And one more thing important to remember – these stages don’t necessarily arrive in order, one after the other. Instead, they circle. They overlap. They recede. They return. Even as I write about Stage Three, I am not writing from the other side. I’m still right here, with you, in the messy middle. And remember, if you are struggling with something, there are people who can help you. Seek professional assistance when you need it.

I was reading a passage from Parker Palmer recently. He wrote: I am a person of hope and one prone to depression. My wholeness depends on accepting that I am both-and.

I read it and was struck because I am both-and too.

I am someone who teaches presence, while also being one who spent years negotiating with her own body’s pain rather than listening to it. In that Mumbai hotel room, I was someone who writes about mindfulness while desperately trying to will myself into a different reality.

Wholeness, Palmer reminds us, has nothing to do with perfection. It means embracing the broken parts as integral — not despite them, but with them.

I am still learning that lesson.

Too Late to Say Goodbye

The first time I was depressed, I was 22. My father died suddenly from a massive heart attack at 3am. I felt it before I knew it. I’d awakened from a deep sleep, gasping, unable to catch my breath. Something felt broken inside me. That was hours before my sister called. By the time I reached home, it was too late to say goodbye.

I hated being in that state. Hated feeling the oppressive overwhelm of sadness. The kind that sticks with you. That moves with and through you. That makes the world around me feel like it is happening to someone else, and I’m just an observer.

Like most everything else in my life, I wanted to manage my grief. To minimize and outrun it. So, I did what many of us do. I smiled.

It wasn’t a performative smile. In fact, it was something more insidious than that. I genuinely attempted to feel what I projected.

You push the corners of your lips up, and you think: surely my body will follow. If I look like someone who is holding it together, I will become someone who is managing.

There is science behind it. The facial muscles send a signal to the brain — dopamine begins to flow. The neurochemistry does shift a little when you smile, even a forced smile. So, I kept doing it.

What I didn’t realize was that I was also building something else: a reputation. Anu is so positive. Anu is so full of light. It was a story that others began to tell about me, and that I eventually began to tell about myself.

By the time this most recent round of grief had arrived in my body — the one about my knee, my spine, my physical freedom, my mobility, my independence — I had been “the positive one” for decades. I didn’t choose this moniker, exactly. But it had become an expectation. Mine as much as anyone else’s.

The Question is Progress

My sister saw through it. Years ago, during the bad months, she said to me: your smiles are fake these days. Fake like something is missing. The lightness isn’t there.

Nobody else had noticed. But she did because she knew what joy looked like for me, and this wasn’t it.

I’ve thought about that a lot this year. So I started doing the mirror test. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I ask myself: Anu, are you really smiling? Or are you sad behind this face?

Some mornings, the answer is clear. Some mornings I am not sure. And some mornings, I realize that the question itself is progress because for a long time, I hadn’t even asked.

Don’t Lose Perspective

When I came back to Seattle after the diagnosis, I didn’t adjust well. The weather felt like it was a reflection of my personal health. The cold, grey chill settled into my bones.

I couldn’t walk the way I used to, couldn’t get outside the way I always had, no matter the weather. I couldn’t even practice yoga anymore. These were the things I had built my sense of self around — my physical strength, my ability to move through the world, to hike, to stand sure on the mat, to be the one who laced up her shoes and went outside anyway, even in Seattle grey.

People around me, people who love me, said: look at everything you have. You have so much to be grateful for. Don’t lose perspective.

They weren’t wrong. And it didn’t help at all.

Because what I was doing was grieving. I was mourning the loss of a self I had known for half a century. Loss of being the one who could move through the world freely.

But I had become the positive one. And the positive one doesn’t get to say: I am depressed. I am sad. Something has been taken from me and I don’t know who I am without it.

So instead, I practiced a BIG smile while grief lingered just below the surface.

The Trap: A Mask of Courage

This mask, I’ve learned, is its own kind of courage — and its own kind of trap.

Courage is keeping on showing up, not letting the darkness win every morning. There is something real in the discipline of showing up anyway, even when it's hard.

The trap is when the smile becomes the story. When the performance becomes so practiced that even you start to believe it.

Women know this trap especially well. We are permitted a narrow emotional range. Not too angry. Not too sad. Not too much. The moment we step outside that range, we are labeled as difficult, fragile, or too emotional. Men carry their own limitations — stoicism as armor and strength as silence. Different cages. Same result. So we mask. All of us.

We mask depression because we don’t know what else to do with it. Because the world keeps moving, and we are expected to move too.

The Discomfort and Beauty of Both-And

Here is what I want you to hear, if you are dealing with some tough emotions right now: depression is not a character flaw and it’s not about being ungrateful for what you have. Depression is not failure. It is simply how we process what cannot be processed any other way.

The stages of grief, Kübler-Ross taught us are not a ladder. They are more like waves that come and go. Or concentric circles that resonate together, amplifying one another.

And if I'm honest with you, there are days when I'm still in it. There are times when I stand at that mirror and the answer is no — I am not really smiling. And there are days when I offer the smile anyway, knowing it's hollow. I try to be kind with myself about that, too.

It’s the discomfort and beauty of both-and.

Mindful Minute: This week, try the mirror question. Just stare at yourself in the mirror or while taking a selfie and ask: Am I really smiling? Or is something hurting behind this face?

You don’t have to answer out loud. You don’t even have to do anything with what you find. Just practice the honesty of asking, observing, and reflecting.

If this resonates and you want perspective on some of the other stages of grief within the context of mindfulness, you’ll find Stage One: Denial and Stage Two: Anger here.

If this piece touched something raw, I want to gently say: please don’t navigate it alone. I write from my own experience and from my coaching practice, but I am not a therapist, and this is not a substitute for professional support. If you’re navigating grief, a health crisis, or a season that feels unmanageable, a licensed counselor or therapist can offer support.

Outside, the city did what Mumbai always does — it refuses to sleep. But inside that room, I was caught in a loop I could not escape.

How did I miss this?

How did I not know?

I have practiced yoga for twenty-five years.

I have even taught it.

I know what it means to embody attention — to know the difference between effort and strain, between allowing and forcing.

I’ve sat in Vipassana meditation and experienced its mental purification through self-observation. No movement, no music, no escape from your thoughts. Just watching. Just noticing. Just observing what is happening inside you, moment by moment.

I have done all of this. For years. Earnestly. With commitment and conviction.

And yet, somehow, I still ended up here — alone in a hotel room in Mumbai, staring at MRI results I could barely absorb, a 21-day cancelled retreat, and a doctor telling me I needed surgery. Immediately.

How did my body betray me?

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3am Questions

Anger, for me, arrived as frustration. As a relentless, circular interrogation that played on repeat throughout every sleepless night.

I had been so present. So committed to the practice.

I kept asking myself – if all of this practice is supposed to make you more attuned, more aware, more awake, and more mindful — how did I end up here?

You can listen carefully, practice diligently, live with genuine intention, and still miss things. Still override what you know to be true in your gut. Choosing, again and again, to keep moving when it might be better for you to pause.

Likely, I had noticed them.

Maybe, the signals were coming through loud and clear.

Probably, I just didn’t want to listen.

What My Body Was Saying

I had piriformis syndrome, a meniscus tear in my knee, and a full ACL rupture. There was also spinal stenosis – where your spinal canal narrows and begins to press on the nerves that run through it. There were bone cysts. Compression. Degeneration.

And my body had been announcing all of this, in the only language bodies have – with feeling and sensations.

I couldn’t walk down the stairs. Couldn’t climb up them either. Sitting for any length of time sent pain shooting through me. Standing hurt. Walking hurt. Sleeping brought no relief — just a different configuration of pain. Muscle spasms I could neither predict nor control happened in places I didn’t even know could spasm. Spinal compression was impacting my digestive system, causing problems with the most fundamental of biological processes.

Tingling in my leg began. And with it, sensation started to leave. It didn’t happen all at once, but feeling was withdrawing the way light does at the end of a long day. Slowly and surely, I was losing the ability to feel my own body.

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Overall Fine

I started with a physiotherapist. Not because someone sent me, but because that’s how I operate. I identify the problem, I find the solution, and I get to work.

PT strengthened both sides of my leg. They were consistent, disciplined sessions. What nobody knew — because nobody had looked inside — was that we were strengthening a structure that was collapsing from within.

When I finally went to the doctor, they took X-rays. But X-rays show bone. They don’t show soft tissue. They don’t show what is happening inside a joint or what is pressing on a nerve. The doctor looked at the images and said: things look good.

I told them…Something is wrong.

They looked at their X-rays and dismissively said: looks overall, fine.

A part of me, and this is the part that belongs to the previous stage, to denial, accepted it. Accepting “overall fine” meant I could keep going.

And keeping going was what I knew how to do, so I was appeased for a while.

Eventually, knowing something was wrong, I pushed for an MRI. I insisted. By the time anyone actually looked inside, my meniscus was destroyed. My ACL was damaged. My spine was compressed in ways that were affecting my nervous system.

Months. I’d spent months strengthening a body that was falling apart from the inside out.

In that Mumbai hotel room, anger raged in every direction. I was furious at the healthcare system, yes — for not looking sooner. Mad at the doctor who minimized my pain. Frustrated with the health insurance requirements in the US that make receiving authorization for advanced medical imaging almost as rare as winning the lottery.

But I was also angry at myself. I’d been making choices too. I’d accepted fine when every instinct was telling me otherwise. I’d participated in my own form of denial, and that made me angry too.

Questions Without Answers

And so the 3am questions came. Night after endless night.

How many times did my body remind me? I’ve spent twenty-five years learning to listen. I’ve sat in silence for hours learning to notice. How did I not hear this?

And then the question that cut deepest of all — the one that felt almost too painful to consider:

How did the universe not guide me? Why did the divine choose to lead me here - to this room, to these results, to this reckoning?

I had no answer. I still don’t, entirely.

