What a Weed Eater Taught Me About Presence I took a yoga class a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t done that in a few years, and the combination of a new space, a new teacher, and new movements felt unfamiliar. I was already a little on edge—trying to get comfortable, trying to find my place. Just as I began to settle, I heard it: the mechanical buzz of a weed eater outside—sharp, jarring, impossible to ignore. I felt a spike of irritation. This was supposed to be a peaceful space. And yet here was this harsh noise breaking the stillness. I tried to dismiss it and be "zen" about it, but I was annoyed. The yoga teacher noticed the noise, too, but she had a different response. She smiled and said calmly, “This too belongs.” She explained a bit more about it and it stuck with me after class. I even put a sticky note on my computer. She wasn’t pretending the noise was beautiful. She was simply choosing how to relate to what was present. There were times I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Wasn’t that just an excuse? A way to gloss over discomfort or inconvenience? Some kind of spiritual bypass? But the more I sat with it, the more it began to shift something in me. Because it’s not about surrendering to injustice, or pretending that every experience is good. It’s about acknowledging reality—with presence. It’s about letting what’s here be here, without needing to resist, fix, or exile it. What we resist, owns us. What we allow—we can respond to. The Hidden Cost of Emotional Resistance You might not be battling a weed eater in your yoga class, but you’ve probably felt a similar internal tension. That moment when something interrupts your rhythm or demands something of you, and a part of you says, "Ugh, no." Sometimes it shows up as a sudden irritation. Other times it’s a wearier resentment that’s been brewing in the background for weeks. Either way, it’s a signal from your body. You may sense resistance: when you feel obligated to say yes to something you don’t actually want to do. in an invitation to another event when what you truly need is solitude. when you see someone’s name pop up on your phone and feel yourself emotionally brace. You might recognize the emotion first—frustration, dread, or guilt. That's your body saying No, but your mind hasn’t caught up yet. This is what makes resistance so slippery. It doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers through fatigue, tension, or a lack of desire. When we override those signals, even for good reasons, we drain ourselves. Over time, this builds up until we find ourselves burned out. Disconnected from our own knowing, our joy, and our ability to choose freely. A practice like "this too belongs" matters—not because it makes everything feel good—but because it helps us feel everything. It keeps us in relationship with what’s real (and ourselves), so we can respond from a place of wholeness instead of pressure. Understanding Resistance as a Nervous System Response You’ve probably told yourself (or someone else) to "just let it go" or "don’t take it personally." But if your body is experiencing something as a threat, it doesn’t matter how much you know you shouldn’t be upset. Even small things—a sharp tone, a critical email, or an overflowing schedule—can cue your system into protection mode. "Your nervous system doesn’t speak logic. It speaks sensation. This is why resistance isn’t just a mindset problem—it’s a nervous system one. Your body constantly scans for cues of safety or threat. When it senses threat, it shifts into protection—fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. That might look like overexplaining, going quiet, apologizing reflexively, or wanting to escape. These responses aren’t flaws—they’re smart, protective strategies that helped you survive. If you’ve spent years reading the room and managing others’ emotions, your own signals may feel faint or confusing. Not gone—just buried. You haven’t lost your inner signals—they’ve just been drowned out. That’s where interoception comes in: your ability to notice what’s happening inside your body. It helps you differentiate between: A genuine yes and a polite or fear-based one Numbing and true rest Avoiding something vs. honoring your capacity This isn’t about analyzing every sensation. It’s about re-learning how to listen to the language of your body. Real-Life Tools for Meeting Resistance with Neutral I wish I could tell you that once you recognize resistance, it disappears. It doesn’t. But what does change is how you meet it. These days, when I feel that subtle internal aversion—the "yuck"—I try to: Notice how strong the feeling is Ask how much energy is tied up in it Bring Neutral energy and just sit with it, without judgment (see the link below for an audio recording of how to find neutral) When I do this, something shifts. My body feels more spacious. I’m not in a tug-of-war with the discomfort. I can relate to it instead of reacting from it. That gives me more choice about whether to move forward, hold back, or shift direction entirely. Letting the resistance have some space brings me back to myself. How My Clients Shift from Burnout to Self-Trust A client of