This past week, I stepped away from the rhythm of my daily life and into the quiet mystery of the Colorado foothills to attend a retreat titled A Sanctuary of the Heart. Led by two of my most beloved spiritual teachers, Jeff Foster and Matt Licata, the gathering was described as a place to "calm your nervous system and rest in the mystery of presence."

But Jeff, with his usual tenderness, joked that it could just as easily be called The Permission Retreat. And that felt true. Because this wasn’t a place to fix ourselves or climb some spiritual ladder. It was a place to come home. To soften. To give ourselves permission to be exactly as we are.

Before the retreat began, I made a promise to myself: I would not arrive as a self-improvement project. I would not chase healing. I would come to rest. To be present. And the word that kept rising as my intention was just that: Presence.

A few weeks before I left, I had written a poem titled "I Am Held." I didn’t know it then, but those words would become the root system of my time in Colorado. The poem was a whisper from the part of me that knew: I didn’t need to be better. I needed to be real.

“I am held. Not by answers, but by the widening arms of the unknown.

Not by clarity, but by the soft ache of being here.

I am held by the breath that returns, by the earth that never left,

by a love that doesn’t need me to change.”

The first two days of retreat unfolded like silk. My breath found its rhythm. My nervous system unclenched. I moved through meditations with a sense of ease I hadn’t felt since a silent retreat in 2016. I was dancing with the moment—no choreography, just trust. Letting the unknown lead. Letting breath be the music.

And then, on the evening of day two, I received a text. A family emergency had stirred things at home. In an instant, the calm unraveled. My groundedness cracked. Peace gave way to panic.

I wept for a long while that night. Not just for the situation back home, but for the ache I hadn’t wanted to name: I thought it would get easier.

I have done so much to align my life with my values. To make space for joy, to soften old armor, to stay devoted to my practices. And still, life brings these waves. Still, I am tossed.

In the days that followed, I turned toward that ache. I let myself feel the tender illusion that maybe, just maybe, if I opened enough, life would stop hurting so much. I stood at the threshold of an old story: that peace means the absence of hardship. That healing should be a promise.

And then, one morning after a meditation, Matt said something that landed in the deepest part of me. I scribbled it down:

"The essence of this spiritual path is the holding of the opposite tensions in our lives without any wish for resolution."

His exact words may have varied, but the truth hit like a bell inside my chest. I knew. This is the path: to hold both calm and chaos. To be cracked open and still deeply anchored. To be in pain and still present.

This is the dance. Awkward, holy, improvisational. We move without knowing the next step. We hold grief in one hand and gratitude in the other. We spin inside the storm and still find ourselves breathing.

In that space, I began to understand transition not as something to escape, but as something sacred. A threshold. A liminal space where I am no longer who I was, and not yet who I am becoming. The unknown isn’t a void. It’s a fertile field. It asks us to trust in roots we haven’t seen yet.

I am still so close to the retreat that my body hasn’t quite caught up to the words. But I know this: something has shifted. I am not asking life to be easier anymore. I am learning to become a space wide enough to hold all of it.

Practices for the Threshold

If you find yourself in the in-between—in the stretch between stories—here are a few practices to help you meet the unknown with tenderness:

1. Gentle Breath and Presence Ritual

• Light a candle and place one hand on your heart.
• Whisper the words: "I am held."
• Let your breath find a soft rhythm: inhale for 4, exhale for 6.
• Ask yourself:

What part of me is dying?

What part of me is beginning to breathe?

Can I hold both without rushing to resolution?

2. Turning Toward the Trigger

• Think back to a recent moment when you felt triggered—a spike of anger, sadness, defensiveness, or disconnection.
• Once the intensity has passed, return to the moment gently.
• Ask yourself:

What emotion was beneath that reaction?

Is there a particular feeling I tend to avoid?

What beliefs or old stories might be living underneath that feeling?

• Let your exploration be soft and nonjudgmental.
• Consider journaling from the voice of the feeling itself. What does it want you to know?

3. Somatic Awareness Practice

• Sit or lie down in stillness.
• Notice sensations in the body. Where do you feel constriction? Where do you feel openness?
• Breathe into both spaces with equal care.
• Let the body know: All of you is welcome here.

Transitions are not detours. They are initiations.

You don’t have to have it all figured out to belong to this moment.

You only have to be willing to dance with the unknown.

Even if your steps are unsure.

Even if your heart is breaking.

Even if you are still learning the rhythm.

Let life lead you. You are ready.