LEARNING TO MOVE WITH THE MUSIC OF MY LIFE

 

"Life is not a matter of holding good cards, but of playing a poor hand well."

—Robert Louis Stevenson

I'm still in the thick of it all, knee-deep in my PhD, navigating academic research while standing at the head of a classroom as a psychology teacher. My days are punctuated with college essays, recommendation letters, and those soul-searching conversations students have when they’re teetering between dreams and doubts. I'm not just their counsellor; I'm also my daughter’s, walking this long, hopeful, and often overwhelming journey of college applications right alongside her.

There’s little stillness, but there’s a kind of music in the movement.

At home, life continues to hum with its own unpredictable tempo. A call to my son in Canada wraps warmth around my day, his voice a familiar thread stitching continents together. A chat with my parents, my anchors, brings an unexpected steadiness. And then, sometimes, just a quiet glance, a shared silence with my husband, reminds me: we’re still walking side by side, even when the world feels like it’s spinning too fast.

In the middle of all this motion, I’ve been learning, not just how to be present for others, but how to show up for myself. It hasn’t come easily.

There was a time I chased balance like it was a finish line. I imagined a perfectly arranged life, compartments of work and rest neatly stacked like folded laundry. But life, as it turns out, isn’t symmetrical. It spills and tumbles. It’s wild and loud and wonderfully messy.

So, I stopped looking for balance. And I started listening for rhythm.

Now, presence looks different each day. Sometimes, it’s letting myself melt into the couch to watch a show without that heavy cloud of guilt hanging overhead. Sometimes, it’s fingers smudged with acrylics, the scent of turpentine in the air, and laughter bubbling around a table full of friends. Other nights, it’s lying in bed with a book I know I won’t finish, but I read it anyway, just for the feel of the pages and the peace it brings.

I’m learning to breathe in the in-between.
To taste my coffee instead of gulping it down between meetings.
To let the sun warm my face on the walk from school to the car.
To sit with my students not just as their guide, but as a fellow traveller.

I no longer demand stillness. I’ve started dancing to the uneven beats of my days.

Rhythm doesn’t always feel graceful. It falters. It stutters. But it moves forward. And in its own quiet way, it teaches me how to live fully even when life feels full to the brim.

So, no, I haven’t figured it all out. I’m still juggling, still learning, still growing. But I’ve stopped measuring success by how well I balance it all.

Now, I lean into rhythm.
And slowly, softly, that feels like enough.