We founded a bookstore in Mexico--my passion after retirement from San Francisco corporate world. We'd planned it for 3 years, buying books and warehousing them after our back room got too full, located a spot on the town zocalo, paid in advance 2 years to 'secure' the location, and got up and running the year we retired. It was so much fun for so many years, but finally, we wanted to re-retire, just kick back like all the tourists, sit on the beach, go to pyramid sites, take longer trips. We sold to a great couple who cherish it as we did. It was time to move on. And practice, yes, il far niente!
Thanks Jonathan. Just had to share my story which mirrored yours. It was a great goal for us and a great achievement. Bookstores in Mexico are few and far between, literally. It was a draw to our little MX Caribbean pueblo and we’re so happy it’s still going strong and we could exit and move on. Life is change, I guess.
I’ve been restless my whole life. Not in the charming, spontaneous way people like to describe in dating profiles, but a bone-deep unease. A sense that I was built wrong—too much, not enough, tangled in a shape others tried to neaten. I wore the expectations of others like a second skin: teachers, relatives, well-meaning friends. Growing up in the era of passion, it was all about finding it, defining it, & shaping a life around it. You had to know what you were meant to do. “Live your best life,” they screamed from couches, covers, & podcasts. I didn’t have one—not in the way they expected.
So I turned to yoga, hoping to calm the spinning. I moved through the poses, bent myself into stillness, & during those final ten minutes—lying under a weighted blanket, her aunt’s music humming through the air—I wept. Not the cute, cinematic tear. I wept. My body didn’t ask for permission. It emptied. Was I unwinding? Or unraveling? I didn’t know. Still don’t.
Yet something soft started to rise once the distractions quietened. Once I turned down the volume on the pressure to define my worth, to achieve, to keep up with the stories that told me I wasn’t enough. I began to feel what was left beneath the noise. Turns out, I’d already been taking care of myself without knowing—in tiny ways, private ways.
The way I make tea. The way I fold towels. The way I notice the soft shift in the air before the weather changes, even when the forecast insists otherwise. The way my feet make the floor feel a little more solid, as if the weight of my step is marking time, just before the quiet swallows it all again. How the hum of the refrigerator is somehow comforting when everything else is still. The way the old kettle boils, its whistle the only thing that feels like time moving forward, but without urgency.
These observations were not quirks, but clues to that presence in a rhythm of a life that is mine.
There’s no apology for it now. I am me. Still a little restless. Still peeling off the layers of old versions I never really fit into. I simply no longer ask, “What am I supposed to be?” I just notice what already is.
And maybe, in this season of exploration, what is… is the written word. I’ve never written publicly before—not like this. Not with my name breathing alongside the sentences. But curiosity seems to be leaning in that direction, so I’m listening. Not chasing a passion. Just paying attention.
Love all of this, Kim. Back when I was teaching in NYC, many people would quietly exit when it came time for that final Savasana. I knew why, they were there for the movement and sweat and struggled with the stillness. I started the same way. But, eventually came to embrace the final relaxation as the most meaningful and beautiful part of my practice. It's where everything just settled and integrated. And, yes. no apologies for being a person who allows themselves to embrace unfolding in whatever ways need to happen.
Thank you, Jonathan. I never knew it was called Savasana, but I always welcomed that final moment. It was the one time my mind softened, just pause, let the stillness settle in like rain on a quiet morning. The emptying? Always a surprise, like my body had been quietly waiting for this space—finally, a chance to breathe. There was always this gentle thank you in that stillness, a quiet gratitude from my body for the release. It felt like a small secret shared between me and the universe, and I didn’t even need words. It’s funny how the simplest things can be the most needed. It’s like I’ve been practicing without knowing it, following the pull of something gentle and true, like the wildflowers listening for the rain.
Kim, I love this, I can relate to that feeling of always trying to meet others’ expectations ... and also to the lovely gentle acts of self-care that you describe instinctively taking.
Thank you for sharing your experience, it has helped me to read it.
Thank you, Debra. Your words are a quiet balm. I’m so glad my experience could meet you where you are. The feeling of trying to shape ourselves into someone else’s idea of who we should be—it’s a weight that seems to pass through us all. But the quiet acts of care—those moments when we don’t even realise we’re tending to our own needs—there’s something sacred in that, isn’t there? Like the birdsong we only hear when we stop to listen.
Your kindness fills me with gratitude, and I wish you nothing but peace and gentle unfolding on your own journey. May you continue to find the spaces where your heart feels at home.
What a lovely reply, Kim. Thank you. It made my heart feel good. There is really something about when we share our thoughts and feel ‘seen’ and validated ... and that connection with others and gentleness with ourselves feels very important, especially in these times.
