Tag: wisdom
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Trusting the Pause: When Patience Is Better Than Pushing
“The most powerful thing you can do right now is be patient while things are unfolding for you.” ~Idil Ahmed⠀
I still remember my last year of college vividly. I was frustrated and disheartened after my application to study abroad was rejected. I had been obsessed with exploring the world through academia, convinced that further study was the best way to achieve my dream.
While most of my peers were preparing to enter the workforce, I envisioned a different path for myself—one that involved research, intellectual growth, and ultimately a career in academia.
However, there was one major obstacle: my English proficiency. Since English is not my native language, I struggled to meet the minimum IELTS score required for my application. My first attempt was a disaster. I scored poorly in the speaking part and barely passed the writing section. I never expected it to be this difficult.
The test was expensive, making it impractical to retake the test multiple times without the confidence of passing it. I felt trapped. If I failed again, I had no backup plan—I had not applied for any jobs, fully investing myself in the dream of studying abroad. The dilemma weighed heavily on me: Should I continue pushing myself to pass the test and secure a scholarship, or abandon my dream and focus on competing in the job market?
Both options felt like dead ends. I was not good enough to pass the test, nor was I prepared to compete for jobs.
In my frustration, I sought consolation in books. I read some spiritual books in hope of finding peace. That was when I encountered Rumi’s quote, which he quotes from his mentor: “When I run after what I think I want, my days are a furnace of distress and anxiety. If I sit in my own place of patience, what I need flows to me, without pain.”
The words struck me deeply. I realized that I had been fixated on a single path, convinced it was the only way to reach my goal. I had never considered any other alternatives.
I have been a fan of Rumi since high school. When I entered college, I found even more of his works that resonated with me. During this time, I also became interested in spiritualism and self-awareness. That is also when I started practicing meditation as part of martial arts training.
I decided to take Rumi’s wisdom to heart. Instead of obsessing over the problem, I stopped forcing a solution and, for the first time, embraced stillness.
It felt unproductive at first, but gradually, I began to understand something: If I was not ready for my dream at that moment, then perhaps it was not meant to happen yet. I accepted that progress would not come instantly and that my journey was not over just because I had hit a roadblock.
Stillness reduced my anxiety and my self-deprecation at least. It restored the feeling that I was alright, and the sky was still above me. Amidst this realization, a friend from high school called me. She asked if I had graduated, and when I said yes, she mentioned a vacant teaching assistant position at her school.
I sat up straight. I had a degree in education, so yes, teaching is my forte. More importantly, this particular school is an international school where most of the students and the teachers are expatriates.
I did not fully understand it at the time, but I felt that this was exactly what Rumi means by “what I need flows to me, without pain.” So I said yes without hesitation.
Long story short, I got the job. As a teaching assistant, I basically helped the main teacher to prepare the learning material and assisted the students with their work. The environment immersed me in English—I spoke it all day, read documents, read books, and wrote reports in English, improving my English significantly.
Eight months after I started working at that school, I retook the test. I felt truly confident. The anxiety was gone, and I knew I would at least meet the minimum score. The test was, as Rumi promised, painless. I did not achieve the perfect score, but it was more than enough. I felt relieved, and I knew that the biggest obstacle had been eliminated.
The test I took was just the beginning of my journey to studying abroad. I completed all the required administrative processes and secured a spot at my desired university just three months after the test. I was also accepted into a scholarship program, so within a year of my initial uncertainty about my future, I experienced a joy that I had never imagined before. Everything fell into place, and I realized it was meant to happen at that time.
Patience, I realized, is the best cure for anxiety. Yet, most of us—including me at that time—struggle with it. The urge to take control and rush toward our goals is overwhelming. We are always taught to push, to strive, to achieve. Surrender and waiting are never part of the curriculum.
I now believe that while ambition is important, relentless pursuit is not always the answer. Patience is not about giving up; it is the ability to wait while still focusing on the target. I think it is similar to a lion when it hunts its prey. The lion remains still, observing, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. A predator understands that patience is the key to success.
So patience is not passive. It is an active projection of trust and readiness. Through this particular experience, I started to understand the differences between stillness and doing nothing.
When I relax and allow myself to slow down, an alternative path emerges. What I once considered a detour—getting a job—ended up being the very thing that helped me to reach my goal. By not chasing my dream directly but rather waiting patiently while doing something else, I ultimately found my way.
Now, whenever I am in pursuit of something, I remind myself to pause. I take a step back, observe, and ensure that the odds are not stacked against me. If they are, I wait patiently and explore other possibilities. Because sometimes, the best way forward is to stand still.
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Dancing with Darkness: How to Reclaim Your Whole Self
“Shadow work is the way to illumination. When we become aware of all that is buried within us, that which is lurking beneath the surface no longer has power over us.” ~Aletheia Luna
For years, I believed healing was about transcending pain. I took the courses, read the books, learned every energy-healing technique I could find, and became a healer myself.
