It was the sense the person I loved was in there somewhere, yet mostly unreachable.

It’s what I imagine you might feel watching a parent with dementia decline, or a loved one with a substance addiction become unrecognizable.

It’s the complicated grief of loving someone who is still there physically, yet apparently absent emotionally.

If you’ve read my book, ​You Don’t Owe Anyone​, then you know about some of Willie’s worst times. The times he gave himself black eyes, the times he hit our parents, and the time he bit my leg so hard that the bruise took weeks to heal.

But you might not have heard about this tiny moment of connection. You might not know how much love there was, before the behavioral issues took over.

For this story to make sense, you need to know that my brother was/is obsessed with “Snow White and the Seven Dwarves,” and refers to himself as “Grumpy” or “Happy” depending on mood.

So one day, our mother asked, “Willie, if you’re Happy today, who is Mommy?”

He replied, “Mommy is Bashful!”

Intrigued, she asked: “And who is Daddy?”

Willie said, “Daddy is Doc!”

Finally, my mom asked, “And who is your sister Caroline?”

I thought he might say, “Dopey!” for a joke, but Willie’s face softened as he said, “Caroline is Snow White.”

Though he has never said, “Caroline, I look up to you,” or, “Caroline, I’m glad you’re my sister,” in his own way, he communicated that effectively.

One little glimmer of love can go a long way.

And here’s what I learned the hard way: Treasured glimmers like that are not what determine healthy boundaries.

I no longer set boundaries based on hope for the best. Instead, I look at the worst, and work from there.

For example, when my youngest was a newborn, my family of origin came to visit us. Within the first hour, my brother got upset and punched a hole through the wall of my infant daughter’s room.

Thankfully the kids were in another part of the house with me and Jonathan. When I heard what happened, I kept saying, “What? What?” It was a combination of sleep deprivation and denial; the information did not compute.

Still, I managed to take a picture of that hole before our dad patched it. After a lifetime of having my lived experience invalidated, I knew I would need a reminder: No, you didn’t imagine this.

After that incident, I set a really tough boundary. To ensure that our small children are safe in their home, we no longer visit with Willie in our house. Instead, we leave the house to meet him elsewhere.

Did I second-guess myself? Yes. Did I backslide a couple of times, then have to have the painful conversation again? Also yes.

But I clung to the knowledge that my most important role is no longer daughter or sister. It’s mother.

So I did for my children what I could not do for myself. I said, effectively: No one who punches holes through walls can come in. Not even my beloved brother.

Today, I knelt to fill a small pot with soil, planting seeds my oldest child brought home. The sky darkened overhead; I could smell a storm on the wind.

And for some reason I thought of Willie then. Something about burying a seed, watching it disappear beneath the dirt. Something about saying goodbye, not knowing if it’s the end or the beginning.

Knowing that the only thing to do is watch and wait.

Feeling the love and the grief, tangled together like roots.

Leaving my doors closed, while keeping the gates open at the corners of my mind.

***

If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. I read and reply to every comment.

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It’s been almost two years since I wrote this story about a total mess of a morning. When I re-read it this week, I really needed the reminder. So I’m posting it today, in case things feel especially hard for you right now.

-

When I arrived at preschool to pick up our youngest on the afternoon of her third birthday, the poor kid had just thrown up.

Her teachers were gathering her clothes and cleaning the floor, and my first thought after, Oh my gosh, is my baby okay? was, Wow, I picked the wrong day to wear white shorts.

Almost as though she’d picked up on my train of thought, our littlest walked into my arms and wailed, “I messed up my strawberry dress, my birthday dress!”

Obviously, the rest of the day didn’t go to plan.

Newly-three-year old Little Sister needed fresh clothes and constant care, and almost-five-year old Big Sister needed support with the fact that there would be no pink cake that day.

When we gently broke the no-cake news, Big Sister stomped around the room. Then her face crumpled.

“Mommy!” she said through tears, “I’m sad because all the things I wanted today didn’t happen!”

And as I drew her close and held her, I couldn’t help but think: Well, that’s relatable.

Have you been there lately?

Have you gotten to the end of your day and frankly felt like wailing, “I’m sad because all the things I wanted didn’t happen”...?

Maybe sickness or chronic pain scuttled your best-laid plans to build a business.

Maybe someone you love left, though they’d promised to stay.

Maybe that dream job went to someone else, or the beloved creative project didn’t work out.

If anything like that has happened to you lately, then I want to offer you the same thing I offered my eldest that day.

No judgment or shame. No minimization or empty promises.

Just an embrace, and these simple words:

My kid and I sat there being sad for a moment. (Then she got up and moved on, because kids are good at that.)

Now, that problem of Big Sister’s was easy to solve; her dad and I promised that we’d have birthday cake as soon as Little Sister was feeling better, and we did.

But as adults, our problems are trickier, because our dreams are bigger than just birthday cake.

And yet, the starting point is the same. The starting point is sitting with the one who is weary and sad.

If you’re in one of those times when life isn’t unfolding the way you’d hoped, you’re welcome to leave a comment and tell me about it.

I’ll sit beside you.

The 6-year-olds were charging around; my 4-year-old followed, stopping only to peek at Amelie’s 1-month-old baby sibling.

Amelie’s mom had her hands full. She was feeding the baby, watching Amelie, and trying to talk with me about her work in a new industry.

I felt for this fellow mom, who doesn’t have much family support during this time. I know what it’s like to care for two kids and work outside the home and build the village that’s supposed to be built-in.

So I’d brought her our video monitors, which we used constantly when the kids were small. She was delighted to receive them. Well, delighted in an exhausted way. Because that’s what I saw on her face: exhaustion.

She wasn’t complaining, though, and that broke my heart. Watching her make the effort to stay positive, while juggling this Herculean task, while depleted by sleep deprivation ... it struck a chord with me.

My heart was flying out to her. We’re casual friends, not super-close, but I felt such a strong impulse to help that I literally wanted to move into her house for a while!

Even in the moment, though, I could see that that impulse was disproportionate to the situation. I was slipping into rescue mode. So instead of making a grand offer, I coached myself to just listen.

Then a fortunate thing happened: my 6-year-old asked me to come with her to the bathroom. On the way, I came up with a new plan: I could invite Amelie to spend a day with us this weekend!

This seemed like the perfect way to help without being intrusive. So I asked my 6-year-old: “Honey, would you like me to invite Amelie over for a playdate at our house this weekend?”

I thought that she’d say yes, because my kiddo loves having time with Amelie. But instead, I saw her take pause and check in with herself. She considered the possibility with care.

And then she said, “No, Mom, not this weekend. I just really want to rest.”

After I picked my jaw up off of the floor, I said, “Of course, honey. Thanks for telling me. We can rest this weekend.”

Dear reader, you can probably imagine how I felt in that moment. On one hand, I was so proud of my kid for saying what she needed. For tuning in and being honest about her capacity.

The more I considered, the more I realized: I wanted a quiet weekend too. We’d had a lot going on the past couple of weeks, lots of high-energy end-of-the-year events. Of course my kid wanted some peace. So did I!

But, there was also another part of me that was disappointed when my kiddo said no. That part was like, Shoot! Now I can’t rescue this other mom from the hard time she’s having! Now I can’t swoop in and be the hero ... and that hurts.

And as we walked back into the playdate, it dawned on me:

The reason my rescuer impulse is so activated right now is because I have been through this before. It’s not so much about this friend, although she’s lovely.

