Speaker 1: Us studious. Welcome back, Amaya, and to day. I want
Speaker 1: to tell you something you might not hear enough, something
Speaker 1: so simple that it might actually be hard to believe.
Speaker 1: You are allowed to simply be, not to do, not
Speaker 1: to achieve, not to prove, just to be. Take a
Speaker 1: moment to settle into your space, lay your body, relax,
Speaker 1: and as you close your eyes, notice if there's a
Speaker 1: part of you that resists this idea, a part that says,
Speaker 1: but I need to do something, I need to be useful,
Speaker 1: I need to err my place. If that part is there,
Speaker 1: I understand. I hear it too, and today we're going
Speaker 1: to gently challenge it. From the moment we're born, we're
Speaker 1: tought that our value comes from what we do. Good
Speaker 1: grades mean a good child, Hard work means a good employee.
Speaker 1: Providing for your family means a good parent. Being productive
Speaker 1: means a good person. We internalize this so deeply that
Speaker 1: we can't imagine our worth existing outside of our performance.
Speaker 1: But here's the thing. A tree doesn't earn the right
Speaker 1: to exist by producing fruit. A river does improve its
Speaker 1: value by reaching the ocean. A sunset doesn't need to
Speaker 1: accomplish anything to be beautiful, and neither to you. I
Speaker 1: remember growing up, my grandmother used to sit on the
Speaker 1: porch for hours in the afternoon. She would just watch
Speaker 1: the street, the birds, the light changing on the trees.
Speaker 1: She wasn't resting so she could work later, she wasn't recharging.
Speaker 1: She was simply being, and she seemed so at peace
Speaker 1: in those moments, so complete. As a child, I didn't
Speaker 1: understand it. I thought she was doing nothing. Now I
Speaker 1: understand she was doing the most important thing a person
Speaker 1: can do. She was living without agenda. She was giving
Speaker 1: herself permission to exist without earning it, and there was
Speaker 1: a kind of quiet beauty in that then I still
Speaker 1: carry with me. I think about her sometimes when I'm
Speaker 1: caught in the cycle of doing, when I'm checking things
Speaker 1: off my list, when I'm measuring my day by what
Speaker 1: I accomplished, when I'm lying in bed at night trying
Speaker 1: to remember everything I did so I can feel like
Speaker 1: the day was worth it. And I think about her
Speaker 1: on that porch, and I wonder did she measure her
Speaker 1: days that way? Did she lie away wandering if she'd
Speaker 1: done enough. I don't think she did. I think she
Speaker 1: understood something. I'm still learning that a day spent simply
Speaker 1: being is not a day wasted, It's a day fully lived.
Speaker 1: And the people who sat on that porch with her,
Speaker 1: they didn't remember what she accomplished that day. They remembered
Speaker 1: how she made them feel. They remembered her presence, her warmed,
Speaker 1: the way she listened, the way she made you feel
Speaker 1: like you were the most important person in the world.
Speaker 1: That was her gift, and it had nothing to do
Speaker 1: with productivity. Your worth is not something you earn. It's
Speaker 1: something you are. It was there before your first achievement,
Speaker 1: before your first grade, before your first paycheck. It will
Speaker 1: be there after your last. It's not conditional. It doesn't
Speaker 1: go up when you succeed or down when you fail.
Speaker 1: It simply is like your heart beat, like your breath,
Speaker 1: like the fact that you're alive right now, reading these words,
Speaker 1: existing in this moment. Think about the seasons. Winter doesn't
Speaker 1: apologize for not producing flowers. The barren field doesn't explain
Speaker 1: itself to the meadow next door that's full of wild flowers.
Speaker 1: The ocean doesn't stop when the tide goes out, as
Speaker 1: if it's done something wrong. It simply moves. It simply is,
Speaker 1: and we accept that. We accept the rhythm of nature
Speaker 1: without question. But when it comes to ourselves, we demand
Speaker 1: constant output, constant proof that we deserve to take up space.
Speaker 1: There's something else I want you to consider. The moments
Speaker 1: that matter most to you, the ones you'll remember when
Speaker 1: you're old, are rarely moments of achievement. They are moments
Speaker 1: of connection. A conversation with someone you love, a walk
Speaker 1: in the rain, a quiet evening when nothing happened except
Speaker 1: that you were alive and aware and present. Those moments
Speaker 1: didn't require productivity, they didn't require earning. They just required you,
Speaker 1: and they were enough. They were more than enough. But
Speaker 1: we forget this. We forget it so completely that the
Speaker 1: idea of being outdoing feels almost dangerous. What if I
Speaker 1: stop and everything falls apart? What if I'm not needed?
