How to Stop Judging Yourself and the Past Year Harshly

“The way you look at things is the most powerful force shaping your life.” ~John O’Donohue

As often happens at this time of year, I recently found myself lamenting how quickly time had passed. In this agitated headspace, the myriad of goals I did not accomplish and the numerous targets I did not reach sprang to the forefront of my mind.

Though unwelcome and unhelpful, these thoughts pushed their way into my internal dialogue, reinforcing themselves by collecting evidence of where I’d fallen short.

Viewing my past year through a critical lens cultivates a feeling of dislike for myself. It not only robs me of the present moment but also colors my perspective on the year ahead, making optimism and self-trust harder to access.

I know I am not alone in this futile exercise. But the fact is, a judgmental mindset isn’t fixed. Although the word itself implies a rooted outlook, mindset is actually fluid. Your focus determines its orientation at any given moment.

While viewing your past year through a lens of judgment is one way to reflect on the past, viewing it through a lens of empowerment is another.

Reframe Your Year Through Reflective Positive Journaling

One of the simplest ways to shift your lens and guide your mindset toward empowerment is through structured reflection—specifically, reflective positive journaling.

Reflective positive journaling isn’t new, but it remains one of the most effective ways to cultivate a more compassionate and balanced view of your past year and, consequently, yourself. When you focus on what nourished and strengthened you, your year shifts from a list of unfinished goals into a meaningful story of your life.

As I moved through my reflective positive journaling process, I brought to light the many meaningful moments of joy and connection that had nothing to do with a to-do list.

They showed up in moments when I chose rest over productivity, spoke more gently to myself, or allowed “good enough” to be enough. What initially felt like an unremarkable year revealed itself to be one marked by steadiness, self-trust, and subtle courage.

With this reframing in mind, the prompts below are designed to gently guide your attention toward growth, nourishment, and moments you may have overlooked.

Positive Reflective Journal Prompts

Ways I Grew Without Realizing It

It’s easy to overlook the many subtle ways that you’ve changed over the year. Were there times when you made self-care a priority or were successful in upholding your commitment to honor your needs, perhaps saying no to social invitations that didn’t interest you?

Were there instances when you released the need to do everything perfectly or please everybody and instead accepted that you were worthy of love, respect, and admiration just as you are?

Were there periods when you intentionally cared for your body by making healthier eating choices, being more active, and getting a solid night’s sleep?

All of these moments of growth are easy to dismiss when viewed in isolation, but together they form the foundation of real, lasting change. Each small choice you made in your own favor quietly added up to a year of profound growth—growth that deserves to be seen and celebrated.

Looking back, I was surprised by moments when I chose flexibility over rigidity, curiosity over judgment, and patience over urgency. Small acts—such as asking a co-worker about her approach instead of assuming it was wrong, adapting to a change in my travel itinerary after a canceled flight, or slowing my walking pace to accommodate an older friend—became evidence of how I’d grown.

These moments didn’t feel dramatic at the time, yet in hindsight they revealed how much had shifted beneath the surface. This reminded me that growth often shows up not in dramatic achievements, but in the steady willingness to show up for myself and others, even when it feels uncomfortable.

Ways I Am Proud of Myself

It doesn’t matter how big or small the accomplishment; allow yourself to feel proud. Pride in yourself is a quiet, grounded appreciation of yourself.

Perhaps you stood up for yourself in a situation where you would normally remain quiet or worked your way through a scenario that you typically avoided out of fear and discomfort.

Did you help a loved one through a difficult period?

Did you learn something new or stick to a commitment that mattered to you?

What challenges did you overcome?

Each of these moments creates opportunities for you to celebrate your efforts, reflect on your courage, and feel satisfaction in your accomplishments throughout the year.

Reflecting on this prompt, I noticed how easily I had minimized my own efforts. Yet as I looked more closely, moments of quiet pride began to surface.

This year, I recognized when I stood up for myself in the face of a bullying personality instead of shrinking to avoid conflict, the times when I followed through on my commitment to exercise daily, and when I was able to stay present in situations that typically overwhelmed me.

None of these moments came with fanfare, but each required courage. Allowing myself to feel proud didn’t inflate my ego; it grounded me.

Occasions When I Felt Fulfilled

From the standpoint that fulfillment doesn’t equate to accomplishment, recall times when you were emotionally and spiritually nourished.

Did you attend a religious service that cultivated a sense of connection? Or did you have an experience with friends that left you feeling fulfilled and replenished?

Recognizing these moments helps you understand what truly nourishes your spirit and brings deeper meaning into your life.

For me, memories of deep conversations with my best friend, moments of shared laughter with my mom, and being fully present when playing with my four-year-old niece came to mind. These reminded me that deep satisfaction does not always come from checking items off a to-do list.

Moments When I Felt Peaceful and Content

Reflect on times when your nervous system settled and you felt calm and grounded.

Perhaps it was a quiet morning with tea, a slow walk outside, or an evening when you felt more at ease after turning off your devices.

When I reflected on my moments of peace and contentment, I noticed they most often found me when I spent time interacting with the natural world. Immersing myself in a slower-paced environment allowed my brain to decelerate and relax.

Activities That Fueled My Energy

Your energy is a compass; noticing what replenished you helps you understand what supports your well-being.

Which routines, hobbies, or connections left you feeling more energized than when you began?

Whether creative pursuits, athletic endeavors, time alone, or time with others, recognizing what gave you energy helps you hold your year in a more balanced and positive frame.

Looking back on what fueled my energy this year, I realized that some of my most replenishing moments came from time spent alone. Being by myself allowed me to breathe, reset, and reconnect with what truly mattered. Hiking, coloring, or tending my garden gave me a sense of calm focus while quietly refilling my reserves.

Happy, Unexpected Coincidences That Occurred

Unexpected moments of connection or synchronicity can remind you that delight and surprise were woven throughout your year.

Did an old friend you had recently been thinking about reach out, or did you unexpectedly run into a treasured co-worker from a previous job at the market?

Perhaps you found yourself in the right place at the right time to witness a natural wonder, such as a breaching whale or soaring hawk.

Life is full of unexplained coincidences that, when viewed in hindsight, can take on a synchronistic quality, reminding you that connection can arrive without effort.

When I reflected on this, I recalled how a spontaneous walk in my neighborhood put me in the right spot to run into my retired high school teacher, or when I followed an impulse to look skyward and witnessed a bald eagle leaving its nest.

I was surprised at how recognizing even small coincidences caused my year to take on a sense of delight, reminding me that magic had been quietly threading through it all along.

—

These prompts are just that—gentle invitations to pause and look back on the past year with a kinder, more balanced perspective. As you sit with your experiences, you will begin to remember the wins, the joys, and the moments of courage that might have otherwise been forgotten.

