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The Circles You Didn’t Know You Were Drawing

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Closeness has a shape, and most of us were never taught it.

There is a moment that happens in my work more often than any other, and it usually arrives early. Someone sits down, we exchange the ordinary opening courtesies, and then — twelve, fifteen minutes in — they hand me something enormous. A marriage that is failing. A diagnosis. A thing they did in 1987 they have never said out loud. It comes out in a rush, and when it is finished there is a particular silence while they wait to see what I am going to do with it.

In that room, it is the right thing. That is what the room is for.

What concerns me is what I hear next, which is that the same thing happened on Tuesday with someone at work.

People tell me this about themselves without quite hearing what they are telling me. They say it lightly: I’m an open book, I don’t really have a filter, I just say what I think. It is offered as a virtue, and in a sense it is one. These are not calculating people, and I would rather sit with them than with someone who has never let anything slip in their life. But then I ask how it tends to go, and the stories come out, and they are not good stories.

They go wrong in three ways, and it is worth separating them, because they are not the same problem.

The first is the one everyone braces for: someone takes what you gave them and uses it. Not always with malice — sometimes it is repeated in a meeting as context, or passed to a third person as concern — but the effect is that something you said in one register is now operating in another, where it can be held against you. This is the rarest of the three.

The second is more common and gets talked about less. The information is not weaponized; it is simply misread. You said you were struggling, and what got filed away was unstable. You said the marriage was hard, and what they carry now is she’s leaving him. Nothing was done with it. It sat in someone else’s head and finished itself in a shape you did not choose.

The third is the quietest and the most costly. You tell someone something large, and they hear it as an announcement of intimacy. You were overflowing. They understood it as being chosen. Now there is a closeness on the table that one of you believes in and the other does not, and that asymmetry has to go somewhere. Usually it becomes disappointment, and the disappointment lands on you, and you cannot work out what you did.

None of these are failures of honesty. Every one of them is a failure of proportion.

The contemplative tradition saw this early. John Cassian, writing in the fifth century about what he had learned from the desert monastics, called it discretio — discretion — and he did not mean keeping quiet. He meant the capacity to judge rightly what a particular moment asks for. He ranked it above the more dramatic virtues, above fasting and vigils, because those could all be practiced to excess and do harm, and discretion was the thing that knew how much. It is not a rule about secrets. It is a sense of measure.

What I could not find anywhere was a way to put that in front of someone in thirty seconds. So I built one. This is my own model, worked out over about twenty-five years — with clients, in direction, and on myself — and refined every time it turned out to be wrong.

The Circles of Disclosure.

(NOTE–If you would like the Diagram, let me know.)

You are the whole field. Everyone in your life sits somewhere inside it, and how much of yourself you hand over changes with the distance from the center. The percentages are approximate; nobody is doing arithmetic in a hallway. They are there to give you something to feel for.

The Whole Self — 100%. At the center, your number one person. A spouse, a partner, whoever that one is. This is where you bring all of it: body, mind, emotions, spirit. Not a report on those things — the things themselves, including the parts you have not finished figuring out. You do not have to arrive at understanding before you speak. You can say it while it is still shapeless and be received anyway. I want to be plain about this, because it is the center of everything else on the page: you cannot do this with everyone, and attempting it will fail. Not might. Will. The whole self is more than any other circle is built to hold, and handing it to a circle that cannot carry it does not create closeness — it creates damage, usually to you. Most people have one such person. Some have none, and that is its own grief, worth naming rather than working around.

The Trusted Few — 75%. Children, parents, a confidant or two. Real struggles and doubts go here, with one difference that matters: once you have sat with them yourself. The distinction is not how much you say, it is whether you are talking with someone or at them. A grown child can carry the fact that you are frightened about something. They should not be the place where you first discover it.

And notice what has already happened by this ring. The whole self does not travel outward. It stops at the center. Everything from here on is a portion — a real portion, chosen and offered, but a portion — and that is not a loss or a compromise. It is what these relationships are for. The mistake people make is assuming that if they love someone enough, or trust them enough, the center should expand to include them. It does not work that way. The interior ring is interior because it is the only one built to hold all of you, and the moment you try to widen it, you have not made two people closer; you have only moved the weight somewhere it cannot be carried.

