take a step back
Mothering a toddler is mostly negotiating, chasing, and trying not to scream when you step on a princess tiara for the fifth time in five minutes. And yet, somehow, between the snacks, the tiny tantrums, and the endless questions, there are these tiny pauses that feel like windows into clarity. It’s in those moments that I remember why I come back to the things that actually work, the routines that keep me grounded, and the practices that help me untangle the noise of life and the constant pull of distraction.
Whenever I step back and eventually recommit to these things, I get another chance to see what’s really happening. The struggle is not about doing or not doing. The real work is about relaxing enough to notice what’s going on inside. To see the impulses and the resistance for what they are without acting on them and without trying to squash them. Just noticing. Just understanding. That is where the clarity lives.
For me, it usually starts with rolling out my mat, moving through a sequence that meets my body and my mind where they are that day. Some days it’s a full vinyasa flow, other days just a few stretches, but always with a breath that grounds me back into myself. Even as she tugs at my sleeve or climbs on my back mid-chaturanga, I feel the reminder that my practice is not about perfection, it’s about presence.
At some point, I might sit in the quiet with my coffee, notebook in hand, scribbling reflections on what’s happening inside me, what I’m noticing in the world, what’s really tugging at my heart. Sometimes it’s coherent, sometimes it’s nonsense, but always illuminating. And when the chaos of the day threatens to swallow me, I step outside, breathe in the cold air, feel the sun on my face, and remember that life keeps moving whether I’m panicking or pausing.
Every so often, I’ll close my eyes for a few moments, paying attention to my body, noticing where it feels tight, heavy, or restless, and responding. Sometimes that means rest. Sometimes it means movement. Sometimes it means leaning into discomfort long enough to see what it’s teaching me. These small, deliberate acts are how I tap back into the wisdom that’s always been there, quietly guiding me.
Movement, breath, stillness, reflection, nature, listening—it’s all part of the same practice. It’s not about checking boxes, it’s about making space to remember who I am when the noise dies down. And in those tiny, ordinary moments, clarity appears. The inner guidance I’ve been chasing doesn’t come from doing more, it comes from noticing, trusting, and showing up.
So when life gets messy, as it does, I step back, breathe, move, write, and sometimes just stand outside and watch the clouds. And somehow, through it all, I remember: I already know. I just have to make room to listen.