And for a while, I felt better. I had breakthroughs. My anxiety lessened.
My depressive episodes became fewer. But they never fully disappeared. Even after all the inner work, there were still days when I felt unbearably low. Days and nights when my thoughts raced, full of fear and doubt.
I told myself that if I was truly healing, these feelings shouldn’t exist anymore. That if I was really evolving, I wouldn’t feel this way.
And worst of all, if I was a healer, how could I possibly still struggle?
Surely, I was doing something wrong.
I started questioning myself. Maybe I wasn’t “good enough” as a healer. Maybe I wasn’t doing enough inner work. MaybeI just wasn’t meant to be on this path.
So I doubled down. I meditated longer. Journaled more. Cleared my energy. Did affirmations.
And yet, the sadness still found me. The anxiety still whispered its fears. No matter how much I tried to fix myself, these emotions refused to leave.
It wasn’t until I stopped fighting my pain that something shifted. I realized I had spent years treating my emotions as something to get rid of. But healing isn’t about eliminating pain: it’s about becoming intimate with it.
So instead of suppressing my darkness, I started getting to know it. Instead of running from my emotions, I sat with them—fully present, without trying to fix them.
I let my sadness speak through poetry.
I let my anxiety move through dance.
I let my shadows express themselves through art, writing, and stillness.
And something unexpected happened. The more I embraced my pain, the less power it had over me. The more I let myself feel without judgment, the more compassion I had for myself.
I learned that healing isn’t about reaching some perfect, pain-free version of yourself. It’s about integrating every part of you—even the ones you used to reject.
I realized that being a healer doesn’t mean being free of struggle. It means having the courage to meet yourself exactly as you are—without shame, without resistance, and with deep, unwavering love.
Because healing isn’t about erasing your darkness.
It’s about learning to dance with it.
What is the Shadow Self?
Our shadow consists of the parts of ourselves that we’ve been taught to hide: our fears, suppressed emotions, unprocessed pain, and even our untapped strengths.
Maybe you were told as a child that expressing anger was “bad,” so you learned to suppress it.
Maybe you grew up believing that vulnerability was weakness, so you built walls around your heart.
The shadow isn’t just made up of things we perceive as negative; it can also include hidden gifts. Some of us hide our power because we were taught it wasn’t safe to shine.
Some of us suppress our intuition because we fear being wrong. Some of us bury our true desires because we’ve been conditioned to think they’re unrealistic or selfish.
But here’s the thing: Whatever we suppress doesn’t disappear. It just works against us in unconscious ways.
Our unhealed wounds can show up as:
- Feeling stuck in the same painful patterns
- Emotional triggers that seem to come out of nowhere
- Self-sabotage, procrastination, or fear of success
- Overreacting to certain behaviors in others (often mirroring what we reject in ourselves)
- Feeling disconnected, numb, or unfulfilled despite “doing the work”
So how do we begin integrating our shadow instead of fearing or avoiding it?
5 Ways to Begin Shadow Integration
1. Get curious about your triggers.
One of the easiest ways to identify our shadow is to pay attention to what triggers us.
Have you ever felt an irrationally strong reaction to something? Maybe a passing comment made you feel deeply insecure, or someone else’s confidence irritated you.
Our triggers are messengers. They reveal wounds that are still waiting to be healed and integrated.
Reflection prompt:
- Think about the last time something upset or irritated you. What was the deeper emotion beneath it?
- Does this remind you of a past experience or belief?
- If this was a message from your inner self, what would it be saying?
When we can sit with our reactions instead of judging them, we open the door to healing.
2. Identify what you’ve been taught to suppress.
Many of our shadow aspects were created in childhood. We learned that certain emotions, traits, or desires weren’t “acceptable,” so we buried them.
Ask yourself:
- What parts of myself did I feel I had to hide growing up?
- What qualities do I judge in others (and could these be aspects I’ve rejected in myself)?
- What dreams or desires have I talked myself out of because they feel “unrealistic” or “selfish”?
For example, if you were taught that being sensitive meant being weak, you might suppress your emotions and struggle with vulnerability. If you were raised in an environment where success was met with jealousy, you might unconsciously fear stepping into your full potential.
By bringing awareness to these patterns, you can begin to rewrite them.
3. Practice sitting with uncomfortable emotions.
Most of us weren’t taught how to sit with our emotions. We were taught how to suppress, avoid, or “fix” them.
But emotions are not problems. They are messages.
Instead of pushing away sadness, frustration, or fear, try welcoming them as temporary visitors.
Try this:
- When a difficult emotion arises, pause, and say, I see you. I hear you. I am listening.
- Notice what sensations arise in your body.
- Breathe deeply and allow yourself to sit with it, without rushing to change it.