But I have learned that anger doesn’t just look for someone to blame, it searches for the truth. And the truth here was complicated. The healthcare system could have looked sooner. I could have stopped sooner. Denial had been a choice I made, over and over, at every trail and every airport and every PT session.

Anger wanted someone to blame — a single moment, a single choice, a single person responsible. Grief refused to give me that.

It doesn't move in a straight line. It circles back. It sits with you in the mess.

What Anger Can Look Like

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross named this stage anger. But, we often imagine anger as something loud. A slammed door. A raised voice. Unmistakable and undeniable.

This didn’t feel like that.

The way I experienced anger felt like lying awake in a hotel room in a city that wasn’t mine, while replaying every hike, every PT session, every decision, searching for the moment I could have changed the outcome.

It was frustration turned inward and sharpened into something harder.

Anger is not always something we project outward towards others. Sometimes it sounds like, why didn’t I know better? Sometimes it shifts towards the heavens and pleads, why did you let this happen to me? Anger tries to find someone or something to hold responsible because holding yourself completely responsible is more than you can bear.

All of it is anger. All of it is valid. All of it deserves to be named and examined.

I’d spent decades learning to feel everything, and now I was having to feel this.

There was a terrible irony in that.

The Taxi Was Still Running

Downstairs, I finally sent the taxi away. The three-week retreat was canceled. Next steps were still being formulated.

But before any of that could be faced, there was this. This cold, soulless hotel room. The warm, sleepless nights. Outside, the Arabian Sea gently lapped the shore, eternal and indifferent.

Kübler-Ross mapped these stages, but she never promised they would arrive once and leave cleanly. Anger came back when I thought I had moved past it. Denial returned when I thought I had made peace. The stages are real. The sequence is not.

Grief has its own timeline. Anger manifests distinctly. The most mindful thing you can do is not to rush past either one. You can’t perform your way through anger or pretend it doesn’t exist. You can’t negotiate with it until it agrees to disappear.

Just stay. Just feel it. Just let it be.

As complicated, as contradictory, and unresolved as it is.

That, I have come to understand, is the work.

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Mindful Minute: Have you ever had your body speak to you so clearly yet found yourself not ready to listen? And if you’re willing — share it in the comments. Someone else is lying awake. Your words might be exactly what they need to read.

This is the second in a five-part series exploring the stages of grief through a personal lens. If this resonated, please share it with someone who needs it. And if you missed Stage One — Denial — you can find it here.

If this piece touched something raw, I want to gently say: please don’t navigate it alone. I write from my own experience and from my coaching practice, but I am not a therapist, and this is not a substitute for professional support. If you’re navigating grief, a health crisis, or a season that feels unmanageable, a licensed counselor or therapist can offer support.

Just the day before, I’d been hiking Mt. Elbert - one of the highest peaks in Colorado at over 14k feet, very nearly reaching the summit. But that was when something in my hip just kind of snapped.

Something Snapped

The descent was filled with pain; my hip felt like it was on fire. But I made it down on sheer will and determination. So, throughout the flight, I shifted from one side to the other, unable to find relief. I could barely endure being seated.

Of course, I consulted with a doctor right away, and the diagnosis was clear. Piriformis syndrome – no hiking for at least six weeks. Well, this wouldn’t work!

The Math Doesn’t Math

I was leaving for Kathmandu at the end of the month. The trek to Everest Base Camp, a lifelong dream, was about to start in just seven short weeks. The team I’d been training with for months was counting on me. The time away from important employment-related activities had been carefully negotiated.

I nodded politely at the doctor, while mentally packing my bag, calculating altitude breaks, staging timelines, remaining PT appointments, while considering whether pain could be made to disappear entirely… if only the need was strong enough.

I did reach my goal. I made it to Everest Base Camp.

But, every day, every step, every breath was a negotiation. At the time, I called it resilience. Looking back, I wonder if it was denial. Denial is, of course, Stage One.

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A Familiar Negotiation

Years later, after another intensely eventful season of life, we’d planned a ten-day trip through Utah’s Mighty 5.

By now, pain management had become familiar. Daily negotiations normalized. In Zion, I was not only negotiating with my body but with the strikingly majestic scenery. There was reverence. Spirituality. Cathedrals sheltering the pilgrim – gods to be encountered — found in the red rock rising from the burnt umber desert floor. Sandstone cliffs, millions of years old, beckoned to me, inviting me into their embrace — it was all too much to resist.

We tackled Angel’s Landing, a strenuous hike rising 1,500 vertical feet along a narrow ridge equipped with a chain rail for safety.

At Arches National Park, we hiked through Devil’s Garden, scrambling gingerly over sandstone bridges. I remember pausing on one of those ancient spans, looking out over the vast alien landscape, and feeling a mix of awe and stubbornness — willing myself to go on. That stubbornness is what got me out of the garden.

A Life of Negotiation

I was not simply hiking through Utah’s Mighty 5. I was hiking through a whole, lifelong negotiation with myself. One about worthiness, personal strength, and the realization that perhaps, I didn’t know how to stop.

Early conditioning taught me that endurance was a virtue. That stopping was a weakness. That strong people pushed through. And I was resilient. I was one of the strong ones. So many self-help books had taught me that resilience was built from discipline and self-denial.

At the time, I believed the lesson was about courage. I even wrote a Substack post about it. Instead, I think I had become very good at denial.

It was…always minimized…

Just inflammation.

Just overtraining.

Just my age.

Just temporary.

Just something to negotiate.

Just something to manage as I continued my passion for hiking and exploration.

The Last Straw

When I returned from Utah last fall, it was obvious my condition had worsened. Even going up stairs required a strategy. Sitting too long hurt. Standing and walking hurt, too. Relief wasn’t even possible when sleeping. I was having muscle spasms in places I could neither predict nor control. My body was stripping away every illusion of functionality.

So, I did what I knew best — more research, more discipline, more adaptation, more mindfulness. I stretched more, strengthened more, recovered better, and pushed myself. I found the right experts. I advocated for my health. I navigated healthcare systems in two different countries and health insurance in the hardest one of all. Yes, part of me still believed this was a problem I could solve.

Remembering How to Heal

I had booked a yoga and ayurveda retreat on the Indian coast many months ago for the turn of the year. Determined to keep this commitment to myself, I just knew it would propel me back into better health. I told myself that through slow, gentle grace, with kind pampering, rejuvenating daily massages, and conditioned mental reset, that I would be healed. I reassured myself that if I could just get there, if I could just make it to the retreat, that my body would remember how to heal itself once again.

The Results Came

Before leaving for India, I got an MRI to get a better sense of the problem, but without serious consideration for any implications of the outcome, I flew to India before the results had even arrived.

If I’m being honest, the 18-hour journey there was brutal. I sat on hot water bottles, generously provided by caring flight attendants, trying to dull the sharp, shooting pain with little relief.

Just a few days later, I walked ever-so-slowly along Juhu Beach in Mumbai, inviting the New Year and all that was to come with eagerness and open arms.

And then, the MRI results came.

Everything Shifted

I remember exactly where I was when I got them. I opened the report on my phone in the hotel room the morning I was supposed to leave for my special retreat.

Suddenly, everything shifted. The taxi that was supposed to take me to the 21-day Ayurvedic and yogic retreat was downstairs with its engine running. The retreat was supposed to begin in just a few short hours.

As I read through the MRI report, the medical terms sort of seemed to jump out at me.

Degeneration. Compression. Bone cysts. Impingement. Spinal stenosis. Complex meniscus tears. ACL damage in the knee.

Time Will Tell

I stared at the screen for a while before calling the doctor at the retreat center. The conversation went a little something like this:

Could I still come? No. I wrote it down. Taking notes, as if the act of writing it would make the facts of the matter less painful to bear.

Would the program help? Not when you’re injured. Of course not. Of course not. I thanked him and kept on with my line of questions.

Should I rest instead? Yes. Rest. Hmmm… I had never been very good at rest. I knew the importance of operationalizing pause. Wrote and taught about it even. But I still wasn’t very good at it.

Could it even be healed? Time will tell. I held the phone in my hand for a moment after we hung up. The room was still. Downstairs, the taxi driver was still running the meter.

Even when presented with undeniable evidence, a part of me clung to denial. Denial that anything was really all that wrong. Denial that I wouldn’t be able to heal myself with a focused and restorative retreat.

Mindfulness in the Messy Middle

I kept the taxi driver waiting for over two hours(!) while I negotiated with myself. I was holding onto dreams that no longer matched my reality. I stubbornly believed that I could will myself back into the life and into the healthy body I had before. And that was the beginning of my latest journey with grief.

In this five-part series, we’re going to explore how a medical diagnosis can shift perspective. We’ll consider how this experience mirrors the Kubler-Ross 5 Stages of Grief, and together we will explore ways to practice mindfulness, even while still in the messy middle.

Mindful Minute: Have you seen denial show up in your life or in that of your loved one? Comment below to share your experience – someone else might benefit from your reflection.

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p.s. This post is the first in a series of five as we explore the stages of grief together and learn how they can impact our lives. Stay tuned for another post next week. If this resonated with you, please share it with a friend!

If this piece touched something raw, I want to gently say: please don’t navigate it alone. I write from my own experience and from my coaching practice, but I am not a therapist, and this is not a substitute for professional support. If you’re navigating grief, a health crisis, or a season that feels unmanageable, a licensed counselor or therapist can offer support.

The answers tend to cluster around the same themes. Upskilling. Digital fluency. Change agility. Learning to work alongside LLMs. All of it is reasonable. Thing is, most of it is missing the point.

I recently spoke with Nandini Chawla, CEO of TV Rao Learning Systems. With 25 years in leadership development, as a PCC-certified coach, and one of the most grounded thinkers I’ve encountered on what actually makes organizations work, Nandini’s answer to the question of how to prepare leaders in the AI era really surprised me.

Go back to basics, she said. The most fundamental of all is: how can we be more human?

