8 Lessons from One of My Greatest Teachers.

I was recently reading Martha Beck’s The Way of Integrity, where she writes about how our teachers arrive in different forms, often at exactly the right moment.

Sometimes they are people we know personally. Sometimes they are authors, speakers, or thinkers whose work finds us when we most need it. And sometimes, the teachers that shape us most are not people at all.

Sometimes they come disguised as disruption.

As a difficult conversation. A season of uncertainty. A loss you didn’t see coming. A body that suddenly won’t cooperate in the way it always has.

In my case, one of my greatest teachers arrived as a pinched nerve.

At the end of February, I had back surgery to repair a bulging disc that had been pressing on a nerve since around October. And while I would never have chosen this experience, it has taught me more than I expected — about identity, control, asking for help, patience, and what it really means to rebuild.

What struck me most is how quickly life can humble you.

One minute, you are moving through your routines without a second thought — going to gym, sitting comfortably, stretching, meditating, working, sleeping — and the next, the smallest things feel significant. You realise how much of life you have been taking for granted. You realise how attached you are to the version of yourself that feels capable, independent, productive, strong.

And then life asks a different question:

Who are you when things are not working the way you want them to?

I’m writing this now, a month later, from the other side of the surgery — still healing, still learning, but far enough in to reflect. And as I’ve sat with this experience, I’ve realised that some of the lessons I’ve learnt through this recovery are not only about physical healing. They are lessons about being human.

So I wanted to share a few of them here, in the hope that they might speak to whatever season you may be in right now.

The first lesson was about identity.

I have always seen myself as someone who is fit, strong, and active. The gym has been part of my daily routine for years. Movement has never just been something I do; it has been part of how I experience myself.

So when I was suddenly faced with an injury, it felt unsettling on more than a physical level. It did not fit the picture I had of myself. I was the strong one. The disciplined one. The healthy one. Not the person needing surgery. Not the person who had to slow down. Not the person whose body had limits.

That was confronting.

Because the truth is, when we build too much of our identity around one part of ourselves, we suffer deeply when that part gets challenged.

It is true for the person whose identity is built around being productive and then burns out. The parent whose identity is wrapped up entirely in being needed. The professional who loses a role. The athlete whose body forces them to stop. The person who has always been “the strong one” and suddenly finds they are the one who needs support.

Life has a way of asking us not to attach too tightly to any one version of who we are.

This experience reminded me how important it is to have multiple sources of meaning in your life. Yes, I value strength and health, but I am also someone who finds purpose in my work, in contribution, in connection, in reflection, in growth. When one pillar is shaken, you need others to stand on.

The second lesson was surrender and acceptance.

Nothing really shifted for me until I stopped arguing with reality.

As long as part of me was saying, “This should not be happening,” or “Why is this happening now?” or “Surely I can just push through this,” I stayed stuck in resistance.

And resistance is exhausting.

It creates stress on top of stress. It drains you emotionally because you are using precious energy to fight something that already is.

I often ask my clients, What is this here to teach me? I have come to believe that it is one of the most powerful questions we can ask in difficult seasons. But asking that question sincerely requires humility. It requires you to stop seeing the challenge only as an interruption and start being willing to learn from it.

For me, the deeper shift came when I asked, What season am I in?

Not every season is for building. Not every season is for performing. Not every season is for accelerating.

Some seasons are for healing. Some are for waiting. Some are for letting go. Some are for rebuilding yourself slowly and patiently, without forcing the pace.

This is my season of recovery.

And there was peace in naming that.

Because once you accept the season you are in, you stop measuring yourself against a version of you that does not belong to this moment.

Another powerful lesson has been around control.

I think many of us feel OK as long as we feel in control — of our schedule, our body, our energy, our plans, our outcomes. We tell ourselves that if we can just stay organised enough, disciplined enough, positive enough, then things will go according to plan.

Until they don’t.

Recovery has a way of confronting that illusion very quickly.

I could not control the pace. I could not control how my body would respond from one day to the next. I could not control when I would feel more like myself again. And I could not force healing simply because I wanted to move on.

That was frustrating at first, because so much of our anxiety comes from wanting certainty where there is none.

But slowly I realised that trying to control what was not mine to control was only making the experience harder.

What I could control was my attitude. My willingness to do the small things. My consistency with rehab. My commitment to staying present instead of catastrophising. My decision not to make a hard season harder by fighting what was true.

And maybe that is the real work in so many areas of life — learning to distinguish between what is ours to carry and what is ours to surrender.

We waste so much energy trying to manage outcomes, timelines, and other people’s responses, when the real power lies in how we choose to meet the moment in front of us.

I was also reminded how hard it can be to ask for help.

This is something I hear often from clients. They do not want to burden people. They do not want to seem weak. They do not want to appear incapable. And underneath all of that is often an old story: I should be able to manage this on my own.

I understand that story.

There is a part of many high-functioning people that takes pride in being the one who copes. The one who is dependable. The one who says, “I’m fine,” even when they are not. The one who keeps going.

But there is a cost to always being that person.

There is a loneliness in never letting people show up for you.

This experience reminded me that asking for help is not weakness. It is trust. It is vulnerability. It is allowing the people who care about you to express that care in a practical way.

And the truth is, most people do not experience helping you as a burden. They experience it as connection.

I felt deeply supported by family, friends, colleagues, and clients who reached out, checked in, offered help, and made it clear that I was not doing this alone. It made me realise again how important it is to receive, not only to give.