The more you practice this, the less power your emotions will have over you.
4. Reconnect with your inner child.
Much of our shadow is rooted in childhood experiences—times when we felt abandoned, unworthy, or unsafe.
Healing these wounds requires reparenting ourselves with love and compassion.
A simple inner child exercise:
- Close your eyes and imagine your younger self standing in front of you.
- Picture them at an age when they felt most vulnerable.
- Ask: What do you need to hear right now?
- Offer them the love, validation, and reassurance they may not have received.
This simple practice can be incredibly powerful in healing past wounds and integrating your shadow.
5. Express what you’ve been holding back.
Shadow integration isn’t just about recognizing our hidden parts. It’s about allowing ourselves to express them in healthy ways.
If you’ve suppressed your voice, start speaking up.
If you’ve buried your creativity, allow yourself to create freely.
If you’ve been afraid of taking up space, start owning your worth.
Challenge yourself:
- Identify one way you’ve been keeping yourself small.
- Take one small step toward expressing that part of yourself this week.
When we integrate our shadow, we reclaim the full spectrum of who we are.
Embracing Your Whole Self
Healing isn’t about becoming perfect. It’s about becoming whole.
The parts of us that we once rejected hold immense wisdom, creativity, and strength. When we integrate them, we unlock a new level of self-awareness, freedom, and inner peace.
So, the next time your shadows appear, instead of running from them, try sitting with them.
Instead of fighting your fears, try listening to what they have to teach you.
Instead of rejecting the parts of you that feel unworthy, try offering them love.
Because healing isn’t about erasing your darkness.
It’s about learning to dance with it until it, too, becomes light.
I would love to hear from you: What’s one part of yourself you’re learning to embrace? Drop a comment below.
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Permission to Rest: What Happened When I Embraced Stillness
“If you are continually judging and criticizing yourself while trying to be kind to others, you are drawing artificial boundaries and distinctions that only lead to feelings of separation and isolation.” ~Kristin Neff
I was lying on my couch again, Netflix playing in the background, when I heard my husband’s footsteps on the stairs. Instinctively, I reached for my phone, desperate to appear busy—productive—anything but resting.
For months, that had been my routine. As the severe anemia from my adenomyosis and fibroids worsened, I found myself increasingly couch-bound, dizzy, and exhausted. Yet each time my husband entered the room, I’d grab my phone and pretend to be working. Not because he expected it, but because I couldn’t bear to seem “lazy.”
But this particular day, three weeks after my hysterectomy, something shifted. When he walked in, I didn’t reach for my phone. I just stayed still, watching my show, drowning in guilt.
He smiled and said something so simple: “It’s good to see you resting.”
That’s when it hit me—a realization that would transform how I understood my own worth: I’m not a burden. I’m healing. I’m allowed to rest. He didn’t marry me for my productivity.
It shouldn’t have been a revelation, but it was.
The Productivity Trap
I’d always been in motion. Walking, working, cleaning, planning, doing. Even after having my son in 2019, I prioritized outings and experiences, determined to give him what financial limitations had prevented in my own childhood.
My husband and I had carefully divided our family responsibilities—he worked longer hours at his job, and I took on more household management, childcare, and projects. We focused on each contributing equal time to our family’s needs. It was balanced and fair, and it worked.
Until my body stopped cooperating.
What began as increasingly heavy periods evolved into daily bleeding so severe I couldn’t stand without dizziness. I fought against it at first, pushing through fatigue to maintain my “contribution.” I’d drag myself through household tasks, schedule outdoor activities for my son, and maintain appearances—all while growing weaker.
“If I’m not productive or contributing, then what good am I?” This thought haunted me as I sank deeper into the couch and further from the capable person I identified as.
When the doctor reviewed my iron levels, he said if his were that low, he “wouldn’t have been able to get off the floor,” yet I still resisted treatment (the iron infusions cost over $1,000). Only when our insurance changed did I relent, but by then, it was like adding drops to an empty bucket.
The diagnosis was clear: adenomyosis and large fibroids, a family legacy I’d inherited. Surgery—a hysterectomy—was inevitable, though I mourned the loss of having another child.
The six-month wait for surgery stretched my identity to its breaking point. Who was I if not the doer, the organizer, the capable one? What was my value when I couldn’t contribute?
The Hidden Voice
Growing up, I’d absorbed messages about worth from my father, who seemed physically incapable of sitting still. “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean” was the household mantra. Rest was for the weak, the lazy, the unworthy.
I’d spent a decade in personal growth work, deliberately unwinding these beliefs. Or so I thought.
But physical vulnerability has a way of stripping us back to our core programming. In pain, exhausted, and feeling useless, I reverted to that critical inner voice:
“You’re a burden. Everyone is suffering because of you. He’ll resent you for not doing your share. What value do you even have now?”
