The Rhythm of Returning

The month of June was a flurry of creativity and activity.

I launched my Call a Death Doula video series and was delighted by the response. I consistently shared weekly blogs, guided meditations, and videos for the first time. I learned how to edit videos, upload to YouTube, update my website, and embed new content. Alongside all of that, I spent time supporting my parents with doctor’s appointments, grocery shopping, and helping them sort through thirty years of belongings as they prepare for Kevin and me to move into their home this September.

To wrap it all up, we celebrated my dad’s eighty-ninth birthday.

I wanted him to feel just how deeply loved he is.

There was planning, ordering, decorating, a fence to paint, a yard to prepare, cupcakes to bring to church so he would get the “Happy Birthday” song twice.

The gathering was smaller than we originally expected, but it was exactly as it needed to be. People shared beautiful stories about how my dad had touched their lives. It felt like a living celebration of life. Isn’t that what every birthday really is?

After all of that, I knew my calendar was quiet.

For the first time in weeks, there wasn’t another project waiting for me. Part of me thought I should keep producing at the same pace. Another part of me knew I didn’t have to.

My body had already decided.

I gave myself permission to rest because my body was asking something different of me. My mind needed time to catch up. To process. To integrate everything I had experienced and allow it to settle into me.

I remembered that rest allows for integration.

The month of June changed me.

It was my first month consistently writing blogs, recording meditations, and sharing videos while learning to trust that my life experiences might be meaningful to others. I’m still getting comfortable allowing my life experience to become an offering. Sometimes there’s a part of me that worries it will sound like I’m trying to tell people how to live, when my intention is simply to share what I’ve noticed while finding my way back to myself.

During that quieter week, I found myself checking my phone to see if there were any more views or likes on the work that I have been putting out there.

I noticed myself getting caught up in it, and then I became curious.

Why was I doing this?

What was my intention?

I want to connect with people. I want to offer the wisdom I have gleaned from my own life experience. But I don’t want my sense of purpose to depend on someone else’s reaction.

As I sat with those questions, my attention was drawn to the corkboard in my office.

Pinned to it were outlines, ideas, reflections, and reminders from months ago. I took everything down and spread it across my desk. There were the Reunion Tour maps, workshop ideas, practices, and projects I had imagined and then actually brought into the world.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Not because I had forgotten them.

Because the time was right to receive them.

My past self had prepared reminders that my present self needed to find.

I realized I hadn’t lost my purpose.

I had simply become so focused on moving forward that I hadn’t paused to appreciate what had already unfolded.

That moment reminded me that when I feel untethered, it’s easy to look outside myself for reassurance. I can reach for my phone, look for approval, or wonder what someone else thinks I should be doing.

Lately I’ve been thinking about what it means to return to ourselves.

For me, it isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about nurturing the relationship between my human self and my spiritual self. I don’t believe we have to create our center. I believe we come into this life with it. Life experiences can sometimes obscure it beneath expectations, fear, perfectionism, and old stories.

When I feel connected to myself, I notice it in my body.

My thoughts settle.

My breathing deepens.

I become aware instead of reactive.

I return to my heart.

From that place, I remember that every person is having their own human experience through their own unique perspective, just as I am. I don’t need someone else to tell me who I am or what my purpose is. I can listen inward and trust myself to take the next step.

When I notice that I’ve drifted away from myself, I no longer criticize myself.

Usually I’ve simply wandered away from the practices that help me stay connected—meditation, walking, breathing, and paying attention.

I stop.

I notice.

I thank every part of me for bringing me back to awareness.

Then I begin again.

As many times as necessary.

Because this relationship with myself will last a lifetime.

This feels especially meaningful as Kevin and I prepare to move into my parents’ home.

I’m excited for this next chapter.

As I spend more time there, I notice that familiar belongings, my dad’s workshop, old books, and the rhythms of my parents’ lives naturally bring memories and feelings to the surface. It’s not my childhood home, but something about being surrounded by the familiar energy of my parents’ lives awakens parts of my own story.

The beautiful part is that I’m not meeting those memories as the person I once was.

Over the past ten years, I’ve come to know my parents differently. I still see them as my parents, but I also see them as fellow human beings—fellow travelers—doing the best they can with the life they’ve been given.

That changes everything.

Instead of trying to fix old feelings, I can simply notice them with loving awareness and compassionate curiosity.

I’m grateful to be entering this next chapter from a place of peace, forgiveness, and understanding. I don’t know exactly what living together will bring, but I trust that it will continue to soften my heart and teach me about aging, caregiving, and the privilege of simply being present with the people I love.

Every season asks something different of us.

There is a season for creating.

There is a season for integrating.

There is a season for preparing.

Nature has never expected every season to look the same.

Trees don’t grow leaves all year long.

We breathe in and breathe out.

We gather and we release.

Every day contains its own little hellos and goodbyes.

Perhaps we aren’t meant to produce constantly either.

Perhaps this quieter season is nourishing something that isn’t visible yet.

As I prepare for this next chapter, I’m creating rituals for the person I am today, not the person I was even a month ago.

Daily meditation.

Walking.

Listening.

Returning to my heart.

Trusting my own rhythm.

Maybe the rhythm of life isn’t that we always stay centered.

Maybe it’s that we notice when we’ve drifted and lovingly return.

Again and again.

Perhaps remembering is a reunion between who we’ve been and who we are today—receiving, with gratitude, the reminders our past self lovingly prepared for us.