The Companions — 50%. People who know the shape of your life, who would recognize your handwriting and your worst habits. What you are working through goes here, but not the raw middle of it. Not the three-in-the-morning version. This is where you can be honest that something is hard without handing over the whole weight of it, and most real friendship lives at exactly this depth. It is not a lesser closeness. It is a different one.

The Daily Company — 25%. Colleagues, neighbors, the people you see constantly and know slightly. Facts and plans. Feelings in passing, if at all. You can say the week has been rough; you do not have to say why. There is a version of this that becomes armor, and that is not what I am describing — an office where nobody says anything real is its own kind of sick. But most of the damage I hear about here came from a mistaken register, not from excess warmth.

The Crowd — 5%. Strangers, anyone you have just met, and anything you post. Pleasantries and surface detail. Nothing you would mind being repeated, because it may be, and you will not be there when it is.

Circles of Disclosure Reflection Sheet

Here is what it looks like when the first circle’s contents land in the fourth.

Something has gone badly at home. You have not slept. On Monday a colleague you like well enough asks how your weekend was — a Daily Company question, asked in that register, expecting a Daily Company answer. And instead of rough, but fine, the true thing comes out: the marriage is in trouble, you are frightened, you do not know what happens next.

Watch what follows. They have nowhere to put it. They were making conversation and now they are holding something they did not ask for and cannot hand back. Whatever they say next will be inadequate, because the register they were standing in has no adequate response available — and you will feel that inadequacy as rejection, on top of everything else. Then they adjust. More careful around you, or more solicitous, either one a small distance where there wasn’t one. It travels a little, mentioned to one other person as genuine concern. And here is the part that costs the most: by Thursday you have come up for air. The information has not. It is still Monday morning in their head, and the version of you they are now working from is the worst hour of your year, frozen, with no way for you to go back and update it.

Nobody did anything wrong. The content was true. It was simply put in a circle not built to hold it.

Which brings me back to that room, and the silence after something has been set down.

What I listen for is not whether someone has told me too much; the room can hold it. I listen for whether the telling was aimed — whether this was said to me, here, for a reason, or whether it is simply what comes out of them now, in every room, to whoever is sitting there. Because if it is the second, the thing that looks like openness is doing something else. It is not connection. It is spillage. And spillage does not create intimacy; it only looks like it from the inside, for about an hour.

Most of the trouble comes from a mismatch — handing a Daily Company person something that belonged at the center, or holding back from the center what they had every right to hear. The first kind usually costs more, because what you said keeps travelling after you have stopped talking. Where the rings sit, and who belongs in each, is yours to work out.

Peace and every good.

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About Jim & Lynette Vaive

Jim and Lynette Vaive are the co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker. They are Master Certified Coaches, certified Narrative Enneagram teachers, and Certified Spiritual Directors, and together they hold credentials in Spiritual Emotional Intelligence (SEQ) — a framework rooted in Lynette’s Doctor of Ministry research. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

Sources

John Cassian on discretion as the governing virtue — Conferences, Conference II (“On Discretion”), c. 426. Cited as context for the problem, not as a source for the Circles of Disclosure model, which is the author’s own.

 

The Difference Between Spiritual Direction and Coaching

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Two empty chairs turned slightly toward each other in a quiet room, warm lamplight between them, a window beyond showing early morning — the shared space of coaching and spiritual direction.

Two chairs, one conversation. What changes is the question you bring to it.

Coaching helps you move toward something. Spiritual direction helps you pay attention to something.

People ask Jim and Lynette this question more than almost any other. It’s a fair one — they offer both, they’ve been trained deeply in both, and from the outside the two practices can look similar. Both involve one-on-one conversation. Both involve careful listening. Both are oriented toward growth and clarity.

So what’s actually different? The honest answer is: quite a lot. And Jim and Lynette have lived that difference from both sides — as practitioners and as people who have needed both at different points in their own lives.

What coaching is for

Coaching is fundamentally future-oriented. It begins with the question: where do you want to go, and what’s getting in the way?

Jim and Lynette spent years as Regional Network Directors for North America at Six Seconds — Josh Freedman’s global emotional intelligence nonprofit — and together co-developed the SEQ (Spiritual Emotional Intelligence) assessment now used across many countries. That work deepened their understanding of what coaching can do at its best: help people understand how their emotions inform their choices, interrupt patterns that are limiting them, and move toward what they most want with more skill and intentionality.