But the person I really want to rescue is my past self.

And that’s why this feels so intense. I’m seeing a version of myself in her, and I haven’t fully grieved for that girl yet.

Past Caroline needed someone to step in and say, “Here, let me hold the baby while you rest.” She needed her friends to come close and support her as she healed. She needed to be looked after more than she was.

The truth is, I needed more support, and it hurt not to receive it. And, thanks to the work I’ve done, I was able to give myself kind internal self-talk. As in:

“Hey, you went through something really hard. And it’s great that you empathize with this fellow mom and want to support her. But, honey, you already have.

Your job is not to overextend yourself. Rather, your job is to take care of the hurting part of yourself. What does she need right now, to feel loved and safe?”

-

Have you ever noticed yourself trying to rescue someone when what you really needed was care yourself?

I’d love to hear your experience. Feel free to leave a comment or send me a DM.

(If you’d like more support working through patterns like this, I offer Pursue Your Path Coaching.)

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(I have no idea why there’s a cat on the cover. There’s a hedgehog on the Serbian edition, so who knows?!)

My husband gave me a nod and a proud smile, which for him is the equivalent of jumping up and down. There was something so moving about seeing my book spread its wings and travel farther than I ever have.

For a moment I felt immense gratitude. And yet! As my kids went into various antics and my husband remonstrated with them, I felt myself fading into the background.

There had been a moment of celebration, a spark of flame, but now there was only smoke and ashes. In an instant, I’d gone back to a place where my voice and my story didn’t matter at all.

Have you had this happen? Do you ever go from deep joy to deep sadness in the blink of an eye? Do you ever have trouble allowing yourself to stay happy for more than an instant, as though it’s somehow not safe to feel that way for long?

If so, then you’ll understand what that moment was like for me.

It was depression, it was hopelessness; it was the awful aching sense that no matter how hard I tried, my family would never hear me, never see me. It was the sense of becoming a ghost.

This is the trauma talking, I told myself firmly. This is a well-worn pathway in your brain. But let’s question this painful story! Maybe it was true of your family of origin, but it is true of THIS family? No.

-

A few days later, our three year old called me to help her finish potty time. When I prompted her to wipe, she yanked on the toilet paper, unspooling way too much.

I took a deep breath. We’d talked about this before. I’d spoken firmly, I’d commanded, I’d even begged her to please stop. But still, she did it anyway, and I felt furious.

But why? I asked myself. Why does this bother you? Why can you clean up other epic messes without any anger, but not this one?

Finally, I figured it out. It was how she’d look me in the eye while taking too much paper ... the paper that I worked to earn money to buy.

For me, that paper represented sacrifice. It represented all the times I’d pushed myself to work when I was sick, to show up and parent when I was exhausted. It represented all the times I’d pressed override on my own truth for her sake.

When I saw our little one waste toilet paper, the story that arose within me was, “What I do doesn’t matter. What I say doesn’t matter. She doesn’t see me.”

This old, hopeless story was so present in the room with us, that I decided to take a chance and give voice to it.

A caveat: Having been a parentified child myself, I am very conscious of not asking my kids to take on more than is age-appropriate, or to caretake me emotionally. But with this long-standing pattern, I took a risk and shared more than I normally would.

“Honey, I’m not sure how to explain this, but ... here’s what’s going on with me.

When you unroll a lot of toilet paper like that, I start to think that it doesn’t matter that I worked to buy that for you, that your daddy and I work to make this home for you and your sister.

I just start to feel scared that ... it doesn’t matter. I feel scared that what I do doesn’t matter.”

My chest felt tight. I felt horribly guilty; what if I’d screwed up and put too much on her shoulders?

But there are times in every parent’s life when their child is an oracle, a teacher far wiser than their years. This was one of those times.

She looked me in the eye and said, with quiet intensity:

“Mommy, it DOES matter.”

Just four words, shot straight to the heart.

It DOES matter.

Here’s the thing.

If you’re smart, capable, and secretly suffering - if you’ve been holding yourself to impossible standards and you’re burning out under the weight of obligation - then there’s probably a part of you that’s stuck in old, unhealed hopelessness.

It’s the part of you that believes what you do doesn’t really matter - that no matter how you try, you’ll never be seen and loved for YOU. So you keep hiding, even though it feels horrible.

If that feels accurate, then please, imagine me right next to you, holding your gaze, saying your name.

Dear reader, it DOES matter.

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It was a visceral feeling, and I’m glad I listened to it. By the time we sent a video of the kids singing Happy Birthday, he was already gone.

Lately I’ve been remembering how he and my grandmother moved to Arizona a few years before I was born. They left their home in urban New Jersey to live in the desert and build a cord wood house.

It took them years to build that house. When I was younger they lived in a trailer, and during summer visits we’d stay in a small camper next door. And I’d watch this house being built, little by little.

That house was really something. It had a wood stove and a greenhouse and a composting toilet, so it would work well off-grid.

My grandfather did not have much to fund this project - he repurposed absolutely everything - but he was rich in books and blue sky.

I’m glad I got to spend summers watching him build that unconventional house. It showed me that there are many different ways to build a life.

In ’s essay “We Are Here to Build the House,” she writes about how important it is to make:

To quote one of my coaching clients, this means:

That’s the same feeling that led me to call my grandfather and say goodbye to him.

Today I invite you to listen to that feeling and build the life that feels true to you. Start right here, right now.

How, exactly? Ask yourself:

What are the times in my life where I knew that something was right for me? (And wrong for me?) What are the specific sensations, the energetic signatures of my knowing?

Then, practice trusting that internal tuning fork every single day. Go toward the resonance, and away from the dissonance.

Living this way means that you will enjoy greater freedom. It also means that you will lose some things and some people.

–

My favorite novel is Jane Eyre, and I have a little purse with these words of Jane’s on it:

It always makes me smile, because it’s missing the last clause: “ … which I now exert to leave you.”

(Jane’s speaking to Rochester here; much as she loves him, she absolutely refuses to participate in anything dishonest.)

It’s no surprise that whoever made my purse omitted that last part of the sentence. Isn’t it always the part we avoid, the part about how freedom means leaving something beloved behind?

When my grandparents moved to Arizona, it meant leaving their old life in New Jersey behind. It meant living far away from their two children and (eventual) five grandchildren. It’s easy to look at that as a loss.

And yet - wasn’t it also a tremendous gain?

What if the fact that my grandfather built that cord wood house is part of the reason I’m writing to you today? What if his legacy lives on in these words?

When you build a life according to your deepest values, you give a gift to future generations. You show them what a life of freedom looks and feels like. You make something that outlives you.

This Memorial Day, may we remember those who laid the foundation for where we’re standing right now.

And may we use our freedom to build something beautiful.

*

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Tell me if this happens to you: You look forward to the weekend all week. Finally, you’ll get to do what you want! You’ll get to rest and relax and remember who you are underneath the heavy workload.

But then the weekend comes, and it’s no fun. You feel trapped in one of two patterns: go go go, or a total crash. There’s no in between.

“Go go go” scenario: You’re packing as much as you possibly can into the day. You’re working out, catching up on work, doing phone dates, play dates, chores, errands, and home projects too.

Caffeine and energy bars carry you through, but truthfully, it’s too much. Almost none of it makes you happy.

You’re tired and you’d love to just rest, then spend time on your passion project. But you’re drowning in duty, so neither of those things are happening. Maybe next weekend will be different?

