anchor in the present, dream for tomorrow
Some mornings, I rise with the sun. Other mornings, I negotiate with it.
NOTE: This is the 18th edition of the Live Out Loud series. To view the full series please visit the table of contents. Make sure you never miss an issue, hit the subscribe button below.
I left the storm behind. These days, they're quieter. Calmer. But I felt the pull for something more—a rhythm, a pulse, a fresh tempo that would stitch together my past scars, present peace, and future dreams.
Life’s rhythm, I found, isn’t some one-size-fits-all anthem. It’s personal. Yours, mine, everyone’s—it’s our own soundtrack, shaped by where we’ve been, where we’re going, and how tough we are. My new rhythm had to capture everything. The wounds that healed. The mountains I climbed. The hope that now colors my world.
Daily Routines
Early on, in the quiet birth of something new, I found unexpected comfort in the mundane—those little things we overlook, dismiss as dull, tedious even. But in those early days, they held me together. The simple acts became the glue, anchoring me when the world felt like it was spinning off its axis.
Imagine it: the first hint of dawn, when the night is reluctant to let go, and the world sits in that fleeting, quiet twilight. That's when my day began. Rising with the sun felt like syncing my pulse with the heartbeat of the universe. I wasn’t just waking up; I was plugging into something vast, something shared.
Then, a morning cup of coffee. Not just a drink—no, it was ritual, comfort in a cup. Watching water and coffee mix into that dark, rich swirl, there was something almost hypnotic about it. The steam curled up like a whispered promise, the scent teasing that today, just maybe, things could be okay.
Reading became another part of my morning, often enjoyed with my coffee. But I wasn’t devouring pages; I was savoring them, letting each word linger, opening doors to other worlds, if only for a few minutes. It wasn’t just reading. It was a bridge—connecting me from one day to the next, a gentle nudge forward in my own quiet battle to heal.
Evenings belonged to my walks. As the sun dipped and painted the sky with its final strokes, I moved. Each footstep was more than just motion; it was affirmation, a part of the day’s rhythm, marking progress, no matter how small. The rustle of leaves, the fading light, the hush of nightfall—they all contributed their notes to this new soundtrack I was composing for my life.
These routines—unassuming as they seemed—were the metronome. They kept time, emphasized the present, and provided the kind of stability that was rare but desperately needed. Slowly, they wove themselves into a melody that was soothing, yet strong, leading me gently through the chaos, note by note, step by step.
Daily Dose of Introspection
As I sculpted the beat of my new life, I tossed in a fresh habit—one part ritual, one part introspection. My trusty sidekick. A journal. Old-school, leather-bound, always ready to catch the flurry of thoughts I’d hurl its way.
To an outsider, it’s just a book. Blank pages. Nothing special. But to me, it’s a sanctuary. A safe space where I unload my chaos. No judgment, no filters, just the raw, unedited me on those pages. Dreams. Frustrations. The whole tangled, beautiful mess of it. My reality, inked.
Every night, like clockwork, I'd escape to a little corner in my place. It was the perfect spot, nestled by the window, overlooking a city that seemed to breathe slower in the evening light. There, under the warm halo of my lamp, I'd pick up my pen and let my thoughts spill out, filling page after page. Nothing was off-limits—fears, hopes, tiny epiphanies, wild dreams.
One night, something small caught my mind. Earlier that day, I'd spotted a tiny plant on my walk. It was stubbornly pushing through a crack in the sidewalk, green and defiant against the grey concrete. It hit me—its quiet fight to survive, its persistence. It was a small but fierce declaration of life.
As I wrote, that little plant started to feel familiar. I was that plant, too—stuck in the rough, placed in a tough spot by circumstances I didn't choose. Heartbreak, loss, whatever it was, I’d been dropped into the middle of it. But somehow, I’d found a way to push through, to grow, to stretch toward the light.
That night, something clicked. Journaling wasn’t just an activity, a thing to do before bed. It was more. It was a mirror, reflecting my journey back at me—a steady companion that listened without judgment. And through that mirror, I could see how far I’d come, how much I’d learned, how the pieces of my past, present, and future were knitting together into something new.
Every entry was a note in the song of my life, capturing the highs, the lows, and everything in between. My journal wasn’t just a tool—it was the conductor, guiding me through this melody, helping me face the mess of it all with open eyes, acceptance, and a growing sense of anticipation for what comes next.
One Daily Promise
In the early part of my recovery journey, among the various habits and practices I embraced, there was one that stood out for its incredible impact—making one daily commitment to myself. This method, inspired by the insightful book "How to do the Work" by Dr. Nicole LePera, seemed straightforward at first, yet its influence spread through all areas of my life, guiding me towards independence and strength.