I was also thinking that what you describe in response to Jonathan’s post are like examples of when you are just in the body as it is (whether in Savasana or folding towels or pausing to listen to birdsong) and the body’s wisdom gets a chance to gently make itself felt, without all the dominating mind chatter.
Spot on. I recently let go of a 25 year passion and practice. Announced it publicly. I am excited to see where my new passion takes me. Both are art related. I’m moving from fiber to paint.
Flexibility in all things at all ages. Clinging to lost love. Old goals. Flashing epiphany that was just a step and not the whole path. Well said. I’m not done. Glad you are spreading this mission to others. Blessings.
I had a passion I clung to for years, while still immersed in a previous one. When I finally let go of the first one, I discovered I too was no longer interested in the second. Now I have no idea what the next thing is, but I’m open to wherever the path leads.
Such a great observation, Randy. I think sometimes, complementary passions can be a bit of a "passion patch" to give us some kind of hit of joy, until find new ways to bridge into new interests and curiosities that may some day rise to the level of passions. Love your openness to serendipity.
Jonathan, as always I love reading your pieces and look forward to them. This connects with me so much, as I recently (this past June) left my 35 year career in Education as a teacher and Community School Coordinator, to write, speak and work on my podcast, which all centre around the same topics I have been passionate about in my work for all of those years, but to do so on a bigger scale -- to reach more people, People thought I was nuts. We have to down-size and move away from our old neighbourhood, as my pension is a lot less than my salary (thank God I have one!). But... I did feel small, as you say, I felt I was being held back with the rules and red tape around aspects pf my job.
This piece gives me hope that I did make the right decision. Some days are scary, as I feel like I am writing into the abyss, and see slow , SLOW, growth in my subscribers and podcast listeners. I did see myself as my job. Some days i wonder who I am now....
But... I know we can't sail new oceans without losing sight of the shore. And, I want new oceans. I want growth, so I will keep the faith. Thank you, Jonathan!
"Some days I wonder who I am now..." - been there so many times, Gayle. For me, the invitation is always to see if I can find the wonder in the space of the unknown, alongside the also very real discomfort.
I really love the wording "What quietly excites you now?" Takes the inherent pressure off what we think needs to loudly excite us in order to be considered a possible passion. I've been in a bit of a liminal space for almost five years since leaving the classroom as an early el teacher who was incredibly identified with her integration of the arts into learning and her passion for creating really beautiful learning environments-connected, inclusive, comfortable...I've been lost and searching for several years and have even tried to re-enter the classroom and it's just not there for me and my nervous system lets me know pretty quickly that it's no longer my calling. (I do think I'll always be a teacher-but I'm also a maven and and advisor according to your beautiful Sparketypes, which is a new interest for me-the last few years I've been really drawn to all things archetypes and enneagrams-things that help us get of our boxes, lead to greater understanding of ourselves and others and ultimately create more compassion and emapthy. Also very sparked by the idea of moving to Europe in the next few years-financially it can't happen this week or I'd be Europe bound. What I really long for right now-sometimes quietly, sometimes through tears that well up in my chest and pour down my cheeks-is the joy of having a passion-something that calls me-I've loved that feeling for my whole life and I miss it so very much.
Love all of these awakenings, Dawn. And your commitment to staying curious, and seeing what threads grow into something more meaningful...in a quiet way.
Thanks Jonathan-must admit that I’m growing impatient in the process I used to love linger in. As a maven I could happily-spend the rest of my days learning for the pure joy of learning. Wish that paid the bills! :)
I saved this article to read more carefully because it speaks to me. Now I am just realizing that you are the voice behind The Good Life Project, a podcast I have listened to for years. I seem to shedding interests in a big way. I have let go of yoga. I have let go of meditation, even though I created new meditation area with my thirty-year-old Gomden and Zabuton cushion set to seduce myself back in. I am also on the edge of giving up painting--all aspects of identity that are a part of me. Much of my thinking and writing is around how experience shapes us and takes root within. As the world changes around me, the present moment is taking on a new dimension. As you say...evolving.
This one gave me pause for thought. I’ve been known as a storyteller/digital storytelling (DS) facilitator for 14 years in public health. I was passionate about storytelling. My favorite quote was whoever tells the story controls the narrative - I was hardcore about carrying the story torch.
I used DS to help people to share their stories of cancer, homelessness, substance abuse, diabetes, tobacco, etc. It was one of the most rewarding and meaningful things I’ve done in my life. Then about 2-3 years ago, I just didn’t feel motivated to continue to do this. I thought, what’s wrong with me? I finally admitted to another DS facilitator who is well known and well respected in our field, that I didn’t want to help tell others’ stories, I wanted to tell my own… It was hard to say that - he took it with a grain a salt, and said he felt like I was his sister and hugged me, which took the sting of walking away a bit.
