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"I've done so much work on this, and some days it feels like I haven't done any, like I'm right back where I started."

When I turned thirty, I started feeling anxious while driving, seemingly for no reason.

After it happened a few times, I began looking for it. I started letting someone else drive or avoiding certain places.

I could see where that might lead if I kept making choices around the anxiety. I didn't want to give up the freedom to go where I wanted and do the things I loved.

I made a real decision to change this.

I got help. I let myself feel what was happening instead of trying to wish it away or avoid it. I worked with my breathing and how I responded each time it came up.

Even then, I could still feel anxious. And sometimes I was so frustrated that it kept happening.

Then one day, years later, I was driving and feeling so light. I remembered how much anxiety I used to have, and I realized it was totally gone.

I couldn't tell you exactly when it disappeared. Then it struck me like lightning.

I hadn't noticed because I wasn't looking for it anymore.

My mind wasn't thinking about it. My emotions weren't dreading it. My body wasn't bracing for it. I could simply enjoy driving again.

Some things change without everything changing.

I had begun changing how I responded while the anxiety was still there. Later, the experience itself changed.

Both were real. I could see I was responding differently, and I also wanted to drive without all that going on inside me.

So when you say, "I've changed," it's worth pausing to sense what has actually changed.

You can recognize what has changed and be honest about what hasn't. There may be more to understand about what still gets to you, or another way of working with it that you haven't found yet.

Try this: the whole picture.

Think of something you've been working to change.

Say what's different now: something you handle differently, or something that has gotten easier.

Take a second, then say what still gets to you. Notice whether your body braces or softens as you say it, and where.

And if it stopped getting to you, where would you go? What would you do?

Let yourself see the whole picture.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"I want something to change, but I don't want to give up what's good in my life to get there."

When I left Wall Street for motherhood, I didn't hesitate. Whatever I was giving up paled in comparison to what I was choosing.

When I left real estate for coaching, I hesitated. I knew how to flow in real estate. I knew how to succeed there. I loved flipping and remodeling houses. I loved the art of the deal, negotiating, putting people in homes they dreamed of. I had years of momentum and a feeling of assurance, of doing something almost effortlessly.

I didn't know how to run a coaching business, and I wasn't sure how what I was offering would be received.

Putting all my time and energy toward something I had no proof of yet meant I could lose time, lose money, lose sight of the bigger vision I was supposed to be leading.

And when I started really investing in myself, weeklong retreats, events that were taking my life in a new direction, I hesitated again, because it meant time away from my kids. Guilt and doubt came up, and I didn't want to make the wrong choice.

I remember a moment of clarity I had at a weekend workshop that a friend invited me to. Everything I heard that weekend echoed what I had been thinking on the inside for a long time, and while I was there, the change stopped being only about me.

It became about the people I would be helping. What I had to offer mattered enough for me to learn what I didn't know yet. I put myself in the right rooms, and I began.

Here's what I've learned since then. The decision doesn't happen once. Life is alive, and the decision has to stay alive too. I re-decide it every day, before every client, before every class.

In a session, someone sees something they couldn't see a moment before. Their expression changes. They take a deep breath. Something clicks inside, and they make a real change right there.

Something lights up in me, too. There's a clarity in my heart and mind. A felt sense of knowing: this is why I do this. It isn't faith. It's certainty.

I call these compliments from life. Not praise from anyone. Life itself, from the inside, confirming the direction.

You may not be asking, "If I change, what do I lose?" Your version might be, "What will I have to sacrifice?"

People are afraid they'll sacrifice their relationships, lose their place in line, give up comfort and what's familiar.

So they keep choosing what they know. But along with what they love, they keep holding themselves back from making the changes they want.

There's so much you could lose that would be a relief.

You can lose the worry, the doubt, the false beliefs that feel like the truth right now because they happened once, to you or to someone before you, and you've been carrying them forward and calling them true. You can lose so much that you feel lighter, brighter, and freer in the ordinary day-to-day of your life.

Try this. Take one minute with a change you've been considering. Say aloud, "I'm afraid I'll lose…" and let yourself finish the sentence. Notice what happens in your body and keep gently breathing as you're noticing.

Then say, "I would be so relieved to let go of…"

Give that answer a little room, too.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"Loving myself and changing my life feel like they're pulling in opposite directions. If I accept myself the way I am, what's left to change? And if I don't accept myself, I'm too busy feeling bad about myself to change anything."

Last week I told you about the seven days I finally gave myself, one-on-one at a dyslexia correction program, and the number that came with them: on the timed test, I read at a fourth-grade level.