“Total crash” scenario: You’re flat out on the couch, bingeing Netflix. Anything beyond clicking “Next episode” feels impossible.

You’re struggling to find the motivation to shower, much less deal with the piles of laundry and clutter and supplies for that creative project that you’re not making progress on anymore.

You’re exhausted, but you tell yourself you’re lazy; you feel bad for not being productive. Maybe next weekend will be different?

Both of these patterns arise from the same underlying issue: organizing life based on obligation, rather than desire.

Why would we do that? Well, because we’re running our lives according to an outdated goal.

-

When I first started running hurdles in high school, I had an unusual problem.

Before I ran track, I’d spent years doing ballet and figure skating. I’d spent countless childhood hours practicing grace.

My favorite part of hurdling was the moment when I soared and suspended in the air, like a jete in ballet, or a split jump in skating.

Alas, the joy of flight is not the point of the hurdles.

My track coach used to yell my maiden name/nickname in playful exasperation: “Fischer King! It is not about how pretty you look going over the hurdles! It’s about how fast you clear them!”

All of my athletic training to that point had taught me to prioritize elegance. But on the track, I had to learn to prioritize speed.

Until I shifted my goal from “I will soar over this hurdle” to, “I will race through this hurdle,” I didn’t win any races, or make team captain.

Why am I telling you this?

Because so many of us are running our lives the way I used to run hurdles: with an outdated goal.

We’re racing through our days driven by the goals of childhood:

• Whatever you do, don’t upset anyone!

• Never do anything that might make them mad at you!

• Stay quiet, don’t ask for much, you’ll be fine.

• Give up your personal goals for the greater good.

Those “be graceful at all costs” beliefs served us well for a season. The problem is, they’re not serving us now.

Now, we want to gain momentum and get somewhere … to go for our goals with confidence.

But is it any wonder we feel stuck? We spent our formative years training a totally different, approval-at-all-costs mindset!

We’ve been trained not to rock the boat, so when life demands it, we freeze. Our socialization goes against our desire.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

The goal of adult life is not to avoid getting anybody mad at you. (It’s both profoundly unsatisfying and impossible.)

Rather, the goal of adult life is to live according to your own unique purpose.

Everything opens up when you clarify your purpose and decide to live from that place. When you run your own race, for your own reasons, according to your own heart.

-

14 years ago this summer, Jonathan and I quit our stable jobs and left Washington DC.

We left our loving community, vibrant neighborhood, and secure jobs with benefits.

Why? Because we yearned for freedom. Because at a certain point, we realized that our weekends weren’t the problem. The problem was the lifestyle we’d chosen.

We were pushing ourselves to achieve professionally, while the personal costs mounted up. Frequent illness. Constant exhaustion. Newlyweds with very little time together. We were only in our 20s, but we felt old.

We wanted to work for ourselves, at our own pace. We wanted to wake up feeling energized, not exhausted. We wanted to feel excited about life again.

All of that waited for us in Alabama. But that first summer, the price of freedom was living in a house under construction, where the ancient air conditioner was not up to the job of a southern summer.

And I’ll never forget one sweltering Tuesday, when it was way too hot for Jonathan to work on the house.

But instead of suggesting we go to the library and work on our business instead, Jonathan surprised me by saying, “Let’s go down to the creek.”

I remember the shock of the cold water on my skin. I remember slipping on the rocks in the current, then seeing a heron take flight. I remember laughing with Jonathan, feeling our freedom really sink in.

We could go to the creek on a Tuesday!

It’s been 14 years since then, but I haven’t forgotten how my heart lifted right along with the heron. That was the day I knew we weren’t going back to our old lives.

A lot has changed since that summer. Our lives are more complex than ever; we now have two kids, two houses, two businesses, and two books (one complete and one in process).

We’re two adults with a lot to do. And yet.

Yesterday I took our kids down to the creek for the first time.

It was a sweltering Tuesday morning. I could have been working inside in air conditioning, but I wanted the shock of cold water on my skin.

I wanted to see my kids slipping on the rocks, laughing when the current pushed them. I wanted to see herons in the distance.

I wanted to feel free, and going to the creek on a Tuesday feels like freedom for me.

Dear reader, what feels like freedom for you?

Is it waking up without an alarm clock? Is it a day with no meetings or appointments - a day to do whatever you want?

Is it savoring a slow lunchtime spent sitting on the porch, listening to the birds?

Is it lots of space for your best creative work, and lots of time for your passion project?

Whatever it is, name it. Be honest. What do you really yearn for? And what are you willing to do in order to move closer to it?

Remember, your experience won’t be different unless you make different choices. The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior ... unless we do something significant to intervene in our own lives.

-

Tell me in the comments: What’s one thing you’re going to subtract, in service of running your own race?

Often the quickest way to add joy and freedom into your life is to subtract the stuff that’s not on-purpose.

-

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Seven and a half years ago, my life was in flux. After years of infertility, surgery, getting diagnosed with a rare genetic condition, and experiencing an early miscarriage, I was pregnant again.

I was at once elated and cautious. Would I miscarry, or would this dream finally come true? I couldn’t control the outcome, not really.

So I decided to control everything else. I ate clean. I drank no caffeine. I coached my clients, contracted with other companies, made six figures, and saved up for maternity leave.

And with the help of a coach, I upgraded my wardrobe. Would I have a baby in my arms in seven months? Who knew! The uncertainty was breathtaking, so I armored up. By which I mean, I bought this blazer.

The blazer fit perfectly. It made me feel powerful, grown-up, like I could handle whatever life threw at me next. I tucked it back into its fancy garment bag like a secret weapon.

Fast-forward 7.5 years. Our beautiful children are nearly 5 and 7. Life is different. Instead of wondering whether I’ll ever become a mother, I’ve been wondering what to do with this blazer that I’ve never worn.

It belongs to the person I used to be, jetting across the country, attending business conferences, and giving keynote speeches.

It doesn’t have a place in my days now: writing my new book, leading retreats, and hiking in the forest.

Dear reader, do you have something like that, an object that belongs to a past version of yourself? If so, then you know what it’s like. Part of you knows it’s a relic, while another part is afraid to let go.

My fearful part says: What if I need it in the future? What if I am called upon to show up as a ‘serious professional,’ to go into battle, and I don’t have the right armor?

It sounds so convincing, doesn’t it? But here’s what I’ve realized (and what might help you to break the spell of your own “fantasy self” items).

A “fantasy self” item is a mirage. It’s an illusion that appears real for a moment when the light rays bend just so. And I’m not interested in mirages anymore.

Put another way: I am no longer invested in armor. I am invested in authenticity. And while I like the blazer in theory, I don’t wear it in real life. My current style is less “try hard” structure, more elegant ease.

It’s interesting: because I kept that blazer for so long, all this pressure built up around it. No occasion was “special enough” to justify using it.

At this point, it feels more like a representation than a thing to wear. And forcing myself to keep it feels like locking myself into a decision I made when I wasn’t the same person I am now.

So I am letting it go, with gratitude. I’m taking it to the local consignment shop, so it can have a new life with someone else.

As it turns out, I didn’t buy the blazer for fashion, I bought it for reassurance. For a feeling of preparedness in a sea of uncertainty.

And dear reader, I’m guessing that you don’t judge me for that. So I invite you to give yourself that same grace.

Would you consider letting go of something that functions as armor for you?

