Compassionate Honesty

Author Jen Louden posed the first Quest2015 prompt on Tuesday…

Grit without compassion is just grind. What would be most fun to create this year? How can self-compassionate grit support you in that creating?

I’ll be honest. I’m not in the mood for fun. I skipped square over the question of “something fun to create this year” because ‘grit’ and ‘compassion’ stopped me square in my tracks.

The truth hurts. Like fall-off-your-bike-and-skin-your-knees hurts. Like wildly bruised and battered broken heart hurts. For me, the truth is the grind. How to accept and face word-for-word what my heart says and feels to be true? especially when that truth is out of line with the world’s expectations, the vows I’ve taken, the commitments I’ve professed? How to be compassionate with myself about the things I cannot change, the things my heart speaks, the things that just *are*? How to manifest a life in tune with my heart? Especially when that inner song I know as the truth is going to hurt others, be questioned, sound selfish?

My quest for 2015 is to cultivate compassionate honesty. This will be my ‪#‎grit‬. To accept the truth as it is. To face it. To own it. To share it. To live by it as my compass. To transform that gritty hard-to-hear truth into a message of my own self worth, a manifestation of my best self, and share it with the world. Even when it’s hard. Even when it is hard for others to hear, accept, to witness. I’ll get by with the notion that I am my truest self when my heart is light and strong because I am not compromising my own, brilliant truth.

This will be a gift of grace to myself. The permission to accept what is in my heart with compassion. The strength to speak and act with integrity and open my heart to the world.
Being real is hard, but it’s also a gift. The self-compassionate grit of truth-accepting and truth-telling will guide my compass in 2015.

#‎quest2015‬ #grit



  1. […] My mind cycled through old pictures and memories and feelings. I could recall what that full-self felt like, but I couldn’t access it. How brave she was. How joy-filled. Anything could be shaken off, because it didn’t even dent the surface of her I-don’t-care-what-you-think lacquer. Fun and bright and messy and creative and open and quirky. Was she lost? Am I lost? Was this just the pain of growing up, growing out of your younger, perkier, braver self? Was this just life, and uncompassionate grind? […]



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