When we think about truth, we often imagine something fixed.

A fact. A certainty. Something we either know or we don't.

But the older I get, the less convinced I am that truth works that way.

As I have reflected on Satya—the yogic practice of truthfulness—I have found myself returning to a different understanding. Some truths arrive clearly and all at once. Others reveal themselves slowly, unfolding over years or even decades. Sometimes truth doesn't arrive as a revelation. Sometimes it changes shape as we do.

I can see that now when I look back at my relationship with work.

In my early twenties, work brought me tremendous joy. I had spent years balancing full-time employment while earning both my bachelor's and master's degrees. I was newly married, eager to build a life, and excited by the opportunities in front of me. Success felt energizing. I loved discovering that I was good at what I did.

Work gave me confidence. It gave me opportunities to help people. It allowed me to solve problems and contribute in meaningful ways. Most importantly, it allowed me to discover gifts within myself that I didn't yet know existed.

If someone had asked me who I was at twenty-two, I probably would have answered without hesitation.

I am a wife and an accountant.

At the time, that felt true.

Then my son was born.

Nothing could have prepared me for how deeply motherhood would change me. I still enjoyed my career, but suddenly work was no longer the center of my world. Watching my son grow, holding him, caring for him, and witnessing all the ordinary miracles of early parenthood awakened something in me that no accomplishment ever had.

The truth shifted.

It wasn't that I loved work less.

The truth was that I loved something else more.

Looking back, I can see that nothing about my job changed during that season. The work was the same. The responsibilities were the same. What changed was me.

That may be one of the simplest and most profound lessons Satya has taught me. We often assume truth changes because our circumstances change. Sometimes truth changes because we do.

The truth I could see at twenty-two was different from the truth I could see at twenty-eight. Not because one was right and the other was wrong, but because life had expanded me. Motherhood revealed a part of myself I had never met before, and with that revelation came a new understanding of what mattered.

Then my daughter Kara died during childbirth.

There are losses that divide life into before and after, and her death was one of them.

In the years that followed, the role work played in my life changed again.

I carried guilt that did not belong to me. I carried shame that I could not yet name. Somewhere deep inside, a part of me felt as though I had failed at the role that mattered most.

Motherhood no longer felt simple.

Work did.

Work did not ask me to navigate grief. It asked me to produce. To solve problems. To lead. To accomplish.

At work, I still knew exactly who I was.

I was competent.

I was productive.

I was successful.

And when your heart is shattered, there is something comforting about spending time in places where you still know how to function.

Looking back now, I can see that work became both a genuine source of fulfillment and a refuge from pain. At the time, I could only see the first truth. The second one would take years to uncover.

I don't judge that version of myself anymore.

For years I believed I had somehow failed by burying myself in work. Now I see something different. Work became the coping strategy available to me at the time. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't sustainable. But it helped me survive a season when survival was all I knew how to do.

Soon afterward, an opportunity arose to move across the country and help build a new operations center in Utah. It felt exciting. Challenging. Meaningful. I was proud to be trusted with such a significant responsibility.

The truth is that I loved the challenge.

The truth is also that staying busy helped me avoid what still hurt.

Both were true.

In my younger years, I often viewed truth as an either/or proposition. Either I loved my work or I was avoiding my grief. Either I was ambitious or I was hurting. Either I was strong or I was struggling.

Age and experience have taught me that truth is often far more spacious than that.

I genuinely loved the challenge of building something new. I was proud of what we accomplished. And at the very same time, work provided a convenient place to avoid emotions I did not yet know how to face.

Satya has taught me that many of life's deepest truths are not found in choosing one answer over another. They are found in having the courage to hold both.

For years, my career flourished. Promotions came. Responsibilities grew. Success followed. Increasingly, my identity became intertwined with my work.

Then life invited me to step away.

When I took a sabbatical from the corporate world, I imagined life would become quieter. Instead, everything I had been avoiding rose to the surface.

Without the title. Without the endless meetings. Without the constant demands competing for my attention, I began to see how much of my life had been organized around staying busy.

The unraveling was uncomfortable.

My marriage was struggling. My children were struggling. I was struggling.

For the first time, I found myself asking questions I had spent years avoiding.

Who am I when nobody needs something from me?

Who am I when there is nothing to accomplish?

Who am I when my title disappears?

Those questions slowly led me toward a truth I had never fully considered before.

Perhaps my worth had never been tied to my productivity.

Perhaps my value had never depended on how much I could carry.

Perhaps I mattered even when I wasn't accomplishing anything at all.

That realization didn't arrive overnight. It emerged slowly through meditation, healing, yoga, therapy, long walks, tears, and countless moments of stillness.

It felt less like discovering something new and more like remembering something I had forgotten.

Eventually, a divorce required me to return to the corporate world.

Ironically, going back became one of the most healing experiences of all.

