Know Thyself: the soul’s impulse 6/24/26

I've been pondering the phrase "Bloom Where You're Planted", and it was the title of my last blog. The more I think about it, the more I realize that it feels incomplete on its own. I love the sentiment; there is something incredibly valuable about learning to be present with the life we've been given rather than constantly wishing we were somewhere else. There is wisdom in learning how to stay through ordinary discomfort, and to appreciate where we are even in the middle of a difficult season. But I also notice that if I'm not careful, I can turn that phrase into another rule. Another way of telling myself to toughen up, push through, or simply endure. After reflecting on this for a while, I keep finding myself pairing it with another phrase: Know Thyself. For me, these two ideas belong together. One without the other feels incomplete. "Bloom Where You're Planted" feels like the practical side of being human. It's the part that says, "You're here. Work with what's in front of you. Show up. Tend the relationships. Pay the bills. Learn from your circumstances." "Know Thyself" feels like the other half. It's the part that reminds us to stay connected to our hearts, bodies, intuition, soul, and the quieter impulse that has been present within us since childhood.

We all arrive here on the planet carrying some kind of original impulse. Not necessarily a clearly defined purpose, but something deeper than that. A natural way of moving through the world. A longing toward creating, healing, exploring, teaching, loving, understanding, or bringing beauty into life in the specific way we are meant to. When we're young, we follow those impulses almost effortlessly. We don't spend much time questioning them. We just move toward what feels alive. Then life begins to shape us. We experience disappointment, heartbreak, rejection, and loss. We discover that the world doesn't always cooperate with our plans, and somewhere along the way, we often conclude that the dream itself was naive.

But I don't believe that the dream is the problem. When I was younger, I wanted to save the world. I laugh when I say that now because it sounds impossibly idealistic. But when I really sit with that younger version of myself, I don't think she wanted to save the world as much as she wanted to bring more light into it. As I've gotten older, I don't feel like life has been asking me to abandon that impulse. It has been asking me to mature it. To call the light back into myself first, and from that place, allow it to naturally move into the world.

Nature keeps giving me metaphors for this. Like saplings, for example. Before a tree reaches toward the sky, it sends roots deep into the earth. The roots come first. Maybe self-knowledge is the root system. Learning what nourishes us. Learning what depletes us. Learning how our nervous system responds to stress. Learning our patterns, our fears, our gifts, and our needs. The roots aren't separate from the dream. They're what allow the dream to become embodied.

I also keep thinking about a ficus tree. A ficus tree isn't going to thrive outside in Alaska. It simply isn't. You can tell it to bloom where it's planted. You can encourage it with fertilizers and water. You can give it all the motivational speeches you want. It's still going to struggle. That doesn't mean the tree is failing. It means the tree is responding honestly to its environment. I think we do something similar as human beings. We often assume that every struggle means we're weak or not trying hard enough. But sometimes our exhaustion, our sadness, our resistance, or even our bodies are simply giving us information.

This spring reminded me of that in a very personal way. I was exhausted. I kept trying to work with my mindset, meditate more, shift my perspective, and practice gratitude. Those things all have tremendous value, but eventually I discovered my vitamin D levels were extremely low. My body wasn't asking me to think differently. It was asking me for nourishment. It was asking me for sunshine. That experience reminded me that the body carries wisdom, too. Sometimes the lesson is resilience. Sometimes it's rest. Sometimes it's movement. Sometimes it's staying. Sometimes it's leaving. Sometimes the lesson is some damn vitamin D!

Discernment is learning the difference.

Not simply blooming where we're planted.

Not simply following every impulse.

But learning to recognize who is speaking within us.

Is this fear?

Is this an old wound?

Is this conditioning?

Is this my nervous system reacting to uncertainty?

Where is the quieter voice beneath all of that? The one that feels rooted in love instead of fear?

I've noticed that when something difficult happens, my first instinct isn't always to listen. It's often to fix it, escape it, analyze it, or make a decision as quickly as possible so I don't have to feel uncomfortable. But staying has become a practice for me, not because discomfort is inherently noble, but because staying long enough allows me to understand what's actually happening.

I've found that if I stay with the sensation long enough without immediately reacting, something begins to shift. The fear settles. The story softens. I start to recognize the illusion I've been holding about myself or about how I thought life needed to be. On the other side of that is a kind of liberation—not because the external circumstances have necessarily changed, but because my relationship to them has. Sometimes what initially feels unbearable is simply asking to be acknowledged. There is often an unmet need beneath the discomfort. The body is trying to communicate something. The heart is asking for attention. The soul is asking me to see something I've been unwilling to look at.

More and more, I think life is less about reaching a destination and more about participating in a sort of curriculum that life offers us to grow. Every experience can be another opportunity to know ourselves more deeply. To understand our patterns. To become more honest. To become more loving. To become more aligned with that original soul impulse we arrived here carrying. The phrase "Bloom Where You're Planted" keeps staying with me, but now I can’t meditate on it without also holding the concept of “Know Thyself” with the same reverence.

They're partners.

One keeps us rooted in the reality of this moment.

The other keeps us connected to the soul's impulse.

One reminds us to honor the curriculum.

The other reminds us to keep hold of the innocent dream.

Maybe that's the dance we're really learning here: how to become our own dream in the moment. Not waiting until life finally looks the way we imagined, but asking ourselves, "How would the highest expression of this impulse move through me today?" How would it love? How would it create? How would it respond? How would it show up in this exact season of my life?

Maybe that is what blooming where we're planted really means. The highest version of your soul’s impulse blooming outwards. Not forcing ourselves to thrive under untenable circumstances, but learning to bring the deepest truth of who we are into relationship with the reality we're living, one rooted, imperfect, and creative moment at a time.