Lately I’ve been noticing something’s different.

Nothing dramatic. Like, nothing I can point to and say, “That’s what happened.”

It feels gradual, like the way the light shifts as spring turns into summer. You don’t notice it on any particular day, then one evening you’re standing outside and realize the season of longer daylight has been slowly revealing itself all along.

At first I thought I was becoming more introverted. Maybe even a little antisocial. A few times I’ve pulled the Hermit card from my tarot deck and wondered if that’s just me now. 

I started noticing I was less interested in attending big gatherings. Less inclined to spend hours in conversations that left me feeling depleted. Less attracted to and attached to social media and media sources in general. More protective of my time. More protective of my attention. More protective of my energy. 

For a while, I worried about this.

I’ve always loved people.

Their stories.

The unexpected things they reveal when they feel safe enough to be honest.

Their contradictions.

The strange and beautiful ways we all stumble through being human and messy together in this life.

I still do really love people.

But lately I’ve become more aware of the difference between interactions that nourish me and interactions that drain me.

Some conversations leave me feeling more alive.

Others leave me feeling strangely empty.

Some people expand me.

Others seem to require a version of me I’ve quietly outgrown.

…

I used to think growth was mostly about adding things.

Learning more.

Doing more.

Experiencing more.

Healing more.

Understanding more.

Even spirituality often felt additive.

More books.

More practices.

More insights.

More answers.

More understanding.

More. More. More. 

The older I get, the less convinced I am that growth actually means looking for more. 

I’m beginning to wonder if there comes a point when growth changes direction altogether. When it stops being about adding things and starts being more about subtraction. When mantras about my happiness and peace actually start with the word Less.

Less performing.

Less proving.

Less explaining.

Less accommodating.

Less shape-shifting.

Less carrying things that were never ours to carry in the first place.

Less noise.

Less excess.

Less of everything that obscures what was already there.

Less attachment to identities that once felt necessary.

Less investment in being everything to everyone.

Less urgency to keep earning our place.

…

When we’re young, growth often feels like construction.

We’re building a life.

Building an identity.

Building a career.

Building relationships.

Building confidence.

At some point, though, the process starts to feel more like sculpture.

My best self is a beautiful statue hiding in a big slab of marble. The work becomes chiseling away at the excess rock, like Shawshank, to eventually release and reveal that beautiful statue. 

That idea has been following me around lately. Maybe because I’ve noticed myself setting things down more and more. 

Not because I’m feeling bitter or cynical or because I think I’m better than anyone…

Actually, I feel way less certain than I used to.

I’m less attached to being right.

I’m less interested in people who seem to have all the answers and really drawn to people who are curious.

And present.

And open.

People who ask thoughtful questions.

People who leave room for mystery.

…

I’ve also noticed that some people seem confused by these changes in me, maybe even a little concerned.

People who have known me for years have occasionally been asking versions of the same question: What’s going on with you lately? You’ve changed. You’re different. 

Sometimes it’s about my writing.

Sometimes it’s about the way I dress.

The harem pants.

The crystals and jewelry.

The slouchy beanie.

I just started a journey to stretch my earlobes for gorgeous opalite plugs.

The candles.

The sage burning.

The quieter energy.

The fact that I don’t seem as interested in performing the version of myself they once knew.

The funny thing is that from the inside, it doesn’t feel like I’ve become someone else. It feels like I’ve stopped suppressing parts of myself.

That’s a very different experience.

I don’t feel lost or confused or like I’m having an identity crisis.

If anything, I feel more recognizable to myself than I have in a very long time.

Maybe ever.

I wonder if part of what people are reacting to is the loss of predictability.

For years, I became very good at adapting.

Very good at reading rooms.

Very good at carrying emotional weight.

Very good at holding space. 

Very good at being what was needed.

Teacher. 

Leader. 

Problem solver. 

Mediator. 

Caretaker.

Someone who could handle difficult things.

Someone who could carry a backpack full of other people’s rocks without fatigue. 

The problem is that after enough years, people begin to assume the backpack and the rocks are just part of who you are.

Then one day you start asking yourself why you’re carrying this big ass bag full of rocks, and when you can’t really answer that question because it no longer makes any sense, you start setting the rocks down, and everyone asks what’s wrong, what changed? 

From the outside, subtraction can look like loss.

From the inside, it just feels like relief.

…

I’ve also been noticing this in my writing.

For years, writing was how I made sense of my life.

When something painful happened, I wrote.

When something meaningful happened, I wrote.

When I learned something, I wrote.

Long, weaving stories of paragraphed pathways and mountains of metaphors, trying to find my way through the fog (I do love a good metaphor). 

Lately, the desire to write has become less urgent.

That’s unsettled me more than I’d like to admit. I keep wondering where the words have gone. But maybe they haven’t gone anywhere.

Maybe some seasons are for understanding and others are for living. Maybe there are times when a lesson has to move from the page into the body.

Maybe the writing isn’t gone as much as it’s gathering.

…

Another thing I’ve been wondering about is the way we talk about “frequency”.

People often describe higher frequencies as if they’re better frequencies.

More evolved.

More enlightened.

I don’t think that’s what I’m experiencing….

What I feel is closer to changing radio stations.

For much of my life I operated on a frequency that prioritized responsibility, endurance, productivity, accommodation, achievement, and proving.

I got very good at living there.

The problem is that I don’t think it was ever entirely my station.

It was the station that made me understandable and useful and reliable and predictable to others. 

Lately I find myself tuning into…

Creativity. 

Presence. 

Beauty. 

Curiosity. 

Depth. 

Wonder. 

Spaciousness.

But it’s not like anybody told me to do that, and nobody really showed me how…I’m realizing that’s just where my energy naturally wants to rest now.

The strange part is that when people have known you on one station for years, they keep trying to tune into the old signal. They hear something different and assume the radio is broken. 

Meanwhile I’m standing here thinking, “This is actually the clearest I’ve ever sounded.”

I suspect that’s part of what happens in midlife.

Maybe for some of us the growth becomes more concerned with being honest. Less dramatic. Less visible. Less concerned with becoming impressive. 

There’s fewer conversations, but they’re deeper conversations.

Fewer relationships, but more reciprocal relationships.

Fewer words, but more truthful words.

Fewer obligations, but more presence.

Like life is becoming more distilled.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been noticing:

Discernment. 

Calibration. 

Just becoming less of what I’m not.

I don’t know exactly where this road leads. I don’t know if I’ll write more or less. I don’t know who will understand the person I’m becoming. I don’t know what parts of me are still waiting to emerge.

What I do know is that for the first time in a very long time, something is changing in me and it feels really good. I feel light. I feel free. I don’t feel the need to fully understand or even label it. 

For now, I’m content to keep setting things down. Mrs. Goldschnider, my 2nd grade teacher, would be so proud of how good I’m getting at subtracting…every time I do it these days, I feel a little more like myself.