For years, I thought boundaries were a very "Western" thing—something that didn’t quite fit with my upbringing. In my family, space wasn’t something you asked for. My immigrant parents grew up in one-room apartments, sharing everything, so the idea of needing boundaries felt foreign, even selfish.

But over time, I’ve come to see boundaries not as walls, but as bridges—ways to honor both connection and care. A Nonviolent Communication trainer once told me, "Your needs are vital. No matter how good you think you are at self-regulating, if your core needs go unmet, they will drive your behavior." That truth hit hard. Because I’ve seen it in myself—when I ignore my limits, when I override my own needs, I don’t just burn out. I become the person I never want to be—resentful, distant, untethered from my values.

Lately, something unexpected has landed in my lap—something big, weighty, demanding. At first, it felt like an albatross around my neck, but deep down, I know this too is part of my path, my evolution. Those who know me well understand that beneath my gentle exterior burns a quiet fire. It is that fire that makes the gentleness possible. Strength and softness are not opposites—they are inseparable, reminding me that sometimes, the deepest act of love is having the courage to hold the line. Prentis Hemphill says it so beautifully: "Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously."

And boundaries don’t always have to be about other people. Sometimes, they’re about what we choose to release—the expectations, the obligations, the ways we’ve been conditioned to believe we must carry everything alone. Sometimes, they’re about the way we engage with our time, our energy, our attention.

This moment is deeply challenging, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. In times like these, being intentional about what we take in and how we respond is more important than ever. My beloved teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh, reminds us, “Mindfulness must be engaged. Once there is seeing, there must be acting. Otherwise, what’s the use of seeing?” This wisdom is so central to my life that it’s printed on the back of my business card. He also teaches us about mindful consumption—choosing what we absorb through media, conversations, and daily choices, knowing they shape our perspectives and actions.

One way I practice this is through the Nonviolence News Network, which I encourage you to explore and support if it’s not yet on your radar. Each week, they share 30-50 stories of nonviolence in action across environmental, racial, economic, and social justice movements—offering not just hope, but concrete ways to engage through their  Calls for Action. At a time when it’s easy to feel disheartened, these stories remind us that our choices matter, that we are part of something larger.

Boundaries, too, are an act of mindful consumption—choosing what we allow into our minds and hearts, what we say yes to, and what we release. For me, boundaries look like stepping away from the noise when I need stillness, honoring when I need rest, when I need space, when I need to say no—not as rejection, but as self-preservation. And they look like shifting the story. Because narratives can either trap us in martyrdom or open us to possibility.

May this practice below be a bridge between your inner wisdom and outer world. Boundaries don’t have to be rigid walls—they can be gentle, life-affirming choices that allow you to love yourself and others more fully.

We are not here to down in obligation. We are here to rise. Boundaries are a necessity for those of us called to do deep, heart-centered work.

This month, I invite you to reflect: Where might you need to shift the story? Where is life calling you to step into your own power, to hold your own balance of wisdom and fire? Where can you honor a boundary today?

May you walk through the world with strength and softness, honoring the boundaries that sustain you.

P.S. for educators: I'm still offering a huge discount on the SEL Every Day Courses. You also have the option to earn 3-6 graduate credits.