Last month, I had the incredible opportunity to be in Alaska with my teacher and sangha, immersing in both spiritual practice and the ethereal magic of the aurora borealis.

We were treated to breathtaking displays—vivid greens, deep reds, flashes of purple and yellow—as the night sky transformed from black and star-studded to a kaleidoscope of color stretching from horizon to horizon. Starbursts shimmered overhead, and glowing pillars reached endlessly upward.

Standing under the aurora, staring into the dark sky for hours, is a rare and humbling experience. It reminds me how small and insignificant I truly am—and I cherish that feeling. Nature has a way of pulling me out of my mental loops: the stress, fear, anxiety, and endless attempts to control outcomes. In that vastness, I remember the grander universe I’m part of.

When the sky suddenly opens and a quiet flicker of green morphs into a streak of red tipped with violet, everything I was thinking about disappears. The aurora calls me into the present. I’m captivated, still, deeply content just to be.

My teacher often speaks of the eternal now of Kālī—the goddess who dances in the cemetery, who devours time. Kālī is time: both the linear time we all know and the timeless time of the present moment, where time dissolves completely.

Time is such a fascinating construct. A single minute of pain can stretch into what feels like hours. A vacation week can pass in a blink. Yet time itself doesn’t change—we do.

My logical, linear mind can’t quite grasp the idea of transcending time, but my direct experience can. When I’m waiting for the aurora to appear, I feel every second stretch. I feel the cold. The tiredness of being up so late. Time crawls. But when the sky lights up and I’m lost in awe, I don’t feel the cold anymore. I lose all sense of how long I’ve been gazing up. I don’t even notice that my mouth hurts from smiling. Time disappears. I simply exist—merged with the moment.

Awe and wonder can unlock this state of timeless presence, but so can shifting from doing to being. When I’m looking for the aurora, I’m in doing mode: checking apps, watching solar wind data, anticipating outcomes. Then—suddenly—I receive what I was seeking, and in that moment of satisfaction, all grasping falls away. I rest in being.

Then, as the sky darkens again, doing resumes. Time returns.

Doing isn’t bad or wrong—it’s necessary. Life is happening through doing. I’m writing this post. My food is digesting. Consciously and unconsciously, doing continues. So the question becomes: How can I access being amidst all the doing? How can I experience the eternal now within the structure of linear time?

What I’ve learned from my teacher is that doing is linked to outcomes—future-oriented—and that what we do is shaped by our conditioning—past-oriented. The past and future form the line we call time.

For instance, I became a yoga therapist because of my own powerful healing experiences integrating yoga and mental health. That past experience shaped the path I chose. If I’d had a profound experience gardening with my grandmother, maybe I’d have become a horticulturist instead. What I’m doing today is a result of past events and choices.

Now that I’ve built an identity around being a yoga therapist, I unconsciously seek to maintain that identity—through the books I read, the practices I do, how I present myself to the world. I’m often acting out of a desire to be seen a certain way, to uphold this self-image I’ve grown attached to.

Think of an identity you hold—parent, friend, professional. If you trace it back, can you see what experiences led you there? Can you observe how you now work to preserve that identity?

Now recall a moment of pure awe—skiing, playing with a puppy, catching a glimpse of Mt. Rainier through your car window. In that moment, you’re not your job, your role, or even your name. You simply are.

These moments of awe and presence are usually fleeting. The “doer” quickly returns, but they help me remember that I can access the timeless now. The more I remember that feeling, the more available it becomes—even in ordinary moments. I can feel awe washing dishes, walking in Seward Park, or eating my meal.

This is the gift of mindfulness: the capacity to be fully present, to touch the magic in every moment—not just in peak experiences like witnessing the aurora, but in the beautiful, quiet rituals of daily life.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I love the Serenity Prayer because it offers perspective—helping me recognize where I have control and agency in my life and where I am resisting things beyond my power to change.

With the current administration igniting fear, panic, rage, grief, and uncertainty for so many, it can be easy to feel powerless, hopeless, and lost. At the same time, history shows us that communities have stayed connected, built, thrived, and sustained themselves in the face of oppression for centuries.