Carrying this perspective into the new year offers a valuable sense of direction. When you understand what supported your well-being and what fueled your energy, you naturally gain insight into what to prioritize moving forward.

Simple Ways to Use This Momentum in the New Year

Reconnect with people.

Who made an impact on your life this year? Reach out to them with a message or call to say thank you. Whether it’s a mentor, a friend, or a family member, expressing gratitude strengthens your relationships and reinforces the connections that matter most.

Set new intentions, not resolutions.

Instead of rigid resolutions, set intentions that align with the values you rediscovered about yourself. For example, you might aim to “be kinder to yourself,” “explore new opportunities,” or “prioritize rest and self-care without guilt.” Intentions offer direction without the pressure of achieving. 

Create a small ritual to mark the transition.

Mark the end of the year with a simple ritual that feels meaningful to you. Light a candle, say a prayer, or write down what you want to release and safely burn the paper. You might also clean a room, organize a drawer, or clear your workspace. The physical act of making space mirrors the emotional process of creating room for the new year.

If you feel inclined, writing a letter to your future self can help capture what you learned and what you hope to carry forward. Sometimes selecting a single word—such as steadiness, growth, ease, or connection—that reflects how you want to be or what you wish to cultivate is a way of setting a launching point for the year.

As I prepare to welcome 2026, I will let my reflections guide me—reminding me of what truly mattered, the ways I was strengthened, and the seeds of growth I want to nurture in the year ahead. I will carry forward the lessons learned, the moments of courage, and the quiet victories, allowing them to shape my choices with intention and care.

Growth often happens quietly—but when we pause to acknowledge it, we give it space to deepen, allowing us to step into the new year with clarity, purpose, and a grounded sense of pride in how far we have come.

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About Lynn Crocker

Lynn Crocker is passionate about helping people shift their inner dialogue and take charge of their thoughts to create a more purposeful, joyful, and fulfilling life—one thought at a time. If you’d like support carrying this mindset forward or guidance in cultivating steadier, more empowering inner dialogue, she invites you to schedule a free discovery call to see if mindset coaching is right for you. Learn more at lynncrockercoaching.com.

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A Tiny Bit of Tiny Buddha, with You Every Day

I might be just a little biased, but I find this site very soothing. It’s my literal home on the web—built humbly in 2009 with more enthusiasm than expertise and the shoddy wiring (read: early missteps) to prove it.

But it’s not just the grounding tree on top, the calming Buddha logo, or the bright illustrations that fill me with peace. It’s this community. The honest stories. The aha moments. The shared humanity that brings with it a sense that it’s okay—and maybe even beautiful—to be imperfect.

If you too find comfort in this little oasis and appreciate the daily insights and inspiration, I have a feeling you’ll enjoy this year’s day-to-day calendar—my sixth since the first launched in 2022.

Each day’s quote offers guidance, support, or encouragement from me, a site contributor, or an author whose work I’ve found helpful.

With colorful patterned pages, it’s a joyful little addition to your counter or desk, designed to offer a grounding thought to start or guide your day.

More importantly, the quotes speak to the universal struggles we all face—related to happiness, relationships, change, meaning, letting go, and more. So you might find, as many social media followers often note, that the messages feel written just for you.

Or, as one Amazon reviewer wrote, “The messages set the tone for the day. Make it a great one!”

If this sort of thing resonates with you, the Tiny Buddha calendar has been the #1 bestseller in the mind-body-spirit category in both 2024 and 2025—and this year, it seems to be just as popular.

If you’d like to infuse your life with more Tiny Buddha warmth and wisdom, you can grab your copy here.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed creating it!

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About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She started the site after struggling with depression, bulimia, c-PTSD, and toxic shame so she could recycle her former pain into something useful and inspire others to do the same. You can find her books, including Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and Tiny Buddha’s Worry Journal, here and learn more about her eCourse, Recreate Your Life Story, if you’re ready to transform your life and become the person you want to be.

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Why the Breath Is More Powerful Than Willpower in Addiction Recovery

“If you want to conquer the anxiety of life, live in the moment, live in the breath.” ~Amit Ray

I don’t remember the moment I decided I wanted to live again. I just remember the breath that made it possible.

Three weeks earlier, I had been lying in a hospital bed, my liver failing at the age of thirty-six after years of drinking. I knew I wouldn’t survive another relapse; yet the day I was released, I went straight to the liquor store. Unsurprisingly, I ended up back in rehab—completely exhausted, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I wasn’t looking for hope. I was just trying to survive the next hour.

When the staff announced there would be a yoga class, I almost didn’t go. But something in me—a spark of desperation—wanted to try. I walked into the small recreation room, still detoxing, still shaking uncontrollably. When the teacher asked us to take a deep breath, I realized my body didn’t know how. My chest barely moved.

That moment changed everything. What started as a single breath on the rehab floor became the breath that saved my life.

By the time I entered that final treatment program, my body was shutting down, but I couldn’t stop drinking. I had spent two years in and out of rehab facilities—including an intensive ninety-day program and a special treatment center for trauma survivors. I’d lost my job because I was too sick to show up. I was about to lose my home.

The deepest heartbreak, however, came in a letter from the court: I had lost custody of my daughter. I can still remember holding that envelope, the air leaving my lungs. That was my rock bottom. But even rock bottom, I would later learn, can become fertile ground.

Those yoga classes in rehab became the highlight of my week. They were the only hours when I didn’t feel trapped inside my own skin. For the first time, I felt my body and my breath working together instead of against me.

In yoga, teachers often say “root to rise.” It’s an instruction that means to ground down through your base—your feet, your hands, your breath—before expanding upward. I used to think it was just about balance, but I began to see it as a metaphor for recovery.

I couldn’t rise until I learned how to root.

For years I had tried to think my way into staying sober. I made promises, created plans, counted days. But thinking didn’t heal what was broken. I needed to rebuild from the ground up—from my nervous system outward. Yoga became the first safe place where my body could finally exhale.

For months, safety came in glimpses. I noticed it in the quiet moments—my hands no longer shaking when I poured coffee, my shoulders softening when someone said my name, the first night I slept through without waking from panic. It wasn’t perfection; it was presence.

I later learned there was a name for what was happening: somatic healing.

“Somatic” simply means of the body—the understanding that our stories, memories, and emotions don’t just live in our minds; they live in our tissues. Every flinch, every tight muscle, every held breath is the body’s way of remembering what it had to survive.

In yin yoga, while my fascia slowly opened in a long pose, I’d sometimes have memories I didn’t even know existed rise to the surface. There were times I found myself crying in the middle of class, the kind of tears that came from deep inside. But that space on the mat became sacred—an opportunity to finally feel what I had spent years avoiding. On the other side of those tears, I always felt lighter. When this happened, I no longer carried that pain with me in my body.

