Transcript
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This is the mini solo series of Things We Carry, small moments and themes that keep me thinking way after the conversations on the Life Shift podcast. Hey there, it's me again. And all these conversations, lots of echoes, a lot of the themes keep returning and these solo episodes are gonna help me pay attention to them. So I'm glad you are along with me. So this one is about those moments when everything just kind of shifts beneath your feet. Not in some dramatic once and done kind of way, but in the messy, confusing, deeply disorienting space where nothing quite fits anymore. Like you wake up one day and the story you've been living feels fractured or incomplete and you're not sure how to put the pieces back together again or even if you want to. I was talking with Andrew a while back and he shared something that really stayed with me. He described hitting this point where he just exploded physically, emotionally, not in this violent way, but in this release of all the tension and trying to hold everything together. He rode his bike until his body just stopped him. And in that exhaustion, something opened up. And for the first time, he allowed himself to think, maybe he didn't have to fix everything right now. Maybe he didn't have to pretend he had it all figured out. I definitely felt that. That moment when the weight lifts, if only for just a breath, and you can kind of see a different way forward. Then there was Allison, who spent her life weaving stories and myths into her healing journey. She talked about going down into the underworld of ourselves, the dark, scary places that we avoid, only to find new wisdom waiting there. And she reminded me how sometimes we get stuck in the familiar pain because it's what we know, even if it hurts. But there's this courageous return, this rising again with something that reshapes us. I think about that a lot. The idea that confusion and disconnect are part of the process, not the end of the story, but the unfolding. And then there was Ryan. After years of overwhelm and burnout, he found himself cycling between action and rest, community and solitude. And it wasn't a straight line from chaos to calm, but... kind of like an oscillation that sometimes moving forward and then you go back and then learning to hold space for both of those. He talked about waking up to the fact that life isn't about pushing through nonstop, but about making choices that feel aligned in the moment, even if the path isn't perfectly clear yet. That felt honest and gentle and really the kind of permission we all need, permission to not have it all sorted out. And what ties their stories together for me is This living, breathing truth that clarity often comes after confusion. Not before. And it rarely arrives wrapped in a neat package with a bow. It's raw, slow, sometimes full of setbacks. Recovery isn't a tidy checklist. Change is often zigzagging and uncomfortable, and it feels like stumbling around in the dark before you find the light switch. I'm right there with you in that I do not have a map. and I'm still figuring out how to hold space for the parts of myself that want certainty alongside the parts that are learning to live with uncertainty. Maybe you've had your own moments like this. Maybe a voice inside you whispered or a small crack appeared in your carefully constructed world, letting a light in that you weren't ready for, or maybe you desperately needed. These line in the sand moments don't always announce themselves with fireworks. Sometimes they come as a quiet ache, a restless night, or a phrase in a book that lands differently than before, like it's speaking directly to you. There is no rush to understand it all. No need to force the process or kind of rush through the discomfort. Sometimes just sitting with the not knowing, acknowledging that you're in between is the bravest thing that you can do. I think it's okay to hold space for that confusion, that disconnect, because it's the soil from which new understanding and clarity can grow. So I want to invite you right now to notice if there's a moment that's big or small that feels like your own line in the sand moment. Maybe it's something you've been avoiding or a whisper you've been hearing beneath the noise. Whatever it is, see if you can hold it gently without judgment or pressure. Just let it be part of your story without demanding that you fully understand it yet. Because here's what I'm learning every day. It's in these moments of deep uncertainty. that the possibility for something new and true starts to take root. And that's a place worth holding on to, even when the way forward isn't clear. Remember, you're not alone in this, and we're all finding our way through the fog together. And I'm grateful that you chose to walk beside me one step at a time.
