I’ve always liked to move fast. I like a full day. I like things happening around me, plans, momentum in work and so on... For most of my life that felt like being alive, and part of it still does. Speed and change has never frightened me. If anything, I’ve welcomed it.

But something shifts the moment I actually stop and listen to my body. I slow down, not because I decide to, but because my body asks for it. I start walking slower, I take some deep conscious breaths. The rush smoothly losens its grip. And every time, underneath all of it, I find the same thing. It comes down to whether I feel safe.

I’ve been sitting with this for a few years now, and the more I look, the more sense it makes.

Look at the world we’re living in. The news, the noise, the screens full of other people’s fear, the pace we’ve all silently agreed is normal. The way we live now pulls us out of our homes, our bodies, our sense of ground. It’s no wonder so many of us carry a low hum of unsafe through the day without ever naming it. We weren’t built for this much, this fast, all the time. Our bodies know it even when our minds insist we’re fine.

So let me say bluntly what everyone keeps calling the nervous system.

You’ve got two settings inside you. One revs you up. One slows you down. A gas pedal and a brake.

The gas is the part that switches on when something feels urgent or unsafe. Heart faster, jaw tight, mind running ahead of you, that wired and tired feeling. It’s meant to be brief. You switch it on, you deal with the thing, you switch it off.

The brake is the part that tells your whole body the danger has passed. Shoulders drop. Breath slows. Your stomach settles. You can think clearly again. This is the setting where you actually rest, heal, and feel like yourself.

Here’s the trouble. The gas gets pressed all day and the brake almost never gets used. Your body can’t tell the difference between a real threat and a phone lighting up with the next awful thing. So it stays switched on, for years. We call it stress. We call it being busy. The body calls it a danger that never ended.

That’s why you can’t think your way calm. I’ve tried. You’ve tried. We all have. You tell yourself to relax and nothing happens, and then you feel like you’re failing at rest too. You’re not. Calm isn’t a decision you make in your head. It’s a state your body has to feel safe enough to drop into. The body goes first. The mind follows after.

Once I understood that, I stopped trying to force it and started giving my body the signals instead.

One of the things I love most is a 30 minute guided Yoga Nidra. It’s a deep relaxation you do lying down, fully supported, just following a voice while your body sinks. I don’t have to perform anything. I don’t have to get it right. I just let go, layer by layer, and by the end my whole system has quietly shifted gears. It’s one of the few things that reaches the places thinking never can. And many times I fall a sleep and get a good rest while the sub conscious mind still listens to the beautiful Yoga Nidra.

Yoga Nidra is my deeper reset, and not every day gives you half an hour in your busy life. So here are the two easiest ways I know to tell your body it’s safe, anywhere, in the middle of an ordinary day.

One. Breathe out longer than you breathe in. That’s it. A slow, loose exhale, longer than the breath in, is the most direct message of safety you can send yourself. It costs nothing and you can do it in a queue, in traffic, mid sentence. And while you do it, let a quiet line run underneath. I am safe. I am safe. I am safe. You’re giving your body the words and the breath at the same time, and the two together land deeper than either one alone. A few rounds of this and the brake starts to come on by itself.

Two. Slow your body down on purpose. This is the one I keep relearning. Walk slower. Move slower. Put something down instead of rushing to the next thing. When I let my body move at an easier pace, my mind takes the hint and follows. Speed tells your system something’s wrong. Slowness tells it you’re okay.

Neither of these is impressive. That’s the point. The body doesn’t need a grand gesture, it needs small, honest signals, repeated often.

And once those two feel natural, there are a few more small things I come back to, each one a quiet message of safety in its own way.

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Sit with someone you truly feel safe with. Real safety is partly something we borrow from each other. One relaxed conversation with a person who feels like home can settle you faster than anything you do alone.

Stand barefoot in nature. Feet on grass, on sand, on the earth. Something about skin meeting ground tells the body it belongs here, it’s held, it can let go.

Hum, sing, or chant. It sounds almost too simple, but the vibration gently stimulates your vagus nerve, the long nerve that runs the brake. You already do it without thinking when you sigh out loud or hum in the kitchen. Do it on purpose and you’re working the calm system directly.

Lie down and rest your legs up the wall. A few minutes with your legs resting up a wall and your body flat cues the whole system to shift into calm. I do this at the end of a full day and I can feel the switch happen.

And if any of this feels familiar, it should. This is what the yoga tradition has been doing all along, long before anyone reached for the words nervous system. The slow breath. The stillness. The attention brought gently back into the body. It was never about looking peaceful. It was about reminding the body, over and over, that it’s safe to calm down now.

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So here’s what I want to leave you with. Which one of these zings with you, the one you can already feel your body saying yes to. And what do you think would happen, not in a week, but over months, if you gave your nervous system that one small signal every single day.

You’re not broken. Your system is doing exactly what it was built to do. It just never got the message that the danger is over.

So give it the message. One slow breath out. I am safe. And let yourself move a little slower. That’s where it begins.

Until next time, stay curious and grateful.

Peace and joy,

Kim

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I have spent most of my life moving fast, and for a long time that felt like being alive. Then I started noticing something. The calm I was chasing never came from my head. It came from …

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There is a voice that lives in most of us. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t wait to be invited. It just starts talking, usually at the worst moments, and it always sounds reasonable.

Mine has a particular script. You should be doing more. You shouldn’t have said that. You should fix this for your kids. You shouldn’t look the way you look. It knows exactly where I am soft, and it goes there first.

For a long time, I thought the work was to argue with it. To gather evidence, build a case, prove it wrong. That is exhausting and it never ends, because the voice doesn’t actually want to be right. It wants to keep talking.

So now I do something different. When it starts, I say three words.

Oh, you again.

And almost instantly, it shuts up. Not because I defeated it. Because I stopped feeding it. I named it as a visitor instead of treating it as the truth, and a visitor who gets no reaction tends to leave.

Joe Dispenza says the same thing in his own language

I love that Dr. Joe Dispenza teaches a version of this. He talks about how most of our thoughts are not fresh, they are reruns. The same loop firing the same way it fired yesterday, wearing the same groove deeper each time. He says the moment you catch yourself mid-loop and go there is that old program again, you have already stepped outside it. You are no longer the thought. You are the one watching the thought.