Each slow stretch and mindful breath became a conversation between my body and my nervous system. When I stayed present through discomfort instead of escaping it, I discovered that healing wasn’t about fixing what was broken; it was about helping my body feel safe enough to release what it had been holding.

Science now confirms what somatic practitioners and yogis have long known: the breath is the bridge between the body and the brain, the conscious and the subconscious. When we breathe deeply and move intentionally, we activate the vagus nerve, the body’s built-in pathway for calm. This is how we shift from survival to safety.

When cravings or anxiety attacked, breathwork became my lifeline—the bridge between my body’s panic and my heart’s calm. These three simple practices helped me rewire my stress response and return to internal safety without reaching for a drink:

1. Anulom Vilom (Alternate Nostril Breathing)

This practice balances the two hemispheres of the brain and restores calm to the nervous system.

Give it a try:

• Sit comfortably with your spine tall and shoulders relaxed.
• Close your right nostril with your thumb and inhale through your left for four counts.
• Close both nostrils and hold for four counts.
• Release your thumb and exhale through your right for eight counts.
• Inhale again through the right for four, hold for four, exhale through the left for eight.
• Continue for five rounds, breathing softly and evenly.

Each inhale is a quiet declaration: I’m still here. Each exhale, a gentle letting go of what no longer serves us.

2. Sama Vritti (Box Breathing)

Known as “equal breath,” this technique creates balance and stability. I used it often in early recovery when anxiety was high or I felt triggered.

Give it a try:

• Inhale through the nose for four counts.
• Hold the breath for four counts.
• Exhale through the nose for four counts.
• Pause and hold empty for four counts.
• Continue this rhythm for a few minutes, lengthening to six or eight counts if it feels natural.

Box Breathing steadies the heart rate, quiets racing thoughts, and gives the body a rhythm it can trust. When the mind spirals, this breath becomes an anchor.

3. Dirgha Pranayama (Three-Part Breath)

This gentle, grounding breath invites the body to expand and release fully. It’s especially supportive when reconnecting with the body after trauma or intense emotion.

Give it a try:

• Sit or lie down comfortably with one hand on your belly and one on your chest.
• Inhale slowly through your nose, first filling your belly, then your ribs, then your upper chest—drawing the breath upward in three parts.
• Exhale in reverse—chest, ribs, belly—allowing the breath to flow out completely.
• Count your inhale. When you exhale, try to lengthen your breath to double the count of your inhale (for example, if you inhaled for a count of three, exhale slowly for a count of six).
• Continue for five or more rounds.

With each cycle, imagine your breath traveling down into your roots, grounding you in safety and presence. This reminds the body that peace isn’t something we find—it’s something we breathe into being.

Practicing these three breathwork styles gave me a larger capacity to deal with triggers. Whenever I felt the urge to drink, I’d pause and practice breathwork instead. Multiple rounds of Sama Vritti had the power to change my state of being just as quickly as a shot of my favorite alcohol.

In the beginning, every day sober felt like climbing a mountain barefoot. But then one month passed, and I was still breathing through the cravings. Then two months. Then three. Slowly, the numbers began to add up until sobriety stopped feeling like something I had to fight for—it simply became who I was.

My yoga teacher used to say, “How we show up on the mat is how we show up in life.” I didn’t understand it at first, but I do now. I started showing up to yoga every day—even when I didn’t want to. I showed up to breathe when I wanted to run. Over time, that practice of staying became my new way of being.

Yoga taught me how to sit with pain rather than run from it. The more I practiced staying with discomfort, the more my brain learned that pain didn’t mean danger—it just meant sensation.

Over time, I was literally rewiring my neural pathways, teaching my body that calm was possible. Eventually, that pause between trigger and reaction became second nature.

When my body and mind no longer lived in constant battle, life began to flow again. My daughter was allowed to move back home. I returned to my career full-time. For the first time in years, I wasn’t surviving—I was living. In the end, it wasn’t a miracle or a moment—it was my breath that saved my life.

As time went on, recovery stopped being about staying sober and became about staying present. My body began to trust me again, not because I promised to change, but because I kept showing up—on the mat, in the breath, in the quiet moments of life.

Healing moves slowly like this. It doesn’t happen on the mind’s timeline; it unfolds with the body’s. One day, you’ll notice your hands no longer shake, your shoulders soften, and your breath moves freely again. That’s when you’ll realize your body has remembered its safety.

Recovery isn’t about fixing what’s broken—it’s about no longer abandoning yourself when things hurt. Each inhale brings a new beginning, and in the gentle rise and fall of your chest, there is a quiet space where you meet yourself again. The past dissolves with every exhale, and your future waits patiently at the edge of your next breath.

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About Jessica Harris

Jessica Harris is a registered yoga teacher and somatic practitioner specializing in trauma-informed yoga, breathwork, and nervous system healing. She is the founder of RISE to Recover, a method blending yoga and somatic tools to support addiction recovery and mental health. Jessica shares free practices and reflections on her new YouTube channel: youtube.com/@RiseToRecover

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The Truth About Healing I Didn’t Learn in Med School

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” ~Rumi

I’ve spent most of my adult life helping people heal.

I’m a podiatrist, a foot and ankle surgeon, and I’ve seen pain in many forms. Torn ligaments. Crushed bones. Wounds that just won’t close. But if I’m being honest, the deepest wounds I’ve encountered weren’t the ones I treated in my clinic. They were the invisible ones, the ones that patients carried silently, and the ones I had unknowingly been carrying myself.

I used to think healing was straightforward. Diagnose. Treat. Follow up. Recover.

That made sense to me. That’s how I was trained. But life and people are rarely that neat.

Years ago, I was treating a woman in her mid-sixties with chronic foot ulcers from diabetes. Medically, we were doing everything right. The right dressings, offloading, antibiotics, regular check-ups. But her wounds weren’t healing. I couldn’t understand why. I grew frustrated. I started questioning my treatment plan. I blamed myself.

Then one day, she said softly, “Sometimes I don’t even want them to heal.”

She wasn’t being difficult. She was being honest.

Her husband had passed, she lived alone, and these appointments were one of the few times someone checked in on her, looked her in the eye, and asked how she was. Her wounds gave her a reason to be seen.

That stopped me in my tracks.

I realized I had been treating her foot, but I wasn’t seeing her, not fully. I was missing the emotional story behind the physical wound. And in doing so, I was also missing something in myself.

I had always prided myself on being composed, efficient, capable. Residency had trained me to push through fatigue, stress, and long hours. It rewarded perfectionism and punished vulnerability. So I wore my resilience like armor.

But under that armor, I was tired. I was emotionally dry. I felt disconnected from the very thing that made me want to become a doctor in the first place: the human connection.

It wasn’t until I saw the pain beneath my patients’ stories—grief, loneliness, shame, fear—that I started to acknowledge the pain I was carrying too.