Yes, you’re probably going to have that scarcity voice come up, telling you that you should hang on “just to be safe.”

But the logic breaks down when you take it out of your mind and apply it to other people. Are any of y’all thinking that I’ll be “safer” with this blazer I haven’t ever worn?! Probably not.

To state the obvious: the blazer isn’t what keeps me safe.

What keeps me safe is being present to my life. Trusting myself to make decisions. Reducing overwhelm. Making my daily life easier and more manageable now.

This whole next evolution is about caring how we feel, in every area of our lives. Not how we think we should feel, but how we actually feel.

And my experience has been that as I release the old armor, I feel alive.

May you enjoy the same.

-

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If you’re like me, I’m guessing the answer is: Not recently. Many of us in this community find it difficult. It’s easy to blame external circumstances.

To say that we’re just going to grind until one more project is done, or the kids are older, or we have enough money (though we rarely stop to define “enough” for ourselves; we believe the Scarcity Siren, who tells us that it’s out of reach).

So the story goes that once the ducks are in a row and the decks are cleared, THEN we’ll relax, slow down, savor the moment.

But if you think that you’ll be different by default in retirement, know this: when I work with Pursue Your Path coaching clients in this stage, at first they report feeling busier or more stressed than they were when they were employed!

This sounds counterintuitive, but it actually makes a lot of sense. We’re powerful creators, more than capable of creating overwhelm in retirement.

Why might we do that? Excellent question! As an unconventional answer, let me tell you about how I almost spent another hour of my one wild and precious life rehabilitating this Barbie doll’s doomed hair.

At my children’s behest, last fall I tried myriad interventions for this beloved Barbie’s mane. Conditioner, comb-outs, hot water ... nothing worked. They brought it up again this week, and I considered a more in-depth intervention.

Then I stopped. Looked at myself as though from up above. Thought, What the $%&^ am I doing?! (Sometimes this is the most spiritual thought one can have.)

In less than 10 minutes, I ordered the same doll on eBay. (It cost $10, and will serve as a great graduation gift for one of my kids.) I also snagged a free mailing label to send the mangled-mane doll in for recycling.

This took a fraction of the time it would take to “save” the original doll. So why didn’t I do it sooner? Or more precisely: Why didn’t I see it as an option sooner?

That’s a key distinction. When I’m working with a coaching client, my job is not to provide solutions. Rather, my job is to help them practice perceiving their own solutions.

It’s like the hidden door from The Secret Garden: almost impossible to find if you don’t know it’s there. But if you find it even once, it’s much easier to find it again.

But back to the original question. Why didn’t I see better Barbie options sooner? Why do we, all of us, keep recreating overwhelm when we say we want peace?

I’ll speak for myself; here’s why I do it. I am very good at two things:

1. Pushing myself to do things I don’t want to do.

2. Putting off things I do want to do.

Forcing myself to do what I dread, while delaying what I enjoy ... these are two sides of the same coin. Both center around this core belief: I am bad.

If I am bad, then of course I can’t trust my desires. If I am bad, then of course I should force myself to go against my grain. If I am bad, then I deserve to move through my days overwhelmed, as punishment.

In other words: If deep down I believe that I am bad, then my behavior makes sense.

So where does that leave us, those of us who have lost touch with our inherent goodness?

I like how puts it, in one of her characteristically direct Ask Polly essays:

Dear reader, I hope you’ll join me in shifting to this new way of being. I propose that we begin immediately.

What would life be like, if we really believed that we are good, and we deserve to be good to ourselves?

Here’s a practical way to find out. In late 2020, a coach advised me to journal on this topic daily. So, I created the “Be good to yourself book.”

Every day, I asked myself:

• Do I feel loved by myself? Do I feel cared for by myself, valued by myself?

• If so, why? What worked well for me today?

• If not, why not? What did I need that I didn’t give myself?

The idea here is not to shame yourself, but rather, to gather data. To become a scientist of your own experience.

This humble book was a lifesaver for me, pregnant with a one-year-old during a pandemic. And today, I pass it along to you.

Let’s start a new religion, shall we?

If you’re in, tell me in the comments.

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Life with Nothing to Prove

Let only what is essential remain.

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5 months ago · 3 likes · 2 comments · Caroline Garnet McGraw

"Move just a little more this way," he says, gesturing to my right. I do.

"OK, a smidge more ... wait, go back."

I move. It’s 2023, and my husband Jonathan and I are recording the video trailer for my upcoming live event. It’s a one-day summit featuring some of my favorite authors and speakers. Like: I’m just off to interview , no big deal!

Of course, it is a big deal, and we’re treating it as such. We've already shot several versions of this video that didn't make the grade. I'm focused, in the zone, ready to get this done.

"OK, that's good, you're centered," he says. "Ready now?"

"Wait," I say. "Can I see how it looks?"

He gives me a grimace that says: Don't even.

Seeing that I've upset him, I get flustered. "I mean ... can you just take a picture? So I can see how it looks?"

There's that look again, only worse. "If I move the phone now, we'll just have to redo it again," he says. "You're going to have to trust me on this. It's centered."

"But ... " I pause.

Both of us want to get this video done, pronto. But I think that double-checking the positioning could prevent a re-shoot, whereas he thinks that it will slow us down.

I try to remember how patient he was with me during our first shoot, when I was worried about tech snafus. I try to remember that he is, in fact, the most patient person I know. That this moment of impatience is jarring because it's unusual.

"It's centered," he repeats, and do I detect more annoyance in his tone? This sparks my fury; does he think I don't understand? I DO understand! I just want to see it for myself!

I'm fuming as only a true controller can. I hate not checking it myself! I hate trusting him! I am furious at him, at myself, at the whole situation. I want to give in to enraged victim mode and quit.

Instead, I do what I do when our kids are acting crazy. I close my eyes. Take a breath. Find compassion. As I do, the strangest sentence pops out of my mouth ...

"Actually, it's fine. I'll just use this energy."

As I speak those words, I feel a sense of alignment. It feels good to surrender to reality. I won't fight my fury anymore. Instead, I'll make it work for me.

Jonathan presses the button to record the video, then leaves the room. I take another deep breath, imagining myself speaking on stage, in a room full of people.

I use the intensity in the take. The words flow through me easily; recording the video feels amazing. I'm not sure I've ever felt more professional, more mature, more adult than I do in this moment.

When Jonathan comes back into the room, I say, "Thank you" and I mean it.

-

As I recorded that take, I thought about you, dear reader, and all the hard things have been thrown at you in this season.

I thought about your emails, your stories. I thought about those of you who have lost people to illness and addiction, and those of you who have received brutal diagnoses.

And I thought, "Oh, we are going to USE this. We are going to alchemize the hell out of this!"

I don't mean this as a spiritual bypass. It's awful out there sometimes, it really is. Of course you're angry. Of course you're depressed. Of course it feels impossibly difficult to "use the energy."

So ask yourself this: If you had the most ideal, loving, kind adult next to you ... what would they be saying to you right now, to encourage you? What exactly do you need to hear?

You might hear something like this: "Oh honey! It's normal to feel frustrated. It's okay. You just give yourself grace. What do you need right now?"

Listen for the truest answer. In doing so, you connect to something bigger than the challenge you're facing. You connect to something that helps you spin straw into gold. You take the sharp pieces of this life and make them shine.