The Six Seconds model takes the inner life seriously. But it does so in service of forward movement. Coaching tends to work well when you have a goal you’re working toward, a decision you want to make more effectively, or a pattern you want to interrupt. It’s good for people who know roughly where they want to go and need help getting there.

What spiritual direction and spiritual formation are for

Spiritual direction and spiritual formation are fundamentally present-oriented — and in some ways, gently suspicious of the rush toward the future that coaching is designed to support.

When Lynette completed her Doctor of Ministry research at the Haden Institute and Graduate Theological Foundation, the work that eventually became the SEQ framework, she was exploring something the coaching world often moves past too quickly: the inner life not as a resource to optimize, but as a landscape to inhabit. Spiritual direction begins not with where do you want to go but with where are you, and what is already stirring in you?

A spiritual director isn’t working toward a goal with you. They’re paying attention alongside you — to what’s alive, to what’s heavy, to what keeps surfacing without resolution, to where the sacred might already be moving in ways you haven’t fully recognized yet.

The overlap — and why it matters

The two practices share more than they might seem to. Both take the inner life seriously. Both involve listening of a particular quality. Both resist the impulse to fix or advise.

Jim often says that the person who comes to him for coaching and the person who comes for spiritual direction are sometimes carrying the same question — they just haven’t recognized it yet. The executive trying to decide whether to take the promotion might actually be trying to understand what his life is for. The woman discerning a major transition might need both the practical clarity of coaching and the contemplative spaciousness of spiritual direction.

These aren’t competing practices. In Jim and Lynette’s experience, they’re part of the same one.

Spiritual Direction or Coaching Reflection Sheet

So how do you choose?

A few questions worth sitting with: Do you have a clear goal, or are you still trying to understand where you are? Are you looking for help with change, or help with understanding? Is there something specific you want to accomplish in the next year, or something you’ve been carrying that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere?

And — do you sense that what’s happening in your life right now has a deeper dimension you haven’t been able to name yet? If so, spiritual direction and the spaciousness of spiritual formation might be exactly what you’ve been looking for.

If you’re still not sure, the best next step is a free 15-minute conversation. Jim and Lynette can talk through where you are and what kind of companionship makes the most sense for this season.

Schedule with Jim: https://calendly.com/jim-792/spiritual-direction-consultation

Schedule with Lynette: https://calendly.com/lynettespiritofeq/15min

Peace and every good.

 

About Jim & Lynette Vaive

Jim and Lynette Vaive are the co-founders of spirit of EQ and co-authors of The Mystical Seeker. They are Master Certified Coaches, certified Narrative Enneagram teachers, and Certified Spiritual Directors. Together they hold credentials in Spiritual Emotional Intelligence (SEQ) — a framework rooted in Lynette’s Doctor of Ministry research — and serve individuals, small groups, and organizations across faith traditions. Learn more at spiritofeq.com.

Series

Post 4 of 6 in the Spiritual Direction series.

Presence Over Pressure: Rethinking Adulthood at 32

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I have started todays blog with a paraphrased story to illustrate this important study for coaching and spiritual direction.

When my friend Lila brought her twenty-four–year–old nephew, Jonah, to the small group at our church last spring, I expected the usual restless energy of someone caught between college and a first job. Jonah sat quietly through the opening prayer, his hands folded, eyes darting now and then to his phone. Then he listened as a woman in her fifties talked about grief; he asked a thoughtful question about responsibility. By the time the meeting ended he admitted, with a nervous laugh, that he sometimes felt like he was “pretending to be an adult.” He wasn’t sure whether that was a confession or a relief.

This part is dense reading but worth the time if you are a coach or spiritual director. The conversation Jonah sparked has stayed with me, (Jim) because it maps a striking piece of science that demands we rethink how we guide young people in coaching and spiritual formation. IN the latest issue of “Presence” a Spiritual Directors International publication it states this study from 2025 that neuroscientists from Cambridge University published in Nature Communications (Mousley et al.) that compared diffusion MRI scans from nearly four thousand human brains ranging from infancy to ninety years old. Rather than finding a smooth, linear path of maturation, they reported discrete shifts at roughly ages nine, thirty-two, sixty-six, and eighty-three. One of the most provocative takeaways: adolescence, in neurological terms, appears to stretch well beyond what most social norms call “adulthood” — actual adulthood, the study suggests, may not begin until around age thirty-two.