Not physical pain. Not burnout in the textbook sense. But something softer and harder to name: an unspoken ache to feel more whole.

I’ve had patients apologize to me through tears for “wasting my time,” as if their suffering wasn’t worth attention. I’ve had patients tell me stories of trauma that had nothing to do with their feet but everything to do with why they weren’t healing.

I started listening more. I stopped rushing. I began asking, “How are you, really?” And slowly, as I created space for others to be vulnerable, I began to offer that space to myself too.

I started journaling again. I made peace with taking time off. I reconnected with friends I had been “too busy” to call. I spoke to a therapist, not because I was in a crisis, but because I was curious about the parts of myself I had ignored for too long.

Healing, I learned, isn’t always about fixing what’s broken. Sometimes, it’s about acknowledging what hurts, even if there’s no clear diagnosis.

In medical school, we’re trained to be experts. To have answers. To guide.

But healing, real healing, doesn’t always happen in the exam room. Sometimes it happens in a quiet moment of shared understanding, when two human beings drop their roles and just see each other.

I’ve stopped pretending I have it all together. I’ve started being more honest with myself and with others. My patients sense that, and I think they trust me more because of it. Not because I’m perfect, but because I’m real.

What Have I’ve Learned?

Healing isn’t linear. Neither is growth. People don’t just want to be fixed. They want to be seen.

Pain isn’t always physical. And sometimes the deepest wounds are the quietest.

Presence heals more than performance.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop learning how to be human. But I’m grateful my patients have given me the space to try, not just as their doctor but as a fellow traveler on the road to healing.

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About Rizwan Tai

Dr. Rizwan Tai is a Houston-based podiatrist and former Chief Resident at UT Health San Antonio. He’s passionate about the human side of healing both for patients and providers. When he's not in clinic, Rizwan enjoys reflective writing, long walks, and conversations that go beyond surface level. Visit him at vitalpodiatry.com.

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Why I’m Listening to My Aging Mother More Deeply Now

“When an old person dies, a library burns to the ground.” ~African Proverb

For most of my life, I thought aging was about bodies slowing down—hair turning white, memory fading, steps getting shorter. But caring for my ninety-six-year-old mother has changed that. I now see something deeper and more painful: the slow erasure of wisdom in a culture that prizes the new, dismisses the old, and moves too fast to notice what it’s losing.

We live in a world that idolizes youth and innovation—new tech, new trends, new ideas. “Old” has become shorthand for “outdated.” When wisdom becomes invisible, we stop asking questions that matter, and we lose the guidance of those who have seen life’s full arc.

One afternoon, as my mother told me a story about her father, I realized something that shook me: if I don’t learn to be fully present with her now, I will not only lose her. I will lose the chance to carry her wisdom forward—and to know myself more deeply.

The Moment It Hit Me

The house was bathed in late-afternoon light, soft and gold. My mother sat across from me, recalling her childhood—ration cards during the war, the first time she heard music on a radio.

Then she stopped mid-sentence. The silence stretched. I felt my familiar impatience rise—that tug to finish her thought, to move on, to get back to my to-do list.

But this time, I stayed.

I stayed through the silence and felt something shift. The pause wasn’t empty—it was full of her effort, her dignity, her reaching through time for something that mattered. If I rushed her, I would erase more than her memory. I would erase her right to find it.

At that moment, I understood that listening is not just kindness. It is preservation—of her story, our relationship, and my own capacity to stay present when life gets hard.

What I Learned About Decline

Caring for an elder is not simply about keeping them safe, fed, or medicated. It’s about bearing witness as their world grows smaller.

Witnessing is not passive. It is active work—the work of noticing subtle shifts in tone, the way their eyes light up at a song they still remember, the pride they feel when they can still tell a story no one else alive remembers.

This process has taught me that dignity is not about staying strong forever. Dignity is about being seen and valued all the way to the end. And that is something we can give to each other—if we are willing to slow down.

The Cost of a Culture That Looks Away

Our society moves at high speed, and it is easier to avert our eyes from aging, decline, and death. Youth is celebrated. Age is feared. “Old” becomes something to hide, something to fix, or worse, something to ignore.

But every time we look away—even just emotionally—we lose something irreplaceable. We lose not only their stories but also the chance to prepare ourselves for the same journey.

These moments of care have become some of the most alive moments of my life. They have taught me patience, tenderness, and a kind of presence no app, no book, no productivity hack could teach.

And they have reminded me that one day, I will be the one searching for words, hoping someone is patient enough to stay.

A Gentle Practice

We can resist the rush and recover the habit of listening. Try this:

Ask one question. It can be small: “What did Sundays look like when you were ten?”

Wait. Let the silence do its work. Let them find the memory.

Preserve it. Write it down or record it—not just for history, but for your own heart. Even one memory saved is a piece of the library kept from burning.

Lessons I Carry Forward

My time with my mother has shown me that love is measured not by big, dramatic gestures but by the willingness to stay—to keep showing up, even when it is inconvenient, even when it breaks your heart.

It has taught me that listening is not passive. It is an act of reverence, a way of saying, “You still matter. Your voice still matters.”

And it has challenged me to push back against a culture that treats wisdom as disposable. The elders are not holding us back. They are holding the map of where we’ve been so we don’t lose our way.

So I choose to stay, to listen, to honor what is fading instead of rushing past it. Because one day, I will be the one pausing mid-sentence, searching for a memory—and I will hope someone stays long enough to let me find it.

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About Tony Collins

Tony Collins, EdD, MFA, is a writer, documentary filmmaker, and educator whose work explores presence, creativity, and meaning in everyday life. His essays blend storytelling and reflection in the style of creative nonfiction, drawing on experiences from filmmaking, travel, and caregiving. He is the author of Creative Scholarship: Rethinking Evaluation in Film and New Media Windows to the Sea: Collected Writings. You can read more of his essays and reflections on his Substack at tonycollins.substack.com.

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Break the Cycle: How to Heal the Patterns You Didn’t Choose

“We don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children.” ~Native American Proverb

For years, I blamed my parents for my anxiety, my defensiveness, and my need to be right. Then I learned they inherited the same patterns from their parents. And theirs before them.

This wasn’t about blame. It was about breaking a cycle nobody chose.

The Stutter That Taught Me Everything

As a teenager, I developed a stutter. Not just occasional hesitation—paralyzing anxiety about speaking.

I’d anticipate making mistakes when reading aloud. Starting conversations felt like walking through a minefield. The fear of stuttering made me stutter more—a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy.

In college, studying psychology, I discovered something liberating. The anxiety about stuttering was causing the stuttering.

Once I learned to relax, breathe deeply, and stop anticipating errors, the stutter disappeared. Years later, I successfully presented high-stakes business proposals to executives. Not a single stumble.

I thought I’d conquered a personal flaw through willpower and technique. I was wrong.