mine—let’s call her Jenny—once described how she used to move through her week in "torpedo mode." She was smart, efficient, and on the edge of total burn out. When we started working together, she thought she had a time management problem. But what she really had was a self-permission problem. Her nervous system had learned that forward motion = safety. Slowing down felt dangerous. Saying no felt risky. But when she learned to pause, check in, and bring Neutral, she began making clearer, calmer choices—without abandoning herself. She still excelled, but with less friction. And more freedom. She lost nothing and gained a lot. This is what it looks like to move from automatic to aligned. Not perfect. Just present. You Don’t Have to Fight So Hard to Feel Better Most of us are trying to do something meaningful—raise families, run businesses, show up well. Often while quietly managing stress, fear, doubt, or fatigue. As a recovering perfectionist and doer, here’s what I keep reminding myself: You don’t have to fight what’s hard. You don’t have to fix it right away. You don’t have to pretend it’s not bothering you. You don’t even have to fully understand it. You just have to include it. "This too, belongs" helps us pause, reconnect, and respond from presence instead of pressure. By meeting resistance with Neutral instead of force, we have more choice. Instead of reacting we're able to stop abandoning ourselves. Want support in practicing this? I’ve recorded a short audio that guides you through bringing Neutral energy to "something yucky." Try it out and let me know how it goes. Kathy Taylor Read my Bio

The Moment I Realized I Wasn’t Fully There You know that feeling when you’re in a conversation — and you’re saying all the right things — but something’s missing? You’re present… but not with yourself. Not fully. Not emotionally. You’re thinking your way through it. Performing calm. Managing the moment instead of actually being in it. I used to think I was showing up — until I had an experience that showed me how often I was leaving myself behind. A few years ago, I was in a workshop exploring different kinds of attention: inward, outward, and something balanced in between. We started by finding Neutral. (Have you ever noticed that finding the middle can be harder than you think?) As I shifted my attention from Neutral, then backward toward myself, then forward toward the others, I had this strange sensation — like there was someone behind me. Then I realized… it was me. It was like I was in two places at once. Not metaphorically — physically. My awareness was split, and for a moment, I could feel how often I’m not fully here. I had a big realization in that moment: Just because I think I’m present -- or want to be-- doesn’t mean I'm actually experiencing my emotions at the same time. There’s a big difference between showing up and truly being there. And when our emotional presence isn’t part of it, something important gets lost. The Middle Ground We Keep Skipping We pay a lot of attention to our bodies — whether trying to look better and be healthier or get rid of pain, discomfort, or disease. However, in many cases, we're not actually listening . The multi-billion dollar health, medical and beauty industries are proof of our focus on optimizing our physical health. We spend time, money, and energy treating the body like a machine to be tuned and corrected. But something gets left out of that equation: our emotions. Pain, fatigue, tension, and illness are real — and they often have emotional roots we're not paying attention to. Our bodies might be trying to tell us something, but we're so focused on fixing the physical symptoms that we miss the emotional message underneath. Without tuning in to that layer, we only get part of the picture. It's like having an Oreo cookie with no creamy middle, or two buns and no burger. The part that connects everything together is missing. When emotions are left out and when we're functioning from head and physical body but ignoring the heart, we end up stuck. Not in a dramatic way, but in this subtle, persistent rigidity. We can't move fully into presence or connection, because we've left out the part that allows for movement: e-motion. That disconnection has consequences. Personally, when I'm operating from my head and body but not my heart, I might seem present. I can speak clearly, get things done, track what's happening. But I'm not fully with myself. Relationally, it's even more costly. I can listen. I can respond. I can do all the things that "look" like connection — but if I've left my emotional self behind, the connection between me and the other person feels more like empty calories than real nourishment. Presence without emotion is performance. And it's often what we've been trained to do. :( Cultural Pressure and the Shrinking Self Our society doesn't reward emotional presence. It rewards composure. Control. The appearance of regulation. We're taught to be polite, not expressive. To be pleasant, not honest. To "keep it together," even when we're falling apart inside. And when we do express emotion, we get told we're too much. Then we swing too far the other way and we shrink. We edit ourselves down. We