This voice—let’s call her Task-Master Tina—had been with me so long I didn’t recognize her as separate from my authentic self. Her criticisms felt like objective truth, not the outdated programming they actually were.
The surgery I thought would fix everything instead brought new lessons in surrender. The pain was excruciating. The recovery, slower than I’d imagined. And each time I attempted to rush back to “normal,” my body forced me back to the couch with unmistakable clarity.
That’s when I realized I needed tools to navigate this self-worth crisis—not just for recovery, but for the rest of my life.
Three Practices That Changed Everything
Through trial, error, and many Netflix documentaries watched from my couch, I discovered three practices that transformed my relationship with myself.
1. Name your inner critic.
That voice telling you you’re worthless without productivity isn’t actually you—it’s a critic you’ve internalized from past experiences. By naming this voice (mine was “Task-Master Tina”), you create distance between your authentic self and these automatic thoughts.
When I caught myself thinking, “I’m so lazy just lying here,” I’d pause and think, “That’s just Tina talking. She was programmed by my father’s workaholism. Her opinions aren’t facts.”
This simple act of naming created space between the thought and my response—what I later learned to call the “magic gap” where choice lives.
2. Challenge your limiting core belief.
Behind every critical thought is a core belief. Mine was: “My worth depends on what I contribute.”
To challenge this, I wrote down concrete evidence contradicting this belief:
- My husband married me for who I am, not what I do.
- Friends seek my company for connection, not productivity.
- I would never measure a loved one’s worth by their output.
- Worth is inherent in being human, not earned through action.
This wasn’t just positive thinking—it was deliberately examining whether my belief stood up to rational scrutiny. It didn’t.
3. Write yourself a permission slip.
Remember those permission slips from school? It turns out adults need them too.
I literally wrote on a piece of paper, “I, Sandy, give myself permission to rest without guilt while healing. I give myself permission to receive help without feeling like a burden.”
I placed it on my nightstand where I’d see it daily. Something about the physical act of writing and seeing this permission made it real in a way that thinking alone couldn’t accomplish.
When guilt surfaced, I’d read it aloud, reminding myself that I had authorized this behavior. It sounds simple, but this tangible permission slip became a powerful anchor during recovery.
The Deeper Lesson
As my physical strength gradually returned, I realized this experience had given me something invaluable: a new understanding of worth.
Worth isn’t something we earn through productivity or contribution. Worth is inherent. We don’t question a baby’s right to exist without producing anything. We don’t measure a loved one’s value by their output. Yet somehow, we apply different standards to ourselves.
I understand now that worthiness isn’t about productivity—it’s about authenticity. About aligning with your unique true nature rather than living your life to meet others’ expectations based on their personal values.
Compassion ranks high among my personal values, yet for years, I’d excluded myself from receiving this compassion. I’d created an exception clause where everyone deserved kindness except me.
Physical limitation forced me to extend to myself the same compassion I readily offered others. It wasn’t easy. It still isn’t. Old programming runs deep, and “Task-Master Tina” still visits occasionally.
But now, when she arrives, I have tools. I recognize her voice as separate from my truth. I challenge her outdated beliefs with evidence. And I have standing permission to prioritize healing and rest without apology.
This isn’t just about recovery from surgery. It’s about recovering the authentic self beneath layers of “shoulds” and external measures of value.
When we define worth through productivity, we live in constant fear of the inevitable moments when illness, age, or circumstance limit our output. When we anchor worth in authenticity instead, nothing can diminish our inherent value.
That’s the permission slip we all need but rarely give ourselves: permission to be worthy, just as we are, no matter what we produce.
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Feeling Stuck? Maybe You Don’t Need to ‘Fix’ It Right Now
“Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck where you do not belong.” ~N. R. Narayana Murthy
Anyone who had a Stretch Armstrong as a kid remembers that moment when you and a friend would test the limits of what good ol’ Armstrong could handle. You’d each grab an arm and slowly walk backward, waiting for that pivotal moment when either your strength would give out or Armstrong’s limbs would tear apart like a medieval torture device.
If you reached your strength limit, an older sibling would eagerly join in—nothing brought them more joy than watching your excitement dissolve into tears as Armstrong’s newly limbless body crossed the point of no return.
Why do we get stuck? We fail to define stuckness for what it is.
Feeling stuck does not mean your feet are superglued to the floor.
Being stuck is an active state that pulls you in opposite directions—just like Armstrong. One part says, “Don’t give up,” while another says, “This isn’t working.” No wonder it’s impossible to move forward. But what if, just for a moment, you didn’t have to choose?
What if you could just be with this stuckness without needing to solve it right now?
Maybe even acknowledging it, like, “I’m stuck, and it makes total sense considering all the shit going on in my life.”
