Equanimity means freedom — Grace Talice Lee

Renouncing a dream made my heart tender.

It also made my heart firm.

Firm in the way that when someone talked so quickly that I couldn’t understand—where before, I would’ve gotten swept into their tornado—I could now state my confusion, request a deceleration, and go on to exchange our ideas without ruining my day.

Firm in the way that when an acquaintance invited me to connect socially—where before, I would’ve agreed and drained away too much energy—I could now give my kindest and most compassionate “Thank you, I’m not available” and either trust that they’ll understand or accept their ire if they wish to resent me.

Firm in the way that when a manager asked how much time and dedication I could commit to a new volunteer team—where before, I would’ve gushed with hopes and assurances—I could now set the expectation that this new relationship go one step at a time, that we see if we like working together at all before we dream up the long term. “Let’s be like the trees that grow super slow,” I said. “They’re the ones that turn into Stradivarius violins.”

And gosh, does it feel good.

When I let go of the full-time artist dream, so much crap also fell away. I no longer depend on popular opinion to support my future livelihood. No longer obsess over future fantasies as the solutions to all my discontent. No longer grasp at the weather vanes of achievement and prestige for my self-worth and happiness.

In the best way possible: I just don’t care anymore.

So, more and more, I slow down.

I withdraw.

I sit and close my eyes, alone.

At peace.

“Socializing promotes entanglement; they’re cut off by being aloof.”
—Gotama Buddha, Samyutta Nikaya 14.16