The Sole of the Matter: Wear and Tear, Wisdom, and the Simplification of Everything

There comes a point in life when the wear and tear becomes obvious. Sometimes it shows up in our emotions. Sometimes it shows up in our patience. And sometimes it shows up in the soles of our feet.

Lately, it’s been showing up in my body — sharp, jabbing reminders that I’ve pushed through too much, for too long, with too little pause.

It reminded me of shoes.

When you buy a new pair of shoes — let’s say, walking shoes versus running shoes — you don’t really feel their differences in the beginning. But with time, you begin to understand: the sole is everything. The support, the resistance, the quality of the shoe — all of that determines whether you’ll last long, or break down halfway through.

And I’ve had to admit recently: I’m wearing thin. The sole of me — emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually — has been worn down. That realization hit harder than I expected. It brought me to a birthday, a breakdown, and a brutal kind of honesty.

Pain is a Teacher (If You Let It Be)

The truth is, I’ve had to rebuild my life from scratch more than once.

Some people rebuild a business. Some rebuild a home. Some rebuild after heartbreak, loss, or a major transition. I’ve done all of it. And every time, I’ve pushed through with the same attitude: "Get it done, take care of it, keep going."

But this last round? It hit harder. The physical pain that showed up wasn’t just muscle fatigue. It was cellular. Emotional. Deep. My body had become the container for all of it — the effort, the pushing, the pretending. And on this birthday, it caught up with me.

I couldn’t fight anymore.

So I did the only thing I could do: I surrendered. Not with bitterness. But with curiosity. I started asking, What is life trying to teach me now? What have I not been listening to?

And what I heard was the simplest truth.

The Simplest Thing is the Hardest

Simplify.

It sounds like the easiest thing in the world. Just choose less. Just make it simple.

But I’ll be honest: simplifying felt like death. It meant saying no to things that I used to reach for. It meant limiting my choices. It meant facing how much I had tied my identity to complexity.

There is this illusion that the more we do, the more we are. That the more we take on, the more powerful, successful, admirable we become. But all I felt was exhausted. And buried. And sore.

It’s hard to simplify because it requires clarity. And clarity means cutting. Cutting out the extra. Cutting out the excuses. Cutting out the things that make us feel safe, but aren’t actually serving us anymore.

Things Lead to More Things

There's this beautiful Eastern principle — Chinese or Japanese, I forget — but it says simply: things lead to more things.

A plant? It needs a pot, water, placement, light. A shirt? It needs a hanger, a drawer, laundry, folding. A text? It needs a reply, a tone, an emotional reaction.

Everything we add creates a new demand. Every possession, every relationship, every habit adds layers — not just to our schedule, but to our nervous system. And unless we are actively minimizing, we are automatically accumulating.

This is how we lose clarity. This is how we get sick.

Radical Simplicity: Choosing What Matters

So now, my new rule is simple: no more than two choices.

In every category of life — food, friendship, tasks, even business — I narrow it down. What are my top two priorities right now? What two things truly support my physical health? What two people am I meant to be deeply present with today?

Because too many choices are a trap. We think they’re freedom. But they’re a trap dressed up as opportunity.

And the only way to get clear is to root my decisions in my values — not in status, not in ego, and definitely not in fear of missing out.

That means choosing quiet. Choosing rest. Choosing what I want to become more of, not what I’m afraid to lose.

Pain, Possessions, and the Grief of Letting Go

Let me tell you what real grief feels like: it feels like giving away your favorite objects, not because you want to, but because you have to. I downsized recently. Moved into a very small apartment. I had to let go of so much — furniture, art, objects that had meaning.

And I grieved.

Because sometimes, our possessions carry our identity. They tell the story of who we’ve been. And shedding them feels like erasing ourselves. But underneath that grief was something else.

Freedom.

B.K.S. Iyengar once said that pain is a sign of impurities leaving the system. That’s what this felt like. It wasn’t destruction. It was purification.

The shedding — of stuff, of choices, of expectations — was holy.

The Greatest Joy is in the Simplest Life

It turns out that the joy I was chasing in doing more, achieving more, buying more, helping more — that joy wasn’t out there. It was right here, in the quiet. In my morning cup of tea. In a walk. In an uncluttered corner of my home. In sleeping more. In doing less.

In finally, finally, doing better — by simply doing less.

So I’ve stopped asking how much I can handle. That question leads me to burnout.

Now I ask: How little do I need in order to be well?

That is the question of a woman who is finally learning to live.