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The Case for Connection

As artificial intelligence becomes more embedded in the fabric of organizational life — inserted into the tools we use, used to help drive the decisions we make, developing the processes we run — the one thing it cannot replicate is genuine human connection.

And connection is important. People know when they are faced with inauthenticity. And they reject it. They don’t engage with it. No matter how seamless the interface or how sophisticated the system, people can feel the difference — and they respond accordingly.

Nandini made an observation that really made me think. She said we are in a moment of collective fragility. After the emergent period of the pandemic, people came back to work still burdened by things they hadn’t fully processed during that time.

These unprocessed feelings are still helping foment the uncertainty that people are experiencing in an AI-disrupted economy. The implied contract — not to mention the psychological contract — between organizations and their people is more fragile than it was even just five years ago.

Add to that mix businesses that are doubling down on automation with their foot on the gas for maximum velocity, hurtling into a brave new world. One that’s simultaneously pulling back on real-world human infrastructure. The pressure to move fast is real. But so is the cost of moving fast without strong direction and trusted leadership.

Leaders Who Matter Navigate

The leaders who will matter most in the next decade are not the ones who understand AI the best. They are the ones whose teams trust them enough to believe in what’s actually happening and to believe in their ability to navigate uncertainty together.

That kind of trust is something built slowly through consistent behavior over time – through difficult conversations handled with care, the admissions of not-knowing everything, and decisions made with enough transparency that people feel included rather than subject to outcomes beyond their control.

Prioritizing Gratitude

Finding your way when the road ahead is unclear demands emotional stability and mindfulness. Nandini’s firm, TV Rao Learning Systems, is now including elements of gratitude in its 360-degree feedback tools. When you embed gratitude into the systems people actually use, you invite them to slow down and genuinely reflect on it. When something as seemingly intangible as gratitude can turn into a measurable data point, it’s a signal that an organization actually values the full humanity of its workforce, not just their output.

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The Deeper Challenge

We’ve spent decades making the case that soft skills are, in fact, hard skills — and that something like emotional intelligence has real, demonstrable ROI. We’ve emphasized the importance of company culture as a key driver of performance, not just a byproduct of it. And we’ve done that work knowing we were always swimming against a tide that favors what’s measurable over what matters.

But what we’re seeing now is that when things get crunchy and uncertain, organizations are still cutting their investment in human infrastructure first — coaching, training, development programs, the reflective time that leaders and leadership teams are given to aspire and inspire.

A Strategic Miscalculation

The instinct to make budget by cutting headcount is understandable, but it’s also increasingly a strategic miscalculation.

The irony is that AI should be making it easier for us to develop leaders, not harder. The more we automate the transactional, the more we can focus on the qualities and conditions of leadership that can make a real and lasting contribution to the organization. We should be gaining time, space and bandwidth for deep organizational development — not losing the will to invest in it.

When the technological playing field levels out — which it inevitably will — organizations will be competing on the quality of their leaders and in their ability to navigate uncertainty. The differentiator won’t be who adopted the best tools the fastest. It will be those who built the most trusted and capable leaders.

Leaders who stay intentionally, intuitively, and stubbornly focused on workforce development are not behind the curve. They are ahead of it.

If you’re ready to hear more about what Nandini had to say about leadership development in the world of AI, download my podcast at your favorite place to catch up like Apple or YouTube.

Mindful Minute: What are you seeing in your own organization? Is the investment in human leadership infrastructure holding strong or is training and development the first thing on the chopping block? I’d love to hear about your experiences in the comments.

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Something in me answered right away – I would be love.

It took just a split second to arrive.

I am love. I almost said it out loud - pure love.

Not dependent or independent of the pain or the problem.

Just … love.

But, even I began to have nagging doubts. Could I hold onto love without knowing just how the month will unfold for me? Can I hold onto love when my body aches? When the night stretches on without relief? When my mind returns to its familiar patterns? But again, what do I have to lose?

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So I Choose Love

So perhaps I was willing to experiment with the idea. With what love means. With what it looks like. With how it makes itself known.

And, in the perfect response to my expanding vibration of love, that’s when I was introduced to love on a wholly different level.

A love that knows no bounds. Pure and unconditional.

You see, our son and daughter-in-law shared that they are expecting a baby. A baby! I’m going to be a grandmother!

Suddenly, this practice of love, being love, and being in love, feels less abstract. It has somewhere to go. It has someone to meet!

Poetry Returns

I wrote to my newest inspiration almost right away, poetry easily returning to me:

I see you everywhere, my little one.

In the cherry blossoms, peeking through soft pink petals.

In the river flowing around the rocks.

In the bright blue sky, with streaks of white—

as if you are writing something just for me.

The Thread that Binds

Feeling the love bursting forth, I began writing letters to this little one waiting to be born. It became a way for me to stay connected to this concept of love in its purest form.

Then, in April, on my mother’s birthday, I was caught a bit off-guard. She would have been 100 this year.

So, I think about her. I write about her. About how strong she was. About how unconditionally she loved me. How remarkable she was. About what she might have felt, knowing this new life is coming forth.

I write to my little one. In loving memory of my mother. Of their great-grandmother. Of something that feels like a thread connecting all of us.

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Expansion of Love

Little one, you are teaching me to love again. New love. Love for the first time. It’s truly remarkable. I can love this little being I have not yet seen with such ease. With no expectations. Without fear. Without condition. Without restraint.

Which makes me wonder….

If I can love someone I haven’t met with such openness, can I love the people already in my life more openly? Can I soften the sharp edges of expectation? Can I love them without limit too?

Taking this idea further – can I include myself in this vibration of love? What about my struggles? My limitations? Can I love the whole package of me? Can I love who I’ve become?

There are ways that we invite love into our lives. There are ways we restrict the current of love from flowing.

Love is Regenerative

Love, in its purest form, does not require history, track record, evidence, or even proof of worthiness. I know this, because I am in love with someone I have never met — and there is not a single condition attached to it. Not one.

So, what would it mean to bring even a tiny bit of that unconditional love to the people already with me? To my friends navigating their own struggles. To the leader in my coaching practice who is harder on themselves than they would ever be on anyone else. To the version of myself that is still trying to figure things out.

What if my grandchild has not only given me someone to love — but has shown me how? Love isn’t a finite resource. It’s not something we can run out of.

Love is never-ending.

Mindful Minute: Are there ways that you have remained open to receiving and giving love? Small ways? Big ways? Feel free to share. Your perspectives could shift something for someone else.

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Last week, on a bright, unusually sunny spring morning in Seattle, I had the pleasure of presenting a session called, Finding Your North Star: What Coaching Really Is (And Isn’t).

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As the room began to fill, I let my eyes drift across the faces looking back at us. These were early-career women in tech. Curious. Capable. Educated. Enthusiastic. And working in the often unforgiving workforce of modern technology.

I could see them trying to take it in: the norms no one had bothered to tell them about, the codes of conduct they were still deciphering, the invisible ladders that others seemed to climb with ease. They were looking for sure footing. They were looking for a roadmap.

In That Moment, I Was Transported Back In Time

My first day at Microsoft was not the first day of my career. But, it was the first day of my career in a new country.

I arrived with what I can only describe as stars in my eyes. I was full of ambition, optimism, and an unshakeable certainty that if I worked hard enough, success would follow. Wasn’t that the American Dream?

I was a go-getter, and I knew it.

But, very quickly, I discovered something that no one tells you at orientation. Working hard is not enough. It is necessary. It is foundational. But it is not enough.

There is a whole subtext to professional life. The security of networks, the importance of advocacy, the courage to ask for what you want, the wisdom to know what you’re worth… and I didn’t speak that language yet.

Then, Microsoft sponsored me to attend a conference in the Bay area.

My World Opened Up

I sat in the audience, exactly where the women in front of me were sitting now.

I remember the feeling of my world expanding, session by session. People were talking about speaking up. About understanding your own strengths. About having clarity on your career path rather than just following wherever the current takes you. It was about finding mentors, building networks, and lifting other women around you as you rose.

My optimism, which had grown dim and diffuse in the grinding reality of figuring things out alone, began to come back. Not in the same way. I didn’t just feel hopeful again. I felt empowered.

What Followed Was Nothing Short Of Magic

I met Eddie Pate, the Diversity PM at Microsoft at the time, and asked him what I thought was a simple, innocent question: Why doesn’t Microsoft have its own women’s conference?

That question became a proposal. The proposal found its way to Charles Stevens, former VP of our division. He agreed to sponsor it. He gave us a small budget and a great deal of faith, and we built something that outlasted all of us – the first Microsoft Women’s Conference, putting women’s development at the forefront.

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Make the Invisible, Visible

I also found my mentors during this time period. Patrick Copeland and Shoshaana Budzionowski are people whose paths I could see ahead of mine and who were generous enough to share the inside view. They gave me not just inspiration but also information. They helped make the invisible, visible.

That is what this kind of investment does. That is what happens when someone with more experience says: here is what I can see that you cannot yet. Let me show you.

So, as I looked at the faces of the women in front of me last week, I felt that familiar swell of recognition and hope.

And, then I was struck.

The Room Was Half Empty

I have presented at this conference for years. I have seen rooms packed with standing-room-only audiences, humming with the energy of women hungry to grow. This time, the seats were pretty empty.

The organizers told me why: organizations are no longer sponsoring these kinds of workshops. They don’t see it as essential. Companies are in survival mode. They are placing their bets, and increasingly, they are betting on artificial intelligence over human development.

Failure to Invest is Fiscally Irresponsible

The thing is, there is no artificial intelligence in the world that can replace the learning, growth, and wisdom that come from the lived human experience. From trying and failing. From being in a room full of other people who have stumbled, then found their footing and turned to extend their hand to help someone else.

When we fail to invest in the full development of half our population, we are not making a fiscally conservative choice, we are making an extraordinarily costly one. We are leaving future potential on the table. Wisdom untapped and disavowed.