After reading your article, makes me now think, there’s nothing wrong with me, I just outgrew it and that is A-OK. Thank you.
‘Growth often masquerades like loss’ - this is exactly it, how I’ve been feeling in the last few months. I spent a long time getting to where I am in my corporate career - grafting to get in the ‘room where it happens’. Now I feel like, I don’t want to be in the room any more. Because nothing that truly fulfils me will happen there. Of course, commitments like educating my young adult kids and paying the mortgage mean I can’t just jack it in, but I’ve started taking tentative steps towards a transition to something else - an earlier love that has never quite left me and which I may be better suited to with more life experience anyway.
Right, Anna?! Growth is...complicated. Especially further into life, when we've got a certain lifestyle we want to live, and people we love are looking to us to provide some sense of stability. Right there with you. Part of the reason I've embraced a 2 year window of transition for my next set of evolutions. I'll be sharing some big updates and revelations on that journey soon.
This resonated deeply. Thank you for eloquently sharing what I’ve felt deeply in my heart. I sold my busy yoga studio and walked away from the community I built for 17 years. It hurt every cell of my being yet I knew I’d outgrown it. I recently returned to celebrate 20 years. It was only then, seeing teachers and students, that I felt the chapter cleanly close for me.
Ah, a former yoga biz world alumni. I had a similar experience when I returned to the 20th anniversary celebration of the place I sold, but more just realized how beautiful it was that the community endured.
We founded a bookstore in Mexico--my passion after retirement from San Francisco corporate world. We'd planned it for 3 years, buying books and warehousing them after our back room got too full, located a spot on the town zocalo, paid in advance 2 years to 'secure' the location, and got up and running the year we retired. It was so much fun for so many years, but finally, we wanted to re-retire, just kick back like all the tourists, sit on the beach, go to pyramid sites, take longer trips. We sold to a great couple who cherish it as we did. It was time to move on. And practice, yes, il far niente!
Love this, Jeanine. And love that you honored the calling to ease into a new season, and a new set of passions.
Thanks Jonathan. Just had to share my story which mirrored yours. It was a great goal for us and a great achievement. Bookstores in Mexico are few and far between, literally. It was a draw to our little MX Caribbean pueblo and we’re so happy it’s still going strong and we could exit and move on. Life is change, I guess.
I’ve been restless my whole life. Not in the charming, spontaneous way people like to describe in dating profiles, but a bone-deep unease. A sense that I was built wrong—too much, not enough, tangled in a shape others tried to neaten. I wore the expectations of others like a second skin: teachers, relatives, well-meaning friends. Growing up in the era of passion, it was all about finding it, defining it, & shaping a life around it. You had to know what you were meant to do. “Live your best life,” they screamed from couches, covers, & podcasts. I didn’t have one—not in the way they expected.
So I turned to yoga, hoping to calm the spinning. I moved through the poses, bent myself into stillness, & during those final ten minutes—lying under a weighted blanket, her aunt’s music humming through the air—I wept. Not the cute, cinematic tear. I wept. My body didn’t ask for permission. It emptied. Was I unwinding? Or unraveling? I didn’t know. Still don’t.
Yet something soft started to rise once the distractions quietened. Once I turned down the volume on the pressure to define my worth, to achieve, to keep up with the stories that told me I wasn’t enough. I began to feel what was left beneath the noise. Turns out, I’d already been taking care of myself without knowing—in tiny ways, private ways.
The way I make tea. The way I fold towels. The way I notice the soft shift in the air before the weather changes, even when the forecast insists otherwise. The way my feet make the floor feel a little more solid, as if the weight of my step is marking time, just before the quiet swallows it all again. How the hum of the refrigerator is somehow comforting when everything else is still. The way the old kettle boils, its whistle the only thing that feels like time moving forward, but without urgency.
These observations were not quirks, but clues to that presence in a rhythm of a life that is mine.
There’s no apology for it now. I am me. Still a little restless. Still peeling off the layers of old versions I never really fit into. I simply no longer ask, “What am I supposed to be?” I just notice what already is.
And maybe, in this season of exploration, what is… is the written word. I’ve never written publicly before—not like this. Not with my name breathing alongside the sentences. But curiosity seems to be leaning in that direction, so I’m listening. Not chasing a passion. Just paying attention.