***

PS - If you need a practical place to start: begin with your body. In the interview with Gretchen Rubin I referenced above, we spoke about reconnecting to Life in Five Senses. (Also the title of her delightful book.)

Those of us who are neurodivergent, autistic, overthinking types often need this more than the average bear - at least, I know I did.

What’s one thing you’ll do to reconnect to your body today? If you’d like to share, I’d love to hear.

One day this winter I took care of 6 kids, ages 3 to 8, for a couple of hours. It was chaos. Think Lord of the Flies, but without the pigs.

Jokes aside, at least the kids agreed on strawberry smoothies for snack. Since we didn’t have enough mugs, I gave the 8-year-old a glass. For a few minutes, everything was finally peaceful.

Then I heard the glass shatter.

Now, this would *seem* to validate a story I’ve heard a lot as a coach: When things feel calm and settled, I can’t trust it, I can’t relax, because the other shoe is going drop!

But stay with me, because there’s more to the story.

“It was an accident! I thought it was plastic!” the 8-year-old cried as I came around the corner. She seemed concerned that I’d be upset.

I wasn’t. No one was bleeding, and the glass was on the table, not the floor. The break went about as well as it could have.

Plus, I’d long ago decided that I would not shame a child for breaking something by accident. (Isn’t it heartbreaking when adults act as though an object matters more than the child in front of them?)

“It’s OK,” I told her. “As long as you’re not hurt; no cuts, right?”

She nodded.

“That’s all that matters,” I said. “You’re way more important than a glass! Now, who can point to the tiny pieces of glass?” The keen-eyed kids helped me spot every shard, and I gathered them all.

Soon the kids ran off to play; no one spoke about the glass again. But as our guests were heading home, the 8-year-old ran across the room and threw her arms around me.

“Oh, honey!” I said. “Thank you, what a good surprise.” She’d never hugged me before. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to.

In my heart, I heard: Thank you for not making a big deal about the glass. Thank you for being merciful.

As she left, I thought: Wow, having that hug was way better than having that glass. Thank you, universe. And hey, note to self: remember to be kind to yourself when *you* make mistakes.

This morning, I proceeded to drop a bowl of my kid’s hot oatmeal on the ground. The bowl didn’t break, but food splattered everywhere. Naturally, this was not what I wanted.

Still I had to smile, because I was given the perfect opportunity to practice. Isn’t the universe generous?

Seriously though: to feel safer in this wild world, we need four things.

1. A physically safe place & tools to regulate our bodies.

2. To question our thought-stories. We feel certain that the other shoe is going to drop, but we don’t know! (The thing that seems like disaster now might turn out to be kindness in hindsight.)

3. To learn how to take care of ourselves emotionally & practice applying love to the parts that hurt. The hurts don’t seem so scary when we know how to tend to them.

4. A connection to something bigger than ourselves. To explore the possibility that the universe might be friendly, that there might be unseen forces available to aid us.

Often, the feeling that the other shoe is going to drop is a very old feeling. It comes from a time when our mistakes were shamed and punished. When no mercy was available from the adults around us.

Fortunately, things are different now. We can offer ourselves what we didn’t receive back then. We can give ourselves grace.

Where to start? Here, you can borrow my favorite mantra for hectic mornings, modified from ’s original:

“It’s OK, you’re all right, you have time, you can do this.”

Or you create your own, of course. Just remember, it’s important to actually say the words out loud.

Why? Because by speaking and activating the verbal center of your brain, you ensure that the fear center (aka amygdala) can’t completely take over. Verbalizing decreases your experience of fear!

In that spirit, here’s what I now believe about “the other shoe”: It has already dropped. The thing you were afraid of has already happened.

There are no more shoes left to drop.

There’s only this moment.

And in this moment, you are safe.

You have permission to be human.

You don’t have to brace for what’s coming next.

You can choose kindness instead of vigilance.

And that choice, compounded over time, changes everything.

*

Do you know the feeling that the other shoe is going to drop -- that you have to perform perfectly to be safe? Tell me about it in the comments.

*

Liked this post? Then you might want to read this next …

Life with Nothing to Prove

The mistake that made everything better

Through a series of unfortunate errors of my own making this past Friday, I was running way late to pick up my older kid from kindergarten…

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3 months ago · 3 likes · Caroline Garnet McGraw

Let’s start this story with the simple, everyday beginning: My six-year-old wanted to learn crochet, and kept begging me to help her. I suggested we start with latch-hooking, since it’s supposed to be easier.

She agreed, so this past Saturday we bought a kit and I sat down to teach myself before teaching her. Since my grandmother taught me to sew, knit, and crochet when I wasn’t much older than my oldest, I figured it would be a breeze.

Not so much. The last step, when you pull the latch-hook tool back through the grid? I just could not get it right. There was something I wasn’t seeing, and it was essential. So I took a break and came back to look at it with fresh eyes.

Finally, I realized the problem I was having with the last step: when I pulled back the hook, I wasn’t going far enough. I was stopping right at the point I felt I couldn’t go any farther.

But the trick with latch-hooking - and maybe with life - is to keep going past that point.

When I showed my six-year-old how to latch-hook, she mastered it in minutes. She had no problem whatsoever with pulling that latch back. In fact, she did it far more quickly and easily than I had.

Why? Because she didn’t have a belief that she should hesitate.

-

And that same lesson showed up again, almost immediately. You see, there’s one important detail I didn’t mention above: when we bought the kid-friendly latch-hooking kit, it did not come with an actual latch-hook. (Go figure.)

When we discovered this oversight, my kiddo broke down in tears. Her long awaited project would have to wait longer!

“It’s OK,” I assured her. “I know where to get one, and I’ll go do it now.”

The latch-hook snafu actually felt like a blessing in disguise, because it freed me to run another errand that had been tugging at my psyche for hours: dropping off some brand-new stuffed animals for donation at our local hospital.

Earlier that day, we’d been driving to the store when I felt a burst of clarity: I need to donate those stuffed animals to the hospital. And I need to do it today.

This was a bit strange, because:

a) I’d had those stuffed animals in limbo-storage for months. They’d been mailed to our family under Uncomfortably Manipulative Circumstances, so I didn’t feel right giving them to my kids to add to their menagerie.

But I didn’t feel right donating them either, so there they sat.

b) I’d never donated anything the hospital before. To local consignment shops and thrift shops and schools and animal shelters, yes, but not to the hospital.

You see, years ago I had a traumatic experience at the hospital; it required a lot of EMDR just to help me drive past the building without flinching or feeling fury rise in my core. So you can understand why I might second-guess going back.

But the nudge to bring those stuffed animals to the hospital was so specific, so insistent, that I trusted it implicitly. It was the feeling of a Eureka moment, when the exact solution presents itself.

And since my husband was caring for our kids, I had the perfect chance.

I pulled up to the hospital, walked through the cavernous lobby. Since it was a Saturday, there was no one at the front desk; I proceeded to pediatrics. There was just one nurse at the nurse’s station.

“Hi there,” I said, “I had my first child here, and I know this is a bit random, but I just want to donate these new stuffed animals to any family who could use them.”

“Oh!” she said, “Great! Well, I should direct you to So-and-so in pediatrics. But ... “ I watched her hesitate, saw a conflict play across her face.

“Well, it’s just ...” Her professional veneer disappeared; she looked a little spooked. “This is so strange, the timing of this.” Her tone turned confiding: “I have a family back there, they’ve been here for days now ... “

I made a sound of sympathy; that family must be going through the wringer.

