You’re Allowed to Outgrow Things

There is a strange feeling that comes from rereading the same chapter of a book again and again. At first it feels comforting. You know the lines. You know where the story is going. But eventually you start to feel it: there is nothing new to discover. The story is stuck. You are stuck. And the more you sit with it, the more you realize you are ready for the next page, even if you are nervous to turn it.

Life has chapters like that too. Seasons you have loved. Roles that once felt perfect. People or routines that helped you grow. But after a while, something shifts inside you. You learn less. You feel inspired less. You can sense yourself stretching past the edges of what used to fit. These shifts are quiet at first, but they always get louder.

That is usually the moment people freeze. We assume the familiar is supposed to last forever, even when our spirit has already begun to move on.

The Band That I Outgrew

I felt this most clearly with a band I used to be in. At one point in my life, it meant everything. It gave me belonging and direction. It helped shape who I was becoming. But as time went on, I started to feel the disconnect. The people in it wanted different things. The energy was not the same. And the part of me that used to leave rehearsals feeling alive started leaving feeling drained.

It was confusing. It was sad. It was uncomfortable to admit that something I cared about so deeply was no longer a fit for who I was becoming. It did not end in a dramatic way. There was no fight or explosion. It was simply the truth that the chapter had stopped growing with me.

Did I regret leaving in the moment? Yes. Do I still think about it sometimes? Of course. Every meaningful chapter leaves a mark. But staying would have been like rereading a page I already knew by heart. The only way forward was to let myself turn the page.

Outgrowing Something Does Not Mean It Failed

People often treat outgrowing as abandoning, but they are not the same. You can appreciate something and still recognize that it no longer fits. You can love the memories and still choose a new direction. You can be grateful for what something gave you and still give yourself permission to grow past it.

Growth looks like:
• realizing something that once filled your bucket now leaves it empty
• wanting different things than you used to
• feeling restless in a place that used to feel safe
• noticing your energy pulling you somewhere new

None of those signs mean something is wrong. They simply mean you are changing.

The Psychology of Turning the Page

Identity is not something you choose once. It is something you revise throughout your life. Your brain continuously updates based on experiences, relationships, and the values you uncover as you move forward. So when a chapter stops matching those internal shifts, you feel it.

Restlessness.
Boredom.
A tightness in your chest you cannot quite name.
A sense of living a life that used to be yours but is not anymore.

These feelings are not failures. They are invitations.

You Are Allowed to Move Forward

You do not owe the world the older version of you. You do not have to stay inside chapters that no longer feel alive. There is no award for holding onto something past its time. There is only the cost of shrinking yourself to make the past comfortable.

You are allowed to grow.
You are allowed to want something else.
You are allowed to choose the next version of yourself.
You are allowed to change the shell you have been living in.

You do not need permission, but if you want it, here it is:
You are allowed to outgrow things, even good things.

A Small Challenge

Think about one part of your life that feels like rereading the same chapter. A habit, a routine, a relationship, a commitment, or an identity you have carried for years. Ask yourself if it still matches who you are now.

Then ask the next question:

If you met yourself today for the first time, would you choose this chapter again?

If the answer is no, maybe it is time to turn the page.

The Quiet Kind of Gratitude

Gratitude hits differently as you get older.

It stops being something you list in a journal or talk about around the holidays. It becomes quieter. Heavier. More honest. Something you feel humming in the background of your life without needing to announce it.

For me, gratitude almost always circles back to my mom.

She was never the type to point out her sacrifices or make her support about her. She just showed up. Over and over, in ways I didn’t fully understand until much later.

I think about being 13 years old, guitar case bigger than I was, playing tiny shows in restaurants and cafés where the “stage” was just a corner with one flickering bulb. Somehow, she drove me to every single one. Weeknights. Weekends. Snowstorms. Long days. She sat in the back, smiling even when I was shaky or unsure — like the music mattered simply because I cared about it.

I think about graduations, too, every milestone, every ceremony, every moment when the future felt both exciting and terrifying. She was there for all of it. Fully present. Fully steady.

And then there were the smaller things, the things that shouldn’t matter as much as they do, but somehow do anyway.

The dessert samplers she’d bring home when she could tell I needed something comforting.
The quiet moments when life felt heavy.
The subtle reminders that someone was rooting for me.

It wasn’t about the desserts.
It was the message behind them:

I see you. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere.

The older I get, the more I appreciate that consistency.
Because she didn’t just show up when I was thriving.
She showed up when I wasn’t.

She supported the version of me that felt proud and confident, and the version that felt lost, overwhelmed, or unsure who I was supposed to be. So much of who I am today, how I care for people, how I show up for my students, how I handle setbacks, how I try to lead with compassion, it comes directly from her quiet, steady influence.

That’s the kind of gratitude that stays with you.

Not performative.
Not seasonal.
But lived.

The Science of Quiet Gratitude (and How to Practice It Daily)

One thing I’ve learned both personally and through my work is that gratitude doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful. In fact, research shows that the quietest forms of gratitude often do the most good.

Psychologists call this trait gratitude, the ability to consistently notice the good in your life, even in small doses. People who cultivate trait gratitude tend to have:

• lower stress and anxiety

• better emotional regulation

• stronger, more trusting relationships

• higher resilience during difficult seasons

And you don’t develop trait gratitude through a once-a-year reflection.

You build it the same way my mom showed up for me, through small, steady moments that add up over time.

Quiet gratitude looks like:

• noticing the first warm sip of coffee (If you drink it, hot chocolate for those who like the good stuff)

• taking a breath before walking into work and recognizing one thing that feels okay today

• paying attention to someone’s softened tone when they speak to you

• letting a moment of support actually sink in

• remembering who has shown up for you without being asked

Research is clear on this:
You don’t have to feel overwhelmed with gratitude for it to count.
You just have to notice.

Noticing is the practice.
And the practice compounds.

A tiny moment today becomes a little more awareness tomorrow.
A little more grounding next week.
A little more emotional space when life gets chaotic.

For me, quiet gratitude shows up when I think about my mom in those passing moments — when I feel supported, or proud, or when I show up for someone else the way she showed up for me.

It’s not loud.
It’s not dramatic.
But it’s real.
And it changes the way I move through the world.

A Challenge for the Week

Think of the person who has shown up for you in every season — the one who cheered when you were thriving and stayed steady when you weren’t.

Reach out.
Tell them.
Say thank you.

Sometimes gratitude isn’t about grand gestures.
It’s about acknowledging the quiet, consistent love that shaped you — whether you realized it at the time or not.