That is the whole trick. The voice only has power while you believe it’s you speaking. The second you see it as an old recording, a habit of mind running on autopilot, it loses its grip. Dispenza would say you just interrupted the pattern. In Yoga we would say you just loosened a samskara, one of those deep grooves the mind carves by repetition. Same mountain, two paths up.

Oh, you again is my shorthand for all of it. It’s me catching the rerun before it convinces me it’s the news.

The tyranny of should

Notice how much of that voice speaks in shoulds. You should be further along. You should be thinner. You should be calmer by now. The world should be kinder. And its evil twin, you shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t feel that, you shouldn’t want that.

Louise L Hay said years ago that we would all be a great deal happier if we stopped shoulding all over ourselves.

I have never forgotten it, partly because it’s funny and partly because it’s true. Every should is a small act of violence against the person you actually are right now. It takes this moment, which is fine, and measures it against an imaginary moment where you are already perfect, and declares you behind.

The body knows this one well. Almost sixty years on this planet and the voice still finds the mirror. You should. You shouldn’t. This body carried me across continents, through three pregnancies, into handstands and out of some very hard years. These days I meet the mirror with something closer to thank you for still carrying me than with a list of corrections.

The kids are the other place it lives loudest. You should fix their problems. You should solve this for them. But taking their struggle away from them is not love, its interference dressed as care. They are allowed their own path. My job is to stand close, not to clear the road.

And then the big one. You could do more. This one shows up as ambition so you will not notice that it’s just dissatisfaction. A real work ethic rests when the work is done. This voice never lets the work be done, because being finished is not the point. More is the point, and more never arrives.

This practice is thousands of years old

In Yoga philosophy there is a name for exactly what we are doing here. It is called pratipaksha bhavana. It comes from The Yoga sutras or Patanjali, and the literal meaning is cultivating the opposite.

When a disturbing thought shows up, you don’t wrestle it and you don’t pretend it never came. You notice it, and then you deliberately turn toward its counter. The should gets a truer thought set down beside it. You could do more, becomes I did enough today, and enough is a real amount. You shouldn’t feel that, becomes this feeling is allowed to be here, and it will pass.

This is not positive thinking. Positive thinking slaps a nice sticker over something rotten. Pratipaksha bhavana is more honest than that. It says the dark thought is real, it arrived, and you are simply not obligated to host it for the rest of the day.

The reason to catch it early is that a thought left alone recruits friends. One should become a story, and the story becomes a mood, and by evening you cannot remember that it all started with a single rerun you could have greeted and released. Nip it in the bud, and there is almost nothing to pull out later.

What actually changes

Nothing dramatic happens. There is rarely a morning when the voice is simply gone. What happens is quieter than that. The gap between the thought arriving and you believing it gets wider, and in that gap you get to choose.

Over months the voice loses its power. It still comes. It just no longer runs the place. You hear the old rerun start, you recognise it, oh you again, you set a kinder and truer thought down in its place, and you carry on with your day.

Oh, you again. Not today.

Until next time, stay curious and grateful.

Light and joy,

Kim

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We all have that voice. The one that gets critical right when we are about to do something that matters. This week I wrote down what actually helps when it starts talking, the things I co…

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Light and joy,

Kim

I spent years thinking the next phase of life was about becoming more. More skills, more reach, more proof that I had used my time well. Then somewhere in my fifties the arithmetic flipp…

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Hi dear one

I have never felt less like I’m winding down.

There is a post going around at the moment. The first half of life is about becoming whoever you had to become to survive. The second half is about unravelling everything that no longer fits who you actually are. Most people call that a midlife crisis. I think they have the name wrong. It is a rebirth.

This morning in Bali the air is already warm by six. The kind of heat that slows you down whether you want it or not. I sat drinking my warm lemon water and watched the light come up, and I thought about how much of my earlier life I spent moving fast. Moving countries, changing schools as a kid in Sweden, then changing them again. Raising children with very little money and a mind that never stopped counting what we might run out of. I built a self who could carry all of that. She was useful, she kept us fed and safe. And she carried a tiredness that lived underneath the sleep. I became her because I had to. She held the line, and I can put her down now.

The armor is not the enemy, she did her job. For a long stretch of my life I needed someone inside me who could brace for the worst, stretch a small amount of money across a long period, and keep going when going felt impossible. I dont resent her, I’m grateful for her. And I have slowly realised I don’t have to be her every single day anymore.

For years I thought growth meant adding. More skills, more discipline, more proof that I was keeping up with a world that kept speeding up and changing very fast. The second half is going into the oposite. Its subtraction. I keep taking things off and setting them down. Beliefs I absorbed from very young and from sometimes frightened young parents. The certainty that money could run out at any second, so I had to stay braced forever. Roles I agreed to before I understood I was agreeing to anything. Every time I put one of these down, I feel lighter and a little more like the person I was before the world told me who to be.

That’s the part that might looks like a crisis from the outside. When a woman in the second half of her life stops performing the version of herself that everyone got comfortable with, people might worry a little. They call it a phase. They ask if she is doing alright. She is more than alright. She’s finally putting down weight she was never meant to carry this far.

I notice it most clearly when I paint. I lose track of time completely. There is no one to be and nothing to prove. No survival to manage, no outcome to protect. Just color and movement and a peace I was far too busy to reach for most of my life. That peace was always in there. The armor simply kept it hidden, because armor doesn’t have much use for stillness.

The biggest thing I am setting down right now is the one I have carried the longest. For most of my adult life my job, amongst other things, was to make sure my children were ok. That’s what a mother does. You keep one ear open for them always, ready to step in and fix whatever has gone wrong, and it becomes so woven into who you that you stop noticing you are doing it. What moves me most is that the beautiful children I raised are the ones helping me put it down.

A few days ago, I asked my two adult kids a straight yes or no question. Am I free from fixing anything you have going on in your lives. They both said, YES completely. Then they added something I love. They know, without a doubt, that I’m there for them if they ever truly need me. They simply don’t need me to fix their problems anymore, unless they ask for help.