The Discovery That Changed Everything

During college, I learned my father’s story. As a child, he had a lisp.

His father—my grandfather—thought it was hilarious. He’d make my dad recite tongue-twisters in front of family and friends. Highlighting his speech impediment for entertainment.

That cruel mockery created anxiety. That anxiety transmitted to me.

Different manifestation—stuttering instead of a lisp. Same underlying pattern: fear of speaking, anticipation of judgment, dread of being heard.

The medical field claims stuttering is genetic. But no gene has been identified. What I inherited wasn’t DNA. It was learned behavior.

My father’s anxiety about speaking became my anxiety about speaking. Not through genetics. Through observation, absorption, and unconscious imitation.

This realization brought us closer. We worked together in the family business after college.

Understanding this generational pattern created compassion between us before he died.

We Learn Who We Are from Birth

We begin learning emotional responses from our first breath. Our parents are our first teachers—not by choice, but by proximity.

We watch how they handle stress. Whether they express emotions or suppress them. How they react to criticism, disappointment, conflict.

These aren’t conscious lessons. Nobody sits down and says, “Today I’ll teach you anxiety.” We absorb patterns the way we absorb language. Through immersion.

Attachment theory tells us early bonds shape how we relate to others throughout life. If our caregivers were emotionally unavailable, we learned that seeking connection leads to disappointment. If they were unpredictable, we learned to stay vigilant, always watching for mood shifts.

These patterns feel normal because they’re all we’ve known. Like growing up in a house where everyone speaks softly—you don’t realize you’re whispering until you visit a family that talks at normal volume.

The Patterns We Inherit Without Knowing

I’ve spent twenty years in change management, helping organizations break dysfunctional patterns. The same patterns that cripple organizations cripple families. They transmit across generations like a computer virus copying itself onto new systems.

Anxiety and self-doubt.

Your parent worried constantly. Now you do too. You scan for danger even when there is none.

Perfectionism.

Nothing you did was quite good enough growing up. Now you drive yourself relentlessly. And criticize yourself harshly when you fall short.

Conflict avoidance.

Arguments in your house were scary—shouting, door-slamming, silent treatments. Now you’d rather suffer in silence than risk confrontation.

Emotional unavailability.

Your parents didn’t know how to talk about feelings. Now you don’t either. You change the subject when conversations get deep.

Boundary struggles.

You were told, “Family has no boundaries. We share everything.” Now you can’t say no. You feel guilty prioritizing your own needs.

These aren’t character flaws. They’re learned responses to the environment you grew up in.

And what you learned, you can unlearn.

Why Blame Keeps You Stuck

When I first understood my stuttering came from my father’s anxiety, I was angry. Why didn’t he fix himself before having kids? Why did he pass his damage to me?

Then I learned about his father’s cruelty. And I had to ask: was my father supposed to heal trauma he didn’t even recognize?

Blame requires someone else to change. But you can only change yourself.

Resentment hurts you more than them. It’s like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.

Here’s the paradox: you can’t heal what you won’t acknowledge. But you can’t move forward while blaming.

The shift that changes everything: “This isn’t my fault. But it is my responsibility.”

Your parents couldn’t teach what they never learned. They did their best with what they inherited. Understanding that doesn’t excuse harmful behavior. But it creates space for compassion.

And compassion—for them and for yourself—is where healing begins.

The Pattern Recognition Practice

Change starts with awareness. You can’t interrupt a pattern you don’t recognize.

Here’s how to begin.

Identify inherited behaviors.

Ask yourself: What behaviors did I watch growing up? When do I sound like my parents—even when I swore I wouldn’t? What struggles did they have that I now face? For me, it was the anxiety about speaking. The anticipation of failure. The internal critic that said, “You’ll mess this up.”

Understand the committee in your head.

Those critical voices aren’t yours. They’re recordings of other people’s voices—parents, teachers, bullies, authority figures.

My internal voice said, “You’re going to stutter. Everyone will notice. They’ll think you’re stupid.”

That wasn’t me. That was fear I learned.

Catch yourself mid-pattern.

Awareness itself is the intervention.

When I felt anxiety rising before speaking, I’d pause. Notice the feeling. Name it: “This is the inherited pattern.”

Then breathe. Deeply. Three slow breaths.

That pause—between trigger and response—is where freedom lives.

Choose a different response.

You don’t have to react the way you’ve always reacted.

Instead of avoiding speaking situations, I deliberately practiced. Small presentations at work. Reading aloud to my son. Each time, focusing on breathing rather than anticipating errors.

The pattern weakened. The new response strengthened.

Just as you learned these patterns, you can unlearn them. With focus, time, and awareness.

The Gift You Give Yourself—and Your Children

Breaking inherited patterns isn’t just about healing your past. It’s about transforming your future.

Every time you interrupt an automatic response, you break the generational chain. You stop transmitting that pattern to your children.

My son doesn’t have speech anxiety. Because I didn’t model it for him. The cycle broke with me.

That’s the most profound gift: stopping the transmission.

You can’t change your parents. You can’t erase your past. But you can choose different patterns moving forward.

When my father and I worked together, understanding these patterns created a bridge between us. I stopped resenting him for what he couldn’t give. He stopped feeling guilty about what he’d passed down.

We both recognized we were doing our best with what we inherited. And we could do better for the next generation.

He’s gone now. But that understanding—that compassion—was healing for both of us.

Where Healing Begins

Your poor self-image isn’t your fault. Your anxiety, your perfectionism, your difficulty with boundaries—none of it is a character flaw.

These are learned behaviors. Inherited patterns. The emotional equivalent of your grandmother’s china—passed down through generations without anyone questioning whether you actually wanted it.

You didn’t choose these patterns. But you can choose what to do with them now.

Recognition is the first step. Not to assign blame, but to understand the mechanism.

Then comes practice. Catching yourself mid-pattern. Pausing. Breathing. Choosing a different response.

It won’t be perfect. You’ll slip back into old patterns. That’s normal. Progress, not perfection.

But over time, the inherited patterns weaken. Your conscious choices strengthen.

And one day, you realize that critical voice is quieter. That anxiety is manageable. That automatic reaction doesn’t feel so automatic anymore.

You’ve broken the cycle.

Start Today

Choose one inherited pattern you recognize. Just one.

This week, notice when it shows up. Don’t try to fix it yet. Just notice.

“There’s the perfectionism.”

“There’s the conflict avoidance.”

“There’s the need for approval.”

Awareness is where change begins.

These patterns took years to develop. They won’t disappear overnight. But they will change. Because they’re learned behaviors. And what you learned, you can unlearn.

Your struggles aren’t character flaws. They’re inherited patterns. And patterns can change.