The concept was simple—every day, set one small, personal goal and stick to it. These goals were not about achieving something big or making sweeping changes but about small, doable actions.
It could be as straightforward as dedicating ten minutes to meditation, going for a thirty-minute walk, or choosing a nutritious breakfast. The aim was to cultivate a practice of keeping promises to oneself.
On a particularly challenging Monday, I was feeling the weight of old struggles. The gloomy weather outside seemed to reflect my inner state. My first thought was to hide. Stay in bed, let the darkness take over. But then, a nudge. A promise—a walk in the park, just thirty minutes.
The thought of moving was exhausting. Every fiber screamed, “Stay!”
But that tiny, stubborn voice wouldn’t shut up.
“You promised,” it reminded me, like a nagging parent.
I recalled the importance of this self-promise, a key aspect of the self-discipline I was trying to build.
Ugh, self-discipline, a word that felt like weights. But I listened.
With considerable effort, I dragged myself up, put on my hiking boots, and headed out the door. Initially, my steps were slow and reluctant, mirroring the heaviness of my thoughts. But as I walked, taking in the clean, fresh air after the rain, I began to notice a change.
The external world started to penetrate my internal chaos. The sound of the wind in the trees, the song of a distant bird, the gentle drops of rain from the leaves created a serene backdrop. Gradually, my mind began to clear, making room for the peacefulness of my surroundings to fill me.
By the end, I was soaked. But also refreshed. That walk wasn’t just a walk. It was a promise kept, a small victory. Not just for my body, but for my mind. A reminder that even in the muck, I can choose to move forward. And that is everything.
Letting Go of Old Habits
Building this new habit felt like chiseling away at a block of marble, revealing something more. Like a sculptor cutting away the excess to find the beauty within, I had to strip away the clutter in my life. Old habits, outdated mindsets, behaviors welded to my identity—they all had to be broken down, chipped away, discarded.
These were the ghosts of who I used to be—sadness playing on repeat, regret stuck in my head, self-criticism dragging me down. They were the soundtrack of my life, a gloomy melody reflecting my struggles.
But standing at the edge of change, I realized I had the power to rewrite this tune, to shift the rhythm, the tempo, the lyrics. I could turn those sorrowful songs into bold anthems of hope, flip the negative script into verses of self-love, swap the bleak for something brave.
It started with a cold, hard look at my daily life—the habits, the routines, the mindless patterns. Were they helping me grow, or just holding me back? Slowly, I began to cut away what didn’t align with my new beat.
Endless scrolling—out.
Toxic thoughts—evicted.
Junk food habits—kicked to the curb.
It wasn’t a smooth ride—doubt and setbacks showed up more than I wanted. But each habit I ditched brought me closer to the rhythm of self-acceptance, optimism, and progress.
A new tune started to emerge. It pulsed with kindness, laced with hope, celebrating resilience. The beat reflected my determination to rise above my past and face the future head-on.
And as that new rhythm took hold, I felt my life shift—a life no longer overshadowed by old sorrows but shining with the light of what’s to come.
Embracing Self-Care
In painting the picture of my new life, I realized that self-care had to make a strong, clear mark. I came to see that looking after my emotional and physical health wasn't just treating myself, but a basic form of self-respect. It meant putting my own needs first, valuing myself, and understanding that to help others, I first had to take care of myself.
I started messing around with self-care, trying out different things. Each one had its own way of feeding my mind, body, soul. Walking in the woods, trekking up hills, all of it brought a strange kind of calm. Moving through the wild, feeling the earth underfoot, tied me to the world around me. Step by step, breath by breath, that quiet space out there gave me something. A bridge, maybe. Linking the chaos inside with the calm outside.
Then, there was meditation. No big deal, just sitting there, focusing on my breath. But it became a lifeline. When everything else spun out of control, I could still sit down, breathe in, breathe out. Quiet the noise, let go of the stress, and reconnect with the raw, unfiltered me. That small, still moment? It turned into a steady beat in the ever-changing rhythm of my life.
I also started showing my body some love. Food? Not just fuel anymore. It was more like a gift to myself. Making meals became an act of care, a way to show some affection through what I ate. Every bite was a promise to keep myself in focus, a quiet nod to my own well-being.
I didn’t stop there.
Treating myself to the little things—a country drive, a soak in the tub, flipping through a favorite book under the soft glow of afternoon sun—those moments turned significant. Not because they were grand, but because they shared truths I needed to hear: “You matter. You’re worth it.”
Bit by bit, these practices fell into step with the beat of my new life. Each one added its own note to the symphony of my day-to-day. Reminded me that I had value, that I could heal, that I could grow. In this self-made orchestra, I found myself leading, creating a melody that was all mine.