My husband asked me afterwards where I am on a scale from one to ten for actually not solving things for them. I said a strong five and laughed, because five is true and five is a start. The rest will come. They are grown, capable, wonderful young humans building their own lives. Raising them well and then trusting who they have become turns out to be the same act. Now I get to simply enjoy them. Two of my three live near us here in Bali, and for that I am so, so grateful.

The unraveling and undoing is not easy. I will not pretend it is. There is a strange middle section where the old life no longer fits and the new one has not arrived yet. Things you built your identity on stop making sense. Work you were proud of starts to feel not so important anymore. Friendships shift. You catch yourself grieving a version of your life that you had already outgrown. That middle can be uncomfortable, and the discomfort is not a sign that you are doing it wrong. The discomfort is the doing.

I keep coming back to a thought of compost. Everything breaking down in you right now is not waste. Its feeding what comes next. The old leaves have to fall and rot before the soil is rich enough to grow something new. We have been taught to fear the falling apart. I have come to see it as the most alive thing a person can do.

If you are younger and reading this, none of it is a warning. The first half is not wasted time. You need that survival self. You need to learn to stand on your own feet, to earn, to protect the people you love, to find out what you are made of and what your purpose in this life is. Build her well. Just hold her loosely and remember she is scaffolding, not the building. One day you will get to take the scaffolding down and see what you were constructing underneath the whole time.

And if you are somewhere in the middle of it right now, in that tender, disorienting in between. You are not falling apart, you are being remade. Everything you are letting go of is clearing the space for who you came here to be.

I am not afraid of this chapter. I am curious about the woman underneath all the things I used to be. She has been waiting a long time, and I have finally grown quiet enough to meet her.

Until next time, stay grateful and curious.

Light and joy,

Kim

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Yesterday was one of those days. My energy was low, and as usual, my inner critic woke up bright and early, tea in hand, ready to work.

I walked past the canvas in my studio in the morning and saw nothing but boring. Colours that had felt alive the week before suddenly looked bland and confusing. I opened the article I am writing for my next send out and every sentence sounded like someone trying too hard. The workbook pages for my new program, the ones I call Funwork Books because I want them to feel light, felt heavy. And somewhere in the back of my mind a quiet voice started listing everything else on the go. The website that still needs finishing, the emails waiting for replies, the new business my partner and I are building, the land up north and everything that comes with turning a dream into an actual neighbourhood.

Within about ten minutes, I had decided that none of it was good enough, that I had taken on too much, and that maybe the creative fire I have relied on my whole life had simply gone out.

It hadn’t. I was tired.

The reasons we run low

As women, especially as we move through the mid and later chapters of life, there are so many reasons to feel drained. Sleep that breaks in the middle of the night. Hormones that shift the ground under our feet without actually asking permission. Workloads that grow quietly until they fill every corner of the day. Caring for the people we love, whether its parents, children, grandchildren, partners, or friends who need us. The mental load of holding many threads at once, even when each thread is something we chose and something we love.

That last one is the one I forget. Everything I am doing right now is something I want to be doing. Painting. Writing. Building a course. Making chocolate in my kitchen. Supporting projects that matter to me. Creating and dreaming up a neighbourhood in the mountains of North Bali. None of it is a burden in the way a job you hate is a burden.

Yet even beautiful things take energy. Joy still costs something. A full life is still full.

And then we sit down to create, or simply to think clearly about one decision, and everything looks greyer than it did the day before. We assume the problem is the work. We assume the problem is us.

Tired eyes see differently

Years of painting, writing, teaching yoga, and starting things from scratch have shown me one thing very clearly. My judgement is not reliable when my mind and body is empty.

A tired mind is a very harsh editor. It looks for what is missing instead of what is there. It reads a rough first draft as proof of failure rather than what it is, which is a rough first draft.

I have tested this more times than I can count. I close the laptop, leave the canvas, go to bed early, and come back the next morning to exactly the same work. That is what happened yesterday. The writing that felt hollow yesterday now has a heartbeat. The painting that looked boring has one corner that glows, and that corner is already telling me where to go next. Nothing changed on the page or the canvas overnight. What changed was me.

In yoga philosophy there is a simple idea that the mind takes on the colour of whatever state its in. When we are depleted, everything we look at gets tinted with that depletion. The work has not lost its light. Our eyes have lost some of theirs, temporarily.

Spark is not the same as energy

I think many of us confuse two very different things.

Spark is the part of you that sees colour where others see a blank wall. Its the part that gets an idea in the shower and cannot wait to write it down. Its the part that wants to make things, share things, and build things that didn’t exist before. That part doesn’t disappear because you had a bad night’s sleep or a heavy week. It has lived in you for decades, its not that fragile.

Energy is fuel, it runs out and it refills. It depends on sleep, food, rest, hormones, stress, and how many tabs are open in your mind at any given moment.

When the fuel tank run on red, the spark is still there. It simply has nothing to burn. And because we cannot feel the spark in that moment, we get nervous and believe it is gone.

What I do now instead

These days, before I think a project is dead or decide I have lost my creative touch, I check a few things.

I look at how I slept, at what I have eaten, how many different directions I have been pulled in over the past few days. I look at whether I’m trying to make big decisions or harsh judgements late in the day when I’m already running on empty.

If the answer to any of those points toward low reserves, I give myself a rule. No verdicts today. I’m allowed to keep working gently if I want to, but I am not allowed to judge the work, judging can wait until tomorrow.

Some days that means I don’t paint and zone out watching some comfort film online. Or I rest in nature doing absolutely nothing. And often it means going to bed embarrassingly early.

None of that is giving up. It is protecting the creative part of me from being assessed by the most exhausted version of me.

For you, if today is one of those days

If you are sitting with a half written email, a painting you want to throw away, a business idea that suddenly feels silly, or a project you have started doubting, be gentle with your conclusions today.

You most likely have not lost anything at all. You may simply need rest, water, food, a walk, a long sleep, or a few quiet hours without anyone needing something from you.

Your spark has carried you through a lot of life already. It is still there, waiting for you to come back with a fuller heart and more joy.

So before you decide you have lost your creative fire, ask yourself one thing first. Is it really about the creating, or am I just tired?

More often than not, it is the second one. And the second one is fixable with rest.

Until next time.

