Finding grace
We are officially 27 days into 2026. By now, the bright, shiny energy of “New Year’s Intentions” has usually collided headfirst with the friction of reality. Reality is a lot to carry right now. We’re caught between the cacophony of global headlines and the quiet, persistent gravity of our daily lives. Our sustaining rituals often get crowded out before the month ends.
Maybe your morning meditation yielded to an additional twenty minutes’ sleep. Perhaps that commitment to your yoga mat has fallen flat. I’m right there with you. I decided the turn of the year was the perfect time to recommit to my morning meditation practice—right when my sons were on winter break and I had negative reserves of free time. Trying to carve out mindful moments in a compressed morning with kids in the house wasn’t my biggest stroke of genius. I set myself up.
As a self-proclaimed “person of my word,” I used to see this kind of straying as failure. I’d made a commitment and broke it, even if it was just to myself. I felt that familiar, heavy sense of disappointment—the “beaten” feeling we all know too well.
The Wisdom of Punah Punah
But here’s where the teachings of yoga and Reiki raise an eager hand: they remind us that the return is the most important part of the practice. There is a beautiful concept in Sanskrit: Punah Punah, which translates simply to “again and again,” “repeatedly,” or “time after time.” It’s a radical reminder that the path isn’t a straight line—it’s a messy series of departures and returns.
In Yoga: Patanjali speaks of Abhyasa (constant practice). This isn’t about hitting a 365-day streak like some spiritual Duolingo. It’s about the dedicated effort to return to center every single time you notice you’ve drifted.
In Reiki: The five tenets begin with: “Just for today…” No yesterday to regret, no tomorrow to stress about. Just this moment.
If you’ve set your 2026 expectations sky-high only to feel the weight of a ‘broken promise’ to yourself, here is your loving nudge: You don’t have to scrap the entire house just because a tile fell off.
A Standard of Care for Your Soul
Now, this isn’t a free pass to quit. There is an immense distinction between “giving up” and “re-tuning.” While the return is gentle, it still requires that conscious, slightly-uncomfortable effort to recommit.
We rarely notice the exact moment we stray. It happens in the quiet spaces—the one morning we skip the breathwork, the one evening we’re too exhausted to be intentional. We drift until we eventually realize the internal climate has shifted from “peaceful” to “stormy.”
The return isn’t a punishment for drifting; it’s a “Standard of Care” for your soul. When you notice the foundation of your peace has cracked, you don’t abandon the house. You pick up the tools and begin again. Punah Punah.
It tells us that the “drift” isn’t a character flaw—it’s a feature of being human. You can apply this wisdom to your patience with your family, your hydration, or the way you speak to yourself when things get heavy. The practice isn’t the habit itself; the practice is the U-turn. Every time you realize you’ve strayed and choose to begin again, you aren’t starting from scratch—you’re starting from experience.
The most seasoned practitioners aren’t the ones who never fail; they are simply the ones who have returned the most times.
Keeping your word to yourself is the highest form of energetic integrity. If you’ve drifted—whether it was for a day or the last three weeks—the most honest, powerful thing you can do is simply look at the path and say: “I am back.”
No shame, no excuses, no 90-minute visualization required to start anew. Just the return.
Again and again.
The Practice: Your Honest Return
Place your feet on solid ground. Take 5 slow rounds of breath, inhaling for a count of four and exhaling for a count of four. Tell yourself, “I am here.”