Accepting What I Cannot Change

How do I accept the things I cannot change? This question is profoundly difficult, and I believe the majority of humans struggle with it. Why do horrific things happen in the world? Why is there violence? How do we accept things that seem fundamentally wrong? I don’t have the answers, but I sit with these questions every day.

For me, acceptance starts in my own small universe. If I can practice acceptance here, perhaps I can extend it to the larger world, where I have little to no control. When a difficult emotion arises in me, how do I respond?

• Do I fight it, trying to banish it because it feels unwanted?
• Do I judge it, labeling some emotions as good and others as bad?
• Do I welcome it in, sitting with it like an old friend?
• Do I run from it, trying to hide?

How I engage with my internal landscape mirrors my ability or inability to accept external realities. I can’t change my emotions just because I want to, but I can work toward accepting them. Acceptance doesn’t mean I have to like or enjoy them—it simply means allowing them to exist because they are part of the present moment, and I cannot change that reality.

In Yoga one of the niyamas in the eight limbs of yoga is Īśvara praṇidhāna, which literally means surrender to the Lord. Acceptance can be seen as a form of surrender to what is, which is different than giving up.

Finding the Courage to Change What I Can

In some ways, it’s easier to direct my energy outward than to look within. If everyone, including this administration, did what I wanted, I wouldn’t have to examine myself or the places where I have the power to create change, both internally and externally. This is not saying we should not fight for the change we want to see in the world because that is necessary, but by relying on others to change we lose some of our agency. 

I appreciate the word courage in this prayer because it asks me to acknowledge my own power, resilience, and strength in the face of what I cannot change, and it also asks me to take responsibility.

As I bring it back to my internal world, if I am uncomfortable with anger, I may try to suppress or bypass it, pretending I’m not angry. That’s not acceptance. True courage means being willing to look at what I’ve rejected, punished, or pushed aside. It’s vulnerable to sit with anger (or sadness, fear, grief, etc.) and face it directly. I can’t control whether I feel anger, but I can cultivate the courage to engage with it consciously.

The niyamas of Yoga also include Tapas, which translates to austerity or heat. This ability to have the courage to act and do something within our sphere of control is necessary, but if we only move from tapas without surrender we will burnout.

Developing the Wisdom to Know the Difference

It may be simple to say, I can’t control what someone else does, but I can control what I do. In my experience, it is often more complicated.

I have little control over my body’s reactions, the emotions that arise and subside, or even the thoughts that enter my mind. Try this: Don’t think of a pink elephant. Did you have control over the image that popped into your head? Much of even our internal experience is out of our control, even when we believe otherwise.

This is where cultivating witness consciousness can be powerful. The witness observes everything—internal and external—with compassion and objectivity. It watches without judgment, whether I like what I see or not.

When I can witness my experience instead of being consumed by it, it creates space, which is one of the key ingredients of The Renegade Method, a transformative and embodied form of self-inquiry. That space allows for choice. Instead of being fear, I can observe myself feeling fear. This practice isn’t easy to cultivate, but when I do, intuition grows, and new possibilities emerge—ones I never imagined were available to me.

Another niyama is svādhyāya, which translates to self-study. By examining how we can—or struggle to—practice acceptance and courage, we gain insight into the obstacles that hinder us and the opportunities that lead to wisdom. This process deepens our self-awareness, strengthens our intuition, and helps us recognize our unique ability to engage with the world, our communities, and ourselves that is infused with acceptance, courage and deeply grounded wisdom.

Practicing Acceptance, Courage, and Wisdom

Sometimes, I am so immersed in my experience that I feel trapped. Can I accept that?
Sometimes, I can shift my perspective or integrate something that supports me—like a hug, time in nature, or simply pausing to connect with my breath. Can I summon the courage to lean into these resources instead of falling into old patterns of avoidance or rejection? Sometimes, I can witness my experience from a place of infinite love and compassion. Can I cultivate the wisdom to recognize these different states and allow my experiences to unfold—knowing that acceptance, courage, and wisdom feed into one another in an ever-evolving cycle?