And somewhere in the midst of all this feeling, I've been questioning something we've come to accept about what it means to be emotionally and spiritually well.

What if we've confused composure with wisdom, emotional restraint with spiritual maturity, and calmness with being regulated?

A regulated nervous system isn't always calm. It's alive to the fullness of being human. It allows us to experience profound emotion while remaining connected to ourselves, to one another, and to the world around us. Perhaps the measure of our steadiness isn't how little we feel, but how deeply we can feel without losing ourselves.

And if we're truly awake to this beautiful, heartbreaking world, how could we not grieve? How could we not also experience extraordinary joy?

Grief is not the opposite of joy. Grief is part of the fullness of being alive.

This past week, I experienced this in the most unexpected and beautiful way during twenty-four extraordinary hours in Hollywood. One night, I was alone in sweatpants with a box of tissues, crying and dancing at a Sara Bareilles concert. The next, I was celebrating friendship, possibility, and the healing work of beloved humans at Selena Gomez's Rare Impact Fund Gala.

Two very different evenings. One gloriously human heart.

And somewhere between the tears and the dancing, I found myself touching something this whole extraordinary year of life has been teaching me.

A whole lot of life

At 46, I've discovered that midlife is some serious grown-ass life. For women who become mothers later, like me, there can be an extraordinary convergence of a young child who still needs his mama, meaningful work that asks much of us, and aging parents who increasingly need our care. I am living inside all three.

In January, my dear Bhanu Aunty, who helped raise me, died. My mother is living with severe dementia, and my father is navigating complex health challenges. Last Saturday, I was on snack duty at my eight-year-old son's soccer game when my dad was rushed to the hospital by paramedics. Hours later, my mom was rushed to another hospital. Two parents, two emergencies, two different hospitals. And somehow, I also made it to a birthday party for my son's classmate. That's a fairly ordinary Saturday in my life. And I haven't even told you what my workdays look like!

I have an extraordinarily expansive capacity for life. Sometimes I bristle when others project their own limits onto mine, assuming they know how much I can or cannot hold. But I'm also learning that just because I can carry something doesn't mean it's mine to carry. I can be deeply capable and still need rest. I can hold so much and still allow myself to be held.

And I've been wondering: What if we stopped measuring our capacity by how much we can endure, and began recognizing it in how deeply we can love, create, grieve, and experience joy?

What if our capacity for life isn't simply about what we can withstand, but also about how much beauty, tenderness, and love we can allow ourselves to receive?

There is tremendous beauty in my life. My son, whose laughter lights up my world. My husband, whose extraordinary capacity to ride the waves of life alongside me reminds me that whatever the waters bring, we are in this together. Work that fills me with purpose. Friendships so deep they feel like family.

And there are quieter griefs, too. Dreams unfolding differently than we imagined. Relationships changing. Discovering that people and places we love are imperfect.

I can be heartbroken by something and still love it.

I can love without idealizing. I can practice discernment without closing my heart. And, as I've been learning through my practice of sacred boundaries, I don't have to rescue everything I love. Perhaps that's part of growing into our capacity, too: allowing ourselves to feel deeply without believing we must carry everything we feel. And that brings me to something else I've been sitting with.

The courage to feel

Someone recently said that Dharma teachers shouldn't cry in public or while teaching. I've been reflecting on that, especially during a year when tears have visited me so often. Sometimes when I'm speaking or teaching, something profoundly human and almost timeless opens up. My voice shifts, a tear wells up in my eyes, and something achingly genuine is present. No performance, no armor, nothing to prove. Just the raw, tender truth of being human. And often I notice tears forming in the eyes of those listening, too.

There's a kind of meeting that happens in those moments, beyond words. Not because anyone has lost their center, but because something deeply genuine has been touched.

Awakening is not becoming less human. It is becoming more deeply available to our humanity.

And yes, those closest to me will tell you they've heard more profanity from my mouth this past year than ever before! Apparently, midlife has brought out a rather unfiltered version of me. But sometimes a well-placed swear word doesn't mean I've lost my center. What matters is whether my words are grounded in awareness and serve love.

My research on tenderness has only deepened my understanding of warmth, interconnection, gentleness, and genuineness as profound human strengths. Tenderness isn't passivity. It can establish boundaries, speak difficult truths, and lovingly disrupt.

As Ms. Lauryn Hill reminds us, "Don't be a hard rock when you really are a gem." I am not practicing to become someone whom suffering cannot touch. I am practicing how to let life touch me without allowing my heart to harden.

And lately, music has been one of my most beloved teachers in that practice.

Sara B., Selena G. & the joy of being alive

A few months ago, someone in my spiritual community introduced me to Sara Bareilles's Good Grief album. I first listened while walking around Dixon Lake, a magical place near home. Every song touched something deep within me. I found myself walking and weeping, allowing the music to reach places words couldn't.

I cried. I laughed. I sang. I danced. Sometimes all within the same song. And then she covered Whitney Houston's "I Wanna Dance with Somebody." Growing up as a little brown girl in America in the 1980s, Whitney was EVERYTHING to me. My parents have hours of VHS footage of five- and six-year-old me belting out "The Greatest Love of All." And there I was, forty years later, singing in Hollywood. For a moment, I could almost feel that little girl beside me, singing her heart out, unaware of all the life still to come.

The following evening, I attended Selena Gomez's Rare Impact Fund Gala, celebrating young people's mental health and well-being