The word I spent my whole life avoiding
"You're so selfish."
The words came from a friend I had been close to for years. It was the biggest insult someone could give me. I had spent years proving that I was the opposite of selfish. That I was, in fact, available to everyone.
I almost laughed.
Selfish. Of all the things anyone could have called me, this felt like the most absurd. And it was also the most wounding. I was the one who showed up. Who held the space. Who said yes when I should say no, who answered the phone at any time of day, who made sure everyone around me was okay before I checked in with myself. Who gave back to charities, who overly supported clients, and always put friends first.
But one day, after years at the top of my game, it just started to feel like something was missing. It was the early signs of what I now know to be burnout, but all I knew at the time was that I was gasping for air. Anxiety, exhaustion, and a complete lack of desire to do the things that used to energize me took over. Something just felt wrong. And I needed more. Not much. Just space. Time. The freedom to go quiet for a day without someone reading it as rejection.
But when I stopped performing the version of myself that everyone had gotten used to, the always-available, always-on, always-reliable version, it didn't feel neutral. It felt like I had broken something. Like a contract had been cancelled without notice. From where my friend was standing, I had changed. And she was right. What she was calling selfish, I was calling survival. I just didn't have the language for it yet.
Learning how to be
Around the same time, I found myself on the treatment table of a Chinese medicine doctor who was highly recommended to me. I was still getting used to the kind of practitioner who didn't check your body but instead worked with your energy. She moved quietly, making her way through different meridian points around my wrists, my temples, my womb. There was something so calming in the quality of her presence.
When the session ended, she sat down beside me and said the sentence I have kept returning to for years:
"You're very good at doing, but you have no idea how to be."
I laughed. The way you do when something is so obvious and lands too precisely.
Because she was right. Everything in my life had been oriented around output. Building. Achieving. Helping. Proving. Giving. The idea of just existing, without a goal, without a purpose, without something to show for the time, genuinely unsettled me.
"How do you be?" I asked, half joking, quickly allowing my gaze to reaffirm my seriousness.
She looked at me compassionately. "Anchor into your physical senses. Feel the weight of your body. Notice where your feet meet the ground. Look at what's in front of you and really look at it. Notice the different colours. Let your eyes soften. Smell the air. Listen to the sounds around you, the near ones and the far ones. Let yourself be in what's here, right now. Do that often, and consistently."
It sounded simple. It was not.
I had spent so long measuring my worth by what I produced that stillness felt like failure. The moment I stopped doing, the noise rushed in. The doubt. The to-do list. Sitting with myself, just as I was, with nothing happening and nothing to fix, was the most uncomfortable thing I had ever tried.
But I tried it anyway. And I kept trying. And thank goodness I did. Because a season was coming that would call every identity I had built into question. The titles. The achievements. The relationships. When there was nothing left to achieve and no one left to give to, being — just being — would be the ground I kept returning to. I didn't know it yet. But I was preparing.
From self-ish to self-full
The word self-ish followed me long after that conversation. Not as an accusation anymore. As something to understand.
For most of my life, selfish had meant taking. Disregard. Choosing yourself at the expense of others. Something to overcome, to outgrow, to make sure no one ever believed about you.
But what I was being invited into wasn't that.
It was self-fullness. Not taking. Tending. Filling yourself up so that what you give is actually real. Not from fear. Not from obligation. From a place that is whole.
When I started tending to myself first, my mornings, my energy, my needs, my joy, before reaching outward, things shifted. Not all of it smoothly. Some of it loudly. The people most used to unlimited access pushed back the most. And some of those relationships didn't survive the shift.
The grief was real. Letting go of connections that mattered and accepting that the love was genuine but conditional, was one of the hardest parts. But what I found on the other side was something I hadn't expected: the relationships that remained became more real. I came back to myself. My own desires. My own voice. An authenticity I didn't know was there.
Now, the word selfish is one that I have reclaimed. If anyone were to call me that today, I'd say: Thank you. I've been working really hard at that.
A space to come home to yourself
Everything I've learned about self-fullness is being woven into the space we are building in Costa Rica. Not just the sunrise yoga decks and the wellness spaces and the beautiful details, though those do matter. But the intention behind all of it. A space where being is the practice. Where slowing down is by design. Where every element is an invitation to give to yourself. Fully. Without apology. Where being present in the fullness of nature is natural: the ocean views, the birds, the salty air and the fresh tropical fruit picked straight off the trees are the things that bring you home.
I have spent years hosting people in spaces around the world and watching what happens when someone is truly held. When they are given permission to stop performing. To receive. I know firsthand how rare that is. Receiving can feel almost foreign. This space is designed to change that. To hold people so completely that receiving becomes natural again.
THIS WEEK'S PRACTICE
Tend to yourself
Self-fullness isn't a personality trait. It is a practice. A daily returning to yourself before you have reached empty.
Wellness hygiene works the same way personal hygiene does: not as a crisis response, but as a consistent act of care. The goal isn't to fix everything at once. It's to tend.
Start here.
Notice where you are giving from depletion. Think about the relationships or roles where resentment, exhaustion, or irritability has started to show up. These are clues. Not about the other person. About where you have been overriding yourself to stay connected. That awareness is the beginning.
Build your self-care menu. Write down what genuinely restores you. Not what looks impressive, not what you think you should want. What actually fills you up. It might be a walk, ten minutes of silence, a meal you cooked just for yourself, a conversation with someone who doesn't need anything from you. Keep it simple enough that you will actually use it.
Reach for it before you hit empty. The practice is not just having the list. It's choosing from it when you notice the early signs of depletion: the short fuse, the flat feeling, the resentment creeping in around the edges. Tend to yourself regularly, as part of the plan, not as a reward for burning out.
Practice being, not just doing. Once a day, even for five minutes, put down whatever you are working on and anchor yourself somewhere quiet. Feet on the ground. Three slow breaths. Notice one thing you can hear, one thing you can smell, one thing you can feel. It won't fix anything. It will slow something down. And slowing down is where you find yourself.
The path to purpose
Last week I sat down with my dear friend Kate Harlowe on her podcast, The New Truth, to discuss the path to purpose and the principles I share in Pathways to Self. LISTEN HERE.
I'll see you next Friday for Chapter Five: Self-Compassion.