Stay grateful and curious. Light and joy,

Kim

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I’ve been thinking, reading and listening to a lot of pod casts lately, about where my mind actually lives during the day. And it’s rarely just here.

Sometimes it’s in the past. Replaying a conversation. Wondering why I said or did this and that. Feeling something that happened years ago as if it happened today.

The other half is a lot in the future. Planning, worrying, wishing, hoping... Making lists of how life will be when things finally settle down.

Reaching for the future… but not really creating it.

Because when I think about my future, I usually think about it with the same old feelings, the same worry, the same “yes, but maybe.” The same old story. So, I’m basically planning a new life using my old brain.

Remembering my future

What if, instead of hoping for the woman I’m becoming, I practise remembering her? The way I remember the taste of my morning tea or hearing my kids laugh together. Fully, in my body, as if it already happened.

It sounds a little strange, but it turns out the brain is pretty good at it.

Meet the four brains

Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor is a neuroanatomist, a brain scientist, who had a stroke in 1996. She lost her language, her logic, her sense of time… and even her sense of where her body ended and the world began.

What remained was the right side of her brain. She described it as an ocean of peace. It took her eight years to rebuild. Out of that came her books My Stroke of Insight and Whole Brain Living.

In Whole Brain Living she explains that each half of the brain has a thinking part on top (the cortex) and a feeling part underneath (the older limbic system). Two halves, two layers… four characters.

She also reminds us that we are feeling creatures who think, not thinking creatures who feel. The feelings get there first. The thinking arrives a moment later and writes the explanation.

Character 1, the left thinking brain

This is the part of us that thinks in words, steps and details. One thing after another. She lives in time, always aware of what happened before and what needs to happen next.

She sorts, labels, compares and judges. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Mine and yours. She is also where our sense of being a separate “I” comes from. Her job is to build and run our life in the world. Plans, money, structure, getting things finished.

When she’s out of balance, she becomes rigid and critical. She can’t rest until everything is done. And everything is never done.

Character 2, the left emotional brain

This part compares everything happening now with everything that happened before. Her question is always the same.

Is this safe?

She checks every person, situation and feeling against her library of old experiences, especially the painful ones. If something looks even a little bit like an old hurt… alarm bells.

This is where we feel fear, anger, shame, guilt and that old familiar “not enough.” It’s where our inner child carries the past. It’s our fight or flight. Her job is protection. She sets boundaries, says no and keeps us alive. We need her. The trouble starts when she runs our life using memories that are twenty years out of date.

Character 3, the right emotional brain

This part lives right now, through the senses. Colour, music, taste, touch, sun on our skin. She’s curious, playful and spontaneous. She wants to explore, create, laugh, hug and try something new just because it looks fun.

This is where we feel joy, wonder, delight and connection with other people. Her job is to make life worth living.

When she’s out of balance she can forget about consequences altogether… which is why she and Character 1 need to be on speaking terms.

Character 4, the right-thinking brain

This part sees the whole picture instead of the details. No past, no future, only now. No hard edges between “me” and everything else.

This is where Jill landed during her stroke, when the left side went quiet. It’s where we feel gratitude, compassion, peace and the sense of being part of something much bigger. Her job is to remind us that we belong to the whole… and that in this moment, we are fine.

Giving them names

In a podcast I listened to Jill was talking about giving each character their own name.

I love this!🥰

Because in the middle of a stressful moment, “Character 2” doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. But a name does. And the second I can say “oh, that’s her talking,” I’m already halfway out of whatever reaction I go through.

So here’s my brain household.

Character 1 is Victoria. She has the clipboard.

Character 2 is the Cousin. She always remembers what happened last time.

Character 3 is Gladys. She’s painting in the studio having fun.

Character 4 is Zenita. She’s sitting quietly smiling, completely at peace and very content.

Jill’s whole point is that we need all four. Whole brain living simply means noticing who’s in charge right now and inviting the others to the table.

She has a lovely tool called the Brain Huddle, built on BRAIN (Breathe, Recognize, Appreciate, Inquire, Navigate). Breathe. Notice who’s talking. Thank her for trying to help. Ask the others what they think. Then move forward together.

She also teaches the 90 second rule. When an emotion gets triggered, the chemistry of it moves through the body in about 90 seconds.

If it’s still there after that?

We’re usually feeding it.

Rereading the old script.

The old roads

Our brains are incredibly clever things. They are also creatures of habit. Give the brain a thought often enough, a feeling often enough, a behaviour often enough and eventually it starts doing it for us.

Automatically, no meeting, no permission. No little committee sitting around asking, “Are we sure this is still serving her?”

It just runs the programme.

· I reach for my phone before my feet have touched the floor.

· Someone asks how I am and “fine” pops out before I’ve checked.

· A bill arrives and my stomach drops, as if I’m seven years old and money is tight again.

· A friend doesn’t reply for a day and Character 2, (the left emotional brain) has already written a whole novel about what I did wrong.

· Someone uses a certain tone of voice… and I’m twelve, standing in the kitchen, in trouble.

· Once upon a time someone said “you’re not creative” and decades later the words still come out of our mouths.

None of it is happening now. It’s memory, on repeat, creating real feelings in a real body today. It can feel like we’re choosing. But a lot of the time we’re simply running an old programme.

Joe Dispenza and the rewiring

This is where Dr. Joe Dispenza comes in. His books Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself, You Are the Placebo and Becoming Supernatural all circle one big idea.

We can change our brain on purpose.

Thoughts are the language of the brain. Feelings are the language of the body.

We think a thought, the brain releases chemistry, and we feel a matching feeling. Then that feeling makes us think more of the same thoughts. And round and round it goes.

Do that for enough years and the body memorises the emotion. It runs the loop by itself. Dispenza says that by our mid-thirties, most of who we are is a collection of memorised behaviours, emotional reactions and beliefs running quietly in the background.

He also points out that most of the thoughts we think today are the same ones we thought yesterday.

Same thoughts… same choices.

Same choices… same behaviours.

Same behaviours… same experiences.

Same experiences… same feelings.

And our future ends up looking an awful lot like our past.

But the good news is, the brain can change.

All our life. That’s neuroplasticity.

Neurons that fire together wire together. And, as Dispenza loves to add, neurons that no longer fire together no longer wire together.

