I Will Go Gently Into This Good Year.

“Do not go gently into that good night,” writes Dylan Thomas. “Rage, rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

So often we are told that in order to be good, to be worthy, to be strong, we must rage against the powers of the night. We must fight and work and toil to engage with the “hustle” that marks our induction into a society that glorifies burnout.

But I am too tired for rage. It’s too exhausting, and there are better uses for my energy than to fight the inevitable.

I’ve done my fair share of grieving this past year. My body became a sacred space for pain and catharsis, for anger and acceptance, for sorrow and for weight that, though not quite as heavy as the year before, was still crushing in its own right.

But so, too, did my body become a sacred space for peace and rest, for connection and understanding, and for honoring myself in ways I’ve never before been able because I had yet to meet those parts of myself that needed (and deserved) to be honored. They were there the whole time, waiting patiently, for a time I was ready.

As it turns out, 2022 would be that time.

They say when you start setting boundaries for the first time, you’re going to lose people you love. It will most often be those who have profited from your lack of boundaries over time; those who are unwilling to accept you for who you are now, stuck as they are in the person that you were.

I’ve experienced this firsthand, and as heartbreaking as it was to no longer be able to speak with someone I considered my closest confidante, the liberation doing so has given me has been incredibly eye-opening.

Because when you start setting boundaries for the first time, not only do you lose people you love, you find someone you perhaps love even more: yourself. And once you discover you, you become far more important to your growth and freedom than reading a book, listening to a podcast, or going to a retreat could ever be.

I used to think that self-care was all about lighting candles, taking a bubble bath, sitting down with a good book, or curling up with a yummy drink and reality TV. And while taking time to pamper yourself is part of it (especially when you’re someone like me, who used to find her worth in What She Did, rather than in Who She Was), even more important for self-care is taking the time to truly, actively Listen to that still, small voice inside of you begging to be heard.

What I mean by Listen with a capital “L” is this: Listen with your whole body. Sit still and attune your presence to all the parts of your body that have messages to share. They’re always speaking. We’re just not always open to hearing what they have to say.

If I learned anything in 2022, it was to go softly. Go gently. Take things easy. I’ve always been someone who’s pushed herself to work harder, to do more, to reach beyond perceived limits and to break them. Unfortunately, that often came at the cost of breaking me, and I’m just not willing to do that anymore.

I’ve found that there’s an easier way.

Rather than glorifying burnout, I want to glorify rest and ease.

Sitting in “flow,” the state in the brain where we lose all sense of time and space because we’re so consumed in the passion/curiosity of what we’re doing, is what I strive for now. Being challenged enough to expand, but not so challenged that it defeats me, is a remarkable place to be. It allows me to pursue my goals without identifying with them, to set myself up for success without my ego driving me to self-aggrandizement.

Perhaps for some, rage fuels their passions. Certainly, anger is a useful tool for social justice. It points you in the direction of what matters most to you; shows you what you should be fighting for. And while I’ve learned to honor anger in that sense, to value its messages and insights, it doesn’t work for me to use it as motivation in my life.

I no longer want to rage against the dying of the light. If I’ve learned anything this past year, it’s that some things need to die in order to make room for new things. We will witness many deaths over the course of our lives, including many deaths of our self. Identities, ideas, projects, spiritual paths… we may one day be faced with the loss of each in order to show us the value of letting go of that to which we’ve clung too tightly.

With each death, a space is cleared, and with that space comes a new freedom. A new path. A new offering to walk deeper into life, to commune deeper with love, to find a deeper stillness within yourself and to use that stillness as an anchor for all the new challenges that will, as they do, come your way.

Whatever path I’m set upon now, I don’t know its name, but I know it’s the right one.

How?

Because for once, I am cleaving a path not of my own desires, but rather following a path that has already been set out before me. I’m looking for the signs, Listening, and responding, rather than reacting. And, most of all, I’m at peace.

And so I will go, gently, into this new year. I will let fall away what must, and likewise stay open to receive any gifts that may come.

May this year be filled with rest, curiosity, joy, and ease, and even when we grieve — as I know we will — may we give grace to ourselves and one another abundantly and with so much compassion.