The question asks what I could do less of, and the honest answer is simple: I could do with less fear. Not the fear of danger—that’s easy to name—but the quieter fears that shape a life without ever announcing themselves. The fear of letting go. The fear of wanting too much. The fear of losing what I haven’t even been given yet.
I could do with less self-doubt, too. I’ve carried it for years, as if it were a necessary weight. But somewhere between the sea winds of Ireland and the long nights spent writing, I’ve started to see how often doubt speaks in the voice of the past, not the present. Seamus Heaney once wrote, “If we winter this one out, we can summer anywhere.” I think he meant that endurance isn’t the point—hope is.
I could do with less carrying of old wounds, both mine and those that never belonged to me. Being a therapist taught me how to hold the grief of others, but it didn’t teach me how to set it down. Sometimes I forget that compassion has a cost, and that empathy needs boundaries to survive.
And maybe—if I’m being honest—I could do with less hesitating when joy appears. John O’Donohue said, “Take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.” I’ve missed a few of those. Fear makes you look down instead of around, and miracles are rarely loud enough to demand your gaze.
So what could I do less of?
Less doubting.
Less bracing for loss.
Less second-guessing the instincts that once carried me across oceans.
Less apologizing for being human.
And maybe that’s enough for now. Maybe doing less of those things will make room for what I need more of—trust, presence, and the quiet courage to let life unfold without gripping it too tightly.
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