Old paths we stop using start to fade. New ones get stronger every time we walk them. He calls it pruning and sprouting, like tending a garden.

And the brain doesn’t even need the real event to start wiring.

In a well known 1995 study, neurologist Alvaro Pascual Leone had one group practise a short piano piece for five days, while another group only imagined practising it.

Both groups showed similar changes in their brains. Imagination changed the wiring.

That is remembering our future. Dispenza calls it mental rehearsal. We close our eyes and live the new version of ourselves, in detail, with real feeling, again and again… until the brain starts treating it as familiar.

As something it already knows.

The secret ingredient is emotion. Victoria can write the affirmation on a sticky note. But if Gladys doesn’t feel it and Zenita doesn’t rest in it… not much happens.

Gratitude, joy and love are the feelings that tell the body this future is already on its way. Yes, it takes some work, but its fun work.

The old road won’t vanish overnight. Some mornings I’m back on it before I’ve brushed my teeth.

A path paved over thirty years doesn’t turn into a meadow after one meditation. And Dispenza says the trickiest moment comes right when we stop making the familiar choice. The body protests. The unknown feels uncomfortable.

That wobble isn’t failure. It’s the sound of a new path being cleared.

So I’ve made it more playful.

In the morning, before the phone, I sit for a few minutes and visit her. Future me. I pick one ordinary moment from her day and I feel it.

When the Cousin starts telling an old story, I greet her. “Hello there, I see you.” Then I give it 90 seconds.

I mix things up on purpose. I try brushing my teeth with the left hand. I water the garden in a different order. I sit in a different chair. Tiny surprises that tell my brain we are not on autopilot today.

And every day, Gladys (Character 3) gets to choose one thing purely for joy. Watching a new stand up comedian. A happy messy painting. Joy and love is the best fertiliser I know for new wiring.

The whole table

These days change feels less like a battle and more like a family dinner where even the difficult cousin (Character 2) is welcome.

Victoria sets the table.

The Cousin gets a seat and a thank you for keeping us safe all these years.

Gladys brings the music.

Zenita lights the candles.

And there’s one more guest arriving. She already knows the way, because she’s the woman I’m remembering into being.

So now I’m curious… what names will you give your Character 1, 2, 3 and 4?

Until next time.

Stay grateful and curious.

Light and joy,

Kim

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I don’t keep track of my failures.

Maybe I should, some people do, apparently there are journals for it. But no. And God knows I have a few in my luggage. Some small and easily forgotten, some that took up an entire suitcase of their own for a while. I’ve dragged them through airports, so to speak, wondering why my arms were so tired.

It’s never nice to fail. Let’s just say that out loud before we get all wise about it. But yep, so necessary.

Last week I wrote about seeking discomfort, about doing the thing while the mind screams noooo. And I think these two go hand in hand, really. Because what is that scream mostly about? What is the flutter in the gut actually afraid of?

Failure

That’s the monster under the bed. Not the discomfort itself, but the possibility that we’ll do the scary thing and it won’t work. That we’ll try, in front of everyone or just in front of ourselves, and fall flat. You can’t seek discomfort without inviting the possibility of failure along. They arrive as a package deal, like a plus one you never put on the guest list.

And that fear is real. I know it is, I feel it too. It truly is never fun to fail and realise, wops… this didn’t work out the way I thought.

The bit where it just feels bad

Something I’ve noticed, when failure happens, the circumstances don’t really matter. Whether it failed because of bad timing, bad luck, someone else, the economy, Mercury doing whatever Mercury does, or plain old me getting it wrong… in the moment, it all feels the same.

It feels bad. 🙄

There’s the sting, the hot face. The instant replays the mind insists on running, usually at two in the morning, in high definition, with commentary. There’s the urge to explain it to everyone, or to explain it to no one and quietly pretend the whole thing never happened.

And I want to say this clearly, because I think we skip it too often in our rush to be positive, it’s allowed to feel bad. You don’t have to leap straight to the silver lining like some spiritual gymnast. When something you hoped for, worked for, maybe even told people about, doesn’t work out, there is a small grief in that. Let it be there. Make it a cup of tea. It won’t stay forever.

The chatty mind, at it again

Because of course, the mind has plenty to say about failure. This is where our old friends from last week come back in: the vrittis, the swirls and loops of the mind, the broken record of past programming and conditioning.

When we fail, the record doesn’t just play, it puts on a full concert. See? I told you. You’re not capable. Who did you think you were? Everyone saw. You should never have tried.

Notice something about that voice? It’s never talking about the thing that failed. It’s talking about you. It takes one event, one outcome that didn’t land, and tries to turn it into an identity. The project failed becomes I am a failure. And those are two completely different sentences. One is information. The other is a lie wearing the costume of a fact.

The thing failed. You did not. You are the one still standing there, holding the lessons.

The audit I end up doing

Here’s what happens for me, every single time.

The uncomfortable bad feeling of failure eventually calms down in the chatty mind. It always does, though never as quickly as I’d like. But it’s getting better and better with practise. And when the noise settles, when the two in the morning replays finally get bored of themselves, I look at the whole thing again.

And every time, I’m a little stunned by how much I learned.

Things I could never have learned from a book, a course, or someone else’s cautionary tale. What actually works and what only works in my head. Where my energy goes and where it leaks. Who shows up when things wobble. What I care about enough to try again, and what I only thought I wanted. Failure hands you information about yourself that success simply doesn’t bother to collect.

Success is a lovely teacher, but a vague one. It pats you on the head and says well done, carry on. Failure sits you down, looks you in the eye and says right, let’s go through this properly, shall we?

In yoga philosophy there’s a beautiful thread about this, we’re invited to do our work fully, wholeheartedly, and then loosen our grip on the outcome. Act, but don’t let the result own you. Easier said than done, I know, we covered that last week. But failure is where that teaching stops being a nice idea and becomes practice. Can I have poured myself into something, watched it not work out, and still know that I am fine? That my worth was never sitting inside the outcome in the first place?

Some days, yes. Some days, absolutely not, and I eat some chocolate and try again tomorrow. That’s practice too.

Unpacking the luggage

So no, I don’t keep track of my failures. I don’t have a list. But I’ve stopped dragging them around as dead weight, and that shift changed everything.