Here's the part I left out.

Nothing moved until I accepted it.

Not the idea of it. The fact of it. My capacity was limited, my ability had been hindered for decades, and I said yes, that's true, this is where I am. The moment that landed in my body, the work began. Not before.

A few letters ago I told you about the baseboards, and the house I had to sell while the people I love watched, confused and frustrated. That one came with the same moment. I accepted how challenged I felt, and that it was mine to do anyway.

Accepting yourself isn't what stops you from changing. It's the only place change can start from.

I know it doesn't feel that way, because the question has a trap in it. If I accept myself, there's nothing to change; I'm fine the way I am. If I don't accept myself, there's plenty to change, but the whole view comes with a low-grade heaviness, and heaviness doesn't move easily. Either way you stay put.

And "I'm fine as I am" is the most respectable way in the world to say no to yourself. Nobody argues with it. It sounds like health. It costs nothing to say and it closes every door quietly. Most of what gets called self-acceptance is that sentence. Somewhere in you, you know it, which is why the question stings.

A great teacher of mine used to say: everything is true on the level it's on.

So the real question was never whether to accept yourself. It's what level do you want to live on?

Because there's a self you can accept that is a lid. An image of you that was never true, built out of thoughts and feelings that aren't real but have so much history they've carved a groove. Accept that self and you've agreed to stay in the groove.

And there's the Self that's actually here. Your baseline is love. Intelligence. Life force moving through your body minute to minute, every day. Accept that Self and expansion is simply what happens next, because you've stopped denying your real Self and your real needs. Nothing has to be forced.

Truly accepting yourself means accepting how beautiful and powerful you are, how many choices are in your hands, and what you can do with them once you take responsibility for them. It means your awareness is positioned where you can see the thoughts and emotions for what they are: momentum, with a lot of history behind it. You participated in carving those paths. You can carve new ones.

Try this: accept your Self.

Take the thing you keep not doing. Under it there's a sentence that sounds like acceptance. I'm fine. It's not that important. This is just who I am. Say it out loud and notice your body. If it drops your energy, it isn't acceptance. It's the lid.

Then say the true one: I accept that this is where I am. As a fact, not a verdict. Notice what that does. That's the level the change comes from. Try it once this week.

And when you feel the difference, say what I say to my clients, and to myself: Way to go! And there's still a way to go. Both are true, on the level they're on.

That's the work I do with people. If you want to do it with me, the free guide at wendyfalcon.com is where it starts, and my letters come every week.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"Everyone gets a piece of me. By the time it's my turn, there's nothing left. And when I do take the time, I feel guilty."

When my daughter was in seventh grade, we found out she had dyslexia. I did what mothers do: I got to the root of it. We traveled out of state for a seven-day intensive correction program, one-on-one, where she learned to reorient her focus and turn off the misperceptions. After that, her grades shot up. I could see the change in her face by the end of that week, and I can still see it in her now.

Being with her through that process, I realized something I didn't say out loud: I had every symptom myself. I grew up in a different time, and mine went undetected. My struggles with reading and writing were never addressed. And it never occurred to me to dig deeper for myself.

Eleven years went by. Then about four years ago it hit me: it didn't matter how old I was, or how good my compensatory strategies had become after a lifetime of building them. Why don't I put MYSELF through the program?

So I did. I found a facilitator and booked my own seven days.

It was awkward and challenging. On the timed test, I read at a fourth-grade level. Untimed, sixth grade. That was a lot to hear at my age. It was also what I needed to hear: I could finally own it and work from where I actually was, instead of from an idea of where I thought I should be.

That week took one hundred percent of my attention. I didn't do a single thing for anyone else.

There was no guilt. The people I love got gifts from it too.

When I told my daughters, the one who teaches fourth grade immediately brought over her favorite books for me. I laughed and cried at the same time. Then I read the whole series and loved it.

And you're receiving something from that week right now: this letter. Every letter I write is touched by what changed in me.

Putting yourself first for growth, real rest, breathing room, or an experience that nourishes you does not take from the people you love. It adds to what you have to give.

A great teacher of mine used to talk about the movie screen and the production behind it. We can spend our lives watching the screen, but nothing can be changed there. It only shows what the production is making. Putting yourself first is walking back to where your movie is actually being made and working there, on the inside. Then your outer life starts showing something different.

Take the time to be well fed and well rested. Open yourself to love and beauty, and let yourself enjoy them. Recognize your own achievements in the moment they happen. That isn't selfish. That's leading by example. It changes what you bring to the people you care for.

