Stories by Lee Byrd on Medium

Must Be Nice

Lee Byrd — Wed, 04 Nov 2026 15:42:14 GMT

She said, “These reactions are involuntary.”

I paused. Are they? I wondered.

Perhaps my hesitation came from an assumption I’d been carrying around rather unconsciously: If I continued doing my inner work, practicing presence, and meeting those uncomfortable feelings — shame, fear, anger, and all their pesky relatives — sooner or later they’d stop showing up uninvited.

Then I could simply decide how I wanted to feel.

Hmm. I kind of like that idea.

I once heard the Dalai Lama explain that, yes, of course he gets angry. Anger, like other emotions, arises. The difference is that he doesn’t hold on to it.

Must be nice.

Easy for him to say. After all, he’s been a monk most of his life.

But what about me?

I’ve spent decades studying, meditating, exploring consciousness, and learning to recognize those not-so-comfortable emotions when they come knocking.

And believe me, they still knock.

Sometimes they don’t even bother knocking. They just barge right in, make themselves comfortable, and help themselves to whatever’s in the refrigerator.

The difference, perhaps, is that I’ve become a little better at recognizing who’s arrived.

Oh, hello, Fear. You again.

And instead of immediately trying to show Fear the door, I can sometimes sit down and ask what’s going on.

Not always, mind you.

Sometimes I’m still halfway down the road before I realize Fear has grabbed the steering wheel.

But I’m beginning to wonder if that’s what allowing really means. Not making the feelings disappear. Not becoming so spiritually evolved that nothing ever rattles me.

Just recognizing what’s happening without having to do battle with it.

And perhaps that’s what the Dalai Lama was talking about.

I may never reach the point where anger, fear, or shame stop dropping by.

But maybe I don’t have to.

After all, they’re only visitors.

I don’t have to give them the keys to the house.

(From my hospital bed … broken leg is on the mend!)

I Think I Need a Recess

Lee Byrd — Thu, 15 Oct 2026 14:33:03 GMT

PERHAPS WE TAKE OURSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY!

What I Learned Spending a Week With a Three-Year-Old

If one more person tells me to “let it go,” I swear I’m going to pull my hair out!

There. I said it.

After decades of meditation, spiritual inquiry, and sitting with some extraordinary teachers, I’ve come to a rather startling conclusion.

I think I need a recess.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my spiritual journey. It’s been the grand adventure of my life. I’ve learned so much about being present, accepting what is, surrendering, and yes, letting go.

But somewhere along the way, I wonder if I began taking this whole spirituality business a little too seriously.

You know how it goes. We’re supposed to be peaceful, compassionate, patient, understanding, and accepting. We’re supposed to observe our thoughts without judgment, allow our feelings, and surrender to whatever life brings.

And for heaven’s sake, we’re supposed to LET IT GO!

Sometimes I feel as though I’ve enrolled in a spiritual graduate program with no graduation date.

Naturally, Lady Uppity has a question.

“Excuse me, but is having fun on the spiritual curriculum? Because I don’t recall seeing it.”

Good question, Lady U. Very good question.

Recently, I spent a week in the company of a three-year-old little girl who may have taught me more about being present than a dozen spiritual workshops.

This child commanded the room. Not in a bad way. She was simply, gloriously, completely herself.

When she was happy, she played. Toys, books, whatever caught her attention. When she was hungry or thirsty, she asked for something to eat or drink. When she didn’t get what she wanted, she cried, sometimes producing the loveliest little pout I’ve ever seen.

And then something else caught her attention, and off she went.

She didn’t need to process her disappointment, examine her attachment, or spend twenty minutes figuring out how to let it go.

She was simply present with whatever she was feeling.

One morning, we all went out for brunch. Her mother ordered macaroni and cheese, which she loved. But sitting still in a chair? Not so much.

Fortunately, we were upstairs and had the room to ourselves.

So she ran up and down the room, stopping occasionally to take another bite of macaroni and cheese before racing off again.

She was having a wonderful time.

When she got tired, she curled up with her mother and rested.

Now, before you start imagining some angelic little being floating through life in a state of perfect bliss, let me assure you that spending a week with a three-year-old is completely exhausting!

But here’s what struck me.

She wasn’t trying to be a better three-year-old.

She wasn’t judging herself for being frustrated, congratulating herself for being happy, or wondering whether she was sufficiently evolved.

She was simply being three.

And I began to wonder when we grown-ups decided that being spiritual meant we had to be peaceful, accepting, and understanding ALL THE DANG TIME.

Maybe somewhere along the way, I confused spiritual growth with growing out of being human.

I don’t want to abandon my spiritual practices. They’ve brought enormous richness and meaning to my life. Even my daily walk has become a prayer, each step an expression of gratitude to the earth beneath my feet.

But perhaps I don’t have to turn every lovely experience into a spiritual lesson.

Maybe sometimes I can just enjoy a massage because it feels delicious. Or get a manicure because I love having pretty nails. Or laugh until my sides hurt without wondering what lesson the laughter holds.