Because luggage, it turns out, depends entirely on what you believe is inside it. For a long time I thought mine was full of evidence. Proof of what I couldn’t do, shouldn’t try, had no business attempting. Heavy stuff. But when I actually opened it up and looked, properly looked, it wasn’t evidence at all.

It was equipment

Every failure in there had greatly turned into something useful. A skill, a boundary, a better question, a thicker skin in the right places and a softer heart in the others. The luggage was never holding me back. I just hadn’t unpacked it.


I still don’t like failing. I doubt I ever will, and I don’t trust anyone who claims they do. The sting is real, the fear of it is real, and pretending otherwise is just another way of not being honest.

But I no longer treat failure as a verdict. It’s a receipt. Proof that I actually tried something, that I stepped out of the comfortable seat and had a go while the mind was busy screaming its noooo. You cannot fail at something you never attempted, and truly, that’s the only failure I’d sincerly regret now, the attempt that never happened.

Perhaps the very luggage you’ve been carrying around as evidence is flawed. It’s the weight that still whispers, ‘See, you can’t.’ Let this be your nudge to open the suitcase and look inside. I suspect you’ll find, just as I did, that it ceased being proof a very long time ago.
It’s been equipment all along.

Until next time stay curious and very grateful
Light and joy,

Kim

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This one is for you. Press play and let me go through it with you properly, the failures, the luggage we drag through airports, and the moment you open the suitcase and find equipment in…

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This one is for you, my lovely paid subscriber. Earbuds in, let me talk you through the screaming noooo, the sweaty palms, and the glow that comes after doing the scary thing anyway.

Tha…

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It is so easy to say no.

No to the thing that feels awkward. No to the thing that’s new. No to anything that comes with that little flutter of fear in the mind, the one that whispers, then shouts, noooo… don’t do it. Saying no is comfortable. Saying no means tea on the sofa and everything staying exactly as it is. Lovely, safe and super predictable.

And also, if I’m being honest with myself, a slow kind of shrinking.

Because here’s the thing I keep relearning, over and over, like it’s my first day at school. When I actually challenge that voice and do the thing anyway? Wow...the feeling afterwards. There is nothing quite like it. It’s not just relief that it’s over. It’s this nice glowing I did it. A little more space inside. A little more of me available to myself.

They say we truly grow when we step out of our comfort zone. And yes, yes, we’ve all heard it. We’ve seen it on mugs and Instagram posts and probably a fridge magnet or two. We get it.

But getting it and doing it are two very different things.

The saying I don’t buy

There’s another one that gets thrown around a lot: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

Hmm… I’m not so sure about that one.

I can think of plenty of things that don’t kill you but don’t make you stronger either. Things people walk away from carrying trauma, fear, or wounds that take years to soften and heal. Surviving something is not the same as growing from it. Sometimes what doesn’t kill you just… hurts you, and then you have healing to do. Let’s be honest about that instead of slapping a motivational sticker on it.

So no, I’m not talking about throwing ourselves off cliffs (metaphorical or otherwise) in the name of growth. Discomfort is not the same as harm. There’s a difference between the stretch and the snap, and part of growing is learning to feel where that line is for you.

For me, seeking discomfort lives in the small things. The email you’ve been avoiding, the conversation that makes your palms sweaty. Pressing publish. Asking for help. Saying “I don’t know how to do this” out loud. Tiny things from the outside, mountains from the inside. That’s where the real work is, not in the dramatic leaps, but in the small daily choices to move towards the flutter instead of away from it.

Where I am right now

I’m telling you all this because I am, at this very moment, sitting right in the middle of it.
I have two projects on the go, and both of them have that particular flavour of wow, this is overwhelming. New territory and kind of scary. The sort of thing where you open your laptop, look at what needs doing, and briefly consider becoming a person who lives in a cave and owns one bowl. 😊

And right on cue, the doubt sneaks in. Am I capable? Can I actually do this? Who do I think I am? On and on it goes, like an uninvited guest who not only shows up but starts rearranging the furniture.

Vrittis: the mind’s broken record

In yoga, we have a beautiful word for all this mental noise: vrittis. The fluctuations of the mind. The swirls, the loops, the endless commentary. The mind running its broken record of past programming and conditioning. Old fears in new outfits.

Because that’s really what it is, isn’t it? That voice saying you can’t do this is rarely reporting live from the present moment. It’s replaying something old.

A teacher’s comment from decades ago at school.

A time we tried and it went wrong.

A belief we absorbed before we were old enough to question it. The mind, bless it, thinks it’s protecting us. It’s just working from a very outdated instruction manual.

The whole practice of yoga, the real practice, not just the bendy bits, is learning to see the vrittis for what they are. Not truth or prophecy. Just weather, clouds passing through a sky that was never actually damaged by any of them.

And here’s what I find genuinely comforting, I don’t have to silence the doubt to move forward. That was my misunderstanding for years, waiting to feel confident before acting, as if confidence were the entry ticket. It isn’t. The doubt can come along for the ride. It can sit in the back seat with its broken record playing away, while I keep my hands on the wheel and keep driving.

The doubt gets a seat. It doesn’t get the steering wheel.

The gap between the fear and the thing

Have you ever noticed that the fear of the thing is almost always worse than the thing?

The dread of the difficult conversation is heavier than the conversation. The anxiety before pressing publish lasts longer than the pressing. Our minds are extraordinary filmmakers, producing entire disaster movies about events that end up being… just fine. Usually even wonderful.

So lately, when the overwhelm rises with these two projects, I try to catch the moment and ask myself, is this actually hard right now, or is my mind just showing me the trailer for a film that doesn’t exist? Nine times out of ten, it’s the trailer. The actual present moment, this email, this page, this one next step, is nearly always manageable.

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That’s the other secret hiding in plain sight, we never have to do the whole thing. We only ever have to do the next small bit of it. The mind panics about the mountain, the feet only ever need to take one step.

So, here’s where I’ve landed

I’m not going to pretend I’ve made friends with discomfort. We’re more like neighbours who nod at each other over the fence. Some days politely, some days through gritted teeth.

But I do know this, almost every good thing in my life sits on the other side of a moment where my mind screamed noooo… and I did it anyway. And I suspect if you look back at your own life, you’ll find the same.