Speaker 1: What if I'm just taking up space? These fears run deep.
Speaker 1: They're not just thoughts, their survival patterns, because for most
Speaker 1: of us, being useful was how we stayed safe. Being
Speaker 1: needed was how we earned love. And letting go of
Speaker 1: that feels like letting go of the ground. I know
Speaker 1: this feeling. There was a time in my own life
Speaker 1: when I was so busy, so productive, so needed by
Speaker 1: everyone around me, that I couldn't imagine what would happen
Speaker 1: if I simply stopped. And then when I was forced
Speaker 1: to stop, when I got sick, when I burned out,
Speaker 1: I realized that I had been running on a machine.
Speaker 1: I didn't know how to turn off. The machine kept
Speaker 1: asking what have you done today? What have you produced?
Speaker 1: What evidence is there that you're worth keeping around? And
Speaker 1: I realized slowly that the machine was never mine. It
Speaker 1: was given to me, It was taught to me, and
Speaker 1: I could, if I was brave enough, learn to put
Speaker 1: it down. It wasn't easy. The first few days of
Speaker 1: doing nothing felt like drowning. I kept reaching for tasks,
Speaker 1: for things to check off, for evidence that I was
Speaker 1: still valuable. But slowly something shifted. I started to notice
Speaker 1: things I hadn't noticed before. The way the light moved
Speaker 1: through my apartment, the sound of rain on the window,
Speaker 1: the feeling of my own breath. These things had always
Speaker 1: been there, I had just been too busy to see them.
Speaker 1: And when I finally slowed down, I realized that the
Speaker 1: richness I've been searching for in achievement was actually in
Speaker 1: the pauses, in the spaces, in the moments when I
Speaker 1: was simply quietly alive. Let's try something right now, in
Speaker 1: this moment. You are not producing anything. You are not
Speaker 1: helping anyone. You are not earning anything. You are not
Speaker 1: answering emails or making plans or solving problems. You are
Speaker 1: simply sitting here, breathing, being, and yet you exist. You matter.
Speaker 1: Your being here right now has value, not because of
Speaker 1: what you'll do later, not because of who you are
Speaker 1: to someone else, but because you are here, and that
Speaker 1: is enough. You don't need to justify it. You don't
Speaker 1: need to prove it. You don't need anyone's permission. It
Speaker 1: just is. The way the sky is blue, the way
Speaker 1: the earth holds you, the way your breath comes and
Speaker 1: goes without effort, It just is. Breathe into that, let
Speaker 1: it land. You are enough, not because you did enough,
Speaker 1: just because you are. Let's do a body skin. Start
Speaker 1: at the top of your head and slowly move your
Speaker 1: attention down. Feel the crown of your head soft and open.
Speaker 1: Let your forehead release any tension it's been holding. Maybe
Speaker 1: you didn't even know it was tight. Let it soften now.
Speaker 1: Your eyes resting gently in their sockets, let them be heavy,
Speaker 1: Let them close fully and rest your jaw. Release it
Speaker 1: let your teeth part slightly. Feel the space that opens.
Speaker 1: Your throat open and free. Let it be soft, without
Speaker 1: forcing any words. Your shoulders. Feel them drop away from
Speaker 1: your ears. They've been carrying so much. Let them rest now.
Speaker 1: Your arms heavy and supported, your hands open, palms soft,
Speaker 1: fingers gently curled, Your chest rising and falling with each breath.
Speaker 1: Notice the rhythm, the steadiness, your heart beating quietly underneath,
Speaker 1: doing its work without asking for praise. Your belly soft,
Speaker 1: Let it be round, Let it be held. Your hips
Speaker 1: grounded and supported by whatever surface you're on. Your legs relaxed,
Speaker 1: your feet on the earth, connected to the ground beneath you.
Speaker 1: This body, this body that carries you through every day,
Speaker 1: This body that heals itself while you sleep, This body
Speaker 1: that breathes without being asked, This body that is enough,
Speaker 1: exactly as it is. You don't need to change it.
Speaker 1: You don't need to fix it. You don't need to
Speaker 1: make it more productive. You just need to let it
Speaker 1: be here, and it is, and you are, and that
Speaker 1: is enough. Now, as you sit here, I want you
Speaker 1: to imagine that all the roles you play parent, partner, employee, friend,
Speaker 1: and caregiver, imagine them as coats you've been wearing, layer
Speaker 1: after layer, added over the years, until you can barely
Speaker 1: see yourself underneath them. And for just this moment, imagine
Speaker 1: taking them off, one by one, setting them aside, not forever,
Speaker 1: not rejecting them, just setting them down for now. What's
Speaker 1: left when all those coats are off? Who are you
Speaker 1: underneath all the roles? Can you feel that person, that quiet,
Speaker 1: still enough person, that's the one we hear to meet today.