Try this: name the thing.

You already know what it is. It has waited for years because everything else keeps going first. Say it out loud to yourself. Then move it forward this week: do the search, make the call, book it.

As you do, notice who you imagine benefiting when it's handled. The list is longer than you.

If you want to do this kind of work with me, the free guide at wendyfalcon.com is where it starts, and my letters come every week.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"I've read the books, done the retreats, had the breakthroughs. A month later I'm back to being me. Why doesn't any of it stick?"

Early on in 'the work,' I would go to a personal development seminar and my whole inner state would rise. By the last day I was at a nine out of ten. I felt like I could take over the world. Then I would come home, and slowly the excitement, the confidence, the memory of that important list of things I was going to do started to fade. Not all the way. Maybe I kept ten percent of the gold nuggets. And a quiet question would form: why isn't this staying with me?

Here's what I couldn't see yet. During those weekends there was a ton of support. A curated environment. New ideas, new experiences, like-minded people everywhere: a space built for growing. Then I came home, and home was the same environment it had always been. The same interactions, the same dynamics, the same influences as before. Naturally, it's easy to slip back in sync with the old ways.

The work we do doesn't stick with us. We have to stick with it.

You wouldn't brush your teeth really well at a 'brush your teeth weekend' and then come home, stop brushing, and ask a month later why the weekend didn't stick. It sounds silly with teeth. We do it with our inner lives all the time.

Somewhere along the line an idea formed that you can do one thing, once, and be resolved. Every ad says it: do this one thing. But look at how life is actually built. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Morning, midday, evening, night. The same holidays every year. Repetition is woven into everything. When the patterns live in your days and weeks, not just in retreats and weekends, that's when the magic happens. That's when it starts to feel like it's sticking. That's when life starts singing your praises.

And who said it didn't stick, anyway? Take that in for a moment: at that time, at that level, what you did worked. It did stick. There's a new level now, and it makes new demands. Last year's software still works on this year's computer. But a whole new update is available, and without it, the old version is unsatisfying. It still runs. It just wasn't made for the speed and the influx of everything arriving in your life now. Last week we said the old version of you doesn't fit. This week the same is true of the former work. Because of that work, you're ready for more. That's what sticking looks like from the other side.

Inner work isn't a task you check off. It's a gift: an opportunity to experience life fresh, new, and dynamic, day to day.

Try this: three moves to curate a growth environment at home

1) Find one thing in your space that feels stagnant or is a negative trigger, and let it go.

2) Text the person who makes you feel uplifted when you think of them. Invite them to coffee.

3) Stand up, move, and breathe. Dance, bounce, march. Move for no reason at all.

Try at least one of these this week.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"What used to work for me doesn't work anymore."

More than once in my life, I've walked into a space I'd built a life around, and in one quiet moment, realized it was time for change. It happened when I left a clothing store for Wall Street. When I left Wall Street for motherhood. When I left a marriage that was no longer aligned for an aligned life. When I left a house I was living in for a new home.

These life shifts may seem dramatic, but the moments of realization were not. One of those moments came in the board room on Wall Street (that's what they called the floor where the brokers worked). The room was the same room it had been every other morning. But I was standing in it with a new understanding. That came from a stiller, quieter place within. A clear sense that something had shifted, not externally, but in me. And this is the part I want you to hear: I wasn't leaving something because it was bad. I was shifting toward something so much better.

I didn't abandon the old version of myself, I outgrew it, just like a college student outgrows being a high schooler or a CEO outgrows being a manager.

But this is not about me. This is really about you. Who are you, now that the old version of you doesn't fit?

When someone sits across from me carrying this question (whether spoken out loud or not), she believes she IS the former version of herself, and that now she has to somehow 'not be herself.' What's actually happening is different. The felt sense of who she thinks she is, built by a lifetime of conditioning, is so emotionally strong that no good or logical idea is strong enough to counteract it. That's why you can't think your way out of it.

The answer isn't an idea. It's a clearer perception of reality in the present moment. And a felt sense of who you are becoming.

And it's honesty. Realness. Presence. Because if we're being direct, even yesterday's you is the old you. Even the you of an hour ago is the old you.

The only real you is the one who is present, right here, right now.

And from this place, of course the old version doesn't fit. Why would it? You are a living, unfolding, creative being who is never the same version of yourself twice. The universe is ever-expanding, and so are you: a human being whose nature is to change constantly, expand consistently, and flow with life untethered.