I’m currently dealing with existential angst about my career. While there are so many advantages to working for yourself—no one telling you where to be or what to do and having freedom over your time—the downside is flipping that world upside down: with no one checking in, it’s painfully isolating. There’s no one to lean into or pick up the slack on hard days, and there’s no sense that you’re working toward a common goal. You own everything.
Warren Buffett’s right-hand man, Charlie Munger, famously stated, “Life is all about making wise choices and dealing with trade-offs. In business and elsewhere, I’ve yet to see a good example of something that’s totally free—there’s always a catch, always a cost.”
Being happy does not come from avoiding trade-offs but from being clear-eyed about which ones you’re willing to accept.
This is where I’m stuck. I’m not sure those trade-offs are worth it anymore. After eight-plus years of working solo, I’m hearing the siren call of a life I long for, being a part of a cause bigger than myself.
But how do you distinguish between times when you should sit with uncertainty and times when you need to take decisive action and stop overthinking?
Powerful question, eh?
There’s a real balance between giving something space and taking action; it can be hard to know what is needed.
This is the clarity that awareness can give us.
It’s an opportunity to notice the energy behind your desire to act.
Does action feel like it’s coming from urgency, fear, or the need to escape discomfort?
That’s a damn good sign action is not the answer.
Or do you have a sense of clarity, even if it’s not total certainty?
If the action feels like relief rather than running, that might be a sign it’s time to move.
When you think about taking action right now, does it feel like relief and alignment? Or does it feel more like panic and pressure?
I don’t have clarity. I don’t know what I want. I’m flooded with emotions.
My energy is pulsing with urgency, fear, and a need to escape the discomfort.
What does that tell me? I’m trying to make a decision from a place that’s not grounded.
That doesn’t mean I won’t take action—it just means my system needs more space, so I’m not making decisions from a place of fear.
In a culture that sees action as the only solution, it’s easy to be swept away by thinking movement is how we solve stuckness, but this comes back to failing to see it for what it is: You’re being pulled in opposite directions.
The faster you race toward answers, the more answers race away.
I’m no further ahead than you on this adventure. Life is unfolding for both of us, one day at a time.
Know that I see you.
Instead of taking action, would it feel supportive to take a small step toward grounding?
Maybe a deep breath, placing a hand on your heart, or even reminding yourself, “I don’t have to figure this all out right now.”
Would it feel okay to just acknowledge that for a moment? Letting all parts of you know, “I see the pain, I see the urgency, and I’m not ignoring you. I just want to move from a place of clarity, not fear.”
You don’t have to rush—just allow yourself to settle before deciding what’s next.
How does that feel?
Finding that starting point—where you feel grounded instead of just reacting—is everything.
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The Mean Instinct: Why We Exclude Others and How to Stop
“In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” ~Unknown
“Girls are mean!” I nodded knowingly as my boss struggled to explain the difference between raising boys and girls. I couldn’t speak to raising boys, but I remembered all too well what it was like when my daughters were growing up.
Girls traveled in packs, always with a leader at the helm. And almost every week, one of the lesser-ranked members was cast out, ostracized from the group. More often than not, it was one of my daughters. I distinctly recall their heartbreak—the kind of deep, inconsolable sorrow that only a child can feel when their world is upended.
Then, just as suddenly as they had been exiled, the social winds would shift. They’d be welcomed back into the fold, all smiles and laughter, as if the agony of rejection had never happened. And just like that, it was another poor girl’s turn to bear the brunt of exclusion. My daughters, now safely back in favor, never hesitated to play along, inflicting the same pain they had so recently endured—all in an effort to stay in the leader’s good graces.
It’s easy to think of this as just ‘girl drama,’ but is it really? I found myself wondering: is meanness learned, or is it wired into us? And oddly enough, my horse helped me answer that question.
From Outcast to Enforcer
A few years ago, I moved her to a new home, where she had to integrate into an unfamiliar herd. The top mare wasted no time making it clear—she didn’t like my mare. For two weeks, every time I arrived, I’d find her standing alone on the outskirts, gazing longingly at the hay she wasn’t allowed near. And every time, she would run to me, silently pleading for help.
It reminded me so much of my daughters. It broke my heart.
But then, something shifted. Slowly, she earned her place. She ingratiated herself with the top mare. They became inseparable—best friends. And soon enough, it was my mare turning on the others, asserting her own dominance.
Watching my mare transform from the outcast to the enforcer unsettled me. I realized—this wasn’t cruelty. It was instinct. The unspoken rules of survival. And the more I thought about it, the more I saw those same rules playing out in my own life.
Sure, we may not bite or chase each other away from the hay, but we have our own ways of keeping the social hierarchy in check. The whispers. The inside jokes are at someone else’s expense. The subtle shifts in who gets included and who doesn’t.
Had I been any different? Had I, too, learned to play the game—shifting, adapting, and excluding, not out of cruelty but out of the same deep, instinctual need to belong?