I had spent years wondering whether my success had been fueled by trauma. Whether my drive had come from constantly proving my worth.

Returning gave me the opportunity to test that belief.

What I discovered surprised me.

I was still good at my job. I still enjoyed solving complex problems, leading people, and building teams. The skills were still there.

The difference was that I approached work differently.

I took vacations.

I attended retreats.

I practiced yoga.

I cared for myself.

And in doing so, I discovered that my trauma had never been the source of my success.

I was.

My skills. My heart. My dedication. My way of seeing the world.

That truth was incredibly healing.

Yet over time, another truth quietly began to emerge.

The successes that once energized me no longer brought me joy.

The projects went well.

The praise continued.

The paycheck remained substantial.

But something had changed.

The moments that made me feel most alive were no longer happening at work.

They were happening on my yoga mat.

They were happening while teaching.

They were happening in meditation.

They were happening in nature.

They were happening in conversations about healing, growth, and what it means to live fully.

At first, I resisted making any conclusions.

For much of my life, uncertainty felt like a problem to solve. When faced with a difficult question, my instinct was to analyze it, create a plan, and move quickly toward an answer.

This time, I tried something different.

Instead of demanding clarity, I allowed myself to become curious.

I stopped asking, "What should I do?" and started asking, "What am I noticing?"

Without realizing it, I had spent decades listening primarily to my mind. Now I began listening to my body.

I noticed which activities left me feeling energized and alive. I noticed which ones left me depleted. I paid attention to where my thoughts went when I had free time. I observed what brought a sense of expansion and what felt increasingly constrictive.

Slowly, a pattern began to emerge.

I noticed that the story I was telling myself no longer matched what my body was experiencing.

My mind still identified as a bank executive.

My body told a different story.

My stomach ached on the way to work.

My shoulders felt heavy.

My breath became shallow.

My energy returned when I left the office.

The body often recognizes truth long before the mind is ready to accept it.

So I listened.

For months, I simply observed.

I questioned old assumptions. I examined inherited beliefs. I wondered whether the life I had spent decades building was still the life I wanted to continue living.

And eventually, the truth became impossible to ignore.

What surprised me most was that the truth itself was not painful.

The painful part was carrying it while pretending I didn't know.

Once I began to see that my heart was being pulled elsewhere, maintaining the old story became exhausting. The weight wasn't the truth. The weight was resisting it.

I was good at my job.

I was successful.

And I no longer wanted it.

Not because there was anything wrong with the work.

Not because I had failed.

Simply because the truth had changed shape.

Looking back now, I can see that Satya was present throughout the entire journey.

Truth was fluid.

The role work played in my life shifted again and again as I grew, grieved, healed, and changed.

Truth had weight.

The hardest moments were not when I discovered a new truth, but when I continued carrying identities that no longer fit.

And truth had power.

Not because it demanded immediate action, but because once I saw it clearly, I could no longer pretend I didn't know.

For years, I believed this story was about work.

I thought it was a story about ambition, success, career transitions, and eventually leaving the corporate world.

Looking back, I don't think that was the deepest truth at all.

The deeper truth was about worth.

For much of my life, I unknowingly tied my value to achievement, productivity, responsibility, and being needed by others. Every season invited me to loosen my grip on one of those beliefs.

First it was achievement.

Then motherhood.

Then productivity.

Then the belief that carrying everyone else's burdens somehow made me more valuable.

Each layer revealed another story I had mistaken for truth.

And underneath all of them was something much simpler.

My worth had never depended on any of those things.

For most of my life, I believed worth was something to be earned.

Earned through achievement.

Earned through sacrifice.

Earned through being useful.

Satya slowly revealed something different.

Worth is not something we achieve.

It is something we recognize.

Looking back, I can see that truth changed shape many times throughout my life.

Sometimes it arrived through joy.

Sometimes through grief.

Sometimes through success.

Sometimes through stillness.

Each version revealed exactly what I was ready to see.

My worth is not tied to how much I produce.

It is not tied to how many people need me.

It is not tied to a title, a role, or even my ability to help others.

My worth exists simply because I do.

I am here to live this life fully.

To experience joy and grief.

To learn and unlearn.

To continue discovering new truths as old truths change shape.

And when those lessons feel meaningful, to share them with others along the way.

Perhaps that is the invitation of Satya.

Not to cling to yesterday's truth.

Not to force tomorrow's truth.

But to meet each season of life with enough honesty to see what is changing and enough courage to follow where it leads.

Truth will continue to change shape.

So will I.

And maybe that is what it means to be fully alive:

to allow truth to keep changing shape.

Reflection

• What truth in your own life might be changing shape right now?

• Is there a role, identity, belief, or expectation that no longer fits as comfortably as it once did?

• Can you become curious about what your body, heart, and experience are trying to show you?