You are allowed to outgrow yourself

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Good morning, my baby. And welcome back to Gentle Hours. This is a soft place for the parts of you that have been caring a little too much, thinking a little too hard, and trying to make sense of what it means to keep becoming while life continues to life. Before we go into this week's word, I want you to get settled wherever you are. If you're driving, just loosen your shoulders for me. If you're in the kitchen, if you're still in bed, if you're walking into work, if you're sitting on the side of your bed trying to gather yourself before the day, ask anything from you. I just want you to take this moment and be here with me. Be present. You don't have to fix anything right now, you don't have to explain anything right now. You don't have to answer before the morning begins. It just wants you to be here. Now take a deep breath in through your nose. Hold it for a second. Let it go slowly through your mouth. Again, deep breath in. Hold it and release. And one more time, because you know some of us don't realize how much tension we're already carried in the morning before our feet even begins to touch the floor. Deep breath in. Hold it. And let it go. This week's gentle hour phrase is you are allowed to outgrow what once held you. And I want to sit with that for a minute because I think one of the hardest things to make peace with in adulthood is realizing that some of the things that help you survive one season of your life are the very things that can begin to restrict you in the next one. Sometimes what held you was a relationship. Sometimes it was a version of yourself. Sometimes it was a mindset, a routine, a coping mechanism, a city, a friendship, a job, a way of loving, a way of proving, a way of protecting, a way of shrinking, a way of overextending, a way of apologizing for needing more. A way of convincing yourself that bare minimum treatment was still worth being grateful for because, you know, at least it was something. Sometimes what held you was necessary then. That's the part I really want to honor this morning. Not everything you are outgrowing was evil. Not everything that you are leaving behind was malicious. Not everything that no longer fits your now was wrong when you first reached for it. You know, some things really did hold you when you were lonely. And some habits really did help you survive when you didn't know what else to do. And some rooms really did feel safe when your spirit was too tired to ask for more. And some people really did love you the best way they knew how. But the truth of it all is the best they knew how can still become insufficient for the person you are now. And that can really be hard to admit because once you attach history to a thing, once you've attached gratitude to it, once you've attached memories and versions of yourself to it, it can feel almost disloyal to acknowledge that you've grown beyond it. It can feel ungrateful to say this used to help me, but now it hurts me. It feels cruel to say this used to come from me, but now it confuses me. I can feel prideful to say I can't keep returning to what no longer has the capacity to hold the fullness of who I've become. But I also want you to hear this this morning. Outgrowing something is not the same thing as dishonoring it. You know, sometimes growth looks like being honest enough to admit that what once served you no longer supports you. Sometimes growth is realizing that what used to feel like sheltered now feels like suffocation. Sometimes growth looks like noticing that you keep returning to people and patterns and places that only know how to handle the version of you that were still willing to over-explain and overcompensate and overperform to overstay. And maybe that's where some of us are right now. Maybe you know you are in a season where your spirit is beginning to reject what your old self would have tolerated. You know, maybe conversations that used to feel normal now feel very drained. Maybe spaces you used to force yourself to fit into, now feel heavy the moment that you walk in. The role you've always played in certain relationships, you know, being the fixer, being the listener, being the one who smooths everything over, being the one who keeps the peace even when it costs you your own. Doesn't feel you know admirable or noble anymore, it just feels exhausting. Maybe you reach the point where your body is responding to things that your mouth has not yet found the courage to say, your chest gets tight, your sleep gets interrupted, your appetite changes. And I think what makes this so difficult is that sometimes the thing that you are growing is not a person at all. Sometimes it's you. Sometimes it's the version of you that learned to be low maintenance because asking for help felt very dangerous. Sometimes it's the version of you that learned to stay quiet because speaking up always came with some kind of consequence. Sometimes it's the version of you that made themselves easy to love by becoming useful and available, understanding, forgiving, flexible, and you know, accommodating to everybody else while silently abandoning yourself. You know, sometimes it's the version of you that thought, you know, surviving was the same thing as peace because at least you made it through. Sometimes the version of you that kept accepting delayed reciprocity and thinking that, you know, it's it's patience intertwined into that. That the fact that you kept accepting inconsistency and thinking that you are providing grace. You kept accepting, you know, confusion and thinking that you were just in a rough season when really you were trying to make a home out of what was never stable enough to hold you, my baby. And if that's where you are, I want to say this very, very gently. You do not have to hate the old version of yourself in order to outgrow that person. I think sometimes we talk about healing like we're supposed to become disgusted with who we used