Then there was the reminder that micro wins matter.

This is something I speak about all the time because I believe in it deeply: real change is often built through small, consistent actions, not dramatic overhauls.

Right now, my version of progress is very simple. A set of rehab exercises. A 10-minute walk, three times a day. That is what recovery asks of me at the moment.

And yet, even when something takes six minutes, resistance can still show up.

You would think that when something is good for you and clearly important, you would automatically do it. But that is not how human beings work. We delay. We avoid. We tell ourselves we will do it later. We treat small acts as insignificant because they do not feel impressive.

But small does not mean meaningless.

In fact, some of the most important things we do in life are repetitive, quiet, and unimpressive from the outside.

The short walk.

The five-minute conversation.

The email you have been avoiding.

The early night.

The deep breath before reacting.

The stretching.

The journalling.

The moment you choose to begin instead of waiting to feel ready.

Micro wins are powerful because they build trust with yourself. They create momentum. They shift you out of helplessness and into participation.

Each time I do what I said I would do, no matter how small, I reinforce something important: I am someone I can rely on.

One of the biggest reflections for me has also been around what we tolerate.

For a while, I lived in a kind of grey zone. I was not in terrible pain, but I was uncomfortable enough that I was living smaller than I wanted to. I could not do simple things that had been part of my life for years. Sitting cross-legged for meditation. Stretching the way I loved to. Training with freedom. Moving without constantly being aware of what my body could no longer do.

And yet I still questioned whether it was “bad enough” to do something about it.

I think many of us do this in different ways.

We tolerate relationships that drain us.

We tolerate habits that diminish us.

We tolerate environments that make us feel smaller.

We tolerate discomfort because it is familiar.

We tolerate misalignment because the alternative feels uncertain.

We become so used to adjusting around a problem that we forget to ask whether we should still be living with it at all.

I explored every avenue. I wanted to believe I could fix it naturally. And while I respect that approach deeply in many contexts, this was structural. It was not a mindset issue. It was not something I could simply think my way out of.

I am so grateful I listened to the people who had my best interests at heart and encouraged me to act.

Fear can make us negotiate with what is no longer acceptable.

Sometimes courage is not pushing through. Sometimes courage is choosing not to tolerate what is quietly taking your life away in small pieces.

This season also taught me to adapt.

If you are someone who likes routine and structure, change can feel deeply unsettling. I am someone who loves rhythm. I like knowing how my days flow. I like the familiarity of my rituals. They ground me.

So when that was disrupted, I had a choice: either stay frustrated that I could not do things the way I used to, or ask a better question:

How else can this look?

That question opened something up for me.

If I could not sit for meditation the way I used to, perhaps I could stand. Or walk in the garden quietly. Or simply be still in a different way.

Adaptability is such an underrated life skill.

So often we think peace will come from getting everything back to normal. But sometimes peace comes from loosening our grip on how it has to look.

There is usually more than one way to meet a need.

More than one way to feel grounded.

More than one way to care for yourself.

More than one way to move forward.

Sleep has been another huge lesson.

I often speak to clients about the importance of sleep, and I have shared many times that getting less than seven hours a night affects your mood, productivity, focus, and emotional regulation.

But going through a period of intensely disrupted sleep gave me a much deeper appreciation for just how fundamental it is.

In the first week or two after surgery, the nerve pain in my leg and foot made proper sleep almost impossible. Nights were broken. Rest felt inconsistent. And during the day, I had to function while feeling completely depleted.

It struck me how easy it is for people to normalise exhaustion.

We say things like, “I’m used to it,” or “I manage,” or “That’s just my life right now.”

And yes, we do often manage.

But managing is not the same as thriving.

Being able to function on low energy does not mean it is not costing you.

Once my sleep began to improve and I returned to seven to eight hours a night, I could feel the difference immediately — not only physically, but emotionally too. More grounded. More steady. More able to cope well.

Sleep is not a luxury. It is a foundation.

And perhaps one of the most beautiful lessons of all has been about connection.

What stayed with me most throughout this experience was the kindness of people.

Clients messaging me.

Friends checking in.

Colleagues reaching out.

Family being there in practical and emotional ways.

It reminded me how much it matters to feel held by others.

And it also reminded me not to keep care as a thought.

So often we think of someone and mean to message them. We hear they are going through something and assume they know we care. We tell ourselves we will check in later. But life moves quickly, and good intentions can remain just that.

This experience deepened something in me: when someone comes to mind, reach out.

Send the message.

Make the call.

Put a reminder in your diary if you need to.

Do not underestimate what it means to someone to feel remembered.

A simple “I’m thinking of you” can be profoundly healing.

One Final Thought.

We do not get to choose all of our teachers.

Some arrive through joy and inspiration.

Others arrive through discomfort, disruption, and loss.

But in every case, we still get to choose how we meet them.

We can resent what is happening, resist it, and ask only, Why is this happening to me?

Or we can pause, soften, and ask a more courageous question:

What is this here to teach me?

That question does not remove the difficulty.

It does not make pain pleasant.

It does not turn a hard season into an easy one.

But it does open the door to growth.

Sometimes the experience that slows you down is the very one that brings you back to yourself.

Sometimes the thing that strips away your usual ways of coping is the thing that shows you who you really are.

And sometimes the season you would never have chosen becomes the one that changes you in the most meaningful way.

So if you are in a difficult season right now, perhaps this is not only here to stop you.

Perhaps it is here to reshape you.

Here's to our teachers,

Warm wishes,

Lori