The women in that room were ready. I saw it in how they leaned forward. In their engagement. In the questions they asked. In the hunger that I saw in their eyes, because I’ve been hungry too.

They are not asking anyone to do the work for them. They are asking for what I once asked for, for what every person at the beginning of their journey hopes for — for someone further along to turn around, recognize the need to assist, and let them know that they’ve been exactly where you are. To say, “I understand how you feel. Now, let me show you what I’ve learned along the way.”

We owe them that room. That conference. That space and time for connection. We owe them that investment. In their future, and in ours.

Mindful Minute: What has been a turning point in your own career? Please share your story in the comments. Someone else might need to hear it.

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Maybe you were referred by a friend.
Maybe you came through a Substack recommendation.
Maybe you don’t even know why you clicked through.

Wherever you’re coming from and whatever is stirring within you —welcome.

This space has emerged from my personal experiences. Out of a need to make sense of moments that don’t always have easy answers. Out of times of uncertainty, change, and disruption —whether in the body, in leadership, in business, or in life itself.

What This Space Is About

At its core, this is a place for reflection. There are no quick fixes or step-by-step frameworks or productivity hacks.

Instead, you’ll find writing that sits at the intersection of:

• mindfulness and complexity

• leadership and inner awareness

• neuroscience and lived experience

• personal healing and shared humanity

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What You Can Expect

Most posts won’t tell you what to do.

They’re meant to help you pause, notice, reflect, and begin to see something in a slightly different way about your own life.

These writings may resonate if:

• You’re navigating uncertainty, personally or professionally

• You’re leading others and feel the weight of that responsibility

• You’re working through something that doesn’t have a clear solution

• You’re open to slowing down long enough to listen inwardly

How to Use This Substack

Start with what sparks your interest. Sit with it. Comment if you are compelled. And return when you feel called.

You don’t need to read everything, and you don’t need to read posts in order.

If these reflections strike a chord, there are a few ways to go further:

• Comment on the posts that speak to you

• Send me a message to connect

• Subscribe to receive new posts directly in your inbox

• Become a paid subscriber to receive exclusive monthly guided meditations

• Join as a Healing Circle member to participate in a monthly live online healing circle, where we gather together in an intentional, shared space for healing

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A Final Thought

There are moments in life when we are undergoing change and experiencing uncertainty. In those times, what we need isn’t more information — it’s space.

Space and time to process. To reconnect with what is and what will be.
Opportunities to remember who you are and to return to what matters.

If that’s something you’re seeking, I’m so glad you’re here.

I love hearing from you and learning how new ideas have been sparked by your reading. Please send me a message — I am so excited to read every single one of them!

~ Anu

🔗 If you want to catch up with me, visit my website or follow me on LinkedIn.

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In Jayanagar, a suburb of Bangalore, my sleep would also be interrupted, not only by painful adjustments and attempts to quiet the throbbing in my knee and back, but also by the incessant blaring of car horns.

One of my first nights in Bangalore, I remember thinking that the honking alone might make me deaf in no time! But, the beeping of taxis, buses, and impatient drivers told me the night was still going on, with or without me. While I fought my body for rest, the night was still alive in a way that is hard to describe unless you’ve experienced it.

Bangalore has nearly 7x the population density as the suburb I live in. It’s an overload for the senses – the colors, sounds, clutter, chaos, conversations, unceasing movement. I went from a world that never sleeps back to one that feels almost silent in comparison.

At first, that stillness felt like relief. But then, I began to miss it. Not the noise and chaos but the closeness of others. The rich tapestry of humanity closing in around me. The ease of building connection.

But this is not about elevating one city or even one culture above another. I have deep connections here, too.

Dear friends have brought me food, day after day. They come to check on me and take me out for fresh air. People check in with me. They care.

Human beings around the world are not so very different.

Pain is pain. Care is care.

Love is love. Friendship is friendship.

Yet there were times when, inexplicably, people in Bangalore quickly became a part of my everyday. Even those I didn’t personally know became an important part of my world. The fruit vendor. The taxi driver. The doorman.

In the Pacific Northwest, that sense of connection feels more fragile somehow. It’s not that connection doesn’t exist. It’s that it has to be intentionally created. Chosen. Nurtured. Scheduled even.

How do I bring what I love about there… into the life I am living here?

I am home.

This is home.

Has been home for over three decades. But right now, it doesn’t feel completely like my home.

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I’ve moved to a spare room on the ground floor to avoid the stairs. Doctor’s orders. Upstairs, my room opened onto a wide, inviting deck surrounded by a forest of evergreen trees. This one does not. It has no views. The window faces the side wall of the neighbor’s house, just three feet away.

At first, it felt claustrophobic. Now I’m getting used to the smaller space. Even beginning to like the way everything is accessible and not too far away.

Thoughts arise. Not all of them are chosen.

I know how to work with them—by noticing, naming, and not following every one.
It’s not about controlling every thought. It’s about what I do when it arrives —what I stay with. What lingers.

So, while where I am now is very different from where I was and where I have been before, each of these suburbs has a story to tell. And I’m here to listen.

It could be a conversation. A walk. A group chat sent to a few people. Over time, momentum builds, and it begins to grow and take shape.

Simple Ideas Have a Life of Their Own

Recently, I sat down with someone who has experienced this first-hand. What struck me wasn’t just what Pankaj built — but instead, how he built it.

Listen to our conversation on my podcast

It didn’t begin with a goal or a plan or even a vision. It started with curiosity and a simple desire to connect. From there, something organic and beautiful unfolded.

What began as a WhatsApp group for women in analytics became a community of over 1,500 people spanning multiple disciplines, varied interests, and all life stages.

And to think, all of this developed out of trust and curiosity.

So much of what we are taught about leadership is rooted in theories of absolute control. Authoritarian direction. Singular focus.

But when I spoke with Pankaj Rai, we talked about leadership that creates space for others. Leadership that invites participation rather than directs.

When we stop trying to control everything, something more beautiful, more collective, more alive, and more universal can begin to emerge.

There are moments when we hold on tight — out of fear, out of habit, out of a belief that if we don’t, things will fall apart. And yet, the opposite is often true.

When we allow space… things don’t fall apart. They have room to expand.

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Making Room for Expansion

This idea of expansion came up in another way during our conversation as we spoke about curiosity. Curiosity that allows you to ask questions without needing conclusions. To engage without outcomes.

In a world that values efficiency, productivity, and results, curiosity can feel… inefficient and ineffective. Yet, it is often the very thing that leads us to the most meaningful connections.

Curiosity Creates Space for Success

Our conversation also led to a reflection on success. What does it mean individually and as a collective? What defines success? Often, in moments of retrospection, we realize that it is not just our own effort that brought us to where we are, but rather the people we have connected with along the way. The conversations we’ve had. The doors that we’ve opened and that have opened for us.

There is a humility in recognizing that our success is not individually won, and there is also a responsibility to open doors for others, creating space for them to grow and expand.

As Pankaj and I moved into a reflection on technology and AI, we began to consider the disparate impact of opportunity. We are living in a time where the tools available to us are unlike anything we’ve ever had access to before. The potential of engagement with AI is immense. But it also brings to mind access.

Who has access to this life-changing technology? How do we ensure that the benefits of what we are building extend beyond the technologically engaged? How do we create inclusive systems?

Listen to the Podcast with Pankaj Rai

Trend-Setting Not Trend-Spotting

It’s easy to observe what is happening, to notice what is emerging. But there is something very powerful in choosing to act on it and in being open to the experiment. To attempt. To create. Even when the pathway is not clear.

And perhaps that brings me back to where this reflection began. To the idea that not everything needs to be fully formed before it begins.

Sometimes, all we need is a spark. A moment of curiosity, a willingness to connect, and the flexibility of letting something unfold.

We like to think leaders have all the answers. But what if leadership is about asking better questions? What if it is about creating spaces where others can step forward? What if it is about trusting that something meaningful can begin to emerge —even when we are not fully in control.

This kind of leadership creates a lasting impact in the relationships it nurtures, the communities it enables, and the opportunities it opens up for others.

In a world that is moving quickly, that kind of centered leadership matters more than ever. So, if you’ve been holding on tightly to a dream, perhaps this is an invitation to loosen your grip just a little. Stay curious. Create space for expansion and see what might emerge.

Hear from Pankaj Rai

There have been painful flare-ups and days when I thought I was getting better, only to find myself pulled back down once again. Back into rest. Back into resolve. Back into a body that is not performing in the ways I have grown to expect of it.

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Visible and Invisible Shifts

My life has shifted in ways that are both visible and invisible. What once brought me joy – weekly hikes, long electronic-free walks, endless effortless movement – it’s all gone for now. In its place are hours of physical therapy, massage, short walks, cautious steps, and a very clear boundary: no stairs.

I met this downshift with intention. Knowing this would require not just physical fortitude but mental steadiness, too. So, to this challenge, I brought with me everything I know. Meditation, mindfulness, intentional vibrations, affirmations, and connection. Plus love. So much love.

People showed up for me with so much of it, showering me with food, phone calls, check-ins, offering grace, giving hope, and even just being there for me. Presence alone can shift energy. Can shift outcomes. I thought I was giving myself the time and the space to nurture the inner balance that would help me find my way through this uncertainty.

That is, until I landed in the emergency room.

Old symptoms had resurfaced. Along with them came stories — other people’s stories, their worries, their prognosis, their fears. Somewhere in that mix, I began to feel a throbbing pain in my temples. Each evening, I would meditate, and it would get better. Until that night it didn’t.

Into the Danger Zone

By the fourth day of constant throbbing, I was worried. I checked my blood pressure. I have had high BP only once in my life, and that was 35 years ago. But here it was, flashing in the red danger zone.

I wasn’t alarmed at first. I have practices. I know ways to manage the body’s reactions. Ways to settle the mind. I started with breathing techniques. I practiced them for an hour. I checked again. Instead of being improved, both numbers had gone up. A few hours and more rising numbers later, I made my way to the ER.

