The Rhythm of Life

Have you ever been left out?

It stings, doesn’t it? That sharp pang of exclusion cuts deep, touching something tender and old inside us. I recently felt that hurt—a moment when I learned I wasn’t invited to what seemed a likely, natural fit.

On the surface, it seemed simple: I wanted to be included. But as the hurt settled in, I realized it wasn’t about the event. It was about something deeper—a need to feel that I mattered.

An old habit energy, as I call it, had crept in. That familiar ache of seeking validation from outside myself. It’s a habit I’ve worked so hard to shed, and yet there it was, knocking on the door of my heart.

Michael Singer once wrote, “If the event is powerful enough to change the focus of your heart and mind, the rest of your life will change in due course.” This exclusion, as painful as it was, became one of those moments. It shifted something in me—a reminder that life’s rhythm, even when it feels harsh, always carries us toward the next season.

I called a trusted friend—the kind who lets me be messy, raw, and vulnerable. Through tears, I released the weight of that moment. She reminded me of my strength, my worth, and how little this one experience defined me.

Despair, as David Whyte describes it, is “a necessary and seasonal state of repair.” And in that moment of despair, I found my winter—cold and still, but also brimming with the quiet promise of what comes next.

Life teaches us through its rhythms.

Winter gives way to spring, just as despair eventually makes room for hope. After my tears, there was a flicker of light—a reminder that life has its own plan, its own flow. I’ve learned over and over again that when one door doesn’t open, it’s because another is waiting, and the right places and people will always find me when the time is right.

I thought back to another time in my life—a harder, darker time. Sitting in  a chapel of the unwed mother’s home as a young, soon-to-be-mother, with nothing but uncertainty before me, I felt a similar light streaming through a window. Back then, it was a whisper of hope, a promise that life would rise up to meet me. And it did.

The seasons of life are always in motion.

Even in the stillness of winter—of despair—quiet work is being done beneath the surface. Trusting that rhythm doesn’t mean the pain disappears, but it transforms. Hurt becomes wisdom. Exclusion becomes clarity. And what feels like an ending becomes the beginning of something new.

What season are you in right now?

And what might this season be teaching you about the rhythm of your own life?