“ ... and I was just about to DoorDash something for the kids. Do you think ... would it be OK with you ... if I gave these to them?”

“Yes, absolutely!” I said. “You know better than I who can use these. Whoever you feel is best.”

“Really?!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, of course. Please, give them as you see fit.”

“Wow,” she said. “This is just so weird. I mean, I was just about to call.”

I felt it then, that warm shiver that tells me it isn’t random, that we’re all connected, that there’s a Force actively working to care for children and families in their struggles.

“It is wild,” I said. “Talk about timing.” She thanked me again, and we said our goodbyes.

And I felt tears prickle in my eyes as I walked back through those double doors. I was so glad I hadn’t stopped at the point when I thought I should stop. That I hadn’t let hesitation rob us of that moment.

-

So, dear reader, that’s what I want to give you today. A gentle reminder that magic is waiting for you, right on the other side of what you think is possible.

Now, if a given task, role, or relationship is not important to you, or it’s hurting you? Please, quit immediately.

But if Life is pointing you in a specific direction, even though it doesn’t make sense to your mind? Please, carry on.

Because you never know whose life you might change, whose heart you might touch.

And in a world where bad news and terrible lies seem to triumph, you can be part of a quiet uprising. A silent safety net, woven by acts of kindness.

As far as I can tell, the only requirement is a willingness to listen and follow the nudges.

-

What’s something that you’ve “felt the nudge” to do lately? Did you follow it? I’d love to hear.

Oh, and if this resonated, you might also love this story of how it all came together right past the point I thought it wasn’t possible …

Life with Nothing to Prove

When you know what you want, but can't see how to get there

Have you ever had a strong sense that there was something you were meant to do … but then second-guessed that knowing, because you couldn’t see how it would work…

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2 months ago · 2 likes · Caroline Garnet McGraw

Have you ever had a strong sense that there was something you were meant to do … but then second-guessed that knowing, because you couldn’t see how it would work?

Ever spent time in silence, getting clear on what you yearn for … and then felt a vicious wave of doubt knock you down?

I get it. I see it in my own life, and in my work with private coaching clients.

Often we pretend that the problem is not knowing what we want … when the truth is that we do know, we just don’t see a way forward.

So we say, “I just don’t know,” and, “I need to get clarity!” when the true difficulty lies elsewhere.

It’s not that we don’t know.
It’s that we don’t believe it’s possible for us.

But what if we understood that taking action in the direction of our dreams is what allows the way to appear?

Here’s the story of a time when I learned that lesson.

From ages 13 – 21, I attended church summer camp in Scotland every year, on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. It was quite simply my favorite place on earth.

The last several summers I served as a volunteer staff member, which meant that tuition was free. Airfare, however, was not.

When I was younger my parents generously paid for my travel. One year, though, they (wisely) checked my privilege and said: “If you want to go to Scotland, you’ll need to pay your own way.”

I was a student, and I had just under two months to scratch together about $900. It felt daunting. But I had a very clear sense that I was meant to be in Scotland that year.

So I dove into applying for jobs. My old babysitting gig wasn’t an option, so I searched high and low. I submitted applications, made calls, and tried to sell a family heirloom.

At night I tossed and turned. I prayed and asked for help, but still, nothing materialized.

Why couldn’t I find a job, when I was willing to work and I had this clear, intuitive knowing that I was supposed to go to Scotland? Time was running out!

Just when I was starting to lose hope, my brother Willie’s behavioral aide came for her weekly in-home visit. When I greeted her, she said, “You told me you’re looking for a job for part of the summer, right?”

“Yes!” I said. Of course I’d told her. I was telling everyone.

“Well, there’s this preschool program for kids on the autism spectrum, and they need teacher’s assistants,” she said. “It’s only from now through mid-July, and the pay is pretty decent. I can refer you, if you want.”

“Yes! Thank you so much! That sounds perfect,” I said.

And it was. That’s not to say it was easy – is taking care of a passel of preschoolers ever easy? – but it was the right job for me that summer.

It gave me a taste of the work I’d do later on, as a caregiver for adults with special needs at L’Arche. It ended just before I needed to leave for Scotland, and it allowed me to earn enough money to pay for travel.

And I do mean exactly. Working at the preschool, I earned precisely enough for round-trip airfare to Scotland and one Guinness beer, which I bought as a thank-you to the friend who drove me to the airport.

That summer, my friends bought glasses of wine and candy bars and postcards, but I smiled and said, “None for me, thanks.” There was no margin to speak of, and no money left over.

Yet I felt rich every single day. Why? Because I had been provided for. Because I was grateful.

Because I had just enough to be where I was meant to be.

Here’s What You Need to Know

You get to trust your inner knowing.

You do not have to color inside the confines of your prior choices.
You do not have to twist yourself into knots trying not to want what you want.

Instead, you get to have a simpler life. You get to give yourself permission to feel your own desires, and find a way to live into them.

It is OK for other people to feel uncomfortable when you make positive changes, but it isn’t OK for you to ignore your truth anymore.

You don’t owe anyone a false version of you.

With that in mind, here’s how it looks to trust your inner knowing:

1. Get still and listen. Notice the desire for something, and a deep intuitive alignment that it’s right for you. (This is a “hell yes.” There is no “hell maybe.”)

2. Acknowledge the desire. Heed it and respect it.

3. Take action in the ways that you know. Let people know what you’re up to.

4. Do this for a long time. Likely get discouraged. The key is to ask for help – human and divine – and keep on keeping on.

5. Pay attention for an unexpected open door. Trust that this door is meant for you.

6. Seize the opportunity. Say thank you, do the work, and walk through the door.

7. Go on your adventure. Feel the sun on your face and the wind in your hair. Taste the sweetness of the dream come true.

Live a story that you’ll love to tell.

*
What’s a time when you found a way forward, as if by magic? I’d love to hear about it.

And if you’re in the midst of that process right now, you might also enjoy this post:

Life with Nothing to Prove

The mistake that made everything better

Through a series of unfortunate errors of my own making this past Friday, I was running way late to pick up my older kid from kindergarten…

Read more

3 months ago · 2 likes · Caroline Garnet McGraw

There at the holiday table in front of everyone, a member of my extended family leaned into my space and said something mean about my food choices. It wasn’t the first time, not by a long shot.

I took a deep breath. In the past, I have stayed quiet. I’ve let so many bad behaviors roll right by me. (Remember the ribs-in-the-face incident from You Don’t Owe Anyone?)

But things are different now. Now, I listen when my inner knowing tells me to speak up for myself. So I set a boundary I practiced in advance.

“I am not available for your criticism of my choices. If you choose to continue, I will leave.”

The other person chose to continue criticizing, so I left.

Dear reader, was an absolute mess. Adults yelling, children crying. Plus I had work to do afterward, helping my children understand what happened.

At 4 and 6, they didn’t get why it upset someone else to see me using a food-tracking app. They had questions about why I use it in the first place. (Since I have a history of under-eating, the app helps me to ensure that I eat enough.)

A few weeks after the holiday hullabaloo, I stopped tracking my food; it felt kind to do one less thing on winter break. But after the kids went back to school, I decided that I wanted the food-tracking support again.

I mention all of this because I want to tell you how my children responded when they saw me start tracking again. Their eyes went wide. They had questions, including: “Did you stop writing down your food because So-and-so got mad?”