Love all of this, Kim. Back when I was teaching in NYC, many people would quietly exit when it came time for that final Savasana. I knew why, they were there for the movement and sweat and struggled with the stillness. I started the same way. But, eventually came to embrace the final relaxation as the most meaningful and beautiful part of my practice. It's where everything just settled and integrated. And, yes. no apologies for being a person who allows themselves to embrace unfolding in whatever ways need to happen.
Thank you, Jonathan. I never knew it was called Savasana, but I always welcomed that final moment. It was the one time my mind softened, just pause, let the stillness settle in like rain on a quiet morning. The emptying? Always a surprise, like my body had been quietly waiting for this space—finally, a chance to breathe. There was always this gentle thank you in that stillness, a quiet gratitude from my body for the release. It felt like a small secret shared between me and the universe, and I didn’t even need words. It’s funny how the simplest things can be the most needed. It’s like I’ve been practicing without knowing it, following the pull of something gentle and true, like the wildflowers listening for the rain.
Kim, I love this, I can relate to that feeling of always trying to meet others’ expectations ... and also to the lovely gentle acts of self-care that you describe instinctively taking.
Thank you for sharing your experience, it has helped me to read it.
I truly wish you well in your journey.
Debra x
Thank you, Debra. Your words are a quiet balm. I’m so glad my experience could meet you where you are. The feeling of trying to shape ourselves into someone else’s idea of who we should be—it’s a weight that seems to pass through us all. But the quiet acts of care—those moments when we don’t even realise we’re tending to our own needs—there’s something sacred in that, isn’t there? Like the birdsong we only hear when we stop to listen.
Your kindness fills me with gratitude, and I wish you nothing but peace and gentle unfolding on your own journey. May you continue to find the spaces where your heart feels at home.
What a lovely reply, Kim. Thank you. It made my heart feel good. There is really something about when we share our thoughts and feel ‘seen’ and validated ... and that connection with others and gentleness with ourselves feels very important, especially in these times.
Thank you for taking the time to reply.
Debra x
I was also thinking that what you describe in response to Jonathan’s post are like examples of when you are just in the body as it is (whether in Savasana or folding towels or pausing to listen to birdsong) and the body’s wisdom gets a chance to gently make itself felt, without all the dominating mind chatter.
Debra x
Spot on. I recently let go of a 25 year passion and practice. Announced it publicly. I am excited to see where my new passion takes me. Both are art related. I’m moving from fiber to paint.
Can't wait to hear about the paint journey unfolds, Lesley.
Flexibility in all things at all ages. Clinging to lost love. Old goals. Flashing epiphany that was just a step and not the whole path. Well said. I’m not done. Glad you are spreading this mission to others. Blessings.
"I'm not done." truth, Cynthia!
I really needed this today. Thank you.
So glad it helped, Suzanne.
I had a passion I clung to for years, while still immersed in a previous one. When I finally let go of the first one, I discovered I too was no longer interested in the second. Now I have no idea what the next thing is, but I’m open to wherever the path leads.
Such a great observation, Randy. I think sometimes, complementary passions can be a bit of a "passion patch" to give us some kind of hit of joy, until find new ways to bridge into new interests and curiosities that may some day rise to the level of passions. Love your openness to serendipity.
Jonathan, I appreciate the encouragement. And, thank you for the wealth of practical wisdom you’ve so generously shared with us over the years.
Jonathan, as always I love reading your pieces and look forward to them. This connects with me so much, as I recently (this past June) left my 35 year career in Education as a teacher and Community School Coordinator, to write, speak and work on my podcast, which all centre around the same topics I have been passionate about in my work for all of those years, but to do so on a bigger scale -- to reach more people, People thought I was nuts. We have to down-size and move away from our old neighbourhood, as my pension is a lot less than my salary (thank God I have one!). But... I did feel small, as you say, I felt I was being held back with the rules and red tape around aspects pf my job.
This piece gives me hope that I did make the right decision. Some days are scary, as I feel like I am writing into the abyss, and see slow , SLOW, growth in my subscribers and podcast listeners. I did see myself as my job. Some days i wonder who I am now....
But... I know we can't sail new oceans without losing sight of the shore. And, I want new oceans. I want growth, so I will keep the faith. Thank you, Jonathan!
"Some days I wonder who I am now..." - been there so many times, Gayle. For me, the invitation is always to see if I can find the wonder in the space of the unknown, alongside the also very real discomfort.
I love the idea of seeing wonder in that unknown. That’s really the key, isn’t it? Takes such patience — and bravery.