This finding upends a lot of assumptions we make in churches, coaching programs, and spiritual direction. If brains remain in a significant developmental flux into the late twenties and early thirties, how should mentors, pastors, and spiritual directors show up for people like Jonah — or for us — in ways that match their neurodevelopment reality?

What the study suggests….

Mousley and colleagues used diffusion MRI to map patterns of white matter — the brain’s communication highways — across the lifespan. Prior to age thirty-two, the brain is still reorganizing: white matter is growing, neural pathways are becoming more efficient, and connectivity patterns are shifting. After roughly thirty-two, the researchers found a more stabilized architecture that often persists for about three decades, followed by later-life shifts around sixty-six and eighty-three. These aren’t just trivia about neurons; they have implications for how people form identity, sustain relationships, and engage with meaning and purpose.

A short story: the mentor, the millennial, the map When I met Jonah months later for coffee, he’d switched jobs twice and was enrolled in a night course on ethics. He confessed he dreaded the “adult checkboxes” — house, marriage, stable job — yet felt impatient with peers who seemed to have them. We talked about mentors: he wanted guidance but bristled at being told what to do. I told him about the Cambridge study — he laughed, then listened.

“Maybe being older isn’t the only way to be wise,” he said. “Maybe people can help me without trying to make me into something I’m not yet.”

That line captures the pastoral (presence) pivot we need: to offer presence without premature pressure, to accompany without imposing finished forms. The neuroscientific finding invites humility and patience. It asks us to honor the ongoing developmental work young adults are doing — neurologically, emotionally, spiritually — while providing steady practices and relational spaces that support maturation without rushing it.

Two ways for us to be present

  1. Practice steady attunement through embodied listening What it is: Embodied listening means attending to the whole person — voice, posture, affect, silence — and not just the words. It requires slowing down, modulating one’s own responses, and noticing shifts in emotion and cognitive framing without immediately correcting or advising.

How to do it:

  • Create predictable space and rhythm: offer recurring meetings that give the person time to try on insights between sessions. Stability matters to a brain still organizing its networks.
  • Use nonverbal check-ins: begin with a single question — “Where is your attention?” — allow a minute of silence, then reflect what you notice about tone and posture before asking probing questions.
  • Resist the fix: when you sense the urge to “solve” identity questions, mirror instead. “I hear uncertainty about responsibility and a desire for meaning.” This models a mind that can hold complexity without collapsing into premade answers.

Why it helps:

For a brain in flux, steady attunement supports the integration of new patterns. It offers a relational scaffold where the young adult can test emerging values and neural pathways safely.

  1. Offer scaffolded practices that combine exploration with ritual What it is: Scaffolded practices are simple, repeatable spiritual exercises that invite both experimentation and the formation of habit. They recognize that neurodevelopment thrives on both novelty (to build new connections) and repetition (to consolidate them).

How to do it:

  • Introduce three-month “experiment” cycles: choose one spiritual practice (e.g., contemplative journaling, short daily silence, or service with reflection) to try for 90 days. Check in weekly for the first month, then biweekly.
  • Combine short, diverse practices with a consistent ritual frame: begin and end with a five-minute centering practice (breath or scripture reading), then introduce a varied middle (creative reflection, dialogue, or action).
  • Encourage meta-reflection: every month, ask: “What patterns do you notice in your responses? What feels alive? What drains you?” This helps the maturing brain integrate experience into identity.

Why it helps: This approach respects the brain’s dual needs: novelty for growth and repetition for stability. Ritual gives a predictable platform for experimentation, reducing anxiety while encouraging exploration.