-

Here’s the problem with the standard, “stop seeking approval” advice: many of us are already past it.

We have done enough work on this issue. We know we don’t need others’ approval in order to be okay. But ... many of us are still freaked out by the thought of people being actively mad at us.

In other words: While we are comfortable not getting approval, we are not comfortable getting disapproval.

When we get big-time push-back on our choices - be it angry words, harsh criticism, or even loss of the relationship itself - it’s tough. It touches on primal fears: Exclusion from the tribe! Lack of belonging!

So, how do we get comfortable with this discomfort? How do those of us who love peace and harmony start feeling at ease with strife and discord?

I do not claim to have this all figured out. But here’s what I’m learning: It’s all about where I put my focus.

I’ve spent too much time and energy focused on external discord, and not enough on internal discord.

Historically, I would move heaven and earth to prevent conflict on the outside, while suffering daily, hourly, minute-by-minute on the inside.

Why? Because early on, I learned that my feelings and needs just did not matter as much as other people’s. (Perhaps you learned this too?)

Lately I’ve been rewriting that old script. When it comes to my life, my truth matters more, because I am the one living with the effects of my decisions. I am the one I’m spending my entire life with.

I often repeat to myself these powerful words from Dr. David Seabury:

I love this because it puts the focus back on my relationship with Life Itself. It just doesn’t matter what others think, because they are not my benchmark. My benchmark is: What relation to Life does this bear?

If it’s a positive relation to Life, I move ahead. If it’s a negative relation to Life, I step back.

So that’s what I explained to my kids: “I decided to stop tracking because I wanted to, and I decided to start tracking again because I wanted to. So-and-so doesn’t come into it. It’s my decision.”

Taking full responsibility and ownership like this is so freeing. In a weird way, I sort of want to say thank you to that relative of mine.

Hey, thanks for giving me such a hard time over the holidays. No, really. It was awful but illuminating. I actually don’t mind if you’re mad at me now. Go ahead. Be as mad as you need to be.

Oh, and if you need a script for when someone’s trying to shame you, feel free to borrow this fantastically boundaried brush-off line from Jane Eyre:

“I feel I have adequate cause to be happy, and I will be happy. Goodbye!”

If you liked this post, you might also enjoy:

If this sounds like a normal Friday to you, dear reader, I agree - or rather, I wish I could see it as normal. I wish I could have taken it in stride, just another snafu in #momlife.

But the thing is, I have never been late to pick up my kid from kindergarten. Or drop her off, for that matter. It’s important to me to show up for her when I say I will.

And as a recovering perfectionist and doomsday-cult kid, sometimes my brain still falls into the old trap of seeing an everyday mistake as ... how can I put this? ... a TOTAL NIGHTMARE CATASTROPHE.

So there I was, racing out of the house, frantically texting the kindergarten teacher, and buckling my younger kiddo into her car seat. My heart was pumping like a house on fire.

I was so rattled, I started narrating my internal monologue to my four-year-old. “Oh my gosh, I cannot believe I did this, [your sister] is going to be so mad at me, I need to take a deep breath...”

And my poor little kiddo was looking at me confused, like, What’s the big deal, Mom?

I couldn’t have explained it to her in words; it was this visceral feeling that since I had failed, I was going to lose my older kid’s love. At the very least, I was going to have to work so hard to earn that love back.

When we pulled up to the school door, my kiddo was the last one there.

I tried to listen as her kindergarten teacher reassured me that I wasn’t truly late; I had arrived a minute before the “grace period” ended.

But all I cared about was how my kid was feeling, being the last one picked up. All through the drive, I’d been imagining how she felt: abandoned, scared and upset, and certainly furious with me.

What actually happened was this:

My kid smiled and said goodbye to her teacher and hopped into the car. I said, “Baby, I am so, so sorry.”

“What took you so long?” she exclaimed, with fond exasperation. Then she turned to her younger sister and started showing off the contents of her Easter basket.

That was it. That was the end for her. I double-checked to make sure, but no, she had nothing to process, no grievances to air.

-

First: Our minds concoct convincing stories, and often they’re wildly inaccurate. When I was running late, I created a story about how my kid was feeling abandoned. It wasn’t true. Not for my kid, at least.

Which brings me to the second point: I was projecting my own childhood story onto her experience. As the saying goes, We don’t see things as they are. We see things as we are.

So when I realized I made a mistake, I time-traveled back to when one slip-up meant losing “love.” And none of it was relevant to the present moment, when my kid was having a nice chat with her teacher.

And that’s the third thing I realized, the reason I feel (somewhat) grateful for having had that stressful experience: My kid has a secure attachment. Put simply, she can relax into her trust in me.

Secure attachment isn’t threatened by the odd minor mistake. It takes it in stride. It receives an apology and returns to a connected baseline.

By contrast, I was behaving like someone with anxious attachment. I was anticipating that my one mistake would decimate our relationship. I forgot that it isn’t that fragile!

As I considered all of this, a new definition of perfectionism dawned on me. What if perfectionism is simply manifestation of insecure attachment?

And what if healing from perfectionism just means building a secure attachment to ourselves, others, and the universe?

Now, I get that while it’s simple, it’s not always easy. Most of us learned early on that this world can be harsh and unforgiving. But as adults, we have a choice as to how we show up.

We can choose to create an environment of grace. We can ask for help, and receive it. We can notice everything we missed early on, and, we can notice opportunities to fill the gaps.

It’s like this baby blanket. After I shared the news of my long-awaited pregnancy in 2018, my grandmother started making it. But just a few days before my first child was born, my grandmother died suddenly.

Months later, my cousin Jessee generously finished the project. She wanted my new baby to have something from the great-grandmother she’d never meet in this lifetime.

You’d better believe I bawled when I saw it.

It was a powerful reminder that even though sometimes one pair of hands can’t finish a job, there are other loving hands that can.

So while you might not have been able to recover from perfectionism or relax into a secure attachment yet, your story isn’t over. The blanket of your life isn’t finished.

But from what I can tell? It’s going to be beautiful.

-

Have you had a moment like the one I had in the car? If so, I’d love to hear about it.

It was such a strange feeling, listening to a dear friend share about her tough day and wanting to hang up the phone. That can’t be right, I thought. Something is off. I love her. Usually I treasure our calls.

But the truth didn’t care about my protests. It just sat there, patiently waiting to be acknowledged.

So I took a closer look. What was different about this particular call? I did an exercise I do with coaching clients, slowing down the action and searching for the moment when I left my truth.

In my case, my friend requested a call, and my immediate, gut reaction was No. I was resting in bed, recovering from Flu A.

But then I thought, “Well, since I’m not working or parenting, I should be there for her.”

Ding ding! There it was. Dear reader, have you ever been tripped up by the should specter? This is the ghost of the ideal person coming to haunt you.

In my case, the old “ideal friend” script said that I should show up. However, I didn’t actually have capacity for that call in that moment.

In addition to recovering from flu, my kids were on spring break, so we had a lot more together time than usual. When my friend texted, I needed that solo time to rest and decompress.

Of course, part of me knew this. But as a recovering perfectionist and cult survivor, I was trained not to care if I was past capacity. The authorities said that I had to do things anyway, so what did it matter?

Nowadays, I am learning to step into my own authority and check in with myself. So, I made up a handy acronym to help: ACDC.

Available: Is there space in my day for this?

Capacity: Do I have physical, mental, & emotional capacity for this?

Desire: Do I want this?