Maybe joy doesn’t need to be earned, explained, or turned into another opportunity for enlightenment.

I’ve spent years learning how to be present.

Perhaps it’s time I remembered how to play.

And if anyone tells me to let it go, I think I’ll go out for macaroni and cheese instead.

If you enjoyed reading this, I’d love those claps and comments; please let me know your thoughts. And buy me a cup of coffee! Thanks!

Lee Byrd
Mystic. Writer. Intuitive Guide
🪷Website: LeeByrdMystic.com
📧 Email: lee@lovemymysticlife.com
✨ Private one-on-one sessions
💌 Subscribe to Everyday Wisdom — weekly email
📚 Help get my book published
Seven Gates of Inner Light | Chakra Healing Guide
🌱 Essential Oil Educator

Apparently, Enlightenment Has More Limits Than I Thought

Lee Byrd — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 17:06:23 GMT

This Past Week Has Been Nothing Short of a Nightmare

Once upon a time, long ago, before the internet, before cell phones, messaging, or email, we humans relied on landlines for phone calls and the postal service for written communication.

Looking back, it all seemed so simple.

We didn’t have Google. Or Apple. No passwords to remember or reset. That particular labyrinth didn’t exist.

Whew!

People actually spoke to one another over dinner or coffee or tea. When the phone rang, we answered it without wondering if someone was trying to sell us something, steal our identity, or ask for our vote.

And nobody accidentally signed up for two primary internet providers.

Yes, life was simpler. Perhaps not easier, but then, that’s subject to interpretation, isn’t it?

I realize some will argue with me, touting all the wonderful advantages modern technology has to offer. And I agree. Mostly.

But sometimes I long for the days when mail arrived in a box near the front door, a telephone was just a telephone, and nobody needed a six-digit verification code to prove they were themselves.

This past week has been nothing short of a nightmare.

Not long ago, I confessed that my computer doesn’t give a damn if I’m spiritual. Well, apparently, the universe wasn’t finished testing that theory.

Technology and I have been battling it out, every waking moment of every single day. I’d resolve one issue only to have two more pop up, rather like some demented game of Whac-A-Mole.

UGH!

Phone numbers disappeared into my email. My email refused to load properly. Apple and Google apparently declared war over which one had jurisdiction over my digital existence.

Meanwhile, I wandered through a tangled maze of passwords while T-Mobile and Cox fought for ownership of my account.

And somewhere in the middle of all this madness, I had a rather humbling realization.

I’ve spent decades contemplating the nature of reality. I’ve sat with spiritual teachers, practiced meditation, explored the mysteries of consciousness, and pondered the meaning of existence.

And apparently, I can still be brought to my knees by a spinning wheel beside my phone number and those two infuriating little words next to my email accounts:

Not logged in.

So much for enlightenment.

And here’s something else I’ve realized. I’m not sure I want to keep up with all of it.

There. I’ve said it.

Although perhaps I should whisper that last sentence. I wouldn’t want the gods of technology to overhear and decide to teach me another lesson.

Sometimes I’d much rather curl up with an Agatha Christie mystery or spend a quiet afternoon working a Sudoku puzzle.

No passwords. No verification codes. No spinning wheels.

Just me, a good mystery, and the delightful possibility that the only problem I need to solve is who murdered the vicar.

If you enjoyed reading this, I’d love those claps and comments, and please let me know your thoughts. And please buy me a cup of coffee!

My Computer Doesn’t Give a Damn if I’m Spiritual

Lee Byrd — Sun, 04 Oct 2026 18:51:17 GMT

ENLIGHTENMENT AND TECCHNOLOGY

Apparently, enlightenment has its limits.

I’ve spent decades pondering deep spiritual questions. I’ve sat with spiritual masters, teachers, and gurus. I’ve explored everything from breathwork to meditation. It’s been quite the journey.

I’ve learned that, with a little effort, I can remain calm in busy airports when flights are delayed or canceled.

I no longer need to throw the remote across the room when my favorite TV show gets preempted by some special report.

And I’m practically the Dalai Lama when I spill my coffee or burn my toast.

However, when it comes to technology, I can easily get knocked off my Zen butt.

When Dora, my sweet computer, decides to become a cranky, uncooperative little brat, I come completely undone.

Normally, Dora is very mild-mannered and easy to hang out with. Occasionally, she takes a tad longer than usual to get online — especially first thing in the morning. I understand. I’m not always at my best first thing in the morning either.

But she does have her moments.

She gets cranky. She pouts. Her stubborn streak takes over. Every once in a while, Dora stomps into the room, huffing and puffing, and throws the world’s most outrageous hissy fit.

When this happens, there’s no talking to her, even when I use my saddest voice.

Why, whatever is the matter, my dear friend? Didn’t you get enough rest last night? Or maybe I’ve overloaded you with my files. Here, let me try to help.

I wait.

Still nothing.

I close all the unnecessary files and tabs and click restart. Most of the time, that’s all she needs.

If that doesn’t do the trick, I walk away. I fill my water bottle, make a cup of tea, put on some soothing music, and wait.