Were We the Mean Girls?
I don’t really remember the “mean girls” when I was in school. But looking back… that probably means I was one.
I never thought of myself as particularly cruel, but I do remember moments that make me wince now. One in particular stands out.
There was a girl in my class—let’s call her Claire. She was bright and talented, and she attended speech and drama classes. One day, in a rare moment of vulnerability, she opened up to us. She admitted that when she was younger, her parents had sent her to those classes because she had a speech impediment. She had worked hard to overcome it, and in that moment, she was trusting us with a piece of her story.
And how did we respond?
We laughed. And worse—we turned it into a joke. Every time she was in earshot, we’d start singing “Words Don’t Come Easy.” It was meant to be funny, just harmless teasing. At least, that’s what I told myself at the time. But now, I cringe at the memory.
She had been brave enough to share something real, and instead of honoring that courage, we used it against her.
At the time, I didn’t think of myself as mean. I wasn’t the ringleader, just someone going along with the joke. But does that really make it any better? Looking back, I realize that staying silent—or worse, laughing along—makes you just as much a part of the problem.
If anyone I went to school with happens to read this—especially Claire—I’m sorry.
Do We Grow Out of It?
I’d like to believe that kind of behavior is just a phase—something we grow out of as we mature, as our empathy deepens, as we learn to control our baser instincts. After all, kids can be cruel, but their brains aren’t fully developed. They act on impulse, driven more by the need to belong than by a true desire to hurt anyone.
Surely, then, adulthood brings wisdom. Surely, we learn to be better.
Sadly, that’s not always the case.
We like to think we’ve evolved beyond schoolyard cliques, but the truth is, meanness just becomes more subtle. Instead of playground exclusions, it’s office gossip. Instead of outright teasing, it’s backhanded compliments and judgmental whispers. The tactics change, but the instinct remains.
How to Break the Cycle and Choose Kindness
The instinct to exclude, judge, or tear others down may be wired into us, but unlike my mare, we have something powerful: awareness and choice. We don’t have to follow our instincts—we can rise above them. Here’s how.
1. Recognize the pattern.
The first step to change is awareness. Meanness doesn’t always look like outright bullying—it can be as subtle as rolling your eyes at someone’s success or staying silent when a friend is being excluded. Start paying attention to the moments when judgment, gossip, or exclusion creep in. Ask yourself:
- Why am I doing this?
- What am I gaining?
- How would I feel if I were on the receiving end?
2. Challenge the scarcity mindset.
Much of our instinctive meanness comes from a deep-seated belief that success, beauty, or belonging is limited—that if another woman shines, it somehow dims our light. But that’s simply not true. There is enough success, happiness, and love to go around. Lifting others up doesn’t take anything away from you—it strengthens everyone.
3. Replace gossip with encouragement.
Gossip is a social bonding tool—we do it to feel connected. But there’s a better way. Next time you’re tempted to tear someone down in conversation, flip the script.
Instead of:
“Did you see what she was wearing?”
Say:
“I love how confident she is to wear that!”
Compliments—especially when given freely, without expectation—have a way of shifting the energy in a room.
4. Make kindness a habit.
Kindness isn’t just about grand gestures—it’s in the small, daily choices.
- Smile at a stranger.
- Invite the quiet colleague to lunch.
- Defend the person being talked about behind their back.
- Support your friends’ successes without comparison.
The more you practice, the more natural it becomes.
5. Teach the next generation.
If you have children, especially daughters, talk to them about social dynamics. Share your own experiences. Show them what healthy friendships look like.
When they come home upset because they were left out—or because they left someone else out—help them navigate those feelings with empathy and self-awareness.
6. Be the one who makes room at the table.
In every social group, workplace, or community, there are people on the outskirts—just like my mare once was. You have the power to invite them in. Inclusion is a choice. So, the next time you see someone being left out, be the person who makes space for them.
Final Reflection: Who Do You Want to Be?
Every day, we have a choice. Not just in grand, dramatic moments—but in the quiet, ordinary ones.
The choice to include.
The choice to uplift.
The choice to be better.
So today, ask yourself: Who needs a seat at your table? And will you make room?
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Meditation: A Simple Way to Show Up Fully in Your Life
“The real meditation is how you live your life.” ~Jon Kabat-Zinn
I never saw myself as someone who would meditate. It wasn’t even on my radar until my wife suggested it while we were both working on our wellness. I chuckled. Like a lot of people, I assumed meditation meant sitting still, trying to clear my mind, whatever that even meant. It sounded impossible and, frankly, frustrating.
I grew up in the rust belt, part of the baby boomer generation, and I’ve spent my life working hard, showing up, and taking care of my own. I love hard and play hard. I enjoy a good bourbon, an occasional cigar, and being a little stupid with my friends and family. That’s always been part of my life.
