“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously”
This week in my Mindful Living course, we’re exploring the art of mindful communication—how we listen, how we speak, and how we honor the spaces in between. And life, in its ever-orchestrated timing, offered me a moment to reflect more deeply on this very theme.
An Airbnb guest staying in our home recently needed a ride to the airport. Her early morning Uber fell through repeatedly, and at 3:20 AM, I found myself waking with concern. After checking in with her, I offered to drive. What unfolded was a warm, authentic conversation between two women in motion: we spoke about divorce, healing, family, the mystery of life’s unfolding. It was meaningful. It was beautiful. And it left me… unsettled.
Not because of the connection, but because I realized later that I had overridden some of my own needs.
I hadn’t been clear about boundaries. I hadn’t asked for support in return. I had defaulted to kindness, which I value deeply, but without making space for reciprocity.
This isn’t about blame or regret. It’s about the subtle inner tension that arises when we want to be kind and honest. When we want to show up for others and for ourselves. It’s about how tricky it can be to name our needs, especially when we’ve been conditioned to associate kindness with self-sacrifice.
Where do we learn to speak up when something doesn’t sit right without guilt?
Who taught us that honoring our limits can coexist with care?
In truth, many of us weren’t given models for this kind of communication. We learned to prioritize harmony, to avoid discomfort, to be “nice.” But mindfulness invites something different: it asks us to be present with what’s really here—to listen inwardly, and then find words that reflect the wholeness of our experience.
I’ve come to see that mindful communication isn’t just about what we say, but the courage to pause and ask:
What’s true for me right now?
What am I giving?
What do I need?
And can I share that with kindness, even if it feels vulnerable?
There’s no perfect script. Just a willingness to stay curious, to notice when resentment arises, and to gently name it before it grows. This is the terrain I’m walking. And maybe you are too.
If you’ve ever left a conversation wishing you had said more—or less—know that you’re not alone. We’re all learning. Together.
This work—of speaking truth with care, of honoring both self and other—is tender and brave. We’re not meant to do it alone.
May you find the spaces, circles, and communities that help you practice this kind of mindful living with compassion, clarity, and the courage to keep growing.
We're all learning.