There’s a story in The Book of Awakening that really spoke to me. A man is gathering everything he needs to paint a room—paint cans, supplies, brushes, all of it. Instead of taking two trips (which, let’s be honest, none of us ever do), he tries to haul it all inside at once. His hands are full, the brush is hanging out of his mouth, and he’s nudging the door open with his foot like some kind of overconfident circus act.

He almost pulls it off… until he doesn’t. His foot slips, the door swings, and everything—every can, every drop of paint—ends up all over him. A full technicolor disaster.

The lesson is painfully obvious and annoyingly true: You have to put things down to walk through the next door.

And yet most of us are out here dragging emotional carry-ons, old resentments, outdated identities, expired relationships, guilt from 2003, and a handful of “I can handle it” commitments like we’re auditioning for a strongman competition.

We say we want the next chapter, the next opportunity, the next version of ourselves—but we’re still clutching everything from the last five chapters like we might need them “just in case.”

The truth is harsh but freeing: You can’t take all your old luggage into your new life. New doors require empty hands.

Sometimes that means setting down an old dream that no longer fits. Sometimes it’s a relationship that has run its course. Sometimes it’s the version of yourself you’ve outgrown but still try to squeeze into. And sometimes it’s simply the pressure to be everything to everyone, all the time.

Putting things down isn’t failure. It’s preparation.

The doorway to anything better—peace, joy, clarity, purpose—doesn’t swing open for people who refuse to let go. It opens for the ones who finally sigh, set the heavy stuff on the ground, and walk forward a little lighter.

May we all stop balancing paint cans with our teeth and start walking through the next door with our hands free.

XX,

MG