Why this matters to coaching and spiritual direction

  1. Developmentally informed accompaniment improves outcomes coaching and spiritual direction aim to catalyze growth: in habits, vocation, moral discernment, and interior integration. If the brain continues to rewire well into the late twenties and early thirties, then coaching strategies that treat early adulthood as a finished stage may be ineffective or even harmful. A developmental lens encourages coaches and directors to calibrate expectations, scaffold change plans over longer timelines, and attend to the neurobiological rhythms of consolidation and plasticity.
  2. It reframes maturity as a process, not a milestone spiritual direction, at its best, is about guiding people into deeper coherence — integrating emotions, beliefs, and actions. The Cambridge study reminds us that coherence can be emergent and slow. Rather than treating a thirty-year-old’s doubts as failures, we can see them as part of ongoing integration. This reduces shame and normalizes the nonlinear trajectory of faith and identity formation.
  3. It demands relational humility and patience Both coaching and spiritual direction rely on relationship. Neuroscience underscores that relationship is not merely a context but a mechanism for change: safe, attuned relationships shape neural development. Coaches and directors who cultivate attunement, ritual, and scaffolded experimentation are not just providing tools — they are offering the relational conditions in which the brain can reconfigure toward more adaptive patterns.
  4. It broadens the role of community If individual neurodevelopment unfolds across decades, community becomes a crucial resource — not merely a backdrop. Churches, peer groups, mentorship networks, and coaching cohorts can offer the recurring, low-stakes opportunities to practice new moral habits, relationships, and vocational identities. Programs that build long-term relational continuity will likely be more aligned with how brains mature.

A closing note to mentors and leaders:

When you sit across from someone like Jonah, remember you are not simply transferring information. You’re participating in a slow, relational craft of formation. The Cambridge findings do not strip away responsibility; they expand it. We must give space for the messy apprenticeship of being an adult, provide practices that balance novelty with ritual, and be present in ways that allow the nervous system and the soul to settle into new patterns of coherence.

Jonah eventually stopped checking his phone during our meetings. He still questions, still wanders in and out of certainty. But he’s started keeping a short weekly journal and meets once a month with an older mentor who listens without solving. Watching him, I’m learning to be less anxious about boxes checked and more attentive to the small, steady shifts that mark maturation. That’s the work neuroscience is asking us to honor: presence over pressure, accompaniment over answers, and the patient trust that growing up is a journey that may take longer — and be more sacred — than we thought.

Thank you for reading this study and helpful guide for professionals who coach and do spiritual direction.

Mousley, A., et al. (2025). (2025). Nature Communications. [Mousley et al., 2025, Nature Communications — diffusion MRI lifespan study]

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/41290675/

Eddy Hopping: Navigating Life’s Rapids

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It occurs to me that life is complicated. Yeah Jim, we know that, and as a start to the new year and where we set those pesky new year’s resolutions, it made sense to do a series on resting in the face of life’s rapids.

As I stood at the edge of the river, the roar of the rapids ahead filled me with a mix of excitement and apprehension. I was going to go down the New River and hit those class 4 and 5 rapids with purpose. The guide’s voice cut through the noise and my reflection, explaining the technique of “eddy hopping”—a method where paddlers skillfully navigate from one calm eddy to another, using these brief pauses to assess, plan, and gather strength before tackling the next rapid. This technique, I realized, mirrored the challenges and strategies in my own life. And there were and are a lot of them.

The Metaphor of Eddy Hopping

In whitewater paddling, an eddy is a calm area of water formed behind obstacles like rocks or bends in the river. Paddlers use eddy hopping to navigate through challenging rapids by moving from one eddy to the next, allowing for brief moments of respite and reflection. This approach can be applied to personal development in several ways:

  1. Strategic Pauses: Just as paddlers pause in eddies to assess their path, we can take moments in our lives to reflect, gather strength, and make thoughtful decisions.
  2. Continuous Learning: Each “hop” from one challenge to the next is an opportunity to learn, adapt, and grow.
  3. Purposeful Progression: By moving intentionally from one goal to another, we maintain direction and momentum in our personal and professional lives.