That’s who I was when I started this practice, and that’s still who I am today. Meditation didn’t change me into someone different. It didn’t make me soft, overly serious, or turn me into some enlightened guru. It just made me more aware. The same things I’ve always loved, I still love. The same challenges I’ve always faced, I still face. The only difference is that now, I experience it all with a little more presence. Life didn’t change. I just stopped rushing through it.
At the time, I dealt with stress the way a lot of people do—by staying busy. If I felt overwhelmed, my instinct was to distract myself. I would work harder, scroll through my phone, watch TV, or find something to keep my mind occupied. The idea of sitting in silence with nothing but my thoughts sounded like torture.
At the same time, I couldn’t ignore the fact that I was constantly drained. Even when I wasn’t actively dealing with a problem, I carried this low-level tension everywhere I went. My mind was always racing, thinking about what needed to get done, replaying past conversations, and worrying about things that hadn’t even happened yet. It was exhausting.
So, I gave meditation a shot. Not because I believed in it but because I figured I had nothing to lose. What I learned along the way completely changed my perspective, but not all at once.
I think a lot of people expect some kind of breakthrough moment with meditation, like flipping on a light switch where suddenly everything feels calm and clear. That never happened to me. Instead, it was more like a dimmer switch—subtle, slow, and almost unnoticeable at first.
The biggest misconception I had was that meditation was about emptying the mind. That’s not the point at all. And honestly, if that was the goal, I probably would have quit on day one.
Meditation isn’t about forcing thoughts away. It’s about noticing them without getting caught up in them. It’s about observing what’s happening inside rather than constantly reacting to the outside world. Think of it like sitting on the side of a busy road, watching cars pass by. Cars are your thoughts. You don’t need to chase them or jump in. You just watch.
Once I stopped trying to clear my mind and instead focused on simply noticing my thoughts, the practice became much easier. More than that, it started to make a difference in my daily life, but not in some dramatic, life-altering way. There was no single moment where I thought, “This is it. Meditation has changed everything.” It was far more gradual than that.
I started noticing small shifts. I felt shorter bursts of calm in my day, even in stressful moments. Instead of immediately reacting when something frustrated me, I had a split second of space to breathe first. I became more present and less lost in overthinking.
I realized I wasn’t spending as much time stuck in my head, replaying past mistakes or worrying about the future. And perhaps most importantly, stress didn’t grip me the way it used to. It still crept in, but I caught it earlier and let it go faster.
That, I’ve come to understand, is what meditation really does. It doesn’t erase stress. It just helps you see it sooner so it doesn’t take over.
One of the most unexpected benefits was that I became much better at recognizing when I was running on autopilot. Before, I would get lost in thought without realizing it. I would stress about everything, scroll through my phone, or half-listen to conversations while my brain was somewhere else. Meditation helped me break that habit. I started to realize how often I was going through the motions without truly being present. That awareness alone made a difference.
At this point, meditation isn’t just something I “do.” It’s something that shows up in how I go about my day. And that, more than anything, has been the biggest shift. It’s easy to sit in a quiet room and meditate. The real challenge is remembering to breathe and stay aware in everyday moments. That’s where the practice really matters.
I’ve also realized that even when I don’t feel like meditating, that, in itself, is a form of meditation. The fact that I check in with myself, notice whether I’m avoiding something or just not in the mood, and allow myself the freedom to choose—that’s awareness. And that’s the whole point. I don’t pressure myself to meditate at a specific time every day because I know awareness isn’t confined to a cushion or a set routine. I am free to be free.
If you’re skeptical like I was, here’s what I’d recommend. Forget about clearing your mind. Trying to shut off your thoughts is like trying to stop the wind. It’s not going to happen. Instead, just notice your thoughts without getting carried away by them. You don’t have to control or judge them. Just observe.
Keep it short. You don’t need to sit for thirty minutes. Start with two to five minutes. That’s it. You wouldn’t expect to lift heavy weights on your first day at the gym, right? Meditation is the same. It’s mental muscle that gets stronger over time.
Make it easy. There’s no need to sit in a perfect cross-legged position or chant mantras unless you want to. Just sit comfortably, whether on a chair, couch, or even lying down, and focus on your breath. No need to overcomplicate it.
Expect your mind to wander. That’s normal. Meditation isn’t about having a blank mind. It’s about noticing when your attention drifts and gently bringing it back. That is the practice. Stick with it. The benefits sneak up on you. You might not notice a difference at first, but over time, you’ll realize you feel a little calmer and a little more grounded. Give it time.
Over time, I stopped thinking of meditation as something separate from the rest of my day. It became less about sitting in silence and more about paying attention. Noticing my breath when I felt unsettled. Feeling the weight of my body in my chair while working. Catching my mind when it started spiraling into stress. It all counts.