Many hours after that, I was home with a low-dose medication and a doctor’s prognosis of stress-induced high blood pressure. Stress.

But I wasn’t ignoring my body or my healing. Or even my stress. I was doing everything I could to align. But still, something was off, and the evidence was clear.

Peace of a Beginner

What has been obvious to me throughout this journey is that I cannot manage this on my own. So, I reached out to my teachers. My yoga and pranayama (breathing practices) teacher Ms. Rao, whom I began learning from 25 years ago, invited me back into her classes — not as a teacher, but as a student once more.

That transition was not easy. There is something humbling about returning to beginner’s space after years of practice. And yet, being a student again has brought me peace.

Observation Not Judgment

My Ayurveda mentor, Dr. Shetty, guided me in another way. He reminded me of the practice of close observation. Not analysis. Not judgment. Just observation.

Dr. Shetty invited me to look at my intake — not just of food and drink, but of everything I was taking in through my senses. What I see. What I hear. What I watch. What I smell. What I read. What I surround myself with. Who I surround myself with. And then, just as importantly, asked me to observe how I respond to it. To notice what lingers. What agitates. What soothes.

Through this practice of observation, something else began to reveal itself: Prajñāparādha.

Mistake of the Intellect

Often translated as the mistake of the intellect, that translation isn’t quite right. Prajñāparādha is about knowing better, and overriding anyway.

When I look introspectively, I cannot say this health journey began with my knee injury. Or even with my spinal cyst.

It began to take shape much earlier. So much earlier.

My pain had begun to grow roots even before the thought of summiting to Everest Base Camp became a dream. The reassuring urge to push through the pain. The impulse to ignore my body’s distress signals in order to achieve my goals.

And some dreams simply must come true. At any cost. At every cost. And for me, Everest was one of them. Eighty-six miles and 18,000 feet in elevation gain over eleven grueling days. Traversing rugged terrain in oxygen-depleted air required relentless effort and an undeniable spirit.

And I’d arrived with a hip that was already injured. At the time, doctors said I had piriformis syndrome. I was in physical therapy the very same morning that we flew out for our hike to the Himalayas.

My physical therapist demonstrated myofascial release and pressure-point therapies so my husband could perform techniques to bring me some relief while we were on the go. And yes, my hip was already throbbing when I boarded the airplane.

So I knew exactly what I was bringing with me into that trek.

And I made a conscious choice to go anyway.

There was no confusion. No lack of awareness. Just personal negotiation and lots of wishful thinking that everything would be fine. That I would manage. That I’ve handled worse.

And for eleven days, I did. I pushed through the pain. I adjusted my gait. I gritted my teeth and smiled through the hip screaming at me. I even forced myself when I had to. And I ignored everything that didn’t fit my goal, including pain and discomfort.

So, this is where I have to be honest with myself. I am not writing this to beat myself up. My trek to Everest Base Camp was not a mistake. It was a choice.

Everest was a Meaningful Choice

There are moments in life that call us forward towards challenge, towards growth, towards something larger than ourselves. And sometimes we say, “Yes”.

So, I don’t regret going. But as I sit with this reflection, I can see the journey and myself more clearly.

My injuries did not happen in a single moment. There was no dramatic fall. It was a slow accumulation of misalignments that resulted from me overstepping my personal boundaries. Small encroachments. Repeated overrides. Normalized self-denial.

It’s those times when you know you need rest, but you push through the exhaustion. When you know something hurts in your body, but you continue on day after day without seeking the guidance of an expert.

It’s when you know a conversation matters and that it needs to happen – but you delay it —sometimes for days, sometimes for years, sometimes forever. This is Prajñāparādha.

Ayurveda describes three ways this happens. Dhi, is when our understanding becomes distorted. We misjudge what is beneficial for ourselves and what is harmful. Dhriti, is when we know what is right but lack the will to act. Smriti is where we forget past consequences and repeat the same patterns again and again.

Healing is What You Consume

Through the simple act of observation, I began to notice what I was allowing into my life. Healing is not just about health-related modalities. It is also about what you consume. And that is when I began to observe the quality of energy around me.

There are moments you can feel. Someone not listening - just waiting impatiently for their turn to talk. A sense of disconnection that leaves a vacuum in the conversation. Comparison or dismissal of someone else’s experience. Perhaps even a bit of personal satisfaction in another’s struggle. Schadenfreude.

It’s as if someone else’s struggle is a way to reassure ourselves that we are okay. Personal pain lessened through comparison with another person’s struggle.

Through close observation, I began to notice how my body responded to witnessing Schadenfreude in action. My chest tightened. My gut contracted. Subtle unease. I began to see that my body was not just healing from injury. It was responding to everything I was taking in.

That observation led me to make an important choice. One to prioritize my well-being. To step away when I need to. To not absorb everything. Not to stay where it doesn’t feel good. To trust myself and my body’s signals.

Prajñāparādha cannot be fixed overnight. But it is something to be aware of. Through this awareness, we can begin to build a little more understanding. And then, slowly, realignment.

This journey is not just about my knee or my spine. Or even my hip. It is about the injuries beneath the injuries. About the visible and the invisible pain. About all the ways I have learned to override myself. The ways I have normalized self-denial along the way. And all the ways I am being invited to listen and respond anew.

I had plans to kick off the year. It would begin with a retreat at Kaivalyadhama in Lonavala, a place devoted to yoga, healing, and the wisdom of the body.

But before that could happen, the MRI results for the pain I was having in my spine came through, and the results changed the trajectory of my joy.

It wasn’t just one problem; two things had become very apparent with the advanced imaging – a growing spinal cyst and a meniscus tear in my knee.

My body, the one I’d trusted for decades, became almost alien and uncertain to me.

I’d believed that with enough discipline and careful attention, my body would find its way back to health. Now that belief was being tested.

And slowly… another realization began to surface. My very definition of a well-lived life would have to shift as well.

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The Endless Night

Sleep became elusive. Nights stretched on painfully and mercilessly.

I’d lie awake for hours, tossing and turning from one side to another, exhaustively searching for a position that did not aggravate my back or provide a sharp reminder of the pain in my knee. Every adjustment brought only temporary relief.

In those lonely hours caught between cat naps and the pursuit of relief, unavoidable questions began to bubble up.

Questions like …Why did this happen to me? What is happening with my body now?

I remembered my discipline and unwavering trust in my body and its equanimity, but my confidence was shaken. I knew that no amount of discipline would heal my ailments. If healing were to happen, it would require something I was less practiced in. It would require accepting help from others.

The Month of Small Miracles

February brought with it the wonder of small miracles. Nothing dramatic. But the kind of miracle that counts.

It was my spine doctor who patiently convinced me that pregabalin would help my nervous system settle enough for sleep to return. It was the kind Ayurveda therapists, Tanu and Sreelakshmi, who worked tirelessly with my body, absolutely resolute in its potential to heal.

It was my loving sister and my niece who cared for me with a tenderness that only family can provide and made sure I was eating healthy food to help heal my body.

It was friends and helpers appearing in ways that felt both ordinary and, in their quotidian, absolutely profound.

The universe seemed to gather the right people around me at the right time.

For someone who had built much of their life on personal independence and discipline, learning to accept help and understand that my healing had become collective was a humbling experience.

But in between treatments, small moments began to shine. Observing everyday life happening from my balcony was enlivening. The pomegranate held a remarkable sweetness to it I hadn’t observed before. Papaya and guava tasted better than I remembered.

Life was still unfolding beautifully in small, ordinary moments.

A Different Kind of Living

As the body began to yield with consistency and focus, something began to shift in my perspective, too. I’d started to allow myself small indulgences.

Dessert before a meal!

Sweets like my favorite, the famous Mysore Pak, that my internal discipline would normally have resisted, became an almost daily treat.

And it felt oddly liberating. I was learning that healing required something beyond discipline. It required tenderness and grace. This realization helped me center on ease for my transition out of India and back to the Pacific Northwest.

Ease in Acceptance

As I began to plan and prepare for my journey out of India, the word ease became an important focal point. With all of the uncontrollable external factors affecting our journey, inviting ease into every moment became my goal.

I had stopped demanding that life be any different than it was. I accepted my body in its imperfection and sometimes in its pain. Ease was accepting help from others. It was noticing the deliciousness of ordinary moments.

The Real Journey

So yeah, my definition of a well-lived life has been inexorably altered. And for a while, it felt like defeat.

But slowly, through sleepless nights and pain-filled days, with consistent care and kind intentions, a new definition of a well-lived life has begun to emerge.

Being strong doesn’t mean going it alone. It means allowing yourself to accept help. To understand that the healing you need might have to come from beyond your own application of discipline and resilience. This new definition has also left room for me to discover something new about myself. It has pushed me to question my own narrative and to begin to rewrite my story of a well-lived life.

I’ll be honest – I didn’t expect this kind of rapid growth, but I think what seems to resonate is a willingness to reflect, to sit with uncertainty, and to talk about difficult things, even while the journey is still unfolding.

We’re all trying to make sense of life in the messy middle of the unresolved, finding joy where we can and seeking ways to relate our own experience to those of others.

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What This Space Is (and is Becoming)

This is a space where mindfulness meets lived (and shared) experiences. It’s where we explore leadership as awareness, reflection, and introspection.

Most of you are navigating change in your own lives. You are leading teams, organizations, and families. You are tasked with making decisions in increasingly uncertain environments.

At the same time, you are asking important questions. Questions like:

• How do I remain centered when the ground feels like it is shifting underneath me?

• How do I lead with authenticity?

• How do I stay open and mindful with all the external pressures?

These are not questions that can easily be answered with frameworks and carefully executed organizational development formulas.

This is where the work is. And where the magic happens.

Spreading Joy and Shifting Perspectives

Joy. This growth is a source of joy for me. It is a signal that people are interested and resonating with the material. It means that I can spread joy around the world and help shift perspectives more broadly.

