Proof of Practice
Let’s start with an icebreaker—two truths and a lie:
I’m writing notes because I enjoy talking about myself.
I trained in ballet for many years.
Rocky is my favourite cinematic series.
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Truths:
Years of ballet training throughout childhood and into my teens left a lifelong impression. It’s a breathtaking art form in many ways, and one that instilled qualities that have served me well—like discipline, creativity, and grace under pressure. But I also learned to chase perfection and to push through pain and exhaustion, and those qualities stayed with me too.
And yes, Rocky. If any one of the movies is on (or even better, a back-to-back binge), I will watch it. It’s not only the underdog storyline and the montages that get me, it’s the lesson: “It ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done.”
It occurs to me, as I sit here writing and reflecting on the past year and a half, how I continue to be shaped by these seemingly disparate truths.
Direction
In January, I launched my website. After a few years earning credentials and quietly refining my work with clients, I felt ready and excited to expand. But a health issue had been unfolding in the background since the summer before, and by spring it was affecting me in ways I couldn’t predict. As the saying goes, the body whispers before it screams. My trained instinct, throughout my life, had been to keep pushing through and forcing progress. But my internal capacity was near depletion. So I made a choice I would have struggled with earlier in my life and career: I stepped back.
Practice
Stepping back didn’t mean stopping. I continued to practise what I help others to do.
I anchored to facts. When a round of tests raised the possibility of a life-changing diagnosis, I made myself a promise: I won’t worry unless I need to worry. The heaviness was real, and I gave myself room to feel it. I also kept coming back to what I actually knew in each moment, instead of every outcome my mind could invent. The test results were reassuring, but I still had important decisions to make about what to do next.
I listened to my body and studied the data. I tracked my sleep, activity, nutrition, lab results, and energy. Not in an obsessive, over-engineered way, but as a means to better understand the patterns—to bring literacy and a sense of predictability to what was increasingly feeling unpredictable. When I felt I needed to rest, I rested. When I had more in the tank, I made the most of it. This combination of understanding and intuition enabled me to have focused conversations with my care team and to make decisions that were best for me.
I let people help. Close friends, family, and practitioners, near and far, supported me through it all. As someone who’s fiercely independent, this wasn’t always easy but it made all the difference.
I started again, more than once. I would build a routine, fall out of it when my body needed something else, make adjustments, and then try again. Each restart got a little easier once I thought of it as practice and information, rather than failure.
Perspective
On a self-imposed silent meditation retreat (a note for another time), I was reminded that everything is in constant flux, and that much of our suffering comes from craving what feels “good” and resisting what doesn’t. This year, as most years, I craved steadiness. Instead, I got practice in returning.
My own philosophy echoes this. I believe in alignment over balance because balance is something we try to hold onto, whereas alignment is something to return to, again and again.
While at times this year felt like a long pause and stalled plans, it has actually been the most honest training and the work itself. During my meditation retreat, I thought about the three types of wisdom—the wisdom we receive, wisdom we understand, and wisdom we live. This year was the third kind.
Now back to the lie… I don’t enjoy talking about myself. By reading my notes, you are witnessing me in the process of doing something that’s deeply uncomfortable. I’m notoriously a “behind the scenes” person, setting the stage for others to shine—it’s something that continues to bring me a lot of joy and satisfaction. But I understand that I can’t always help people from behind the scenes—so maybe it’s less a lie than a story that needs a rewrite, and as always, practice.
Call it a season, a cycle, a chapter, a journey… the gift of life is that things will always change. That we will always change. Winning isn’t always loud and it’s definitely not finite, and sometimes it doesn’t feel like winning at all. The hits will come but so will the wins, as long as we keep moving forward.
“Because you are alive, everything is possible.”—Thich Nhat Hanh
Thought starter
What’s a story you’ve been telling yourself that could use a rewrite? (And what’s the soundtrack to your montage?)
DM me on Instagram or send me an email, I’m curious to know.
DCxo