If the task isn’t all that important — say, surfing the internet for the latest celebrity gossip — I might plop down in front of the TV and pick up my sudoku book.

But if it’s a project, especially one with a deadline, I pace.

And mutter.

Then, after several rounds of OMs and several more rounds of deep, conscious breathing, I begin to strategize my return.

It’s a ritual of sorts.

I softly whisper sweet, inspiring affirmations.

I send a request to my tech angels asking for help.

I light a small white candle.

I inhale and diffuse a soothing essential oil.

Another deep breath.

Ever so gently, I push the power button while visualizing my dear Dora coming back to me — her screen lighting up, the cute little cursor blinking ever so sweetly.

Voilà!

Back to the task at hand.

Or not.

Apparently enlightenment has its limits.

And that not — that downright defiance — drives me absolutely bonkers.

I see red. Steam comes out of my eyes and ears. I dare not touch her, my pretty, my soul companion. I’m certain I’ll do something I regret.

I close my eyes and begin a slow simmer. Affirmations turn into muttered death threats. I contemplate ways I could quickly murder her.

I could pull the plug.

Cut the power.

I could even pick her up and toss her out the window.

But I don’t.

She knows I won’t.

I’m too levelheaded. Too practical.

She thinks she holds all the power.

But she doesn’t.

I begin dreaming of replacing her with a shiny new, completely updated model. One with the latest software. All the extras. One that will start when I push the button and won’t give me any lip.

Sigh.

My bubble pops when she finally decides to connect. Internet on. Power restored. The innocent little cursor gaily blinking away as though nothing happened.

The little gray cells in both Dora and me finally reset, and we move on as if nothing ever happened.

And maybe it didn’t.

I hope you enjoyed reading this funny (but true) little story. Please consider buying me a cup of coffee! I’d love your support!

Oh, no. Not another storm!

Lee Byrd — Sat, 26 Sep 2026 18:48:23 GMT

We were all quite willing to allow the sunshine. It was the storms we had a problem with.

The Storm Within the Storm

At our Sunday Women’s Group, we always read an oracle card. This last Sunday, the card was: ALLOWING — Let It Happen.

Oh, lovely, I thought. I can always use a little inspiration around letting things go.

The reading spoke about the storms of life, those emotional upheavals that arise when something happens beyond our control. Someone says or does something, life takes an unexpected turn, or someone we love is hurting, and we cannot make it better.

We cannot always stop the storm. But we can allow it to move through us without becoming the storm ourselves.

I understood the message. Of course I did.

And then I felt a tiny ripple of angst move through my bones.

Oh, no. Not another storm!

I am so dang tired of these storms. Can’t I just have some calm, some peace — please?

I know, I know! I’m whining. But doggone it, at my age, I’ve traversed enough rough emotional weather. I’ve paid my dues. Been there, done that, and I’m pretty sure I have the scars to show.

Time to retire and live happily ever after.

Apparently, life had not received my retirement notice.

The angst continued, giving way to agitation. I took a few deep breaths.

What was really going on?

I had recently returned home after several months away. There had been travel, upheaval, moving, unpacking, and the seemingly endless little tasks involved in getting situated again.

I was physically tired. Emotionally tired, too, although I hadn’t quite recognized how much.

And there I sat, listening to a reading about allowing life’s storms, while some part of me was practically shouting, NO! I don’t want another one!

The funny thing was, there wasn’t a storm.

Not at that moment.

There had been storms, certainly. And I knew there would be more. That’s life. Some are frightening, some painful, some destructive. Others are little more than bumps in the road.

I knew all of this.

I knew storms come and go. I knew I couldn’t control everything that happened. And a lifetime of experience had shown me that I could weather far more than I sometimes imagined.

Yet there I sat, quietly fuming over something that hadn’t even happened.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I can’t stand another storm.

Why can’t things just be peaceful for a while?

And then came the familiar voice of spiritual understanding.

You know this too shall pass.

You know resistance only makes things worse.

You should be handling this better.

Oh, for heaven’s sake!

Now I wasn’t simply resisting the possibility of another storm. I was arguing with myself for resisting it.

There it was.

The storm within the storm.

I wanted peace, and I was trying to get there by making my agitation go away.

I was reminding myself of everything I knew about accepting what is, as though understanding the teaching should somehow make me feel differently.

But understanding and allowing are not quite the same thing.

I could know that storms pass and still be tired of them.

I could know that resistance creates suffering and still feel resistant.

I could understand the importance of accepting what is and still wish, with every fiber of my being, that what is would be something else.

And then I saw what I had been missing.

I was so busy trying to allow the storms of life that I forgot to allow myself.

At that moment, what was here wasn’t another storm.

It was exhaustion.

It was agitation.

It was a woman who had been through a lot, who was happy to be home, and who wanted nothing more than a little peace and quiet.

Could I allow that?

Could I allow myself to be tired, even when there were still things to do?

Could I allow the fear of another storm without needing to convince myself that everything would be okay?