That space or gap where the old version doesn't fit and the new version isn't sensed yet: that space is a surrender piece. A consciousness piece. An awareness piece. Most people get it backwards. They think the new self arrives with happiness, joy, and freedom after some external success, by going for the more on the outside. It doesn't. Here's what actually supports a person to move through that gap: the same things that hold a baby in utero. Life energy. Nutrients. Health. Growth. And, this matters: not 'doing.' Not being the doer. Not growing alone; someone holding the space in a very real way. It takes nine months to birth a new life.

You know when the old version doesn't fit, and you know when it's time to let go and move on, because your body tells you. There's more tension, less rest, less joy coming from your actions. The same inner experience bringing the same thing up, over and over. The same issues on replay, refusing to just go away. Those aren't malfunctions. That's the new you, kicking.

Try this: three minutes of 'not doing'

Let's get present. Find a quiet space. Sit in a chair, feet on the floor, hip distance apart. Set a timer for three to five minutes. Spine upright in a way that's formal but relaxed. Hands on your thighs, eyes closed (not while driving, of course!).

Inhale and ride your breath all the way down to just below your navel, and let your attention rest there as you exhale and continue to breathe. As you breathe, be still. Intentionally not doing, just breathing with attention on your belly. Let your breath move your belly in and out, and let each breath move through and around whatever you're experiencing in your body, the way water rides over rocks. So good, keep breathing.

If you want to know who you are now, or birth a new life, you have to have a real sense of who you are.

Try it once this week.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"The people I love got used to the version of me that always said yes. How do I hold boundaries and keep my heart open at the same time?"

Let me tell you about the baseboards.

I was in real estate for years, and for a long stretch some of my family lived in houses I owned, moving from one to the next. It was a fun adventure for us, and I always said yes: I love them, and I wanted to provide that. Then came the house I needed to sell. This time the yes wasn't there. It was time to help them find a great place, just not one I owned. They were not happy. And I had to do something I'd never really done with them: hold the boundary and, of course, hold my heart open at the same time.

They didn't make it easy. One day a realtor who showed the house told me the baseboards were dirty. My family didn't want cleaners coming in, and they didn't want to clean it themselves. So I told them I was coming over. I showed up with a rag and a bucket of water, got down on my hands and knees, and gently cleaned all the baseboards in the house while they watched, confused and frustrated. They weren't used to me not saying yes. So I cleaned, and I breathed very slowly in that uncomfortable setting, as I took the actions I knew would move things forward.

That afternoon, a buyer walked through with her realtor. My family told me they spoke Spanish to each other, thinking nobody there would understand it (my family did). I asked, "So what did they say in Spanish?" They said: "These are the cleanest baseboards I have ever seen." We all paused, looked around the room at each other, and started laughing out loud. The next day, another buyer came through and bought the house. My family landed in a better place, and I bought another place that could serve a larger community, which was my vision the whole time, whether they could see it in that moment or not. I knew it. So I could hold it.

That's the real power of a boundary: not holding it with grasping and tightness and frustration, but holding it with structure and integrity, the way your bones hold up your body. A great boundary is held like bone, not like a fist.

Maybe you know the slow ache of realizing that what people are used to expecting from you doesn't exist in your new operating system. And the people who love and expect that from you happen to be your closest people. Inner circle. Family, friends, partners, kids.

Here's the thing: you're a great person. A kind one, a generous one. And a smart one, one who has decided to grow, to learn, to change, and to stop being determined by the past. And then you realize that these people you love, the ones you move mountains for, may not really want you to change. Because the change is someone they don't know. And they may not be interested in changing themselves.

So now you're saying "no" more often (we talked about this last week), so you can actually say "yes" to a bigger, better, more beautiful life. But some of these wonderful people have no idea what's going on, and they don't seem too interested in learning about it. You want boundaries. But you don't want uncrossable borders keeping people out. You want connection that is deeper than surface level.

So how do you hold boundaries without building borders?

By having a dream for your life that is bigger, better, and braver than all the small yesses that were never really congruent anyway. A dream that includes your people; they're part of the vision. That's exactly why the old carousel of automatic yesses has to stop: it hasn't brought relief or rejuvenation to any of you. And when there is one real and true yes in your life, an honest yes with real substance, the un-honest yesses are seen for what they are and for the pain they cause. When you can see this, they become like a dandelion puffball in summer: one breath, and every little seed (every unreal yes) scatters into the wind.