I really love the wording "What quietly excites you now?" Takes the inherent pressure off what we think needs to loudly excite us in order to be considered a possible passion. I've been in a bit of a liminal space for almost five years since leaving the classroom as an early el teacher who was incredibly identified with her integration of the arts into learning and her passion for creating really beautiful learning environments-connected, inclusive, comfortable...I've been lost and searching for several years and have even tried to re-enter the classroom and it's just not there for me and my nervous system lets me know pretty quickly that it's no longer my calling. (I do think I'll always be a teacher-but I'm also a maven and and advisor according to your beautiful Sparketypes, which is a new interest for me-the last few years I've been really drawn to all things archetypes and enneagrams-things that help us get of our boxes, lead to greater understanding of ourselves and others and ultimately create more compassion and emapthy. Also very sparked by the idea of moving to Europe in the next few years-financially it can't happen this week or I'd be Europe bound. What I really long for right now-sometimes quietly, sometimes through tears that well up in my chest and pour down my cheeks-is the joy of having a passion-something that calls me-I've loved that feeling for my whole life and I miss it so very much.
Love all of these awakenings, Dawn. And your commitment to staying curious, and seeing what threads grow into something more meaningful...in a quiet way.
Thanks Jonathan-must admit that I’m growing impatient in the process I used to love linger in. As a maven I could happily-spend the rest of my days learning for the pure joy of learning. Wish that paid the bills! :)
I saved this article to read more carefully because it speaks to me. Now I am just realizing that you are the voice behind The Good Life Project, a podcast I have listened to for years. I seem to shedding interests in a big way. I have let go of yoga. I have let go of meditation, even though I created new meditation area with my thirty-year-old Gomden and Zabuton cushion set to seduce myself back in. I am also on the edge of giving up painting--all aspects of identity that are a part of me. Much of my thinking and writing is around how experience shapes us and takes root within. As the world changes around me, the present moment is taking on a new dimension. As you say...evolving.
I am, indeed, the voice behind GLP, Pat. Love this - "the present moment is taking on a new dimension." Right there with you.
This one gave me pause for thought. I’ve been known as a storyteller/digital storytelling (DS) facilitator for 14 years in public health. I was passionate about storytelling. My favorite quote was whoever tells the story controls the narrative - I was hardcore about carrying the story torch.
I used DS to help people to share their stories of cancer, homelessness, substance abuse, diabetes, tobacco, etc. It was one of the most rewarding and meaningful things I’ve done in my life. Then about 2-3 years ago, I just didn’t feel motivated to continue to do this. I thought, what’s wrong with me? I finally admitted to another DS facilitator who is well known and well respected in our field, that I didn’t want to help tell others’ stories, I wanted to tell my own… It was hard to say that - he took it with a grain a salt, and said he felt like I was his sister and hugged me, which took the sting of walking away a bit.
After reading your article, makes me now think, there’s nothing wrong with me, I just outgrew it and that is A-OK. Thank you.
Love this, Laura. And how brave you were to step into this awakening. And also love how supported you were when you shared it.
Oof. Needed to hear this one today…
You and me, both, Ashley!
‘Growth often masquerades like loss’ - this is exactly it, how I’ve been feeling in the last few months. I spent a long time getting to where I am in my corporate career - grafting to get in the ‘room where it happens’. Now I feel like, I don’t want to be in the room any more. Because nothing that truly fulfils me will happen there. Of course, commitments like educating my young adult kids and paying the mortgage mean I can’t just jack it in, but I’ve started taking tentative steps towards a transition to something else - an earlier love that has never quite left me and which I may be better suited to with more life experience anyway.
Right, Anna?! Growth is...complicated. Especially further into life, when we've got a certain lifestyle we want to live, and people we love are looking to us to provide some sense of stability. Right there with you. Part of the reason I've embraced a 2 year window of transition for my next set of evolutions. I'll be sharing some big updates and revelations on that journey soon.
When lit no longer,
we let go and we move on.
Shedding, part of growth.
Shedding, indeed, and at times, unburdening.
This resonated deeply. Thank you for eloquently sharing what I’ve felt deeply in my heart. I sold my busy yoga studio and walked away from the community I built for 17 years. It hurt every cell of my being yet I knew I’d outgrown it. I recently returned to celebrate 20 years. It was only then, seeing teachers and students, that I felt the chapter cleanly close for me.
Ah, a former yoga biz world alumni. I had a similar experience when I returned to the 20th anniversary celebration of the place I sold, but more just realized how beautiful it was that the community endured.
Exactly. There’s a deep peace knowing the community continues to flourish.
Thank you! I no longer feel guilty for letting go of writing for art and music.
No place for guilt in this adventure, Gretchen. Glad you're good letting it go now.
Your insight into “outgrown passions” liberated my thinking. Thank you!
So glad it helped liberate your thinking, Connie!