I had a pity party recently—the kind where tears arrive unexpectedly and all your past losses line up for inspection. Afterall, I haven’t left the house in over a month. While I’ve been struggling with my physical health for quite some time, I thought surely, I would be all better by now. Since my mother’s death, I had imagined life would naturally open up again. For several years, my world had been organized around the realities of my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease. When that chapter ended, I assumed this would be my season of freedom. Instead, I continue to sit with vestibular challenges, migraines, physical limitations, and a deeply uncomfortable question: What if my life isn’t returning to what it was before?
Yet, as I sat with that sadness, another realization emerged, surprising me entirely: If I suddenly regained the ability to do everything I used to do, would I even want to?
Like many people, the pandemic altered my relationship with the world—not necessarily because of the virus itself, but because of the forced pause. It was an interruption that offered a rare opportunity to examine what truly mattered. The pandemic changed so many of us by interrupting our long-held routines and assumptions. It gave us a chance to notice what we were doing simply because we had always done it. In my world, while some friendships deepened, others revealed themselves to be little more than proximity and habit. Public spaces felt different, and casual social gatherings lost their pull.
For years prior to the pandemic, I traveled the country presenting at conferences, teaching workshops, networking, serving on boards, and building a career. It was a life of trains, planes, hotel rooms, early flights, and late-night receptions. Like many professionals, I spent a good portion of my life making my mark.
Now, I watch others doing the same. I see colleagues traveling, launching projects, building platforms, and extending their reach. Sometimes a small, persistent voice whispers that I should still be out there doing that—that I should be pushing harder, staying visible, and keeping up with the professional Joneses. But when I sit with that thought for a while, a deeper truth emerges: In that respect, I have already arrived. I have already done that work.
Later that same day, a student completed one of my courses and left a heartfelt note of appreciation. While it was one of many comments I have received over the years, this one landed differently. Reading the words, I realized that while I had been measuring my life strictly by my mobility, activity, and social participation, my actual purpose had never stopped unfolding.
That realization stayed with me. For months, I have been hyper-focused on what I cannot do. I cannot travel easily. I cannot spend hours under harsh fluorescent lights. I cannot wander aimlessly through stores, and some days, I cannot even trust my balance enough to venture down the stairs. Yet, somehow, my work continues. Students continue to learn, clinicians continue to grow, and the conversations I started years ago carry on seamlessly without me in the room; and then sometimes I AM in the room via Zoom.
I am not at the beginning of my career, nor am I in the middle of it. I have already taught the workshops, written the books, built the programs, and served the profession. This doesn’t mean my work is finished—I fully intend to keep writing, teaching, and shaping the field because this IS my soul’s purpose. But the way I do it is shifting. This season is asking me to trade the exhausting hustle of conferences and hotel rooms for the deeper, quieter impact of true mentorship. Perhaps this current season isn’t asking me to stop, but simply to offer my wisdom from the edge of the forest rather than the marketplace.
Recently, I found myself asking what it means to be called to a more monastic, contemplative way of life. It means I create a boundary around my days to protect what is sacred. From the outside, it can appear that not much is happening. From the inside, an entire world is being tended. In this moment I am called to honor the quiet rhythm of the world I am tending right here.
The invitation of this season is not to retreat from life, but to stop measuring its value by movement alone. Purpose does not disappear when activity slows; it deepens. And what once felt like an unwanted interruption is slowly becoming a different kind of freedom—not the freedom I planned, but maybe the freedom I need.
I’ve moved from the conference hall to the hermitage, carrying everything I’ve learned with me. 🌲📖☕✨