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About Mike

Mike Palm is a change management consultant with over 20 years leading transformation across 60 corporations. After discovering his stuttering was inherited anxiety from his father—who inherited it from his grandfather—he developed frameworks for breaking generational patterns. He leads a nonprofit supporting 12-step programs and is the author of The Legacy of Emotionally Immature Parents. Learn more here.

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Grieving the Parents You Needed but Never Had

“We can’t receive from others what they were never taught to give.” ~Unknown

When I was younger, I believed that love meant being understood. I thought my parents would be there for me, emotionally and mentally. But love, I’ve learned, isn’t always expressed in the ways we need, and not everyone has the tools to give what they never received.

As an adult, I’ve learned something both liberating and heartbreaking: Parents can only give what they have.

I used to get frustrated that my parents couldn’t really understand my mental health struggles. The realization didn’t hit me suddenly. It settled in slowly, in moments when frustration turned into sadness, hurt, and a quiet kind of grief. When I finally allowed myself to face the loneliness and disappointment I’d pushed aside for years, I began to accept it.

If they were never taught emotional regulation, how could they show it to me?

If no one ever held space for their pain, how could they hold space for mine?

They loved me with the language they knew, even if that language was incomplete.

Later, I realized they never had the tools or support to understand their own emotions. They weren’t ignoring me; they simply didn’t have the capacity. They came from a different generation, with limited knowledge and very little space to explore feelings. Understanding that changed the way I saw them.

Accepting their limitations wasn’t about excusing the harm or pretending everything was fine. It was about finally letting go of a dream that kept me stuck—the dream that one day, they’d become the parents I wished for.

There were moments when I felt deeply misunderstood, like when I tried to talk about my anxiety and was told to just be strong. I didn’t need advice; I needed comfort. Those moments made me realize how different my emotional world was from theirs.

The acceptance can be bittersweet. I had to grieve what I needed but never received—the comfort when I was overwhelmed, the emotional safety to speak freely, and the validation that my mental health struggles were real and not weakness.

Grieving meant sitting with the hurt of being misunderstood, the loneliness of carrying feelings on my own, and the disappointment of not experiencing the closeness I had hoped for. Allowing that grief was painful, yet it also made space for healing.

And it brings a strange kind of freedom.

When I stopped expecting my parents to meet needs they couldn’t meet, I created space for fulfillment elsewhere—through personal growth, meaningful friendships, and chosen family.

Releasing those expectations felt like finally setting down a heavy weight I had carried for years.

I began building my own emotional vocabulary and learned how to soothe the parts of me that once screamed for their understanding. At the same time, my relationship with my parents shifted, not because they changed, but because I stopped measuring them against a version they couldn’t be. I could see them more clearly, with compassion and honesty, and in that clarity, I found peace.

This doesn’t mean it’s easy to be kind and compassionate toward them.

Some days, my inner child still rises up, hurt and angry. Compassion isn’t automatic; it’s a practice. A mindful decision to keep the past from shaping today.

When my inner child rises up:

I feel sudden waves of hurt, anger, or frustration.

Old memories or unmet needs surface, sometimes triggered by small events.

I might withdraw, snap, or ruminate, replaying the moments I felt unseen.

Physically, it feels tense, restless, or tearful.

When I offer compassion:

I pause and acknowledge the feelings without judgment: “It’s okay to feel hurt; this was hard for you.”

I consciously soothe the younger part of me through self-talk, journaling, or comforting routines.

I remind myself that I am safe now and have the tools and support the younger me lacked.

The anger softens, tension eases, and I feel steadier, calmer, and more present.

Impact:

When left unchecked, the inner child keeps me stuck in old patterns, replaying grief and frustration.

Offering compassion validates my experiences, interrupts cycles of shame, and creates space for healing and growth.

Here’s what helps me when it’s hard:

Remembering their humanity

They are not only parents; they are people shaped by their own pain, fears, and limitations. I came to see that their distance or emotional unavailability wasn’t about me but about the wounds and fears they carried from their own lives. Understanding this shifted my frustration into compassion, even when their actions had once hurt me.

Holding two truths at once

I can acknowledge the hurt and understand their struggles. Compassion doesn’t cancel out pain.

Reparenting myself

When I give myself the care I needed as a child, I loosen the grip of old expectations.

It looks like noticing my own feelings without judgment, offering comfort when I’m anxious or sad, and reminding myself that it’s okay to need support.

It means setting boundaries I wished I had, speaking kindly to myself, and creating small rituals of safety and reassurance—a warm cup of tea, journaling, or simply sitting quietly with my emotions.

Reparenting isn’t a single act; it’s a series of mindful choices that teach my inner child they are seen, valued, and loved.

Setting boundaries without guilt.

Acceptance doesn’t mean unlimited access. I can love them and still protect my peace.

Finding my own teachers.

Emotional growth can come from therapy, community, or personal reflection. I’m no longer waiting for them to teach me.

Letting go of the hope that someone will change is one of the most painful forms of love. And sometimes, it’s the only way to make space for your own growth.

I’ve stopped expecting my parents to give me what they never knew how to give, and I’ve begun giving myself the love and care I was missing. Sometimes healing begins with accepting them as they are and then turning that compassion inward.

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About Shobitha Harinath

Shobitha Harinath is a photographer and writer who explores self-growth, healing, and relationships through personal reflection. Her writing offers a space to understand emotions, connection, and inner transformation. Follow her on Instagram: @maybe_existential.

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How to Cope When Trauma Stole Your Childhood Memories

“It’s all right if you can’t remember. Our subconscious is spectacularly agile. Sometimes it knows when to take us away, as a kind of protection.” ~Kathleen Glasgow 

A couple of weeks ago, I found myself crying in the park. It was supposed to be just a typical summer day. I was enjoying my usual stroll with my dog, Boni. The sun was shining, and the shade of the trees provided a very welcoming shelter from the burning sun.

Children were running and laughing, and their joy drew me in. Two of them, tiny three-year-olds, were squealing, all happy, wearing Hawaiian-style skirts and flowers around their necks.

I looked to the right, and there was the perfect birthday scene: a whole setup with tables, an abundance of food and drinks, balloons floating in the air, hanging by invisible threads, adults conversing with each other, and more kids playing in different spots.

The atmosphere was so heartwarming that I immediately felt happy for the birthday girl. Inspired by the scene, I asked myself, “Oh, how were my birthday parties?“

Blank.

Oh my, I couldn’t remember my birthday parties as a child past a certain age, no matter how hard I tried. It was as if I were walking to a place I was sure existed, and all of a sudden, I found a wall. Where the hell did it go? Why can’t I see it? Why is this wall here? Immediately, I started crying. “I don’t remember!” I said to myself repeatedly, sad and frustrated.

Boni started walking me around as I tried to recall my memories. “You can do this, Erika, c’mon!” But I couldn’t. My last memory of a birthday party as a child was before I was physically and sexually abused. All parties after that? Blank. Did they exist? I’m pretty sure they did. Did I have fun? I have no idea.

