Perched on a hilltop in an open-air room, I’d grown quickly accustomed to the jungle chorus of spirited birds and howler monkeys. Just beyond the windows, the natural shores of Nosara, Costa Rica merged with ocean swells. I’d spent the week in a pilgrimage of both quiet and connection; in a community of curious humans; in the company of my older bother, sister, and mom. 

Soothed by both wild and intimate surroundings, my focus settled on the podium. Or rather, the poet and philosopher who inhabited it. David Whyte placed one hand on his heart and stretched the other out toward the sea-and-sky horizon. I leaned slightly forward in the folding metal chair.

“What promises have you made,” he posed, “that are ready to be broken?”

In the pause that followed, I basked in a soft breeze and softer gratitude. I’d arrived at this retreat ready to care for my brother and his healing, and with each passing day, I was incrementally attending to my own mending, as well.

David’s pose and pause shook out a dusty, old promise. One that I’d made when I became a mother. The moment my newborn son was pressed to my heart and our eyes first met:

I will sacrifice my wellbeing for yours.

My jaw slacks in revelation. Here I was, eleven years later—a teacher and student of wellbeing, no less—holding onto a hidden (and suddenly, unhidden) commitment. One that didn’t need to be true, not anymore. One that was not serving my boy or myself. I cautiously reshaped the vow:

I will do everything I can to support your wellbeing, and, I will give the same love and attention to my own.

***

Now—back in the cold, snowy landscape of Colorado—when I look into my son’s warm, chestnut eyes…the pledge sticks in my throat. I’m trying on the oath, like a wool sweater that’s handsome yet irritating to bare skin. With time, I hope to find ease in the agreement, to grow comfortable with the unfamiliar.

Every day, my mind fixes its gaze upon my son, willing his optimal wellbeing above all else. And yet, every year he grows older, along with my awareness that much is beyond my control. Mostly, now, I can only offer guidance and solace.

I can only hold my palm steady to his back heart, while he steers his ship through life’s moody currents and weather.

As this all soaks in, more of David’s words rise to the surface: “Become the ancestor of your future happiness.”

More and more, my beautiful boy creates his present and future kinship with joy, and I create mine. In my body and heart, I know both stories can be true. With practice, my mind will join the conversation.

***

What promises have you made—unconscious or conscious, hidden or unhidden—that are ready to be broken? What can you do, today, to become the ancestor of your future happiness?