Could I allow the part of me that simply wanted to shout, Enough already!

And could I stop making myself wrong for feeling any of it?

Perhaps allowing wasn’t about finding a way to make the agitation disappear.

Perhaps it was simply letting myself be exactly where I was.

Tired. Agitated. Resistant.

And not quite ready to welcome another storm.

I didn’t have to like those feelings. I didn’t have to explain them, fix them, or hurry them along.

I could let them be.

I could rest.

And if the agitation was still there when I woke up, I could allow that, too.

The card hadn’t asked me to become peaceful. It hadn’t asked me to welcome another storm or pretend that I wasn’t exhausted.

It had simply said:

ALLOWING — Let It Happen.

And perhaps that was the invitation all along.

Not to wait until the storm passed.

Not to become someone who never resisted.

Not even to stop wishing life would give me a little sunshine.

But to stop fighting myself for being exactly where I was.

I could allow the storm.

I could allow my resistance to the storm.

And, most importantly, I could allow myself.

Right here.

Exactly as I am.

If you enjoyed reading this, consider buying me a cup of coffee!

But I KNOW I’m Right!

Lee Byrd — Thu, 10 Sep 2026 15:08:54 GMT

The last word

Apparently, that wasn’t really the problem.

There is a difference between denying my voice and choosing how I use it.

“Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy? Forgive yourself and stop punishing yourself.”
— Louise Hay

Several months ago, I entered into what I thought was a discussion about essential oils. In case you don’t already know, this is one of my favorite topics.

Sadly, I was mistaken.

The question was: Can essential oils be ingested?

Oh my, one of my favorite questions about one of my favorite topics!

“Yes!” I said quickly and enthusiastically. “Some essential oils may have even been approved by the FDA.”

Then I began to explain how plants were humans’ first medicine, and some essential oils, when properly produced and intended for that use, can be ingested.

I was going to elaborate on what I meant when this woman rather rudely cut me off. She essentially called me a liar for claiming that essential oils had ever been approved by the FDA and insisted that they could never safely be ingested.

“Perhaps I misspoke…” I started.

But there was no room for perhaps. Or for anything else I might have said.

Her face was red, her voice raised, and what I had thought was a discussion had become a rant about essential oils, multi-level marketing, and what sounded like a very painful experience of her own.

There was no conversation anymore.

So I stopped talking.

At the time, I told myself there was no point in continuing. And there wasn’t. I sat back and used my breath and meditation practice to steady the anxiety rising inside me.

But later, alone with my trusted pen and journal, I began to wonder.

Why had I really stopped?

Was I choosing peace?

Or had I simply done what I had done so many times before and shrunk?

For much of my life, when someone strongly disagreed with me, corrected me, or dismissed what I was saying, something inside me became very small.

What if I’m wrong?

Who am I to speak?

Maybe I should just be quiet.

Perhaps it began with some version of that old message many of us heard growing up: Children are to be seen and not heard.

Except somewhere along the way, I seem to have dropped the seen part too.

The story became:

My voice, my opinions, my thoughts do not matter because no one actually sees me.

Journaling is my safe place — it lets me be direct and honest with myself.

I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths, and then, pen to paper, asked, “What was really going on here?”

And there it was, that deeper layer.

I hadn’t merely wanted to explain my point of view.

I wanted that woman to acknowledge it.

I wanted her to stop talking long enough to hear me. I wanted her to say, “Yes, Lee. I understand what you’re saying.”

Maybe I even wanted her to say, “You’re right.”

That’s a horse of a different color.

Why did I feel that I needed that?

And perhaps the more important question is:

What difference would it really have made?

Suppose she had stopped talking. Suppose she had listened carefully to everything I wanted to say and then announced, “You know what, Lee? You’re right.”

Would I have been happy?

Probably.

For a minute.

I might have walked away feeling vindicated. Seen. Heard. Maybe even a little triumphant.

But then what?

Sooner or later someone else would disagree with me. Someone else wouldn’t understand me. Someone else wouldn’t listen.

And once again I would be waiting for someone outside myself to give me permission to feel okay.

Perhaps that is what Louise Hay’s question has come to mean for me.

Do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?

Not because being right is wrong.

Not because I shouldn’t speak up.

And certainly not because I should smile sweetly while someone talks over me.

It means my happiness does not depend upon someone else’s willingness to see me, hear me, understand me, or agree with me.

That doesn’t mean I won’t get angry.

I do.

It doesn’t mean I won’t feel frustrated when someone refuses to listen.

I will.

And it doesn’t mean that being dismissed doesn’t hurt.

Sometimes it does.

But here’s what I am beginning to understand:

I can feel angry and be at peace.

I can feel frustrated and be at peace.

I can feel unheard and still hear myself.

Maybe that’s the new story.

My voice matters because I say it matters.

I can speak when I have something to say. I can listen when another person speaks. I can change my mind when I discover I was mistaken. I can stand my ground when I believe I am not.

And I can walk away when there is no longer a conversation to be had.

Not because I am shrinking.

Not because I am afraid.