learn to dial it down — to be just sensitive enough to seem intuitive, but not so expressive that we're inconvenient. Over time, "too much" becomes "not enough." We get caught in this exhausting loop of trying to be palatable, contained, acceptable. And we lose the full spectrum of who we are. Not only does that hurt us — it limits what others can connect to in us. The parts we hide are often the very parts that others need to see in order to feel less alone. The Compulsion to Solve One pattern I notice in myself is this tendency to want to define and fix hard things rather than feel them. It's a form of self-protection. My first instinct is often to move into solution mode. Find the reason. Make a plan. Solve the thing. But that problem-solving comes at a cost — especially when the real invitation is to feel something first. Something vulnerable. Something I'd rather not touch. One night when my daughter was about seven, I went in to kiss her goodnight and I could tell something was wrong. She told me that her friends had said something mean to her at school. I wanted to make her feel better — and the way I thought you were supposed to do that was to look at the situation from lots of different perspectives. I didn't want her to be in pain and I didn't want to feel helpless. Instead of staying with her sadness, and letting her know I was with her in it, I gave her all the ways she might see things differently. Maybe they didn't mean it the way she was taking it. Maybe it wasn't meant for her. That approach did not land well. She got more upset, not less. Looking back, I know that what she needed wasn't perspective. She needed empathy, not a solution. And while offering a new perspective can sometimes be supportive, in that moment, it created distance instead of closeness. It made her sadness something to get over, rather than something I was willing to sit with. When we skip the step of feeling, we also skip the truth. We miss the part where we encounter ourselves — and each other. And that's where the transformation actually begins. The Illusion of Control Here's a question I've been carrying: What if labeling emotions is just a way to feel like we're in control of them? When we name something as anxiety, burnout, or emotional dysregulation, it can feel like progress. We've labeled the discomfort. We've placed it inside a framework. We've made it manageable. Certainly that can be clarifying and helpful. It can create space for understanding. But sometimes, we use those labels to avoid the raw experience underneath. We turn emotions into diagnoses — not to help ourselves feel them, but to avoid having to. Pathologizing gives us the illusion of control. It helps us keep things contained. Defined. Solvable. But emotions aren't puzzles. They aren't errors in the system. They're the system's way of speaking. Feeling Before Fixing Naming an emotion isn't inherently wrong. But the order matters. If we name before we feel, we risk skipping the part that brings us into contact with ourselves. If we feel first , and then name, the naming becomes an act of integration — not avoidance. It's the difference between saying "I'm sad" because I felt sadness moving through me... versus calling something "grief" as a way to make it neat and tidy before I've let it move through me. Thinking is helpful. So is naming. But not at the expense of experiencing. Because real connection — with ourselves or with others — depends on actually feeling what we feel. Reflections to Sit With These aren't prompts for your journal — they're invitations to feel into your lived experience. Let them guide you back to what's real, not just what's thinkable. Think back to a recent moment when something felt off — a conversation, a disappointment, a stuck feeling. Did you try to solve it before fully feeling it? Can you recall a time when you stayed with an uncomfortable feeling without trying to change it? What happened in your body, in your breath, in your connection to yourself? Remember a moment when you were told (directly or indirectly) that you were "too much." Where did you feel that in your body? What part of you got smaller? These are not questions to answer — they're experiences to return to. Let your body respond before your mind does. Final Thought  We're not broken for wanting control, and we're not wrong for using thinking as a way to feel safe. Most of us were taught to rely on our minds to make sense of the world, and that makes complete sense. Still, thinking is not the same as feeling. Emotional presence isn't indulgent. It's what helps us stay human. It's what allows us to connect. We don't need to treat our feelings like problems to solve. Often, what they really need is our attention, not our fixing. When we allow ourselves to experience what we feel, without managing or analyzing it, something soft and real begins to happen. We come back to ourselves. From that place, we can meet each other more fully. And isn't that what we're here for after all? P.S. When you're ready to connect with yourself a bit more, this complimentary guide to Building Your Capacity is one way I can support you. Kathy Taylor link to my bio