But with this growth is also a sense of responsibility to be thoughtful about what I share and honest about what I’m going through, even when it’s not pleasant or resolved.

There are still a few more reflections from India that I’ll be sharing in the coming months - they are stories that continue to unfold in their own special ways the longer I sit with them.

I’ll also be sharing takeaways from two podcast interviews I am hosting with some incredibly inspirational business leaders whom I met while there. These discussions will explore elements of leadership, development, and community engagement.

And together, we’ll continue to explore the beauty of life unfolding around us. We’ll marvel at the big moments and reflect on the small, almost inconsequential ones that form the tapestry of our lives.

Quite Simply, Thank You

If you’ve been here from the beginning or joined just recently, thank you.

Thank you for reading and for being open to these kinds of reflections. If something in here has resonated with you, I invite you to share it with someone who might find it valuable as well.

I always appreciate hearing from you, so let me know what’s stirring!

I’m grateful to be here, together with you.

You always heard her before you saw her.

Her voice rose blaringly loud above the incessant traffic, beeping horns, buzzing engines, chattering conversations — it was a full-bodied call - to behold the delectable treasure trove of fresh fruits and vegetables she was selling.

Every announcement had an operatic quality to it - expansive enough to fill a concert hall. Then, she would turn the corner.

She was as thin as could be. Her skin weathered from constant exposure to the elements. Hair unkempt in the definition of a messy bun. Her slippers were broken, barely protecting the bottoms of her feet from the hot asphalt.

Every day she pushed a massive cart — heavy, wooden, and not particularly road-ready but piled high with fresh produce. She was strong. Determined. And she laughed easily. She was thrilled when I told her the photos would be in my blog!

There is something about seeing someone living so visibly on the edge — economically and even physically — that can make you uncomfortable.

To see… Struggle. Hardship. Inequality. And yes, all of that is probably true.

But what I got to see was the opposite of defeat. It was determination.

Her voice was not apologetic for the intrusion. It was authoritarian, with an edge almost like an order that you must obey. Crying out the tempting vegetables on offer. Each word launched into the air like a missile trying to find its target.

I found myself anticipating her arrival. Not just for her delicious produce.

But because she embodied something I didn’t expect. Joy.

Not the curated joy of planned retreats and blissful, mindful meditation.

But street joy. Sunburnt joy. Joy that coexists with hardship.

There is a temptation, when witnessing someone toiling so hard under difficult conditions, to pity. But she did not ask for pity. Nor did she deserve it.

She commanded attention. Took up space with her voice.

Over these past few weeks, I have been thinking a great deal about healing. About compassion and hope.

There are people whose circumstances look objectively hard. Yet they remain expansive.

There are people whose circumstances look objectively comfortable. But they live their life in contraction - never truly claiming their joy.

The correlation is not as simple as we would like it to be but watching her each morning, I began to realize that she was not joyful because her life was easy. She was joyful because she was present. There for every moment. 

She pushed that cart with conviction. With determination.

She will never know that she became a part of my healing. But she did. A life lived on the edge can still be filled with joy.

During my healing journey in Bangalore, at an Ayurveda center, one young woman became an important part of my daily routine. Tanu was nineteen. Small in frame, she was slight and almost delicate in appearance. Yet the strength in her hands was astonishing.

Ayurvedic therapy is demanding work with long hours and repetitive movements. Careful attention must be paid to the body, requiring stamina, discipline, and unwavering focus.

There was nothing rushed about her work. Every movement was intentional. Every touch carried with it a purpose. And the treatments themselves were unlike anything I had experienced before.

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One of the therapies performed was Pichu (a treatment in which cotton pads soaked in warm medicated oil are placed on a specific area of the body for sustained nourishment and healing).

In my case, this meant that thick layers of cotton were soaked in herbal oils and placed carefully along my spine and lower back. Every few minutes the cotton was lifted, reheated in oil, and placed back again so the warmth would remain constant. The medicated oil seeped into my skin while the heat relaxed the muscles and nerves.

At other times, Tanu performed Patra Pinda Sweda (a form of Ayurvedic massage in which cloth bundles filled with medicinal herbs and rice are dipped in warm medicated oils or milk and pressed rhythmically across the body). These bundles were repeatedly heated and applied with firm, steady pressure across my back, hips, and legs. It was most definitely demanding physical labor.

I often thought about the effort behind the movements — the dipping, reheating, pressing, and lifting repeated again and again for hours at a time. Yet it was carried out with focus and determination.

There were times when Tanu worked with me alone, giving us more chances to talk between treatments. That’s how I came to know her better and how I’ve been considerably blessed to share her story with you.

The Father Who Nurtured a Dream

Tanu told me about her father. When he was young, his father and mother passed away at around the same time. He suddenly found himself thrust into responsibility at a very tender age. He’d been studying, but he dropped out of school to support his brothers and sisters.

His dad had owned a small fishing boat, so he took to the sea to provide for the household while ensuring that his siblings could continue their education. He still fishes even today, and the sea remains one of their primary sources of income.

For many years he’d determined not to marry, devoting himself instead to raising and supporting his brothers and sisters. But, he realized that the household needed more stability. No one was managing daily life or preparing meals while everyone worked and studied. So, he reconsidered his approach to help provide a more stable environment for everyone to continue their education and married Tanu’s mother.

Growing Up in Diglipur

Tanu grew up far from the mainland of India - far from the noisy hustle and bustle of modern-day Bangalore. Instead, she’s from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, sheltered in the Bay of Bengal. Here there are over 800 tiny islands - only 31 of which are actually inhabited.

Island life has a very different pace from that of the cities. They are remote and lush. Over the decades, people from different parts of the subcontinent have settled there, building new lives far from their original homes.

Tanu’s family is no different. Their roots trace back to Bangladesh, and, like many Bengali-origin immigrant families who eventually settled in the Andaman Islands, they built a new life in Diglipur.

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The only road that connects some of the small islands passes through the Jarawa Tribal Reserve. Home to the Jarawa people, they are a hunter-gatherer tribe and one of the indigenous communities of the Andaman Islands, with a dwindling population of less than 500 people remaining.

They are believed to have migrated out of Africa tens of thousands of years ago by sea and were isolated until just about 15 years ago. This has caused rapid lifestyle changes and increased risk of disease and exploitation.

As a result of the consequences of interaction with the Jawara, travel through the reserve is tightly regulated. Vehicles must be escorted by police, ensuring that both travelers and the Jarawa community remain safe.

For families like Tanu’s returning home, the journey itself becomes a part of the story. There are ferries, long roads through dense forest, and even police-escorted passage through protected lands before finally reaching Diglipur. It is a world that feels far, far removed from the busy-ness of India’s modern, mainland cities.

A New Chapter

Over time and with dedication, Tanu’s family built stability. They cultivate rice and areca nut (betel nut) – maintaining a farm with around a thousand areca trees. Today, fishing and farming more than sustain the family. Compared to the uncertainty her father faced when he was young, their family today is much more stable. The sacrifices of one generation created opportunities for the next.

Like many young people from the islands, Tanu left home to build a livelihood of her own. She came to Bangalore to train and work in Ayurvedic therapy, and her life is about to take another step forward.

With her father’s encouragement, she has been admitted to a nursing program, a five-year course that will begin in Bangalore, in the fall. Before starting her studies, she plans to return home to Diglipur for a few months.

She wants to help her family during the areca harvest, spend time with her parents, and even learn a new skill. She plans to get her driver’s license. It’s her ticket to independence.

Our dreams are universal - a better future for our children, an easier life for our siblings or our parents, a comfortable community for our neighbors, a license and new wheels so we can get around easier.

The dreams Tanu shared were not exceptional, but the sacrifices her father continues to make to help her achieve them while struggling to find stability is.

It’s a story as old as time and yet still brand new. It’s generational sacrifice that propels the next onward to a bigger and brighter future. Inside every one of us, there are entire worlds – stories to tell – motivations that drive us – lessons we can share.

As for me, I carry the unwavering strength of Tanu and the enduring courage of her father into my own life here in Seattle. Different worlds, different circumstances — but the same dreams, the same devotion to family, the same longing to build a better and brighter tomorrow.

This time, the surprises were external – global disruption brought on by conflict in the Middle East vs. the internal disruption that took place on the way in.

So with bombs and missiles being lobbed in the area, Dubai airspace was suddenly shut down. Our carefully designed return completely unraveled.

What followed was a detour across continents, across oceans, across time zones. With so many others making the same last-minute scramble, finding smooth connections was challenging. This left us with super-long layovers and sleepless airport time spent in no man’s land in Thailand and Taiwan.

Long flights tend to dull the senses, but one thing remains vivid even now from that journey: a small plate of mango sticky rice at a Bangkok airport café. Sweet mango, warm coconut rice, a moment of stillness and pleasure between flights. Even now, the taste lingers.

But beneath the travel fatigue, something else was surfacing for me. After so much time away, I felt an unexpected hesitation about returning.

Part of it was the long journey. Part of it was the health challenges that would surely be my burden to bear. And part of it was simply the feeling of stepping back into a life that had continued on without me while I was away.

When we finally landed in the Pacific Northwest, something sweetly special happened. There were no complications. No sniffer dogs inspected my bags. Just a heart-warming phrase from the border control agent, “Welcome home, ma`am.”

And outside the airport doors, our friends were waiting to pick us up. Grey, winter rain fell gently on the windows of their car. When I remarked about it, they laughed and said winter had been unusually mild this year. Not a single snowfall.

I chuckled and said, almost without thinking, “Snow would be nice.” The PNW obliged.

Within the next three days, the weather delivered rain, snow, hail, and even one bright sunshine-y day.

After months of hot, humid weather, the beauty of that first snowfall was unexpectedly welcome. Like a breath of fresh air.