Because I choose how I use my voice.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of the Throat Chakra: not simply finding our voice, but discovering that the voice belongs to us.

We decide when to speak.

We decide when to listen.

And sometimes we decide that we don’t need the last word.

There is a difference between denying my voice and choosing how I use it.

I think I’m finally beginning to know the difference.

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider buying me a cup of coffee!

Mirror, Mirror On the Wall

Lee Byrd — Thu, 03 Sep 2026 14:47:50 GMT

A LADY UPPITY STORY

… am I enough?

The Department of Worthiness

In the early hours of the morning, as the sun made her first appearance of the day, Lady Uppity began to sense the not-good-enough fear’s presence. Her stomach was in knots; tears wanted to make an appearance.

She did what she often did: Lady Uppity stood before the mirror of worthiness and asked the same questions:

Mirror, mirror on the wall, am I acceptable? Am I loved?

The mirror usually replied with the same answer: “Yes, my dear. You are acceptable. You are loved. You are enough.”

However, for some unknown reason, on this particular morning, the mirror replied quite differently.

“What? This question again? Why are you still asking? How many times must I tell you — you are acceptable, you are loved, you are enough? Honestly, my dear, aren’t you listening? You ask every day, and every day I do my best to reassure you. And I don’t lie.”

Lady Uppity stared at her reflection.

The mirror wasn’t finished.

“Maybe you should ask yourself if you are even willing to stop making yourself earn your own acceptance. What is holding you back?”

Lady Uppity was taken aback. The idea that she was making herself earn her worthiness had simply never occurred to her.

So she turned to her journal and promptly wrote:

What am I afraid of?

Then she paused, placed the pen down, closed her eyes, and took three long, deep breaths.

Returning to her journal, pen in hand, she quickly jotted down the words:

Rejection.

Disappointing others.

Making mistakes.

And then the tears came.

Lady Uppity placed a hand over her heart.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered.

She wasn’t apologizing for the mistakes she’d made or the times she hadn’t lived up to someone’s expectations.

She was apologizing to herself.

For all the years she had demanded proof before offering herself acceptance. For every mistake she’d hauled out as evidence against herself. For every time she’d worried about being rejected by someone else while quietly, routinely rejecting herself.

It was a moment rather like Dorothy discovering she had possessed the power to go home all along.

Lady Uppity picked up her pen and wrote:

Am I willing to stop making myself earn my own acceptance?

And with that, she roared with laughter.

Good grief.

She had created her very own internal Department of Worthiness.

It was quite an operation.

There were applications to complete and references to provide. There were annual performance reviews, surprise evaluations, and an entire Division of Past Mistakes whose sole responsibility appeared to be locating unfortunate incidents from 1973 and entering them into evidence.

The Department maintained impossibly high standards, which were subject to change without notice.

Had Lady Uppity been kind enough?

Productive enough?

Patient enough?

Spiritual enough?

Had she made the right decision?

Had everyone approved?

Had she done her absolute best?

And even when she managed to satisfy one requirement, another form promptly appeared.

APPLICATION FOR CONTINUED WORTHINESS — ADDITIONAL DOCUMENTATION REQUIRED.

No wonder her mirror had finally pushed back.

Then she remembered a passage from a book she loved:

“And what would you do,” the Master said unto the multitude, “if God spoke directly to your face and said, ‘I COMMAND THAT YOU BE HAPPY IN THE WORLD, AS LONG AS YOU LIVE.’ what would you do then?”

— Richard Bach, Illusions

Lady Uppity imagined herself standing before God as she considered that question.

“Certainly, God. Just as soon as the Department approves my application.”

And then, as if someone had switched on a light, she saw it.

I’m doing the best I can.

There it was.

Another damn performance review.

Because now she had to prove that she was, indeed, doing her best.

Prove to whom?

Lady Uppity had no idea.

Perhaps there was an Assistant Deputy Commissioner of Doing Your Best tucked away somewhere in the Department of Worthiness, waiting to stamp her application.

INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE. PLEASE TRY HARDER.

She laughed again.

Then Lady Uppity returned to her trusted mirror.

This time, she didn’t ask a question.

She made a declaration.

I no longer require a verdict of good enough.

I don’t have to prove that yesterday’s Lady Uppity was good enough.

I don’t even have to prove that today’s Lady U is doing her absolute best.

I simply refuse to reject her.

And something inside her became very quiet.

Happiness no longer had to be the prize she received after finally doing all the right things and becoming good enough.

Acceptance wasn’t something waiting for her at the end of a long bureaucratic process.

There was no final examination.

No approval committee.

No certificate of worthiness.

Lady Uppity had spent years trying to earn a certificate that had never existed.

She looked into the mirror once more.

And perhaps for the first time, she wasn’t waiting for it to tell her who she was.

The Department of Worthiness was officially closed.

Lady Uppity was going home.

If you enjoyed reading this, consider buying me a cup of coffee!

The World is my Oyster

Lee Byrd — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 14:06:15 GMT

DREAMS. THE SECRET. MANIFESTING.