She was in a parking lot, well-dressed down to her high heels, wrestling with a full sheet of plywood in the back of a borrowed Jeep. Her own car was in the shop, but she'd come prepared to haul lumber anyway. What she hadn't counted on was it not fitting — and having to muscle it in by herself. So there she was: pulling, adjusting, climbing around, even kicking off her heels to get better leverage. People watched as they drove by. Someone may have pulled out a phone. But no one offered to help. Eventually, she got it in. She climbed into the driver's seat — sweaty, flushed, but victorious. She did it. When she told me this story, her voice carried real pride — and there should have been. The grit, the problem-solving, the sheer determination were impressive. Pride, because she figured it out on her own. Sadness, because she felt like she had to. Why Didn’t She Ask for Help? That was the question that popped into my head. Not judgment — genuine curiosity. I probably would’ve done the same. But still, I wondered: Why didn’t she flag someone down? Make eye contact? Just say, “Hey, mind giving me a hand with this?” (Why wouldn’t I have?) I’ve been her more times than I can count — not always with plywood, but with life. And if I’m honest, it’s because somewhere deep down, I felt like I had something to prove. The Proving Game We’ve learned that being “capable” means doing it alone. That real strength is solitary. That the ideal woman isn’t just competent — she’s bulletproof. We think when we don’t need help, we’re winning. We’ve watched ourselves and other women be dismissed, underestimated, talked down to. So when we manage something solo, there’s a real sense of reclaiming something. But the constant proving? It’s exhausting. Have you ever noticed the quiet resentment building from hoisting and hauling and doing it all yourself? The Cost of Not Asking A lot of us don’t ask for help because at some point, it backfired: We were told, “You should be able to handle that yourself.” We were dismissed: “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re fine.” Or the help came with strings — and now we owe them. We got used to grinning and bearing it. Now, even when support is available, we miss it. We’d rather strain and sweat than risk the vulnerability of asking. It’s self-protection, yes. But it’s also self-denial. Strong Women, Tired Souls The women I work with are strong. That’s never been in question. But by midlife, many of them are tired — not of doing, but of doing it all in the way they were told they had to. They still want to contribute, build, grow. But they want: Effort that feels aligned Work that’s sustainable Success that feels alive — not driven by grind How can I feel powerful without having to prove it constantly — even to myself? A Different Kind of Strength At a retreat I hosted, one of the participants stood quietly under a tree. My horse Isaac wandered over, rested his forehead gently against her chest… and just stayed. No asking. No fixing. Just presence. Something in her softened — like an exhale she didn’t know she’d been holding. Sometimes we don’t need to hold it all. Sometimes, we are meant to be held. I submit that we must be. ❤️ Strength with Softness That image stayed with me. Not because it was dramatic — but because it was the opposite. Quiet Grounded Simple It reminded me: Being held isn’t weakness Receiving is sacred We can soften and still be strong We don’t need to prove anything. We're allowed to be helped. Maybe this is the version of strength we’re actually hungry for. What Keeps Us From Asking? The barriers are often invisible but powerful: Cultural conditioning — asking = weakness Wounds — being shut down, dismissed, guilted Power dynamics — help can feel disempowering Identity — we like seeing ourselves as capable, resourceful, independent And we are all those things. But when that identity becomes too rigid, it cuts us off from ease, softness, and connection — even from ourselves. What If Asking is the Strength? Let me offer a quiet reframe. What if strength isn’t doing everything yourself — but being secure enough to ask? What if: The strongest thing you can do is let someone help — without shame? Vulnerability is a leadership skill? Receiving is what actually makes the next step possible? What if the “power over” story we grew up with isn’t the only option? A Personal Story When I brought my horse Bentley home, I hoped his intro to the herd would go smoothly. It didn’t. Isaac went after him immediately — teeth bared, full-on aggression. I was alone in the pasture, trying to separate them, heart pounding. Eventually, I got Bentley into a separate space. Safe, for now, but I was shaking (and so was he). As someone with decades of horse experience, I felt a wave of shame for pushing my agenda.. I should’ve known better. And worse, I told myself: “I should be able to fix this on my own. Finally, I called my totally non-horsey husband to help me think. That call was the turning point. Not because he solved it — but because I let myself receive support. I wasn’t calm yet, but I wasn’t alone. That changed everything. Asking wasn’t failure. It was leadership. It’s how we stay grounded, resourced, and able to move forward. An Invitation If this stirred something in you, just sit with it for a moment. No fixing. No solving. Just presence. Ask yourself: Where am I still trying to prove I can do it alone? When was the last time I asked for help — without apology? What would ease look like in this season? There’s no right answer. Just honest ones. Give Yourself Permission You’re allowed to ask and to soften. You’re allowed to be strong and still want to be held. Yes, asking can feel vulnerable. It might make you feel exposed, unsure, and seen. Ask anyway. Vulnerability doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re human. It means you’re living with your heart open. Let that be true. Let that be enough. And if you need someone to remind you of this-- I’m here. Kathy Taylor read my Bio