to be. And I don't think that's actually fair. Some versions of you were doing the very best that they could with the information that they had, with the wounds that they were carrying, with the love that they had not learned how to give themselves, and some versions of you were not weak. They were just very tired. Some versions of you were not foolish, they were very hopeful. And also some versions of you were not desperate, they were just trying to find safety. The only way that they knew how. Part of healing is being able to look back at that person with compassion instead of contempt and say, you know, I am thankful that I'm getting here, I am thankful that, you know, I'm carrying what I knew I had to carry. And then you tell yourself, thank you for surviving what you survive. But I don't need to live like that anymore. And you know, there's also a difference between honoring the version of you that survive and just forcing that person to remain in charge long after the danger has passed. There is a difference between understanding why you became a certain way and continuing to let that understanding excuse what is no longer healthy. You know, there is also a difference between having empathy for your own patterns and refusing to challenge them. And one of the most loving things you can do for yourself is to recognize when a version of you has completed the assignment. You know, some of us are still dragging these old identities into these new seasons because we think familiarity is safer than freedom. We know how to be, you know, this person who overthinks, the person who keeps giving one more chance. We know how to be the person who doesn't ask for too much because, you know, we don't want to be perceived as difficult. And we also know how to be the person who carries everything by themselves because disappointment taught them not to rely on anybody. But baby, just because a version of you is familiar does not mean it is still mentally. Sometimes growth looks like allowing a different person to take the wheel. The person who tells the truth sooner, the person who doesn't keep, you know, being into spaces that have already shown them that they do not know what to do with their honesty. And let me say this as well. Because I also know how the mind begins to work. Outgrowing what once held you can come with grief. It can come with guilt, it can come with you second-guessing, it can come with that uncomfortable space where you don't quite fit the old version of your life anymore, but you're still getting acquainted with the new one. And that middle space feels so tender because you no longer are willing to betray yourself the old way, but you're still building the muscle to trust yourself in a different way. You're still learning how to choose what's healthy, even when it doesn't feel familiar yet. You're not learning how to walk away without needing a dramatic ending. You're still learning how to stop over explaining your boundaries to people who only respect the version of you that had none. And I also want you to know that it's okay to honor your growth without apologizing for it. It's realizing that, you know, you're not the person that you used to be. And that means something. And it's okay to stop giving old access to people who only know how to handle the old versions of you. It's okay to stop being small, you know, in your language and in your needs and your standards, your honesty and your softness, your boundaries and your self-respect just to keep the room comfortable that never made enough room for you. It's okay to disappoint the expectations that were built around your self-abandonment, and it is okay to let people be confused by your growth if confusion is the cost of finally being honest with yourself. So this morning I want to leave you with a few things to sit with. I need you to ask yourself, what am I still carrying out of habit and not alignment? What relationship routine, what role, what mindset, what coping pattern, what old story about your stuff are you still dragging into the present simply because it has been there for a long time? I want you to ask yourself, who benefits from me staying the same? Who is most comfortable with the version of you that didn't speak up, didn't ask for more, didn't change, doesn't challenge the dynamic, doesn't require reciprocity, doesn't enforce the boundary, doesn't leave when something no longer feels healthy. I want you to ask yourself, what version of me am I overdue to release? The person who apologizing, you know, for taking up space, the person who keeps trying to be chosen by people who are not equipped to choose well, the person who keeps turning their intuition down because they want the story to end differently. And after you ask yourself all of these questions, I want you to answer it with tenderness and not any type of judgment. Because the goal to self-reflection is not to bully yourself into becoming something, the goal is to tell yourself the truth with love that you actually feel safe enough to change. So before we close, I want you to take one more breath with me. I want you to hold it and release. Again, breathe in. Hold it and let go. So as you move through the rest of the week, I want you to remember this. If it feels like your spirit is changing shape, if it feels like old things don't fit the same, if it feels like you're standing in the doorway between who you've been and who you are becoming, I don't want you to rush yourself into, you know, coming back into a version of life that no longer honors your growth. I want you to listen to yourself. I want you to notice yourself. I want you to be honest and let yourself grow in peace. You are not abandoning yourself by changing. You are finally refusing to abandon yourself in order to stay the same. And that, my baby. That is a good kind of growth. Alright. I love you. Be gentle with yourself today and this week, but be honest with yourself too. And I'll meet you right back here next week with another gentle hour.