And I am the pearl

And peace can be here, too.

A few months ago, I fell into a hole.

Not a real hole, although sometimes it felt deep enough to qualify.

Something happened that frightened me. Fear opened the door to frustration and anger, and before long I was feeling powerless, desperate, and more than a little sorry for myself.

I wallowed.

For days, weeks, even a few months.

And then I did what we humans so often do when we’re uncomfortable.

I looked out there for something to change.

If only this would happen. If only someone would do that. If only there were more money. If only I knew what came next.

Around and around I went.

The circumstances weren’t imaginary. Neither were the fear, anger, or frustration. They were mine, and they deserved to be felt.

But without realizing it, I was also carrying each moment into the next one.

Fear was writing the next sentence.

I’ve known for a very long time that words matter.

Years ago, the work of Louise Hay introduced me to affirmations and encouraged me to pay attention to the words I spoke — to myself and about my life. Later, when I first read The Secret and watched the movie, that awareness deepened.

Watch your words.

Watch your thoughts.

Pay attention to the story you’re telling.

Over the years, I became increasingly sensitive to language — not because I believed I could control life by saying all the right things, but because I began to notice how words affected me.

More recently, I added something new to my morning journaling practice.

I’d been listening to one of the monks participating in the Walk for Peace. One suggestion he offered repeatedly was beautifully simple: write, and then say aloud:

I am peaceful.

I liked that.

So each morning, pen to paper, I began writing:

I am peaceful.

I am grateful.

I am blessed.

There is something about putting pen to paper that asks me to slow down enough to enter the words.

And gradually, I am peaceful became more than an affirmation.

It became a reminder.

Not a demand that I stop being afraid.

Not a denial of sadness, frustration, or anger.

A reminder that I could meet those feelings and still remain peaceful.

Fear can be here.

And peace can be here, too.

Then, quite unexpectedly, The Secret fell into my lap again.

I was sitting in the living room of a dear and supportive friend, scrolling through the television channels looking for something interesting to watch, and there it was.

Watching it took me back all those years to when I’d first read the book, watched the movie, and fallen in love with the idea that we participate in creating our lives.

And naturally, one question came to mind:

Why am I not a millionaire?

Ha!

But watching the movie this time, after all these years, I heard something I hadn’t heard before.

When I first encountered these ideas, I thought the important part was identifying what I wanted, writing it down, visualizing it, and watching my words.

And I did some of that.

But when life became frightening — when I really wanted more money, more security, love, direction — I often reached for those practices from a very different place.

Fear.

Lack.

Desperation.

Please let something change.

There is nothing wrong with wanting those things. The desire wasn’t the trap.

But I had begun to believe that what I wanted out there contained something I needed in here.

Peace.

Security.

Joy.

Watching The Secret again reminded me that perhaps the more interesting question wasn’t:

How do I get what I want?

Perhaps it was:

What am I bringing to this moment?

Putting pen to paper slows me down enough to enter the possibility.

So the next morning, I tried something.

I took out my journal, put pen to paper, and began writing the story of the life I would love to create.

I wrote about continuing to live with my family, but in a new home where I have a spacious wing of my own.

I imagined my bedroom on one side and my office on the other — my desk, bookshelves, oils, and all the things I love around me.

I imagined big windows overlooking green grass and trees.

And French doors.

Oh yes, there are French doors.

I’ve always wanted French doors.

I wrote about my book becoming a bestseller. I imagined money flowing abundantly, enough to pay my expenses and enough to help the people I love. I imagined writing my next book, doing work I love, and having a wonderful assistant beside me who understands me and helps me keep it all moving.

I let myself dream.

And when I finally put my pen down, I was filled with joy.

So much joy.

But why?

Nothing I’d written had happened.

I hadn’t acquired a new home while sitting there with my journal.

There were no French doors.

My bank account hadn’t suddenly grown several additional zeroes.

My book hadn’t magically appeared on a bestseller list.

So none of those things could possibly have been the source of the joy I was experiencing.

Writing about them had simply helped me remember the joy that was already available.

Maybe that is why I will keep doing it.

Not to place an order with the universe.

Not because writing something often enough guarantees that it will happen.

But because imagination is creative and playful. Because putting pen to paper slows me down enough to enter the possibility. Because for those few minutes, I am not rehearsing everything that might go wrong.

I am creating something beautiful.

And something in me shifts.

Not long ago, someone I love was having a difficult day. He was frightened and sad — and with good reason.

Normally, I might have felt myself tighten. I would have begun listing solutions, offering suggestions, thinking of things he could do to help himself.

But this time, I noticed something different.

I didn’t need him to change.

His fear was real. His sadness was real. I didn’t need to talk him out of either one.

I could simply meet him there.

And my peace could be there, too.

In the end, all he wanted was to hear me on the other end of the phone.

So I stayed.

For more than an hour, I listened — to his words when they came, to his tears, and sometimes simply to his silence.

Eventually, he said goodbye and thanked me for being there.

That was all he had needed.

And perhaps that is the part I missed all those years ago.

