I Guess I Haven't Learned That Yet: Discovering New Ways of Living When the Old Ways Stop Working

by Shauna Niequist

Self-compassion is letting yourself off the hook, letting yourself be human and flawed and also amazing. It’s giving yourself credit for showing up instead of beating yourself up for taking so long to get there.

We find the courage to change when we feel loved. It unlocks our ability to move forward and grow.

I’ve learned to live in a smaller, quieter world, and I’ve been surprised at how much I like it.

That’s how it works. The changes connect and cascade, and the only way through it, it seems to me, is with curiosity and self-compassion, one in each hand, the tools for the journey.

A wise friend of mine says that true spiritual maturity is nothing more—and nothing less—than consenting to reality. Hello to here—not what you wanted or longed for or lost, not what you hope for or imagine. Reality. This here. This now.

What does it mean to be a noticer when what there is to notice is awful and you’d rather look away? What if your beautiful/ordinary everyday life isn’t beautiful and hasn’t been for a long time? For a long time, “hello to here” was an easy thing to say, like throwing a party for all the lovely parts of my life: hello, hello, hello. But all of a sudden, it was hard to say hello. It was hard to look the reality of my life full in the face.

Turns out you need three sweaters, rent money, and five really good people. You need eggs and coffee. A Kindle account, a metro card, and one good umbrella.

I believe in seeking out beauty absolutely every chance we get, as an act of prayer, as an act of worship, as an act of resistance.

I am not at all suggesting that you should say, I’m so glad this happened, because . . . I’m talking about being the kind of person who asks, even as you are grieving the death of many beloved things, even in the night, Who has cared for me well? Who has been kind? Where have I felt able to rest or be seen? In the middle of the darkness, where have I seen redemption or bravery or tiny bits of hope?

We have to keep doing the things we were made to do, the daily acts of goodness and creativity and honesty and service—as much for what they bring about inside us as for the good they do in the world. Those two things work together, and they both matter.

I know now that I can trust myself, that I can belong to myself, that belonging to something larger than myself is lovely but isn’t for every season. It’s a little lonelier out here, a little rockier. I’m learning to make myself a home in the wilderness, in the unbelonging itself.

Inspiration is my responsibility. Inspiration is part of the job description. It doesn’t strike like lightning. I lay myself open to receive it. You can’t manhandle it or make demands of it, but you can put yourself in the path of it.

Jesus did not preserve boundaries and traditions at the expense of humans. He valued humans at the expense of previously held boundaries and traditions. Christlikeness is, at its core, about love—a brave, muscular, boundary-breaking love for all people, a commitment to human thriving on every level.

I begin by feeling the unfeelable feelings and thinking the unthinkable thoughts. Second, I forgive. I forgive the night. I forgive the people who have hurt me. I forgive the world for not being what I wanted. I forgive myself for all the ways I feel like I’m failing. Then I make space for desire: What do I want? I want healing.

Describing her "morning routine".

What’s happening inside me? What’s happening around me? What might I need to learn or unlearn or face right now? Am I offering deep kindness and forgiveness toward myself, deep kindness and forgiveness for others? Am I tending lovingly to myself and others? What do I need to walk away from or walk toward? What requires my participation or voice?

I hold on to the fact that God is. And he is love, which is the center of everything.

I’m choosing faith that loves quiet, humility, mystery. I’m choosing a tradition that begins with creativity, dust, words, love. That’s who we are, who we’ve always been—created on purpose, shaped by a word, loved beyond measure.

I am allowed to heal. I am allowed to be happy. I am allowed to do work I love, to celebrate, to feel joy and delight, to laugh. I’m allowed to invest in my own healing, allowed to protect myself, allowed to tend lovingly to myself in all sorts of ways.