietly. Present. Enduring.
And I often wondered: What are thresholds for him? What brings him joy? What pain does he carry that none of us see?
His life taught me something. That some thresholds are lived every single day—without drama, without noise. Some are carved into the body. Into the street. Into the act of continuing on, no matter who notices.
We each live on our own spectrum of experience. And his presence helped me recognize that my own joys and struggles don’t exist in isolation—they live alongside countless others, equally deep, equally human.
The Emotional Spectrum We All Move Through
These three stories—the night of the frogs, the mother’s loss, the man in Ermita—might seem unrelated. But they’re not.
They’re all thresholds.
- One is a threshold of awe.
- One is a threshold of grief.
- One is a threshold of silent resilience.
They represent different points on the same emotional spectrum. And the deeper I reflect, the more I understand that we are all moving along that spectrum—back and forth, again and again.
What Balance Really Means
We’re often told to seek balance. But I don’t think balance means calm neutrality, or avoiding emotional extremes.
To me, balance is the ability to stay grounded while being stretched. To remember joy even in sorrow. To hold stillness even when life is loud. To feel everything—and not shut down.
Wisdom isn’t the absence of intensity. It’s the willingness to stay with whatever life brings—and keep walking.
Writing has been my way of staying grounded.
Therapy helped me find the words. But writing gave me a place to live them. It helps me remember what I’ve felt—and understand what it meant. It’s how I make peace with the past. It’s how I reach forward toward something whole.
When I write, I return to that night in San Ignacio. I also return to the man in Ermita, and to the countless thresholds I’ve passed through quietly—some with joy, some with pain.
Writing helps me stay with what is real, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
An Invitation to You
Maybe you’ve had your own version of that river night—an unexpected moment of beauty or clarity. Or maybe you’re sitting with a threshold you didn’t choose—grief, fear, change, uncertainty. Maybe you’re surviving silently, like the man on the wooden board.
Wherever you are on the spectrum, I want to say this: The thresholds we pass through don’t make us weaker. They shape us. They wake us up. They teach us presence—not perfection—if we choose to stay with our experience, even when it hurts.
If you’re writing, reflecting, or simply breathing through it all—you’re already on the path.
And that path will one day lead you to another threshold somewhere else on the spectrum. So stay open to each transformative moment, and let them shape you into someone more alive, more resilient, and more balanced.