Peace isn’t something I have to create by changing what is happening around me. It doesn’t require someone I love to stop hurting. It doesn’t even require me to stop hurting.

Fear can be here.

Sadness can be here.

And peace can be here, too.

We are always creating — not because every thought magically produces an event, but because the way we meet this moment becomes part of what we carry into the next one.

If something goes wrong and I tell myself, Of course. Nothing ever works for me, I carry that story forward.

Then something else happens.

See? I knew it.

Before long, I’m no longer simply experiencing a difficult moment. I’m living inside the story I’ve been telling about it.

The answer isn’t to paste a positive thought over an unhappy one.

It’s to notice.

I’m frightened.

I’m angry.

I’m frustrated.

I’m feeling sorry for myself.

And then to meet what is here.

Maybe I am peaceful can be here, too.

I still want the house.

I still want financial freedom.

I absolutely want the bestseller.

And those French doors are staying.

Desire isn’t the trap.

Believing that the thing I desire contains the joy I’m looking for — that’s the trap.

So I can want what I want.

I can dream outrageously.

I can put pen to paper and imagine the details until I’m grinning from ear to ear.

And then I can put down my pen and return to the life that is actually here.

If some of those dreams come true, how delightful.

And if life brings something I never thought to write down, can I meet that, too?

I hope so.

Because the world may indeed be my oyster.

But perhaps I’ve misunderstood which part I’m meant to control.

I don’t control the ocean.

I don’t control what washes in.

I don’t even control every grain of sand.

What I have is this moment.

And I am the pearl.

Ethereal Entries

If you enjoyed reading this, consider buying me a cup of coffee!

God, Coffee, and a Three-Legged Cat

Lee Byrd — Sun, 23 Aug 2026 15:15:24 GMT

JOY. LOVE. GOD.

“Just because you are seeing divine light, experiencing waves of bliss, or conversing with Gods and Goddesses is no reason to not know your zip code.” — Ram Dass

I just finished my morning chat with God and came away with a simple recognition of some basic truths — the kind that are so easily overlooked and sometimes even forgotten in the noise and chaos of this world.

I went into the conversation with a heavy heart.

There is so much fighting. So much certainty about who is right and who is wrong. We fight over politics and religion, over how other people should live and love, over whose truth is the truth.

So I said to God, “Help me. I need some Divine guidance here! I just wish everyone would stop fighting and be nice. I wish we’d stop hating, stop hurting, stop bullying one another.

“Sometimes it feels as though the only way to survive all of this is to close my heart, and I don’t want to live like that. It hurts too much.

“Help me stay in this fire with my heart open. Help me recognize the incredible Divine Presence within everyone — even those who frighten me with their anger and hate.”

God leaned in close.

Soon I felt the sweet comfort of her Presence as she tenderly wrapped her angel wings around me, pulling me deep into her heart.

And I rested.

I rested, suspended in that place of radiant, vivacious Love as she gently whispered, “Sit here with me. Sit here and just let it go for now. The answer will come when it comes. You’ve got this. I promise.”

I have no idea how long we sat. I neglected to check the time.

Soon the answer came, though not quite the one I expected.

I seem to keep waiting for one of those Hollywood-kind-of-miracles. You know — Moses parting the Red Sea and all that.

Instead, I got lost in the warm embrace of Love.

My heart opened and filled with compassion. The rigidity in my body softened. Hot, passionate tears streamed down my face.

Then I heard giggling.

Wild, reckless giggling!

And realized it was me.

I knew I was home.

What is the purpose of life? To return Home.
— Papaji

No.

No parting of the sea.
No message written across the sky.

Just pure, unadulterated Joy.

Joy is what happens to us when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are.
— Marianne Williamson

What I remembered that morning, floating there in God’s Grace, was that I didn’t have to figure everything out. I didn’t have to fix the world before I could open my heart to it.

Nothing to do for this moment.

Just be here.

Now.

Good to have had that conversation, God.

Thanks.

And so here I sit.

Mr. Murphy, my three-legged orange cat, snoozing on the ottoman beside my feet. Me sipping my yummy morning coffee. Beautiful, soulful music filling the air.

And my heart filled with a deep, abiding gratitude for this amazing life.

I surrender again.

And again.

I loosen my grip on how I think things should be and allow myself to rest in what is.

Surrender gives way to peace and to that delicate spaciousness that is my birthright.

Here I sit, wrapped in the silence, knowing —

there is only Love.

If you enjoyed reading this, consider buying me a cup of coffee!

Ethereal Entries

Lady Uppity and the Excuses Express

Lee Byrd — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 14:04:47 GMT

The bus that goes absolutely nowhere.

Lady Uppity does not drive. Which, one might think, would make the bus an especially attractive option.

It does not.

Lady Uppity does not take the bus.

There. She said it.

This should not be particularly noteworthy except that, for quite some time, Lady Uppity could not simply say, “I don’t want to take the bus.”

Oh no.

She had reasons.

Lots and lots of reasons.

