DEAR ZEN: Unmoored and Uncertain

A newly relocated reader asks, "Is it possible to have too many new things at once? Will I ever feel fully myself again? Does missing the people we love ever get easier?"

This week's newsletter features my advice column, DEAR ZEN, in which I respond to reader questions and requests for advice. Complete this form to submit your own question! If I publish it, I will give you a free paid subscription, as much of each DEAR ZEN column is only available to paid subscribers.

Dear Zen,

In the past year and a half we’ve gone through many big life changes—from a move back home to Hawaii, to our daughter graduating from high school and both kids going off to college, to a new job, a couple of new living situations, and trying to build community and make new friends as a 52-year-old.

I feel constantly unmoored and uncertain. I miss the kids. The house is so quiet. I feel like a beginner at my new job after being really great at my old job. And in the middle of all these new things, I’ve stopped doing the things I used to love that made me feel grounded.

I thought shaking up my life would be a good thing. Why does it feel so scary? Is it possible to have too many new things at once? Will I ever feel fully myself again? Does missing the people we love ever get easier?

I’m so attached to everything I used to love/have/do/be. How do I let go of these attachments? Do I have to let go of these attachments to find peace? Will it always feel like something is missing?

—Malia

Hi, Malia—

I am so grateful for your sharing this. I know that many of us have found ourselves, at one time or another, in similarly rollicking boats, looking back with apprehension toward the shores we left behind while still hopeful and giddy for new lands, new loves, and new lives. 

The conventional wisdom I received from the well-meaning executive coaches who roamed my business school was to take change slow. One fulcrum pivots at a time. In a professional move, they said to change my geography, my role, or my industry—but never all three of those things at once. Even two was pushing it.

Life, however, doesn't always allow for such clean, incremental pivots. Sometimes, we have to leap. So, it behooves us to anticipate that there will be challenges and change, and to cultivate good responses to them. 

Perhaps you've heard the oft-repeated Mike Tyson quote, "Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth." Kangen Roshi, one of the teachers at Chozen-ji, mentioned this the other day. And then he said, "What people usually don't take away from that is that they should practice getting punched in the mouth."

Mike Tyson: "Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth."

Kangen Roshi: "What people usually don't take away from that is that they should practice getting punched in the mouth."

He meant this both literally and figuratively. (We were just wrapping up a boxing class.) Even if most people acknowledge that there are discomfort and pain in life, and will be in the future, they tend to avoid them until they can't be avoided anymore. Some do seek the growth that comes from challenge, but it's hard to manufacture difficult emotions, and even more so in ways that allow us to practice responding in ways that feels wise, but without real world consequences.

Neuroscience shows that the same regions of the brain activate when we're experiencing both physical and emotional pain. While we know physical and emotional experiences have different valences, it turns out that the basic physiological experience of a stubbed toe and social rejection can be remarkably similar, and I believe that this can prove very useful to those of us searching for more emotional and spiritual robustness.

Challenging ourselves through things like vigorous exercise and manual labor provide great opportunities to cultivate new habits responding to uncomfortable conditions. I've seen in myself and others that the benefits of our physical self-development can be reaped in our mental and emotional lives. Through training, we can refine our posture, our breathing, and our concentration so that we stay calmer—as we say at Chozen-ji, even "with a sword at your throat." We can also heighten our senses and gain some much needed perspective, even when we're in extreme pain. Eventually, we may even come to appreciate aspects of our pain. At the very least, our knee-jerk relationship to it will change.