I'm sure if you look back, you'll find a time you held a boundary you knew you needed, even when someone else didn't understand it. Look at it now: it was for the greater good. That's the key. You can hold a boundary when you truly understand that everyone wins by you having that kind of courage.

And your body already knows which yesses are real. Think of one that's expected of you (maybe even by you). Notice: does it constrict, tighten, uninspire? That's not a yes. That's a script from the old movie. Don't typecast yourself into a role just because you got good at playing it.

In the yoga I teach, we work with framing and squaring the body, giving ourselves boundaries that provide greater freedom, because that's what great boundaries do. A real boundary is not a wall to keep people out, but a form that frees what's inside. A house needs walls and doors.

Try this boundary practice:

Box breathing is used to calm the nervous system, reduce stress, and improve mental focus. All three are needed to stay centered and hold your boundaries.

Sit up straight in a chair, feet on the floor, hip distance apart. Bring your attention to your breath, and feel your belly rise and fall as you breathe. Now add your imagination: inhale a real yes. Exhale a false one. Two minutes, four rounds:

Inhale for four. Hold the breath in for four. Exhale for four. Hold the breath out for four.

What do you notice, after four rounds?

The next time one of your people reaches for an old yes, take one box breath before you answer.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy

"I hate having to say no twice. I said no, and I want it respected."

Nine years ago I facilitated a seminar called Journey to Putting Yourself First. About a hundred and fifty people came, and at the front of the room I set out forty or fifty "No" pens. Each pen had a button, and when you pressed it, fifteen different voices said no, fifteen different ways. I loved those pens. When the seminar began, I held one up, pressed the button, and the room laughed. I told them: these pens are here for the taking. If you want one, now or anytime today, come up and claim one.

And then I watched. I could see the desire in their eyes, and I could see the hesitancy, because clearly there were not enough pens for everyone. By the end of the day it was plain as anything: the challenge of claiming a pen matched the challenge of saying no. Easily, thoroughly, and meaning it.

So many people wanted the no. So few felt they could claim it. Here's what's underneath that.

You know a congruent no when you hear one. Ask a store clerk, "Do you have any more of these?" and he says, "Sorry, no." That's it. They're sold out, and nothing in his voice invites you to keep asking. But if he says, "Well, no, I don't think so, I don't think I saw any more on the shelf..." you'll ask him to check, won't you? His tone, his body, his uncertainty made an almost-no, a maybe-no. And a maybe-no invites the push.

So here's what's really happening. You say no with your mouth. But maybe you're not emotionally congruent with it. There's a fear of disappointing. A worry about whether you can hold the no. A concern about what they'll think, how they'll feel, because you said it. And the no isn't backed by your actions. Which means the truth is: you're not actually saying no.

And that's the good news. Imagine if you were really saying no and nobody listened. That would be awful. But that's not what's happening. What's happening is the no isn't whole yet.

Because yes and no are one pencil. One end writes, the other erases. They're not in opposition; they work together. You can't really say no unless you can really say yes, and you can't say yes unless you can say no. If you can't say yes to the life you want, to self-respect, to caring for yourself, to the bubble bath, to receiving the love you want, then you can't really say no, because you're not clear on what your no is supporting.

And here's the part almost nobody tells you: your no isn't just good for you. It's good for the person you're saying it to. It hands them the chance to be capable, to be self-sufficient, to manage their own feelings and their own life. It takes you out of the center of their internal world, where, truthfully, you never were. You hand them back their life. And in doing so, you hand yourself back your own.

No is a complete sentence. No is a doorway: all the scattered, unrealized, half-denied pieces fold in on themselves, and what's left is that bright, shining yes. Yes to your best life. Yes to You. Yes to that level of honesty. Yes to a real change that benefits everyone around you. Yes to better sleep, better breathing, better eating, better thinking, a better way. The no's will work themselves out.

And one more thing. The moment you respect your own no, aligned in mind, heart, and action, it stops mattering so much whether they respect it. Because you do.

Try this: sing your no.

Singing is physiology, not performance. It drives your breath deep, works your diaphragm, and lines up your posture so the sound can get out. A sung no is practice: your whole body saying no at once. Up the octaves: no, no, no, no, no, no, noooooo. A little higher. One more time, higher still.

Now take a bow. (Really do it.)

And then do what that room did nine years ago. Put on Pete Townshend's Let My Love Open the Door and dance. That day, people left with a pen in their hand or a no they newly owned. Leave this letter with yours.

This letter went out by email first. Want the next one in your inbox? The free guide at wendyfalcon.com is the door.

Sending love,
Wendy