The question here is not the birthday parties per se; I’m sure I had some sort of celebration, but the heartbreak was knowing little Erika was so hurt and traumatized that her brain shut down on such special occasions.

If you’ve been through traumatic experiences, you may be relating to me right now and thinking, “I feel you, Erika. How do we deal with that?” I get you. It is so painful not having experienced certain things, not being able to remember, not being able to hop into some conversations because your childhood was not “normal” or you can’t remember anything.

But I’m here to bring you hope. Even though it is heartbreaking, you can soothe your heart and find peace. That’s what happened to me on that day when I realized I couldn’t remember my birthday parties. I used five steps I’ve learned on my healing journey to help me process my emotions and get back to my center fairly quickly.

You can use these same steps every time you feel triggered by a memory (or lack thereof) or if something from your past is really bothering you.

1. Acknowledge the pain.

If there’s one thing I learned on my healing journey, it’s that pain needs to be seen and acknowledged. There’s no point in wiping our tears away and pretending like nothing happened. I tried that, and it resulted in years of feeling anxious and numb.

Nowadays, I welcome the pain and celebrate the tears. They are a sign of release, and isn’t that what we want? To release these emotions and pain stored in our bodies?

That’s where I started. I acknowledged my pain. And I know this sounds wild, but I started talking to myself there and then. I spoke to little Erika: “I get what you are feeling. It is painful, and it sucks. You didn’t deserve to go through all that. I see you. Feel what you want to feel. I will hold you; I’m here for you.” And I let the tears, the sadness, and the grief take over.

Although it was a bit unusual to go through this process at the park, I believe that walking and being in nature helped me work through my emotions more easily. I’m not trying to have another breakdown at the park, but being surrounded by nature and moving really came in handy!

2. Soothe and regulate.

My next step was to help myself regulate. After allowing my feelings to surface, I wanted to bring myself to a more grounded place. We want to express our emotions, but being in that place for longer than necessary is not ideal either.

So, I used deep, slow breaths to help me relax, gently touched my arms up and down, softly rubbed the palms of my hands against each other, and kept walking in silence. The feelings were still there, but as time passed, they became less intense, and the sense of panic I felt started to fade.

I can’t remember if I hummed, but it helped me regulate my emotions in the past, so I’m leaving it here in case you can use an extra tip.

3. Bring yourself back to the present moment.

After letting grief take over and returning our body to safety, it is time to get back to the present moment, because when we go through situations like this, our mind goes straight to the past, and for that instant, we’re not here anymore. That is normal, but we’ve got to pull ourselves back. And that’s what I did.

Shamelessly, I started talking to little Erika again: “Girl, we got awesome birthday parties now! You are surrounded by love, and home feels safe. It’s simply amazing!“

The trick is to show yourself that you’re no longer in the past.

My hope is that you are safe and in a different position right now and that your painful past circumstances are no longer present in your daily life. If that’s not where you are yet, my heart goes out to you, and I want you to know that you are not alone. It is not unusual for survivors to find themselves in situations that are eerily similar to their past, but after all you’ve been through, you deserve better.  You deserve to take your power back. May this be your sign to reach for support to create real safety in your life.

You might have felt powerless back then, but you have the power now. And that takes us to the next step.

4. Make plans for the future:

Here is the thing: in these situations, we tend to focus on what we didn’t have, what we lost, or what we were “robbed” of. But this is you taking your power back. Yes, you didn’t have it back then, but you can give it to yourself right now if you choose to, whether that’s something tangible like a birthday cake or something more emotionally based, like self-validation.

Since you have the power, you get to decide what to do from here. And that’s exactly what I did. I reflected on my conversation with my inner child and figured out my needs—in the moment and moving forward.

So ask yourself what you need, and go all in; this is not the time to be embarrassed or to overlook your needs. Need bigger birthday parties? A more active social life? More rest? Asking everyone to take pictures at events so you can look back and remember?

Sometimes this step takes a bit of time, so it’s okay to ask the question and allow space for the answers to come. Whatever that need is, you can always give it to yourself now. I know you may be thinking it, so let me say this: it is never too late to give yourself what you didn’t have back then. You deserve it!

5. Talk about it.

This step is entirely optional, but I found out through personal experience that it can be highly beneficial to you and your loved ones. In my case, I was walking my dog, and eventually, I needed to get back home, where my partner was waiting for me.

In the past, I’d say nothing about what happened and just keep it to myself. I’d think, “I dealt with it, so what’s the point in sharing?“

But here’s the thing (only valid if we’re talking about healthy, loving, supporting people): when you share what happened to you, your loved one will understand why you may be “off.” They may help you with anything you need; they can give you space and time, or a hug, or a shoulder to cry a bit more on.

Or in my case, a very enthusiastic “Your next birthday parties are going to be SPECTACULAR! We’re gonna celebrate so much and create loads of new beautiful memories!“

People who love you want to know what’s going on with you and to support you in any way they can, so don’t hesitate to reach out.

These were the steps that helped me on that day, and honestly, on any day I felt triggered by memories of the past, or the absence of them. My hope is that they help you, too.

Know that you are not alone, and that from the present moment, anything can happen. Your past may sometimes come to shake you, but you can turn it into a powerful moment of healing and release. Lean into curiosity and show yourself some love and compassion. You really deserve it.

Cheers to filling in the blanks with new, beautiful, happy memories!

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About Erika Sardinha

Erika Sardinha is an empowerment coach for survivors based in the Canary Islands. Her purpose is to help survivors reclaim their right to be gentle and achieve success in an aligned way, honoring themselves and their journey. She offers private and group coaching for people who've been through trauma while providing various free resources to her community. Join Erika's free Gentle Badass Community for survivors on WhatsApp and grab her 10-day Empowered Self-care Guided Journaling Experience (also free)! Facebook / TikTok

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What If 2026 Could Actually Be Different?

I’ve never believed that change should be reserved for special days, but the New Year tends to carry a sense of promise. It often brings a surge of clarity, motivation, and hope that maybe things really could be different.

And then, as January moves along, that initial energy fades.

Responsibilities pile up. Our bandwidth shrinks. And before we know it, we’re pulled back into the familiar current of obligations, far from the shore we were hoping to reach.

It’s not that we lack willpower or discipline. Most of us are already trying hard. What we often need instead is the right kind of support to help us stay the course when life inevitably intervenes.

That’s why I wanted to share something I think many of you will appreciate.

The Best Year of Your Life Summit 2026, presented by Wisdom for Life, is a free, eight-day online event designed to help you approach the year ahead with intention rather than just hope.

More than 50 respected teachers and guides come together to share practical insights to help you build a solid foundation for the year—one that actually supports your real life.

This is the sixth year of the summit, and hundreds of thousands of people have participated since it first launched.

