TGIF :: What We Let In

#90 || The Quiet Might of Discernment

I write to explore living undimmed—present and self-aware of escapist drinking, eating, snark, exercise, shopping, sex, work, drugs—even grooming—so we can truly show up. Prior posts are available here. Thank you for trusting me with your time.

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“We’re moving,” I told the kids. “This sweet little home has been a wonderful nest for us during this time of transition, but I’ve found a new place. I think you’re going to love it.”

It was the summer of 2020. As the three of us set out—walking and scootering up the road to see the home I’d just rented—we had the whole street to ourselves for the twenty minute adventure to our new front door. Though it was a beautiful day, our neighbors were honoring the mandate to shelter in place. The streets were eerily still, the schoolyard quiet. And somehow, the birds seemed louder than usual—an unseen orchestra filling the air with their mysterious messages.

I was full of anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. Would they like it? How could we possibly furnish this space? Am I ready for a change, again?

What we let in

We moved a couple of weeks later. I made sure the kids were with their dad so they didn’t have to endure the process. There were a lot of logistics to manage, and I wanted the transition to feel as smooth as possible for them—they had already endured more than their fair share of change over the past few years.

I’m a planner, so I had it all figured out: The moving truck would stop at my storage unit first to collect what remained of my late mother’s belongings (by then in storage for almost a decade), then head to the basement of our old house to pick up the things from our former marital home—items that hadn’t made it into our little cottage when I moved out, tangled in a storm of emotion and “I’ve got this” energy. Only then would it load up the contents of the carefully curated little home we were leaving.

The idea was to have the truck packed in such a way that our chosen belongings would be unloaded first, thoughtfully placed in our new home. The rest—the things from storage—would stay outside, giving me space and time to finally sort through them and decide what, if anything, still belonged inside, with us.

When the movers left that day, yes—we had a home, sparsely furnished with plenty of room to settle in. I’d stopped the movers at the invisible line dividing past from present and had them unload everything in the back of the truck onto the front patio.

By the time they left, it was as though my past had vomited all over the beginning of this new chapter. Boxes emanating the scent of rotting paper, bins of stained yet still magnificent silk clothes my mother once wore, crates of kids’ preschool art projects, files of papers from law school, a trunk filled with mementos from travels to India and Tibet, shoeboxes spilling over with handwritten letters from old lovers, grandparents, and friends. Even an antique accordion, its abalone shell detail still preserved in a tattered leather suitcase of sorts, leaned against the now-blocked front door alongside a neglected bike. I think my Great Uncle Bill played that?

Discernment

It was a Friday afternoon. I called a local hauling company and scheduled a pick-up for midday Monday, timed so I could step away during my lunch break between Zooms. Then I began the process of opening and reviewing every single item, placing it into one of four piles: move inside, give away, throw away, or store under the house—with an allowance of just two boxes for that last category. My playlist for this process was key (still a go-to in times of much-needed calm).

And it all happened—the move, the sorting, the clearing. By Monday evening I was both exhausted and invigorated at once. The kids were home, some of the weight of the past had been released, and our shelves were beginning to fill with the things we consciously chose to keep. For the first time in years, everything I owned—or was responsible for—was in one place, because I had put it there. It felt like an enormous burden had been lifted, and a bright new chapter had opened—tears and all.

Flashback

We moved offices this week, an experience that brought me back to those days years ago, evoking reflections on what we keep, and why. These days my office space is not just a work space, it is a creative space, a connection space, a manifesting space. I have statues, some stones, some plants, and carefully chosen books nearby. What came into the new space felt almost as important as what came into our home five years ago.

What do we let in, and why? Can we be more discerning? Should we be? Perhaps bringing deeper attention to our external spaces can not only reflect but also provoke and support the inner shifts we long for too.

The Second Awareness

Almost two years ago, I shared this deepdive post on The Second Awareness. In a nutshell, we choose much of what we let into our bodies and our lives:

I came to realize that I am privileged enough to be in the drivers seat of my life. No one was forcing me to do or consume or do anything. This applied to my decision to commute more than three hours a day, to remain in a [troubled] marriage, to spend too many hours a week watching TV series, and to drink alcohol on most days.

This works for our spaces too, and our attention. What do we want? Need? Are there habits and items it is time to shed? If something is not a Full Yes, can we let it go, make space for what is? If we aren’t careful, our lives can erode into a sea of passive acceptance, unconscious accumulation—maybe even something that looks like someone else’s dream.

Practices I’m using to support conscious consumption

What we eat, drink, inhale…. watch, listen to… the things we keep, where we place our attention, where we go, who we spend time with. It all matters. Here are a few shifts I’m currently making to make sure what I’m consuming feels nourishing, aligned, and supportive of the life I’m trying to live:

1. Music > News

I’d grown a bit passive about consuming too much news in recent months. This week I leaned into music over chatter for most of the day. Making my way through copyedits of my book, this rebalancing felt essential.

2. Less > More

Things. We need less than we think. Helping unneeded things find a new home has been cathartic: furniture, books, unused kitchen appliances.

3. Doses of Nature

The natural world brings most of us into the present. For some, it's a view; for others, the sound of leaves, the smell of damp earth, the feel of sun on our skin. We each have different ways of connecting with the natural world. How might we bring more of this magic into our days? Maybe a walk through a nearby park, a drive to rest among trees, even placing a plant or single flower on a table can shift things.

4. Screen Boundaries

I’m noticing how much more ease I feel when I maintain firmer boundaries with screens. We still abide by no phones in bed, but controlling notifications better and taking more time to turn it on in the morning have been positive shifts.

5. Intentional Inputs

Back to #1, going beyond just the power of good music: What we read, watch, and listen to can deeply influence—or even define—our internal landscape. I’ve started asking myself: Does this nourish me? Agitate me? Provoke me? Expand me? Ground me? By paying closer attention to how certain content makes us feel, we can consume more consciously. Yes, I’ve deleted a couple of podcasts from my library this week!

What we let in

These shifts are never about perfection or rigid rules. They’re about tuning in more often—asking what truly supports the life we’re trying to live, and making small (and sometimes big!) adjustments from that place. Choosing what we consume isn’t only about what we avoid; it’s about what we choose to welcome in. Does it numb us? Nourish us? Inspire us? Inform us? Delight us? Nudge us?

What shifts are you making? Hoping to make?

Love.

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