At the end of the day, I’m still the same guy. I still work hard, love hard, and enjoy a good bourbon and laugh with my friends. Meditation didn’t make me a different person. It just helped me show up for my own life in a way I never had before. And for me, that’s been enough.
What moments in your life are slipping by unnoticed? Where can you slow down, even for a breath, and truly be present? You don’t need to change who you are or chase some perfect version of mindfulness. Just notice. Just pay attention.
As Jon Kabat-Zinn reminds us, “The real meditation is how you live your life.” It’s not about sitting still or doing things a certain way. It’s about showing up—fully—for the life you already have.
So, take a deep breath, bring a little more awareness into your day, and let the rest take care of itself.
Always remember to JUST BREATHE.
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Transmuting Shame: None of Us Need to Be Fixed
“Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging, and connection.” ~Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart
This past year, I started the journey of investigating—maybe even befriending—“my” shame.
I use quotes around the “my” because most of the shame is not mine; much of it is internalized sexism, racisim, anti-blackness and homophobia, and/or intergenerational—it was passed down to me. And while I didn’t choose to internalize or inherit it, it is my responsibility to care for “my” shame, to tenderize it with love and compassion so it may be transmuted. I get to alchemize and grow flowers rooted within the rich compost of my healing journey, fertilized by ancestral gifts.
Shame is one of the most uncomfortable experiences, so much so that we often project our shame onto others to provide some relief from the discomfort. I learned this at the Mindful Self-Compassion (MSC) teacher training intensive I had the privilege to attend in the fall.
During the MSC training, I received the blessing of the dharma of shame and learned about its antidote—mindful self-compassion. Five wise practitioners, including Chris Germer, one of the co-founders of the eight-week MSC program, guided about thirty individuals (from across the United States, including some folks from overseas) to experience the power of self-compassion through a week-long workshop.
Chris shared a wisdom gem I will never forget: shame is rooted in our universal need and desire to be loved. The innocence of shame touched something deep in me; it felt like permission, or an invite, to see the exiled parts of myself battling shame.
I had never really talked about shame before training to offer mindful self-compassion. It felt like if I talked about the shame, if I named it, you would see the thin film of shame that I felt covered my body for much of my childhood into young adulthood. It felt like if I named it, you would know I was not worthy of the love I felt desperate for.
There was shame around being a girl, then a woman; there was shame around being expansive in my sexual orientation and gender expression; there was shame in being a survivor of domestic and sexual violence; there was shame around socioeconomic status… the list goes on.
Mindful self-compassion has helped me look beyond the victim mentality I used to strongly identify with. I see that, like all of us, I have been shaped by early experiences with caregivers and by the environments I have grown in. I see that, like most of us, I have always done the best I could with the tools available to me at the time. And in my experience, I have leaned on—and clung to—many maladaptive tools like using substances to escape.
Today, I am grateful to know the shame comes from an innocent place and that it can be transmuted into compassion for myself and for all beings everywhere.
I don’t remember where I first learned this, but Brené Brown also talks about shame’s roots in the universal need for belonging. When we feel we are separate from the rest of the world, when we feel we don’t belong, there is a specific form of pain and suffering that emerges.
In my experience, feeling like I did not belong, feeling separate, created deep wounds of unworthiness and otherness. Brené goes on to talk about “fitting in” being the opposite of belonging. And in my desperate attempts to belong and be loved, I leaned into the facade of “fitting in,” and the wounding deepened.
In writing about my lived experience—releasing what’s been floating around for years in my mind-body space—I am reminded of Brené Brown’s Atlas of the Heart.
She defines shame as “the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love, belonging, and connection.”
She offers “shame 1-2-3s”: (1) We all have it. Shame is universal and one of the most primitive emotions that we experience. The only people who don’t experience it are those who lack the capacity for empathy and human connection. (2) We’re all afraid to talk about it. Sometimes we can feel shame when we just say the word “shame.” But it’s getting easier as more people are talking about it. And (3) The less we talk about it, the more control it has over us. Shame hates being spoken.
So, here is my first writing—likely one of many—on shame, as I continue this sacred journey of becoming a mindful self-compassion teacher and offering one of the mindfulness-based programs for mental health that’s been most impactful for me.
I’ll close with one more share, offered by a beautiful mentor, one of the facilitators of the teacher training intensive: “No one here needs to be fixed.”
As he shared this at the opening to the week-long intensive, I felt my body soften and exhale. It was received as a love note to little river exiles: I am not bad, I am not unworthy, I do not need fixing. Like all of us, I deserve love, belonging, and connection. We all do; no matter what has happened in the past, no matter what the future holds. Right here, right now, we deserve and are worthy of love, belonging, and connection.
May we feel love, belonging, and connection. May we know we are loved, we belong, and we are interconnected. May we support each other on the journey of self-liberation.
