A Life Well-Lived
Can Always Be Redefined
Joy. Simple word, right? I thought I understood what it meant, but it has a deeper meaning for me now.
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.
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.
It is funny isn't in those lonely hours caught between elusive sleep and mini naps that those unavoidable questions come up. I find my brain is very active at this time, and funnily enough my very reason for being here began as thoughts at 2.00 am.
The shift from discipline to tenderness as a form of strength is what stayed with me here. There is a version of resilience that insists on self-sufficiency and a deeper version that learns to let others in.
What you are describing is not defeat. It is a rebuilding of the internal architecture around a new understanding of what it actually means to be strong. That takes more courage than holding everything together alone ever did.