A Practice for the Rest of Your Life

Something caught my attention in my yard this week. 

Two trees. Side by side, same soil, same sun. One bloomed early — weeks ago, rushing into the warmth of what felt like an early spring.  And then the frost came last weekend.  Those blooms took the hit.  Some look ragged now.  Some didn't make it. 

The other tree is just now opening.  Slowly.  On its own timeline.  And it is absolutely fragrant — the kind of scent that stops you mid-step and makes you look up. 

This has been a strange season in Colorado Springs.  Warm too soon, then frost, then warm again.  Nature caught off guard by its own enthusiasm.

I've been thinking about that a lot on my morning rides and walks.  How much of our own suffering comes from blooming before the conditions are ready — rushing toward something, pushing past what the body and the season are actually asking for?  And how much beauty is waiting for the ones who take their sweet time?

That's the question I want to sit with as we close out April together.

Because this month has been that kind of work.  Quiet.  Unhurried.  Underground.  Noticing the voice, feeling where the stories live in the body, getting curious about the Gremlins rather than fighting them.

Today I'd like to bring it all together with one simple invitation: begin to choose your words the way a healer chooses what to use.   With intention. With care.  With the understanding that what you give yourself matters — and that timing matters too.

Words Are Not Neutral

Most traditions that honor the body and the natural world understand this on some level.  Words carry charge.  They shape the neural landscape we live in.  What we say to ourselves — and about ourselves — influences how we feel, what we believe is possible, and what we do next.

It's the thread we've been following all month.  Your thoughts become your words.  Your words become your actions.  Your actions, over time, become your life.

That sounds philosophical until you've felt it.  Until you've noticed the difference between a morning when the first thought is I'm exhausted and behind and one when it's I'm finding my way.  Same circumstances. Different nervous system state.  Genuinely different day.

This isn't about toxic positivity or forcing brightness where it isn't real.  It's about the slow, grounded practice of choosing words that are true AND kind AND open to what's still possible.  Not false brightness — but genuine, embodied permission to be a work in progress.  To be, like that second tree, on your own timeline.

A Season of Transition

One of the things I notice most in this work — in coaching, in circle, and in conversations with people navigating significant change — is how much louder the inner voice gets during times of transition.

When things are uncertain, the Gremlins tend to get busy.  They catalog what hasn't happened yet.  They replay old evidence.  They raise questions about whether we're moving in the right direction, whether it's too late, whether we're really up for what's ahead.

And yet — some of the most courageous, clarifying work I've witnessed has happened in exactly these seasons.  Not despite the uncertainty, but because of it.  Because uncertainty has a way of making it harder to keep living on autopilot.  It asks us to look more honestly at what we actually want, what we actually believe, what story we actually want to be living inside.

People who do this kind of inner work often describe something similar on the other side of it: a sense of finally feeling like themselves.  Of having stopped apologizing for how they actually are.  Of finding a voice that feels genuinely their own.

That's what's possible here.

Three Practices to Carry Forward

You don't overhaul a lifetime of inner dialogue overnight. But you can shift it, gradually, one small choice at a time. Here are three practices worth trying:

1. The Morning Check-In: Before you open your phone, place one hand on your chest.  Take three slow breaths. Ask: what do I need to hear today?  Then say one true, kind sentence to yourself — out loud if you can.  Let the body receive it before the day begins.
2. The Gremlin Pause: When you catch a harsh inner thought, try not to argue with it or push it away.  Instead, acknowledge it briefly — it's usually trying to protect something — and then ask: what would I like to believe instead?  Speak the fuller version.  Notice what shifts in the body when you do.
3. The Nature Anchor: Before anything difficult, step outside for even thirty seconds if you can.  Feel your feet on the ground.  Look at something living — even something that bloomed too early and took the frost.  Breathe.  Then bring that sense of being rooted into whatever comes next.

These aren't magic.  They're practice. And practice, done consistently over time, creates the conditions for real change.

The tree that waited is fragrant right now.  It didn't force anything.  It just stayed rooted until the moment was right.

You don't force the bloom.  You just keep showing up.

If Something This Month Has Stirred in You

This has been a month of quiet but meaningful work.  Thoughts and words as living things.  The body as a guide.  Story as a doorway.  And community as the ground that makes it all more possible.

If something has stirred — a curiosity, a longing for more of this, a sense that you'd like to keep going — here are a few ways to do that:

• The Connection and Story Circle — a small, growing community for people doing this work together.  A real place of belonging.

• Celebrating Women Through Story — a private podcast where real people share the narratives that changed their lives.  Sign up for access.

• 1:1 Private Coaching — a six-month partnership, rooted in body wisdom and deep personal attention.  For anyone ready to make real, lasting change.

→ Explore All of This at Breakthrough BodyMind

Spring keeps showing us: growth is not a single moment.  It's a season.  And you're already in it.

www.breakthroughbodymind.com