Applying Eddy Hopping to Personal Development

Reflecting on my own journey, I recognized several areas where the principles of eddy hopping could be applied:

  1. Set Clear Goals: I began by defining what each “eddy” represented in my life—be it a project, relationship, or personal milestone. This clarity provided a roadmap for my journey.
  2. I needed to embrace the Journey: Understanding that each step, or “hop,” was part of a larger process helped me celebrate small victories and learn from setbacks. I realized that the journey itself was as important as the destination. I can share with you now that when I saw the first class 5 rapids my heart skipped a beat — they are very scary.
  3. Maintain Balance: Just as paddlers must balance their boat to navigate eddy lines, I recognized the importance of balancing my efforts to avoid burnout and ensure sustainable progress. This meant setting realistic expectations and taking time for self-care. We were in a raft and that meant working together.
  4. Seek Support: In paddling, teamwork is crucial. Similarly, I understood the value of surrounding myself with supportive individuals who could provide guidance, encouragement, and shared wisdom. Building a network of mentors and peers became a priority.

Overcoming Personal Challenges

Applying the concept of eddy hopping to my life was not without its challenges. There were moments when the rapids seemed overwhelming, and the next eddy appeared distant. During these times, I reminded myself of the importance of strategic pauses. Taking a moment to breathe, reflect, and reassess my path allowed me to approach challenges with renewed clarity and purpose. And if you remember from other blogs, Centering prayer (or Meditation) is an important part of my routine each morning as I eddy hop from day to day.

Continuous learning became a cornerstone of my journey. Each setback was something I tried to view as an opportunity to adapt and grow. I embraced the idea that mistakes were not failures but steppingstones toward improvement. This mindset shift transformed my approach to challenges, making them less daunting and more manageable. And one of the ways I did it was to remember that while other people’s opinions were important to me, they were not going to help me if they were negative.

Intentional progression required me to set clear, achievable goals and move towards them with intention. I learned to break down larger objectives into smaller, actionable steps, making the journey less overwhelming and more structured. This approach provided a sense of direction as I checked off each success.

Maintaining balance was perhaps the most challenging part. In the pursuit of goals, it was easy to become consumed by work and responsibilities. However, I recognized the importance of self-care and the need to recharge. Just as a paddler must rest to navigate the river effectively, I understood that taking time for myself was essential for sustained progress.

Seeking support was transformative. I reached out to mentors, friends, and colleagues who offered diverse perspectives and encouragement. Their insights and experiences provided valuable guidance, reminding me that I was not alone in my journey.

The Role of Resilience

Resilience played a pivotal role in my application of eddy hopping principles. Life, much like the river, is unpredictable and filled with obstacles. Embracing the concept of eddy hopping taught me to navigate these challenges with purpose and resilience. Each eddy provided a moment to regroup, reflect, and prepare for the next rapid, reinforcing the idea that setbacks are temporary and part of the journey.

Putting it all together

Eddy hopping in whitewater rafting is more than a technique; it’s a philosophy of navigating challenges with purpose, precision, and resilience. By adopting this approach, I learned to steer through life’s rapids, making deliberate choices that led me toward my desired destination. The journey, with its ebbs and flows, became a testament to the power of strategic pauses, continuous learning, purposeful progression, and the support of a community. As I continue to navigate the river of life, I carry with me the lessons learned from each eddy, each rapid, and each moment of reflection, knowing that with each hop, I am moving closer to the person I aspire and want to be.

Embracing the Dark Night

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I thought I would continue the dark night concept for one more post and talk about the journey of life, where we often encounter moments that challenge our understanding of joy, meaning, and purpose. These moments can be likened to a “Dark Night,” a term that spiritual director Therese DesCamp uses to describe periods of profound struggle and introspection. She says that during these times, we may feel a loss of meaning, joy, and certainty, accompanied by doubt and self-doubt. Yet, as DesCamp poignantly illustrates, even in the depths of despair, there exists a flicker of light—a desire to take care of ourselves, to serve others and a capacity for compassion that can emerge from our darkest experiences.

This concept of the dark night is not new; it has been explored by mystics and spiritual leaders throughout history. When we are in our heads and nothing makes sense, just maybe the reason is not intellectual. It could represent a phase where an individual is grappling with their beliefs, confronting their fears, and often feel isolated from the divine or their sense of self. DesCamp acknowledges that during these times, feelings of sorrow and confusion can be overwhelming. However, she also emphasizes that the dark night is not merely a period of suffering; it is a transformative experience that can lead to deeper connections with others.