You’ve achieved a lot, held things together for so long, and... can you feel that quiet longing for something to shift? To finally stop pushing so hard. To live and give from a place that feels more whole. It often starts with a bold decision—a New Year’s resolution, a vow after a hard week, or a moment of clarity that says, "I want something different." You start out strong, but then it doesn't stick. And you wonder why. It's not because you didn't want it badly enough, or because you're lazy, or lacking in willpower. It's in the body. The body doesn’t like being commanded. It wants to be understood. To be met with gentleness and curiosity. Big goals aren’t the problem. It’s how we pursue them. Ambition can be a beautiful thing when it moves in partnership with the body, not in opposition to it. (But that's now how we're trained.) When the nervous system is overwhelmed with too much to do or too many requests, it can’t integrate what’s happening, so it resists. This can look like procrastination, anxiety, a sense of hopelessness, perfectionism-- even "forgetting." It's not that our system doesn't want healing, it's that it needs safety first. That’s where the minimum effective dose comes in. Or as I call it: baby steps. Gentle nudges. Starting small doesn’t mean staying small. It means creating the safety your body needs to go big. ​ So maybe today, you ask: What would feel like a gentle next step toward my goal or desire? How can I honor my body’s rhythm? This isn’t about doing less because you’re incapable. It’s about doing less because your body is wise. And it wants to heal—so you can thrive. One small, safe step at a time.

In the last post , we explored how perfectionism and people-pleasing keeps your system in a state of low-level threat. Many of you wrote back sharing how deeply you resonated with that feeling of guilt when finally allowing yourself to rest. Today I want to share some specific practices for increasing your capacity for rest that allow you to be creative and take meaningful action. Not through pushing or forcing, but rather through a dance of awareness and practice. I hope it will be especially useful to you around the holidays. Fear of Stopping There have been many days in the past when I had lots to do and I was on a roll. I could feel the tired coming on, but I was determined to finish without stopping. I knew if I did stop, it would take a LOT of energy to get going again. This cycle of over-functioning and collapse isn’t healthy or sustainable. I’ve been there. Starting Where You Are The most crucial step is to accept your current capacity not where you think you should be. Be honest with yourself. How much capacity do you have in this moment? (It’s OK if it’s not very much.) Can you notice and take a break when you’re at 80% rather than waiting for complete exhaustion? Celebrate those small shifts in awareness and treat your resistance to acceptance with curiosity rather than judgment. A little ​self-compassion​ goes a long way. The goal isn’t to eliminate stress or stay permanently relaxed - that’s neither possible nor desirable. Instead, it’s about developing flexibility to move between these states naturally, expanding what we call your “window of tolerance. Small Moments Matter Rather than waiting for long periods of rest, scatter micro-moments of regulation throughout your day. Here are some small steps to practice. Take 3 conscious breaths before checking email or scrolling (2-second inhale, 8-second exhale) Feel your feet on the ground between meetings—and even during them! Look around the space you’re in and notice 5 things you see, 4 things you hear, 3 things you can touch or feel (inside or outside your body), Next notice 2 things your can smell and one thing you can taste. Share your wins AND your challenges - both build connection and resilience Practice receiving support in small ways (accepting help, taking in compliments) One Step at a Time Don’t try these all at once. That’s too big a bite. Instead, choose ONE practice to focus on for a week. See how you feel. Remember, every time you notice tension and choose to pause, every time you honor a need for rest, you’re rewiring your nervous system. This is neuroplasticity in action - your brain and body learning that it’s safe to operate differently and support you in sustainable success. What would become possible if you had just 10% more capacity? Where would you feel that first in your body?