The schedules were wonky. The website was confusing. The fares didn’t make sense. And according to her calculations, a trip that took twenty-five minutes by car could take ninety minutes by bus.

Ninety minutes!

How could that possibly make sense?

Whenever some well-meaning friend asked, “Why don’t you just take the bus?” Lady Uppity was prepared.

She had done her research. She knew the routes. She had studied the schedules. She could present an impressive and, she believed, quite compelling case for why taking the bus simply would not work.

The fact that there was a bus stop directly in front of her home was irrelevant.

Lady Uppity was prepared to argue her case all the way to the Supreme Court if necessary.

And argue she did.

Until one day she realized something rather inconvenient.

She simply didn’t want to take the damn bus.

That was it.

She wasn’t afraid of the bus. She wasn’t incapable of figuring out the schedule. There was no deep psychological mystery involving public transportation.

She just didn’t want to.

So why couldn’t she just say that?

All Aboard the Excuses Express

At some point, Lady Uppity realized she had been riding a bus after all.

The Excuses Express.

And unlike the city bus, which would eventually take her somewhere, the Excuses Express traveled in circles.

Same stop.

Same scenery.

Same story.

Round and round she went, passionately arguing for all the reasons she couldn’t possibly do something she had already decided she didn’t want to do.

Richard Bach once wrote, Argue for your limitations, and sure enough they’re yours.

Ouch.

Lady Uppity had become quite good at arguing for hers.

But something else was hiding underneath all those perfectly reasonable excuses.

She wanted other people to approve of her choice.

Apparently, “I don’t want to” didn’t seem like a good enough reason.

Perhaps if she could explain herself well enough, everyone would understand. They would agree with her. They might even say, “Why, of course you shouldn’t take the bus!”

Then Lady Uppity could have what she wanted without having to endure the uncomfortable possibility that someone else might think she was being foolish, difficult, impractical — or just plain wrong.

Ah.

There it was.

The fear wasn’t about taking the bus.

The fear was about disappointing other people.

Chocolate or Vanilla?

Imagine someone offers you a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

You wanted chocolate.

You could say, “No thanks. I’d rather have chocolate.”

Simple enough.

You probably wouldn’t feel compelled to explain that vanilla takes too long to eat, that the bowl is inconvenient, that you’ve researched vanilla and discovered some troubling things about it, or that under certain circumstances vanilla could take ninety minutes longer than chocolate.

You don’t want vanilla.

You want chocolate.

No defense necessary.

Yet how often do we do exactly that with the choices in our lives?

We assemble evidence. We explain. We justify. We tell ourselves — and everyone else — all the reasons we can’t.

Perhaps somewhere along the way we learned that wanting something wasn’t enough.

Or that not wanting something wasn’t enough.

We needed a good reason.

We needed other people to understand.

Better yet, we needed them to approve.

And without even noticing what we’ve done, we give away our own authority.

Then we blame the circumstances for taking it from us.

Fear May Be the Truth

Here’s where excuses get interesting.

Sometimes underneath all those explanations is something much simpler.

I’m afraid.

I don’t know how.

I’m tired.

I made a mistake.

I don’t want to.

Fear isn’t the excuse.

Fear may be the truth.

And what if, instead of building an elaborate case around our fear, we simply allowed ourselves to acknowledge it?

I’m afraid.

Is that okay?

Of course it is.

We don’t have to make fear go away before we move forward. We don’t have to explain it, defend it, or pretend it isn’t there.

But we do have to stop using it to build a case for our own powerlessness.

Stop making excuses and tell yourself the truth.

Because once we tell the truth, we have choices.

Excuses keep us circling.

Truth gives us somewhere to stand.

And Then Comes Responsibility

There was one more slightly annoying discovery waiting for Lady Uppity.

Once she admitted that she simply didn’t want to take the bus, she also had to accept responsibility for that choice.

If she didn’t want to take the bus, fine.

But then it was up to her to figure out another way to get where she wanted to go.

Uber. A ride with a friend. Stay home. Change the plan.

Her choice.

Her responsibility.

Funny how those two arrive holding hands.

We sometimes think blaming other people — or circumstances — is easier. If something outside us is responsible for our choices, then perhaps we don’t have to be.

But there is a price for that.

We give away our authority.

And then blame the circumstances for taking it.

Responsibility isn’t blame.

Responsibility simply says:

This is my choice.

And because it is my choice, I get to decide what comes next.

That is where our power lives.

Not in forcing ourselves to do something we don’t want to do.

Not in making the “right” choice so everyone else will approve.

Not even in getting on the damn bus.

Our power lives in telling ourselves the truth and then taking responsibility for the choice we make from there.

Lady Uppity still does not take the bus.

She simply stopped requiring everyone else to agree that she shouldn’t.

And somewhere out there, the Excuses Express is making another trip around the block.

This time, Lady Uppity isn’t on it.

Ethereal Entries

PS — Never explain. Your friends don’t need it, and your enemies won’t believe you anyway.

Lady Uppity and the Excuses Express was originally published in Ethereal Entries on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.