So, this is me, sitting in the middle of the discomfort, doubts chattering away in the back seat, choosing to keep going with these two scary, new, overwhelming and oh so exciting projects. Not because I’m certain I can do it. But because I’d rather find out than let a broken record from the past make my decisions for me.

Maybe there’s something in your life right now with that same flutter and vrittis in your mind attached to it. Something small, even. Especially something small.

You don’t need to feel ready. You just need to do the next little bit, with the fear riding along.

And oh, that feeling afterwards, when you realise how brave you just were. I promise you, it’s worth it.

Until next time stay grateful and curious.

With love (and slightly sweaty palms),
Kim

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This one comes with a little gift. ❤️ Usually the audio version is reserved for my paid subscribers, it’s how they get every post, my voice in their ear plus the full written piece.

Today it’s free for everyone, so you can hear exactly what they get. Press play, have a listen, and if you like the sound of it, quite literally, come join me.

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Much joy and light,

Kim

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It’s only some years ago I realised the difference between happy and joyful. That they come from completely different places within us. There are entire libraries written about happiness and how to become happy in life. But when I really looked into it, there’s a big difference. I love both, don’t get me wrong. If I can be happy AND joyful at the same time, I’m in a full state of yyiihaaa...

So, the difference is.......

Happiness knocks on your door from the outside. Joy was inside the house all along.

Think about it. Happiness needs a reason. The sun is shining, the mango is perfectly ripe, someone you love says something lovely, your favourite song comes on. Wonderful! I’ll take all of it, thank you very much. But notice what happens when the reason disappears. The clouds roll in, the mango season ends, the song finishes. Poof, poof, there goes the happiness, waving goodbye.

Joy doesn’t do that. Joy doesn’t check the weather first.

Here’s the little comparison that made it click for me.

Where does it come from? Happiness is external, triggered by events, people, or things. Joy is internal, a state of being, a mindset you carry with you like.

How long does it last? Happiness is temporary and fleeting. Lovely while it lasts, but it has a habit of leaving without saying goodbye. Joy is enduring and sustainable. It hangs around even when nothing particularly exciting is happening.

What does it depend on? Happiness depends on circumstances. Joy exists regardless of them. Which is why you can meet people going through genuinely hard times who still radiate something warm from within. That’s not happiness, nobody is happy about hard times. That’s joy.

What its tied to. Happiness is often tied to the ego, to achievements, pleasure, getting what we want. Joy is tied to connection, gratitude, and purpose. Deeper roots.

Chasing happiness is exhausting precisely because it lives outside of you. It’s like trying to keep a beach ball in the air all day. New job! Bounce. New thing! Bounce. Holiday! Bounce. Your arms get tired. Mine certainly did.

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Joy, on the other hand, doesn’t need bouncing. It needs noticing.

Paid subscribers get to listen to me read this whole article to you. Pop your headphones in and let me chat away in your ear. 😊

Because that’s the real secret, and it took me embarrassingly long to figure out. You don’t achieve joy. There’s no five step programme, no course to buy (ironic, I know, given where you’re reading this). Joy is already there. It’s just usually buried under a to do list, three unread messages, and that thing you said in 2019 that you’re still wincing about.

For me, the noticing happens in the small, unglamorous moments. Sitting still in the morning before the day gets its hands on me. Feeling grateful for something so ordinary it almost feels silly to mention. My breath, the geckos arguing on the ceiling, the fact that I’m here at all. That’s when joy peeks out. Not with fireworks. More like a slow, warm hum.

The yogis have known this forever, of course. They talk about ananda, a bliss that isn’t caused by anything, because it’s what’s left when you stop needing everything to be a certain way. It’s not that the ancient sages had better circumstances than we do. Believe me, no air conditioning, no perfectly ripe mangoes on demand. They simply stopped outsourcing their inner state to the outside world.

And that’s the practical takeaway, if you want one. Stop asking what would make me happy quite so often, and start asking what’s blocking my joy. Different question entirely. The first one sends you shopping. The second one sends you inwards. One costs money. The other costs a bit of honesty, which granted, can feel more expensive some days.

Here’s my little experiment for you this week. Next time something makes you happy, a compliment, a good meal, a small win, enjoy it fully. Squeeze every drop out of it. Happiness deserves that. But then, when it fades (and it will, that’s its nature), see if you can find the quieter thing underneath. The thing that was there before the good news arrived and is still there after it leaves.

That’s yours. Nobody gave it to you, so nobody can take it away.

And on the days, you get both at once, happy on the outside, joyful on the inside... well. Yyiihaaa. That’s the good stuff.

Joy an love from my little corner of the world 🙏

Kim

PS. If this landed somewhere warm in you, share it with someone who’s been chasing the beach ball a bit too long lately. Come join me.

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But the looking forward and the loving-it-here aren’t in a fight. They feed each other. Knowing there’s a last page is exactly what makes me read this one so slowly.

The idea is old and embarassingly simple. Take a moment, I take one cross, once a week and use it to remember my body is mortal. There’s no app to download, though there are several, and there’s no certification. You just look at the fact and keep living. People have been doing versions of this forever. Monks ring bells, stoics kept a phrase handy, the Victorians photographed their dead and hung the pictures in the hall. I cross over a week. We’re all doing the same thing, refusing to let the biggest fact of our lives slip quietly into the background.

What a death calendar actually is

A “death calendar” isn’t one thing. It’s a category of small tricks for keeping mortality in view. Pick whichever annoys you least.

The plainest version is a recurring day, the first of the month, your birthday, the anniversary of someone you lost. Something that repeats. On that day you stop and do the numbers. You are this old. The average life is roughly this long. That’s the gap. You don’t have to be grim about it. You just look.

Mine is the whole-life grid, run weekly. You’ve probably seen the grid, a page of little boxes, one per week, four thousand or so if you’re lucky. I don’t shade them, I cross them, one cross each Monday over the week just spent. It’s more confronting than a birthday, because a birthday lets you round up and a grid does not. The crossed-out part is gone. The empty part is a guess. And a week is the right unit for me, a day feels too small to notice losing, a year too big to feel. A week I feel.

An example here from 50-90 years.

