Setbacks and the stories we tell ourselves

Spring - these longer days and soft breezes feel like an invitation to begin again.
The crisp morning air, the low golden light filtering through trees — spring has always felt like an awakening. And my favourite place to soak it all in? The trail.

Running is where I clear my mind, connect with myself, and tap into something deeper than movement — a rhythm that grounds and nourishes me.

But this morning, that rhythm was interrupted.

Mid-run, I felt a sharp tug — familiar and unwelcome. An old injury flaring up, reminding me that I’m not invincible. That my body has a story, and sometimes, it needs me to pause and listen.

The temptation to push through was immediate.
My mind chimed in quickly: “It’s fine. Just run through it.”
But another, quieter voice said, “You know better.”

And I do.
I teach this. I guide others to listen to their bodies, to respect their boundaries, to honour rest as deeply as effort. Yet here I was — in the very same wrestle I witness in so many of my clients and students.

The space between knowing and doing is often where the deepest work happens.

Setbacks like these are frustrating. They stir up disappointment, fear, even grief for the momentum lost. They ask us to be still when everything in us wants to move. But I’ve learned (and re-learned) that ignoring these signals never serves me. In fact, it delays healing and drives disconnection.

So today, I chose the harder thing: I stopped. I walked. I breathed deeply.
Not because I’m giving up — but because I’m choosing to stay in relationship with my body.
I’m choosing trust over ego. Presence over performance.

If you’ve ever been in this place — caught between drive and wisdom, craving progress but being asked to pause — I want you to know: you’re not alone.

These moments don’t mean we’re weak or failing. They mean we’re human.
They remind us that healing isn’t linear, and that honouring our body is a strength, not a setback.

We can hold space for both: the desire to keep going and the wisdom to rest.

May we keep coming back to our bodies, again and again — with curiosity, compassion, and care.