Recently, life has brought a convergence of challenges into my world—perhaps it has in yours, too. In times like these, I’ve been thinking about an old saying: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” But I’ve come to realize that “toughness” isn’t always what gets us through. In fact, it can sometimes feel like a mask we wear to hide our vulnerability and pain.
Toughness, at least as it’s often portrayed, suggests physical strength, unwavering willpower, and the ability to power through adversity. But when real-life difficulties pile up—like grief, transition, and caring for loved ones—this version of toughness can fall short.
The other morning, I was washing dishes after breakfast, staring out the window into the backyard. The sun lit up the trees. Sparrows hopped around looking for food. A pair of robins moved gently through the grass. A bright red cardinal perched on a branch. And I paused. I stopped scrubbing. I turned off the water. And I just stood there, breathing.
In that quiet moment, I was reminded: these difficult times are not a test of will, but an invitation—a gentle call back to my spiritual practice.
Not the kind of practice that’s about achievement, enlightenment, or measuring how “spiritual” I am. No checkboxes. No gold stars. Just the practice of presence. Of breathing. Of being.
For me, that practice often looks like sitting in my meditation chair. But it’s not the sitting alone that matters—it’s the attention. The awareness. The willingness to be present to what is arising in me. Whether it’s grief, frustration, uncertainty, or fear—those feelings have a place at the inner table of my life.
Spiritual practice doesn’t make the hard things disappear. It doesn’t erase grief or magically calm the waves of emotion. But it gives me the strength to sit with them, to name them, to learn from them. And sometimes, to ask for help.
That’s a hard thing to do in a world that prizes independence and self-sufficiency. But part of the journey is admitting we don’t have to do it all alone. We can reach out. We can lean on each other.
Even when practice feels dry, even when we sit and the overwhelm doesn’t disappear, we are still showing up. And that in itself is sacred.
So if you’re in a storm right now, I want you to know this: You are not alone. And this moment—however heavy—is also an invitation. An invitation to breathe. To pause. To return to presence. And to remember that even now, even here, you are infinitely precious and unconditionally loved for the gift you already are.
With deep peace,
James
Infinitely Precious 