The Power of Resilience
On this wild ride of crafting my life's new beat, I stumbled upon something fierce: the raw power of bouncing back and looking forward.
Chaos, hurdles, whatever the past threw at me—it didn’t matter.
Turns out, I could still crank out a fresh tune. One pulsing with grit, healing, and a fired-up hope for the days ahead.
This journey felt like wandering through an expansive garden at dawn, with the morning dew sparkling in the gentle sunlight. Daily, I cared for this garden, cutting away the dead weight with a sharp resolve, feeding my ambitions with quiet determination. Slowly, patiently, a new rhythm took shape—my life unfolding like a melody, each day a note, each moment a new chord.
Some days, the music was soft, reflective, almost a whisper—time to breathe, to think, to simply be. Other times, it roared, alive with victory and forward momentum.
But through it all, a steady beat pulsed.
Unwavering. Resilient.
The heartbeat of progress.
The beat that refuses to look back. The beat of hope.
I learned my new rhythm wasn’t about erasing the past but weaving it into something stronger. It was about taking those experiences—good, bad, and ugly—and blending them into a tune that’s all my own. A melody of grit and optimism.
Staying Present
As things kept unraveling, I stumbled across a book that flipped my world on its head—The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. I remember that moment like it was yesterday. A bright, lazy afternoon. Me, tucked into my cozy armchair. Coffee steaming, its warmth curling up from the cup.
As I tore through those pages, each sentence hit like a perfectly tuned chord, stirring something deep inside. The core message is simple, yet it cuts deep—be here, now. Tolle didn’t sugarcoat it. The past is just memories, locked away, unchangeable. The future is a wild guess, shadowed by uncertainty.
What we really have is this moment. Right here. Right now.
And that hit home. I’d spent too long chained to what was, or freaking out over what might be. Worrying. Missing out on the simple joys right in front of me. But Tolle’s words shook me awake. My life’s new rhythm wasn’t about erasing history or sweating over what’s next. It was about showing up. Here. Now.
So, I started living it. Every day, carving out moments to anchor myself in the present. Smelling that first sip of coffee. Savoring the sounds of nature during my evening strolls. Feeling the pen in my hand as I wrote. It wasn’t just a practice; it was a revelation. My life’s tune got richer, layered with the notes of being fully alive.
This mix—past lessons, present awareness, future hopes—began to shape the beat I moved to. It wasn’t just a rhythm; it was a celebration. Of resilience. Of savoring the now. Of taking deliberate steps forward. This wasn’t just survival; this was living, full throttle, eyes wide open.
A Transformative Movement
My life—less a symphony, more a wild jam session. I've ripped up the old sheet music, swapped it for something raw, something real. The kind of rhythm that kicks your story out of the shadows and sets it on fire.
Each day, a different note—sometimes sweet, sometimes a bit off-key. But that’s life, right. Eckhart Tolle didn’t just drop wisdom; he shoved me headfirst into the now. Dr. Nicole LePera didn’t just write a book; she handed me the reins, said, "Here, own your mess, make it yours."
Journaling—that’s my therapy, my self-exploration. I don’t just write; I tear open the pages, let the ink bleed with everything I've got inside. Self-care, not a spa day, but the hard stuff—choosing myself when it matters, when no one else will.
My past is not some tragic backstory, but the grit beneath my nails. It’s what makes the rhythm real, makes it mine. I'm not just living; I’m composing, remixing, making something out of the noise.
This rhythm isn’t some neat, packaged journey.
It's messy. It’s relentless.
But it’s mine.
And the future—oh, it's there, drumming in the distance.
The beat might shift, the tempo might stutter, but the core—that’s unshakable. It’s the anthem I carry, a promise that no matter how wild the tune gets, I’ll keep dancing.
—Ryan Puusaari
P.S. Your time and engagement with this edition mean a lot. Every reader adds value to our journey together. Thank you for being here!
P.S.S. “Being perpetually busy is like running on a treadmill—constant motion but no forward movement. True progress lies in meaningful actions, not just in the illusion of constant activity.”
Stepping into yourself—bold move. Props to you for that.
But don’t kid yourself; this isn’t a one-and-done deal. It’s a relentless trek inward, and trust me, it never really stops, just shifts and twists with time.
And to give you a hand, here’s something I’m stoked about: the 365-Day Shadow Work Series. Think of it as your deep dive into self—no fluff, just real, raw reflection.
This series doesn’t play around.
It throws you into the thick of it, with pointed questions that push you through the muck of sadness, self-doubt, and grudges.
Every page, crafted to steer you, challenge you, and yeah, maybe even break you open a little. It’s not just a journal—it’s your new ritual in self-discovery.
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