When I was finally able to step outside again after the snow melted, I noticed the cherry blossoms already nearing the end of their brief season. Petals drifted through the breeze and gathered along the sidewalks.

Only a few days earlier, I had been standing beneath the pink trumpet trees in Bangalore, experiencing their version of cherry blossom season.

Different trees. Different continents. Same fleeting beauty.

As the petals fell around me, I thought about the moment in Bangalore when I stood beneath those pink canopies, wondering when and how we would make our way home.

Spring had been blooming in both places at once. And now, standing here, watching the last cherry blossoms fall, I felt something settle inside me too.

My journey had come full circle. I’d returned to where I started, and along the way, I’d grown so much. The unexpected resilience of managing health conditions and of being open to receiving treatment enriched my awareness of the depths of compassion and caregiving. About how it can affect the giver and the receiver, too.

I also learned that joy can be found in unexpected places, in unplanned experiences – and this improvisational joy can be just as beautiful as carefully designed joy.

Sharp, shiny glass towers thrust boldly into the sky alongside squat corrugated-tin roofs. Luxury cars glide silently past auto-rickshaws and noisy, crowded local trains. Designer storefronts welcome wealthy shoppers, while just steps away, narrow lanes weave through dense clusters of humble homes.

In Mumbai, everything exists together. All at once.

I’d visited the city many times, but this time I saw the contrast more closely than ever before. Part of what really opened my eyes was taking a walking tour on one of my first days in the city with an insightful and inspirational guide named Rushita.

Circumstances Do Not Define Her

Rushita is twenty years old.

She and her family live in the slums of Bandra East. Their home is about 15 feet by 6 feet, just under 100 square feet total. It shelters her father, mother, sister, and herself.

Her father has spent most of his life driving a rickshaw. At 60, his health is starting to fail, and the long days on the road are taking a toll on his body. Rushita helps support the family by leading walking tours and tutoring fellow students.

She is pursuing a Bachelor of Science degree. Her favorite subject is zoology. She loves animals and plants and speaks about them with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to listen.

As we explored the area, it quickly became clear that Rushita understood Mumbai in ways that those who live comfortably in the city never could.

She knew its frenetic rhythm. Its hidden economies. Its resilient humanity. And that day, she shared her treasures with me.

Walking Through the City

From the main road, Rushita led me toward the sea.

It was the air that changed first. A briny smell of salt and fish drifted in from the Arabian Sea. We’d entered one of Bandra’s old fishing villages — a neighborhood that existed long before Mumbai became the relentless metropolis it is today.

Determined dinghies clung to the rocky shoreline, their colorful paint faded by the unrelenting sun and the sea. Nets hung drying in the open air while fishermen moved their wares into the narrow, winding lanes behind them, where they would later become someone’s dinner.

From the fishing village, we moved into the older Catholic lanes of Bandra, and almost immediately, the city's pace changed once more.

Cheerfully painted homes abutted one another, their walls weathered by years of monsoon rain and blistering sun. Along the way, crosses and shrines to saints began to appear at corners and in courtyards. These unmistakable signs told of a community with roots stretching back to the Portuguese who arrived on this coast so many centuries ago. Then, the road we were on began to climb.

The path to Mount Mary ascended along a staircase, and with it, the mood of the neighborhood shifted again. Brightly painted murals appeared one after another along the stairs — a rolling rickshaw, cups of steaming chai, and fragments of everyday life splashed brightly into view.

The art felt playful and bold — an element of whimsy layered onto what has long been a pilgrimage.

People have walked these same steps for generations, making their way devotionally toward Mount Mary Church — each with their own burden to bear.

Step by step, the city fell away below us. And above us, at the top of the hill, the Basilica of Our Lady of the Mount, known simply as Mount Mary, stood gracefully above the neighborhood, looking out toward the Arabian Sea.

The church has stood watch over this neighborhood for centuries. The first chapel here dates back to the sixteenth century, and while the structure has been rebuilt and restored over time, the devotion has been unwavering.

Outside the basilica, small stalls sell wax figures shaped like the things people might pray for. A heart for healing. Eyes for restored sight. Tiny homes. Hands, feet, lungs, children, entire families. Each figure a wish. Each a heartfelt plea.

I bought a wax figure representing the part of the body that had been troubling me. It felt oddly intimate to hold it in my hand, but somehow doing so filled me with hope that my body might find its way back to health.

Inside the church, Rushita stood beside me as I gently placed the wax offering and lit a candle. She closed her eyes and prayed with me.

Around us were strangers doing the same thing. Different languages. Different beliefs. Different troubles. Lives compressed into small spaces with big wishes.

A City of Extremes

Mumbai does not try to hide its contrasts.

There are no carefully drawn lines separating wealth from poverty, no buffers designed to soften the view. Everything exists side by side. And to an outsider, it can feel overwhelming.

We are used to cities compartmentalized by building zones and structured with norms — where life appears orderly and predictable.

Mumbai is none of that.

It is vast. Uncontained. Intensely alive. Mumbai makes no excuses.

The Capacity to Flourish

What has stayed with me most from the walking tour was not the contrast between the slums and the skyscrapers. It was my guide.

It was Rushita.

Here was a young woman living in a tiny, shared space with her family, studying science, tutoring students, helping visitors experience another side of her city, while dreaming about a better future.

Rushita narrated her life in the city with pride. She explained how families support one another and how education can become a pathway forward. For her, the slums were not a place of limits. They were her foundation and a springboard toward a better life.

She was not waiting for perfect conditions. She was hope and conviction in motion.

And she is not alone. Across the city, millions of others are doing the same.

Rethinking Happiness

Many believe that achieving happiness requires the right conditions. But cities like Mumbai challenge that assumption. Life here is demanding.

Yet people laugh. They study. They work. They create art. They raise families. They imagine futures much larger than their current circumstances.

My tour with Rushita reminded me that we don’t need perfect conditions to begin building a life. In a city defined by contrast, she was not waiting for better circumstances to arrive. She was already moving toward her future.

Much like my arrival, we’d planned a deliberate departure from India. Every detail was carefully considered. But now, we must be flexible. Once again.

We had a return date. A month later than we had originally intended, yes, but this visit has been unlike any other. It has given us perspective. It has stretched us. In literal and figurative ways.

We have been preparing thoughtfully for our return to the Pacific Northwest, where I will continue my healing journey. My body is tender. Almost raw. My nerves still feel electric, making themselves known at the most inopportune times. That is why I deliberately chose the word ease for March.

Partly because the journey home would not be simple. We’d transit through Dubai. A 14+ hour-long flight from there across continents and oceans. Fighting against the rotation of the earth. Patience would be required. Surrender necessary.

We were headed home. Home to probable grey drizzle. Or the promising sun of false spring. We’d be home to catch the peak of cherry blossom season in the PNW.

Blossoms bloom suddenly — seemingly appearing overnight. Clouds of fragile pink blossoms shimmer against overcast skies.

For a few short weeks, sidewalks become carpets of fallen petals. Neighbors slow down to take photos. Children play beneath branches heavily laden with blooms.

Then, just as quickly as they appeared — the petals vanish.

The beauty of cherry blossoms is that they are inseparable from their impermanence.

I’d imagined arriving back in time to catch them — to stand beneath them in that brief, fragile window. To feel them fluttering to the ground around me.

I’d planned for a graceful return and an easy transition.

But by midday last Saturday, we knew this would not be the case.

Escalating conflict in the Middle East disrupted airspace. Flights around the world were grounded. Transit routes through Dubai were locked down.

Suddenly, our carefully planned departure dissolved into so many questions.

Should we delay departure again? Re-route? Cancel entirely and rebook?

With dollar signs attached to every decision, even the airspace around me felt unsettled.

Yet, here in Bengaluru, the trees are blooming now too.

They are referred to as the cherry blossoms of Bangalore, though they are actually pink trumpet trees — tabebuia rosea. Their blossoms are vibrant, stretching across entire avenues in sweeping arcs of color.

People pause beneath them the same way they do in America. Phones tilt upward. Heads lift toward the canopy. Selfies are snapped.

Different hemispheres. Different cultures. Different climates. Same appreciation.

Both experience the same seasonal offerings: Beauty. Bloom. Regeneration. Surrender.

So, as I walk beneath these pink trumpet trees still on the other side of the world, uncertain about when or how we will leave, I am struck by something so simple.

Spring does not wait for stability before beauty bursts forth. Trees do not check to make sure the soil they are planted in is perfectly balanced and prepared for their arrival. They bloom in a time of transition. In a place of imperfection. And perhaps that’s why they move us.

They are reminders that impermanence is a thing of beauty. It’s time to appreciate and bear witness to this once-in-a-lifetime moment.

Blossoms in the PNW will fall. Blossoms in Bangalore will fall too.

Hopefully, just as simply, this period of global unease will pass too.

But for now, we wait while global geopolitics sorts out the way back home. And the same questions remain. Rethink? Re-route? Delay?

But these are all just logistics.

The bigger question that arises is: how do I stay open to ease amid all this complexity?

My body is tender, and my spirit feels unsettled within this world that is also unsettled.

I cannot control global tensions. I cannot reopen airspace. I cannot force my body to heal. What I can do is observe.

I can notice the blossoms overhead. Notice the celebration of renewal they invite. Notice that both places nearest to me are overflowing with blossoms at the same time.

Two cities. Two springtimes. One shared impermanence.

As we continue to anticipate our departure from India, I realize that I’m in less control than I’d imagined, but I am far more aware than I expected. And I am being asked to trust once more. To surrender to what is and to stay tender and open to the possibilities.

And perhaps that’s partly what ease is. The acceptance of transition. The willingness to stand beneath beautiful, blossoming trees and remember that this season, too, shall pass.

I thought I knew what that meant.

But by the end of the month, I was forced to redefine it entirely.

This month, my focus word is Miracle.

Not the audacious kind that saints are born from, but the kind that asks:

What if healing can happen in more ways than just one?