DesCamp’s reflections remind us that while we may feel lost, we are not alone in our struggles. The dark night can serve as a catalyst for growth, pushing us to look beyond ourselves and recognize the shared human experience of suffering. It is in this recognition that we can begin to cultivate compassion—not just for others, but for ourselves as well.

One of the most striking aspects of DesCamp’s experience during her dark night is her ability to find humor in life. Laughter, even in the face of adversity, can be a powerful tool for healing. It allows us to take ourselves lightly, to step back from the weight of our struggles, and to find joy in the absurdities of life. This ability to laugh, especially at ourselves, can serve as a reminder that we are all imperfect beings navigating a complex world.

That reminds me of a work trip Lynette, and I had taken to Italy, and we had parked our car for lunch in the square of a small town, with lots of people around. When we came back out from lunch there were no people in sight and our car had been broken into with everything stolen, including my passport. Lynette and I looked over the roof of the car and started laughing, because the truth is it was absurd.

Humor can act as a bridge, connecting us to others and reminding us that we share common experiences. When we laugh, we create moments of levity that can break through the heaviness of our circumstances. DesCamp’s insight encourages us to seek out these moments of joy, even when they seem elusive. By embracing laughter, we can foster resilience and maintain a sense of hope amidst the darkness.

Perhaps the most profound realization that emerges from DesCamp’s reflections is the idea that the dark night can enhance our capacity for compassion. In times of personal struggle, we often become more attuned to the suffering of others. The pain we experience can deepen our empathy, allowing us to connect with those around us on a more profound level. DesCamp notes that caring for others can sometimes be the only relief from our own suffering, highlighting the interconnectedness of our experiences.

When we work hard to shift our focus away from our own ego and towards the needs of others, we can find purpose and meaning even in the darkest of times. This shift in perspective can be transformative, as it allows us to transcend our individual struggles and engage with the world in a more meaningful way. By extending compassion to others, we not only alleviate their suffering but also create a sense of community and belonging that can be incredibly healing.

DesCamp’s journey through the dark night has led her to a profound awareness of the preciousness of all life. In moments of despair, we may lose sight of the beauty that exists around us. However, the dark night can heighten our appreciation for the simple joys and connections that make life meaningful. It reminds us that even in our darkest moments, there loves to be found.

This awareness can inspire us to cultivate gratitude for the relationships we have and the experiences we share with others. It encourages us to recognize the inherent value in every individual and to approach life with a sense of reverence. By embracing the preciousness of life, we can transform our suffering into a source of strength and resilience.

As we navigate our own dark nights, it is essential to remember that these experiences are not permanent. They are phases of our journey that can lead to greater self-awareness and connection. DesCamp’s insights remind us that even when we feel lost, we have the capacity to serve, to love, and to find joy amid sorrow.

In practical terms, how can we embrace the lessons of the dark night? I have been thinking of a few suggestions from my own times in the “Dark Night”.

Practice Self-Compassion: Acknowledge your struggles without judgment. Hard to do right? Allow yourself to feel the emotions that arise during difficult times and treat yourself with the same kindness you would offer a friend.

Seek Connection: Reach out to others who may be experiencing their own dark nights. Share your experiences, listen to their stories, and offer support. Building a community of understanding can be incredibly healing.

Embrace Humor: Look for moments of levity in your life. (remember Italy) Find joy in the small things, and don’t be afraid to laugh at yourself. Humor can be a powerful antidote to despair.

Cultivate Gratitude: Take time each day to reflect on the things you are grateful for. This practice can help shift your focus from what is lacking to the abundance that exists in your life.

Engage in Service: Find ways to serve others, whether through volunteering, offering a listening ear, or simply being present for someone in need. Acts of kindness can create a sense of purpose and connection.

Tying all this together we can look at Therese DesCamp’s reflections on the dark night to offer a profound perspective on the human experience. While these periods of struggle can be challenging, they also provide opportunities for growth, connection, and compassion. By embracing the lessons of the dark night, we can emerge with a deeper understanding of ourselves and a greater capacity to love and serve others. I think I also need to make a point here about serving others, sometimes that means your own family, people at work, and so forth and not the stranger. In the end, it is through our shared experiences of suffering and joy that we find the light that guides us through the darkness.

Therese DesCamp, Hands Like Roots: Notes on an Entangled Contemplative Life (Santos Books, 2025), 108.