Then there’s the daily nudge, the buzz on your phone that says, in effect, don’t forget, this ends. I’ve used one. It’s useful and slightly ridiculous, which is true of most useful things.

The point they all share isn’t the format. It’s the appointment, deciding, in advance, to remember the thing you’re built to forget.

Why I do it

Because forgetting is the default, and the default runs my life whether I notice or not.
I didn’t come to this through a book, though there are good ones. I came to it in Bali, where death is not tucked away. When there’s a cremation a Ngaben it’s not a hushed thing behind closed doors. It’s a procession, a crowd, a tower carried through the street, sometimes a genuine party. The body is burned in the open and the ashes go to the sea. The first time I watched it, I realized how strange my own arrangements were by comparison, how much effort goes, back home, into never quite seeing the thing happen.

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Living near that does something to me. It doesn’t make me morbid, it makes me a little more awake to the calendar I’m already on, the real one, the one that doesn’t reset in January. My cross each Monday is just a way of keeping a little of that openess in a life that would otherwise let me pretend I have unlimited weeks.

And what it gives back isn’t grief. It’s gratitude. When I remember the weeks are counted, I stop skimming the day I’m in. I notice it, I’m slower to waste an afternoon being annoyed, quicker to be thankful for an ordinary one. That’s the trade the cross makes for me: a small drop in the stomach on Monday, in exchange for being genuinely, un-distractedly here for the six days after it.

How to keep one without it becoming a wellness project

I want to head off the version of this that turns into a self-improvement chore, because that’s the version that quietly kills it. If your death calendar sprouts a habit-tracker and a color-coded mood log, you’ve missed the point and built yourself another small anxiety. The practice is supposed to subtract, not add.

So, I keep it light. Here’s what actually works for me.

One mark, one moment, repeating. For me it’s a cross over the past week, every Monday, no words, no journaling, just the cross and the second of noticing it. That’s the entire system. Whatever mark you choose, make it one you can do in seconds, or you won’t do it.

Keep it where you’ll see it, not where you’ll archive it. Mine is on the fridge in the kitchen, so I pass it many times a day. The graveyard of good practices is the beautiful dedicated journal you bought and used twice.

Let it be short. The temptation is to turn it into a whole reflective ritual, and the week I make it a ritual is the week I start dreading it and then skipping it. I draw the cross, feel the small drop in my stomach, and go live. The looking is the practice. The living is the point.

And let it be occasionaly funny. Mortality isn’t only a solemn subject. Half of what I notice when I actually look is how much of my worry is nonsense, I’ll be embarrassed to have carried. A death calendar that never makes me laugh at myself isn’t working. It’s just a fancier way of being scared.

The part I can’t sell you

I’ll stop short of the promise the genre usually makes here, that this will transform you, that you’ll live every day like it’s your last, that you’ll finally become the person you meant to be. I won’t, and neither will you. I forget again by Thursday. I waste afternoons, the calendar doesn’t fix that, nothing fixes that, because forgetting isn’t a flaw in the system, it IS the system, and the practice is just the small repeated act of remembering anyway.

That’s really all a death calendar is. A reminder I get to give myself, over and over, that the weeks are counted even though I don’t get to see the number. Monday comes. I draw the cross. I remember, briefly, that I’m alive and that this won’t last. And then, this is the good part, I go and be grateful for the day I’m actually in.

So no, I’m not afraid of the last cross. I think about it, I talk about it, and in my odd way I’m a little curious about it. But that’s precisely why I’m in no hurry, because loving where you’re going is the surest way I know to fall completely in love with where you already are. The grid on my fridge isn’t counting me down. It’s reminding me, one week at a time, how good it is to still be here in this brutiful life.

Until next time, stay curious and grateful.

Light and joys,

Kim

Hi dear ones,

I find that there are two stories humans think about fulfilment, and we usually believe only one of them at a time, and we usually believe it’s the only one there is.

No. ONE: fulfilment is out there

This is the story most of us grew up inside. Fulfilment is something you reach.

It lives one holiday away,

one relationship away,

one number in the bank away,

one renovation away.

You earn it and you arrive at it. There is a finish line and a version of you waiting on the other side who finally feels fulfilled.

But here is the thing. This story is not stupid.

It built cities,

it cures diseases,

it writes books,

raises kids

and crosses oceans.

The hunger to do, to build, to become, is real and its human and its most of the time beautiful. People who feel fulfilled by mastering a craft or showing up for their family or finishing the hard thing are not lying to themselves.

They tapped into something true.

The trap is not the wanting, the trap is the location. We put fulfilment in the future and then we move there to live, and the future keeps doing the one thing the future always does. It stays in front of us.

So, we hit the goal and feel the high for a moment and then the bar quietly slides forward and we are hungry again. Psychologists have a name for this. They call it the hedonic treadmill. You run, the scenery never changes and you mistake the running for progress.

So, this gives us drive, direction and the sweet satisfaction of having done a hard thing well. It also hands us a low background hum, of never quite enough.

Both are true and that’s the deal. 😊

No. TWO: Fulfilment is in here

The other story is older and quieter, and its the one I came to through yoga.

In the yogic path there is a word, Samtosha. Its one of the Niyama’s, the inner practices, and it means contentment. Not the shallow kind. Not the kind that depends on a good day. It points at something steadier. The idea is that fulfilment is not a thing you go and fetch. It’s a thing you stop blocking. Its already here, underneath the wanting and the practice is to notice it rather than to manufacture it.

When I first started practicing this path, I used to say I wanted to be the queen of Samtosha. I meant it as a goal, which is funny now, because contentment is the one thing you cannot really achieve. You can only allow it. You can only put down the argument you are having with your own life.

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This is gorgeous. It says you are not broken and you don’t need the next thing to be okay. It says peace is available right now, in this ordinary moment, with this tea, in this body even with all the open loops. It loosens the grip.

It also has its own trap, by the way. Used lazily, the contentment story becomes an excuse to never grow, to call your comfort zone a spiritual victory, to spiritualize giving up. Contentment is not the same as resignation. One is full. The other is flat. They can look similar from the outside and they feel nothing alike from the inside.

So which side is true

Both. That’s the real answer and its the one we don’t really want, because its not simple. ☺️

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