Whether you’re focusing on your health, relationships, finances, mindset, or sense of purpose, you’ll find grounded tools you can start using right away.

Claim your FREE spot now

You’ll hear from voices you may already know and trust, including Tara Brach, Jack Kornfield, Sharon Salzberg, Kristin Neff, Ken Honda, Pico Iyer, Sue Morter, Marci Shimoff, and many others.

Each session is intentionally short—about 20–25 minutes—so you’re not asked to carve out huge blocks of time or absorb information you’ll never use. The focus is on insight you can integrate into daily life without overwhelm.

Over the eight days, you’ll explore how to:

• Build sustainable energy and vitality so you’re not exhausted by 3pm or short-tempered with the people you love
• Strengthen your relationships with tools for better communication and deeper presence
• Create financial clarity that replaces the anxiety keeping you up at night with actual confidence
• Develop habits that stick because they’re aligned with who you truly are, not who you think you should be
• Reconnect with joy and purpose in ways that feel natural, not forced

Claim your FREE spot here

The summit touches on all the areas that tend to shape our days most:

• Habits, mindset, and purpose
• Emotional and mental well-being
• Physical health and vitality
• Relationships and communication
• Financial health and abundance
• Simplicity, balance, and harmony
• Spirituality and self-discovery

Most years, we hope things will be different. We try harder, set more goals, and push through.

This year, try a different approach: build the foundation that makes lasting change possible. Eight days with the right kind of support can help shape your whole year ahead.

Reserve your FREE spot now

Oh, and when you register, you’ll also receive two bonus guides—How to Build a New Habit and How to Stop Procrastinating—by James Clear.

I hope the summit is helpful to you!

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About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She started the site after struggling with depression, bulimia, c-PTSD, and toxic shame so she could recycle her former pain into something useful and inspire others to do the same. You can find her books, including Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and Tiny Buddha’s Worry Journal, here and learn more about her eCourse, Recreate Your Life Story, if you’re ready to transform your life and become the person you want to be.

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Why Listening Matters More Than Giving Advice (A Barbershop Lesson)

“Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” ~Stephen R. Covey

I used to think running a barbershop was all about haircuts, schedules, and keeping clients happy. I measured success by the number of chairs filled, how quickly we moved through the day, and whether everything ran smoothly. Efficiency felt like the most important thing.

Then one afternoon, a moment with a customer changed everything.

Mr. Hicks, a regular, came in looking unusually quiet. He slumped in my chair, barely making eye contact, and gave only short, mumbled answers when I tried to make small talk. Normally, I would have filled the silence, tried to keep him talking, or offered advice. But that day, I paused. I simply listened. I let him sit in silence as I worked, resisting the urge to speak unnecessarily or try to “fix” anything.

Minutes later, he began to share struggles he had been carrying for months—tensions at work, family challenges, the weight of constant exhaustion. By the time I finished his haircut, he looked lighter, calmer, almost relieved.

I realized I hadn’t needed to give advice. I hadn’t needed to solve his problems. I had only given him my attention. That day, I learned a lesson I carry with me every time I sit behind the barber chair: listening is a gift, patience is a practice, and presence can heal in ways words sometimes cannot.

This lesson didn’t just apply to Mr. Hicks. Over time, I began noticing similar moments with other clients, apprentices, and even friends and family.

A young apprentice, struggling to perfect his techniques, came in one morning looking defeated. Instead of correcting him immediately, I stepped back, watched, and let him try on his own. When he finally turned to me for guidance, the lesson became his own. The joy on his face was more rewarding than any praise I could have offered.

I’ve come to understand that patience isn’t just about waiting. It’s about presence. It’s about fully engaging in the moment, without rushing to the next task. In a barbershop, it’s easy to feel pressured—clients waiting, appointments lined up, every second seeming valuable. But slowing down and giving someone your full attention creates connection in a way speed never can.

One afternoon, I faced a particularly challenging situation. A client came in visibly frustrated and tense. Every suggestion I made seemed to irritate him further.

I could have taken offense or brushed him off, but I tried a different approach. I listened not just to his words but to the subtle cues: the tone of his voice, the tension in his shoulders, the hesitation in his movements.

Slowly, he began to relax, and by the time I finished, he was calmer, smiling, and expressing gratitude. That experience reinforced that sometimes, people need more than advice. They need acknowledgment and space to be heard.

I’ve also carried these lessons beyond the shop. With friends, family, and even strangers, I try to pause before responding, asking myself whether I am truly listening or just waiting to reply. I’ve noticed that when I give people room to share openly, relationships deepen and grow more authentic.

Running a barbershop has taught me humility. Not every story is easy to hear, and not every challenge can be solved with words or actions. But being present, patient, and genuinely attentive is a form of service that often matters more than technical skill. I’ve learned that my role isn’t always to fix problems but to create a safe space where people feel seen, understood, and valued.

There have been moments of personal growth too. Early on, I struggled with impatience, rushing through tasks, wanting instant results, and missing the subtle cues from those around me. By paying attention to the human side of my work, I’ve learned to slow down, notice details, and respond thoughtfully rather than react impulsively. This patience has spilled over into other areas of my life—how I manage stress, handle conflict, and nurture relationships.

I’ve also discovered that listening can transform the listener as much as the speaker. Each story I hear challenges me to see the world from a different perspective. I’ve developed empathy I never knew I had, realizing that everyone carries burdens and struggles silently, searching for someone willing to simply acknowledge them. This awareness has made me more compassionate, not just in the shop, but in every interaction.

Sometimes, the lessons come in unexpected ways. I remember a shy teenager who came in for his first haircut. He was nervous, almost silent, and seemed unsure of how to interact. I spoke less, observed more, and let him get comfortable.

By the end of the session, he was laughing, joking, and sharing stories. That simple act of patience, giving him room to open up, reminded me that growth often happens quietly, in small, unassuming moments.

Through all of this, I’ve realized that patience and listening are not passive acts. They are active choices we make every day. They require mindfulness, attention, and the willingness to put another person’s experience before our own need to act or respond. Running a barbershop taught me that these choices, repeated over time, build trust, deepen relationships, and foster genuine human connection.

If there’s one takeaway I can share, it’s this: slow down, be present, and listen. Whether in a barber’s chair, a living room, or a workplace, giving someone your full attention is a rare and valuable gift.

You don’t need special training or expertise, just the willingness to be patient, notice, and understand. The lessons you learn, and the growth you experience, will stay with you long after the conversation ends.

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About Timothy Warden

Timothy Warden is a barbershop owner in Stafford who believes haircuts are only part of the story. Listening and presence are just as important. Through his work and daily interactions, he writes about personal growth, mindfulness, and human connection, sharing lessons learned from the barber chair and beyond. Visit his site at numberonebarbershoptx.com.

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