your joy is not a betrayal

Snapshots from a season of becoming myself.

Jul 09, 2025

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This column has the same title as my upcoming book, Hold Nothing, now available for pre-order, coming this fall. If you wish to pre-order a signed copy, this is your link. All early orders come with gifts, which I’m creating now, so save your order number… And here is the cover. It’s a dream and an honor for me to publish with Shambhala.

Hold Nothing is a nod to the practice with which I’ve been engaging this year: Letting go. Mostly of identities and also narratives, about who and what I’ve felt obliged to be. Which has opened me up to seeing my life with more patience and care. Also, notably, as I let go of these stories, I can see myself through the eyes of empathy, as my friends see me… the ones who really love me. They don’t care about wrinkles, or failures; they just love me. Learning to see myself like this is the big gift of my fifties.

When my friend of twenty-plus years said recently that I’m finally myself now, no artifice—just the earnest dweeb, glasses, big feet, skinny legs, now with more strength—somewhere in my system I felt a settledness, a moment of deep peace.

Nothing and nobody else to be.

These moments matter deeply, so for today I’m going to share a few mini snapshots with you, because they’re all we have.

Entering into the practice field of the lineage in which I’m studying was a highlight of the year for me. Tassajara Zen Mountain Center has a storied past, a stunning hot spring, a student body committed to practice, and a river running through it. The river seems to clear one notion at a time before it becomes a thought in my mind.

Morning tea is served every day we’re there, by longtime tea friends. I assign myself the task of being water bearer, in charge of ensuring there is always water as two or three groups of nine humans are served for an hour. I was scared and ready.

Needless to say I learned a great deal about water, patience, serving, and time.

Finding myself noticing the stones around the property more than anything else, I take cues from them into the zendo when I sit. Spending several days listening to peers, teachers, the mountains, the river, I feel a bone-deep joy.

And I wonder, is this okay, to feel this joy?

And then I remember that my joy walking amongst these tree beings is most certainly okay. A seed is planted in my being. I know I’m going to get back there.

Tassajara bridge.

Days later. Teaching at the warm, welcoming Telluride Yoga Festival for the first time, staring at my notes to begin my Friday morning class. One sentence jumps out at me—I repeat it slowly, softly, to each face in the room. By the fifth repetition, several of us were in tears.

Your joy is not a betrayal.

Final sunset in Telluride, with dear colleagues.

And at the close of the class, folks I've never met, many of whom have been studying with me for several years on Glo, relate their stories of why this sentence pertains to them, and how hard it is to remember. Especially now.

Whether you have a child in rehab, are caring for ailing parents, have experienced a turbulent season, or simply feel everysinglefeeling, your joy is not a betrayal. Cultivate it, wrap yourself and those you love with it. Your joy is of actual benefit to all beings.

Returning home, a few evenings ago. The humidity emanating from our bathroom tells me my partner is in the bath, and I feel a sense of calm within me. Opening the door, I find him reading, restful, and he turns to smile at me, “You’re all I need,” he says, apropos of nothing, everything. I melt a little. A lot. Whatever cells were warping in my system have just plumped up again.

Washing up, I mix some face mask in a bowl, paint a layer on my face, and offer him some. He says yes. With bowl and paintbrush, I mosey over naked, taking time to paint his face with a thin layer of Honey Mud, hovering over him, to his utter delight. He’s so thankful, his smile wide and innocent, eyes open. What he loves about this particularly unflattering angle of my fifty-five year old breasts I can’t quite understand, but through his eyes, maybe I can.

Did you see the floods in Texas, my friend’s text comes in. I hadn’t. Because I’m sitting with friends on our porch, or portal as it’s called here, enjoying a day of catching up after almost a year apart, and it’s July 4th, so no devices, til this moment. We’re all getting older, we even enjoy naps of a sort, during this quiet day of shared space. And with one sentence, my mind is suddenly in various childhood summer camp bunks, envisioning the decade of summers, falling asleep every night with Ali, Marnie, Gayle, Missy, Stephanie, the other Allie, Lori, Jill, and several others, laughing til we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer. Then my mind flits to being a counselor, to the faces of the girls with whom I was entrusted for a couple of summers.

Then I picture a muddy river, rising thirty feet in forty minutes in the middle of the night, sweeping a bunk full of eight-year-old girls into the sea? How? What is our world? How will any of these mothers, fathers, siblings of these beings ever sleep again, dream again, feel again. I bring myself back to the present, pulling the freshly-baked almond flour loaf from under the damp linen dish towel, collecting up the bottle olive oil, the little ceramic cup of salt that my son made years ago, with one deep breath, a longer spine, heart rising, to serve my friends wordlessly.

And lastly. My kid, home for the summer, working five days a week at a local restaurant, has a rare bad day recently. I try my hand at “helping” him, going into his room—I’ll just tidy this up, I think, help him move this piece of furniture he’s trying to move, while he’s busy grappling with his own situation. I fail miserably, of course, my presence isn’t what he needed. So when he raises his voice, I quietly retreat.

His text arrives an hour later—a thorough, meaningful apology, and with it, more closeness, empathy. After a moment of misalignment, ownership, and the joy of reconnection. The tiniest blessings.

Thank you for reading along with me. Would you like to share one of your snapshots from the recent weeks? I’d love to read and respond.

your joy is not a betrayal

Snapshots from a season of becoming myself.

Tassajara bridge.

Final sunset in Telluride, with dear colleagues.

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