A Different Kind of Healing

In early 2026, an MRI revealed a cyst attached to my spinal cord. That sentence sometimes still feels alien when I write it. Like it’s happening to someone else.

So, now I am under medical supervision. I’ve met with doctors and some of the best spinal surgeons in India. We are monitoring my health carefully.

After canceling the yoga retreat, I earnestly began a different routine.

Almost daily, I lie on a hard, wooden table while two Ayurvedic therapists work with warm oils, gentle pressure, and careful, intuitive attention on my body.

Sometimes the session begins with them building a barrier of flour and water that surrounds my eyes. Next, they pour warm, medicated ghee into the pool.

The feeling of warm, silky ghee pooling over your eyes so they can no longer open can feel unnerving at first, but once you surrender to the experience, you begin to relax.

The eyes are considered the seat of fire in Ayurveda. Cooling them helps calm the nervous system. Calming the nervous system reduces anxiety and agitation. A calmer body is a more receptive body.

Alongside the Ayurvedic treatments, I am working with a team of physiotherapists using Interferential therapy to calm the irritated nerves and receiving ultrasounds to reduce inflammation deep within my tissues. I also undergo myofascial release to help soften the protective, knotty armor my body has built up over time. These sessions are clinical, structured, and methodical.

They are completely different in tone from the warm oils and ghee, yet equally intentional. Healing, I am learning, can speak in many languages.

The Energy of Hope

My therapists, Tanu and Sreelakshmi, are absolutely convinced the cyst will be reduced with their treatments.

They say it with enthusiasm. With absolute certainty. With their whole hearts.

Of course, they are not surgeons. Not even doctors. And there is no guarantee.

But, they are giving me hope. And that might be the most important thing of all.

The freedom to hope creates space for me to receive their healing touch differently. To be open to possibilities.

Miracle of Possibility

I am still doing the work.

• Daily therapy.

• Medical consultations.

• Rest. Reflection.

• Ongoing monitoring.

The possibility of a miracle does not replace personal responsibility. They coexist.

For me, miracle is a willingness to remain open to outcomes I cannot yet see. It is the decision not to dwell on worst-case scenarios and negative outcomes. It is choosing to be a conduit for healing.

Several weeks in, I feel better. Anecdotally, my body feels stronger. Less inflamed. Less reactive. Doctors have observed improvement.

Will the cyst disappear? I don’t know.

Will surgery still be required? Maybe.

But something already feels miraculous.

• My nervous system is calmer.

• I am less anxious.

• I feel supported.

Miracle is about expanding possibilities. It is about receiving care on multiple levels - physically, spiritually, and energetically.

In January, I learned that joy could exist in ways I had not designed.

In February, I am learning that a miracle might not be a one-time incident but rather a state of possibility.

Cabin lights were dim. Most people were asleep. I was liminally suspended. Between time zones. Between languages. Between cultures. Between years.

I was crossing the world with an intention written plainly in my journal and in my heart. My word for 2026 was joy.

Everything about January had been carefully designed around the intention for joy.

I knew my body was still recovering. But something compelled me onward. Back to Ayurveda. To yoga. To a blissful retreat at a 104-year-old ashram. Gentle healing by the sea. Kerala. Lonavala. A long-planned Nonviolent Communication training.

It was a return to India, with an intention of joy.

I believed I was more than ready.

In fact, I was not.

The flight made that clear. The discomfort I had been living with for months became undeniable. My hip and knee protested unyieldingly. Pain has a way of stripping away denial when there is nowhere to escape and nothing to distract.

Body & Mind Negotiation

In Mumbai, it became a constant negotiation between my mind and my body.

Mumbai has a way of pulling you in. The sea. The delectable smells of food. The relentless pulse of humanity. The chaos. It was all there. My mind wanted to experience everything. My body refused to cooperate.

I began to doubt whether going to the yoga and Ayurveda retreat even made sense. Still, I stubbornly held on. I mean, this pain is exactly why retreats and healing modalities exist after all, right?

Then, the MRI results arrived.

Unclear language. Clinical phrasing. Alarming words. I didn’t fully understand them, but I knew enough to feel uneasy.

I spoke to the doctor at the retreat center. His response was immediate and firm: Please don’t come. Go to a local hospital instead.

Just Like That, Everything Shifted

The carefully curated month of joy dissolved into hospital corridors, blood tests, scans, and countless waiting rooms. India, which had always been about family visits, shopping, shopping, and more shopping, food indulgences, personal wellness, and rich history, suddenly became something else entirely.

The joy I had carefully designed for myself was no longer accessible.

In Bangalore, I found myself surrounded, not by yoga teachers, but by doctors, specialists, surgeons, and therapists.

By people who cared for me. By experts who made time for me. By the two young massage therapists who worked with me tirelessly and attentively. Their laughter filled the room. Their compassion flowed naturally.

Joy was showing up.

Just not in the way I had designed.

From Another Point of View

One evening, I walked — slowly and with effort — to a café near the sea in Mumbai. I was alone. Around me, tables of young women laughed loudly and unapologetically. I watched them, feeling just a little sorry for myself, and remembered that being alone does not mean you can’t find joy.

That’s when a woman walked in wearing a bright, orange t-shirt. She sat beside me, waiting for a friend. The text on her shirt, written upside down, read: “From another point of view.”

We began talking. Ritika Bajaj is a storyteller and founder of Indian Storytellers Pvt. Limited. She’s a showrunner. A creative director. Curious. Present. She invited me to tell my own story. And to question the story I was telling myself. Our conversation and the phrase on her shirt have stayed with me.

It became a theme and a grounding thought for uncertain times.

Redefining Joy

I’d started the year with a very specific definition of joy.

• Joy was travel.

• Joy was learning.

• Joy was spiritual immersion.

• Joy was carefully curated healing experiences.

• Joy was something I could design. It was something I could control.

But, January had other plans for me.

Instead, joy arrived in unexpected ways:

• In Flight Attendants looking out for me.

• In Care Coordinators intervening on my behalf.

• In Doctors who took time to explain without rushing.

• In Surgeons who confirmed without criticizing.

• In Therapists whose laughter softened my fear and whose gentle manipulations helped me feel better.

• In Hotel Staff who adjusted meals to meet my dietary restrictions without being asked.

• In dear Family who have held me steady in their kind graces.

My intention for joy was not lost; instead, my definition of joy has expanded.

I’d confused joy with control and design. I had equated joy with execution and accomplishment.

I believed that if I aligned the right experiences, in the right order, in the right place, at the right time, that joy would follow.

But that’s not the way joy works.

Joy was not lost in the retreat I canceled.

It was found in the care that was conferred on me.

Joy was not found in pushing through the pain.

It was found in surrendering to it.

I am letting this unfolding experience continue to redefine my sense of joy, of health, and of wellness.

Are there ways you can think of to expand your definition of joy?

I launched a new website that more fully reflects the heart of my mindfulness practice. I introduced this newsletter as a space for deeper reflection and connection. I relaunched the Mindful Leaders podcast with renewed intention, stepped into a new role as a contributing guest host on the Vivatude podcast, and began re-energizing my YouTube channel in ways that have invited creativity and play.

But apart from all of that, what stood out most was the conversations.

Across discussions with extraordinary guests, spanning diverse experiences and perspectives, we kept circling back to a small set of shared truths about leadership, trust, and what it really means to thrive.

Presence Is Priority One

One of the strongest threads across these conversations was the understanding that trust must be embodied before it can become mutual.

As Diane Woodford reflected, “love in action, a big part of that is just your presence.” Leadership presence is not about doing the right thing at the right time; it’s about being fully there. Sharing space. Regulating ourselves before attempting to influence others.

Many leaders still approach trust as something earned through performance or authority. What emerged instead is that trust begins internally—with awareness and self-regulation—before it can radiate outward. People feel presence long before they register strategy, words, or titles.

JGo Gordon echoed this internal dimension when he spoke about “slowing down to really sit with your thoughts… where the real learning happens.” When leadership presence is absent, trust quietly erodes.

Slowing Down Changes Everything

Another consistent challenge that emerged was our relationship with urgency.

Anna Liotta spoke of the “very powerful practice of pause, notice, and choose” as a way to reset the nervous system and return to what we can control. Pat Copeland reinforced this from a career perspective, reminding us that “self reflection is a big part of managing your career.”

These insights are about recognizing that speed without awareness just creates confusion. Pause allows leadership to become intentional, not reactive.

Authenticity and Resilience Go Hand in Hand

Several guests reflected on moments when their understanding of leadership shifted—not because they learned something new, but because they stopped pretending.

Aaron Craig Mitchell captured this honestly when he said, “we don’t always get to bring our whole selves to work, but we could at least bring as much as is appropriate for the environment.”

Tissa Richards expanded on this connection between authenticity and resilience, reminding us that resilience already lives within us: “Every single person is already resilient… You can be in this pressure cooker environment… and turn pressure into power.”

When leaders release performative action and show up more authentically, trust and resilience begin to take root.

The Power of Holding Space

Perhaps the most profound lesson for me this year was that leadership is not always about fixing. Sometimes it’s not even about leading.

In moments of cultural grief, transition, and uncertainty, staying present without rushing toward solutions becomes an act of leadership in itself.

Catherine Hammond reflected that what families—and people—need most is not money or problem-solving, but support that helps them thrive and become who they are meant to be. Heather Shafter spoke to the courage required to remain curious across differences, noting that when people feel understood, they become open to understanding others.

These reflections challenge a deeply ingrained reflex to react and push forward without listening.

Looking Ahead

As I reflect on the year and look toward what’s next, I’m struck by how much we’ve learned together.

These conversations reaffirm my belief that the future of leadership will be defined by presence, trust, and humanity—not force or power. Mindful leadership is not about knowing exactly how to handle every challenge, but about showing up to each one with self-awareness and regulation.

Thank you for being part of this journey. Thank you for listening, reflecting, and doing the courageous work of building resilience.

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