Commit: Do I commit to this?

This is how I make decisions now. It prevents a whole lot of guilt, resentment, and second-guessing.

Now, applying this in close relationships can feel high-stakes. So, let’s start somewhere safer: your stuff.

If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed or stuck in a rut, addressing your physical objects is a great place to begin. It allows you to practice the skill of “breaking the rules” in a safe way.

For example, take a look at the following collections you may have amassed:

• Books in a “to be read” pile

• Emails, articles, podcasts, or other media to get “caught up on”

• Binders from past trainings or seminars

• Greeting cards, letters, and sentimental papers

• Project plans or to-do lists

If you’d like to increase your sense of agency and get energy flowing in your life, here’s what I recommend: Dismantle this stuff. Get rid of most of it. Way more than you think you “should.”

Dear reader, if that sounds shocking to you, I get it. But take a minute to notice why it’s shocking.

What old rules are you bumping up against? What’s actually stopping you from letting those backlogs go?

Is it a belief that it’s disloyal? Or a thought that you “should” be someone who wants to do this thing? Or a deeper belief that you cared about this once, so you shouldn’t change?

For what it’s worth, you have full and free permission to change. To want something different now than you wanted back then. Because once you embrace that freedom, your whole life opens up.

I loved a recent essay by called “The Power of Immediacy,” in which he got rid of a lot of accumulated stuff and noticed something important:

“It was once I got rid of all the stuff I’d been collecting … that motivation and inspiration began to flow.

It was as if I’d been assuming that what I needed was to collect sufficient resources to create momentum, when what I’d really needed was to clear enough space for momentum to arrive.”

That’s been my experience as well. When I lovingly shredded old cards, when I recycled the entire contents of that decade-old training binder, when I dismantled my baby book … momentum arrived.

So this week, dear reader, I encourage you to clear some space. In your physical life, in your calendar, and in your to-do lists.

Notice how reducing the demands on your attention helps you feel free … and how that freedom unlocks energy you didn’t have access to before.

When you stop living according to what you “should” want, you have space to discover what’s actually true for you.

If you try this, I’d love to hear: What did you let go of?

If this resonates, you might enjoy Let only what is essential remain.

And my book You Don’t Owe Anyone goes much deeper into this process of letting go and reclaiming your energy. (The last chapter involves a very significant declutter.)

I can’t even remember how long that small pile of to-be-read books had languished in my bottom drawer. It had been a couple of years at least.

Between raising kids, recovering my health, running my coaching business, and writing a book, clearing my book backlog wasn’t a priority.

But one weekend, I decided to let this albatross go. Sure, I’d been interested in these titles once. But I set a timer to “test” each one and discovered: I didn’t really want to read them anymore.

So I let them go. The relief was profound. In the months since, I’ve released more clothes, toys, and time commitments. I even pared down my existing book collection so that it fits on a single shelf.

As I’ve reduced, I’ve felt my creativity flowing back. Writing my next book is easier. This is no coincidence; fewer objects, tasks, and to-dos are competing for my attention, and it feels great.

The elation didn’t come from adding anything to my life. Rather, it came when I subtracted.

Why does this work? There’s research showing that “stress correlates with adding objects.” And, the quick-hit thrill of acquiring things pales in comparison to removing sources of stress. ( Klotz, Subtract)

The problem is, we have all of these instincts to hoard, gather, and grasp. We see our stuff as a buffer against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Plus, many of us carry an intense sense of responsibility for everything in our lives.

We feel responsible for the items we own, the groups we belong to, and the relationships that we’re in.

Often, this is a good thing - we are loyal, thoughtful, and conscientious. We don’t treat goodbyes lightly. But often we place our external commitments above our internal experience.

When we see the uncomfortable clothes, the dusty decor, and the really-rather-not request in our inbox, we feel uncomfortable.

Instantly, we push down the feeling. We think, I should feel differently, or I should like this, or I should respond to that.

But what if we allowed our discomfort to matter? To even make the decision for us?

What if we decided that our peace of mind was worth protecting?

What if we let go of anything that compromised our connection to ourselves and our souls?

When we do this, we send a message to ourselves. We effectively tell ourselves, “I see you. I hear you. I’ve got you. You matter.”

So today, I encourage you to let go of one thing. One thing that came to mind as you read this.

You know what it is.

Yours in possibility,

PS - If reading this stirred something for you, and you’d like support letting go of what’s weighing you down, you’re welcome to comment and start a conversation. No pressure — just an open door.

Have you ever beat yourself up over not responding to every message you received in a day?

Me too. I know how it goes. On one hand, you’re tired and overwhelmed. But on the other hand, there are emails! Texts! Calls! All demanding a response!

If we check in with ourselves, we can sense which messages require our attention. However, we have trouble heeding that inner knowing because it conflicts with what we’ve been taught ...

If someone writes, we must write back.

If someone starts talking, we must converse.

If someone moves in for a hug, we must embrace.

It doesn’t matter if we feel uncomfortable, exhausted, or just plain unwilling. If we don’t do these things, then we’re unkind and rude. Right?

***

In the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt pilot episode, reporters interview women who spent 15 years underground in a doomsday cult’s bunker.

One woman shares the story of her involvement: “I had waited on [the cult leader] at a York Steak House ... and one night he invited me out to his car to see some baby rabbits, and I didn’t want to be rude, so ... here we are.”

It’s a searing example of how the fear of being rude and impolite can put us in real danger. And sure, the character is exaggerated to the point of parody, but I recognized myself in that woman.

What time have I wasted in needing to be seen a certain way? What danger have I courted with my inability to say a direct no?

What have I sacrificed on the altar of being too nice?

***

A while back, I was struggling with whether or not to respond to some troubling emails. I didn’t feel comfortable keeping in touch with the sender, but the thought of not responding triggered feelings of guilt and insecurity.

What if I hurt this person’s feelings? Was I not being compassionate enough? Should I be polite, or listen to my intuition?

Eventually, I asked my husband Jonathan for his perspective. He said, fiercely, “You don’t owe anyone an interaction.”

***

When Jonathan said those six words, they freed me to delete those emails. Sometimes, not interacting is the most loving choice.

Yes, I practice good manners, sending thank-you notes, and staying connected to friends. But I also set boundaries and trust my intuition. There’s a balance.

If you don’t have practice with boundaries, though, it’s hard to protect your time. You’ll feel like a bad person when you step back or say no. When the false guilt strikes, remember that there is a difference between hurt and harm.

When you say, “I don’t owe anyone an interaction,” you’re not harming anyone. You’re just reminding yourself of what is true. It’s not your job to people-please or walk on eggshells. Rather, your job is to live with love and integrity.

Will some people have hurt feelings if you decline their invitations and delete their messages? Probably. That’s tough to accept, but the alternative is worse. Trying to manage other people’s emotions while tuning out your own is exhausting. It harms your health and your relationships.

We’ve been conditioned to believe that being kind means being available 24/7. But if we don’t guard our time, our ability to be kind erodes.

So the next time you feel pressured to respond, try taking pause and reminding yourself that you don’t owe anyone an interaction. Revel in the reality that you get to choose. You have the authority to decide how to spend your time and energy.

And here’s the real beauty of it: when you don’t owe anyone an interaction ... you’re free to give from the heart.

This post went viral on The Huffington Post in 2015 and inspired the book: You Don’t Owe Anyone: Free Yourself from the Weight of Expectations.