Speaker 1: You are allowed to rest without having earned it. You
Speaker 1: are allowed to take up without apologizing for it. You
Speaker 1: are allowed to exist without producing anything of value. These
Speaker 1: are not rewards for good behavior. They are your birthright.
Speaker 1: Think about the people you love most. Your children, your partner,
Speaker 1: your closest friends. Do you love them because of what
Speaker 1: they do? Or do you love them because of who
Speaker 1: they are? When your child is sleeping, you don't love
Speaker 1: them less because they're not being productive. When your friend
Speaker 1: is struggling, you don't love them less because they're not performing.
Speaker 1: Love is not contingent on output, and neither is your
Speaker 1: own worth. There's a beautiful concept in Japanese culture called MA.
Speaker 1: It means the pause between notes, the space between things.
Speaker 1: Without MA, music would be a wall of sound without space,
Speaker 1: a painting would be a mass of color. It's the
Speaker 1: emptiness that gives the form its meaning, and you in
Speaker 1: your life need that emptiness too. The spaces between your
Speaker 1: doing are not wasted time. They are the places where
Speaker 1: meaning gathers. They are the places where you become yourself again.
Speaker 1: There's a freedom in this that might feel unfamiliar. Freedom
Speaker 1: from the need to justify your existence. Freedom from the
Speaker 1: endless performance review you've been conducting on yourself. Freedom from
Speaker 1: the belief that you must always be useful, always be productive,
Speaker 1: always be earning your keep in the world. What would
Speaker 1: it feel like to put that down, just for an hour,
Speaker 1: just for an afternoon, and simply exist, No agenda, no
Speaker 1: to do list, no measuring of worth, just you in
Speaker 1: a room, breathing being. That's not laziness. That's liberation, and
Speaker 1: you dessert it. What if you could look at yourself
Speaker 1: the way you look at someone you love. What if
Speaker 1: you could see your own face tired, hopeful, imperfect and
Speaker 1: feel the same tenderness you feel when you hold a
Speaker 1: sleeping child. What if you could say to yourself, you
Speaker 1: don't have to do anything right now. You don't have
Speaker 1: to be anything, just be here, just breathe, just exist,
Speaker 1: and that is enough. Can you feel the relief in
Speaker 1: those words? Can you feel how different it is from
Speaker 1: the voice that says you need to err your place
Speaker 1: your journaling prompt today? When was the last time you
Speaker 1: allowed yourself to simply be, Not resting so you can
Speaker 1: work later, not taking a break so you can come
Speaker 1: back stronger, just being. What does that feel like? And
Speaker 1: what are you afraid might happen if you let yourself
Speaker 1: do it more? What would change your life if you
Speaker 1: stopped earning and simply started existing. What would you do
Speaker 1: with a whole afternoon that had no purpose? What might
Speaker 1: you discover about yourself in that open, unstructured space. What
Speaker 1: is the cost of your busyness, not to your productivity,
Speaker 1: but to your soul? And what if, starting today, you
Speaker 1: gave yourself permission to be enough? Not someday, but right now.
Speaker 1: You are not what you produce, You are not what
Speaker 1: you achieve. You are not your resume, your bank account,
Speaker 1: your productivity score. You are a human being, a being,
Speaker 1: not a doing, And you are enough exactly as you are,
Speaker 1: right now, in this moment. Always, if you hear that
Speaker 1: voice that says you need to do more, produce more,
Speaker 1: earn more. You can gently remind it that you've spent
Speaker 1: a lifetime proving yourself and that was enough. It was
Speaker 1: always enough, And now you can rest in the knowledge
Speaker 1: that you don't have to earn the right to exist.
Speaker 1: You were born with it. It was yours before your
Speaker 1: first breath, and it will be yours after your last.
Speaker 1: And when you step back out into the world, when
Speaker 1: the demands come, when the list grows, when the voice
Speaker 1: starts again, remember this moment. Remember the stillness. Remember that
Speaker 1: you can return to it any time, that the porch
Speaker 1: is always there, that the light is always changing, and
Speaker 1: that you are always enough. Thank you for being here
Speaker 1: with me today. I'll see you again in the stillness,
Speaker 1: and until then, remember you are allowed to simply be.
Speaker 1: This episode was crafted with AI assistance, guided by real
Speaker 1: human intention, to affirm that your worth exists independent of
Speaker 1: your productivity.