I’ve been thinking about limits lately. Not the dramatic kind, but the quiet ones. The moments where nothing is obviously wrong and still, nothing moves.

What I’m noticing is that much of our suffering doesn’t come from lack of effort. It comes from misreading what kind of situation we’re in.

We’re taught to be ships. To steer, adjust, respond. To believe that movement is how change happens.

Most of the time, that works. Until it doesn’t.

There are moments when something doesn’t respond. An illness. A relationship. A reality that refuses to shift no matter how carefully or forcefully we try. In those moments, we often double down. Not because we’re arrogant, but because we care.

A lighthouse isn’t moral. It doesn’t judge our effort. It doesn’t reward persistence or punish mistakes. It simply marks what doesn’t move.

I find this deeply uncomfortable. My instinct, when faced with something immovable, is to act. Explain more clearly. Listen harder. Try again with better language. Bring in expertise, authority, love. When that fails, I feel the quiet exhaustion of arguing with reality.

This is the moment we’re rarely taught how to meet. Not collapse. Not crisis. Just… stillness.

I’m learning that these moments aren’t asking for more effort. They’re asking for orientation. For the humility to tell the difference between what can change and what cannot. Between ships and lighthouses.

Steadiness can feel like abandonment when fear is present. But sometimes presence, not action, is the most trustworthy thing we can offer.

Changing course isn’t giving up. Sometimes it’s the most honest thing we can do.

This week 

Reach in: Notice where you’re pushing against something that hasn’t moved.

Pause: Ask whether this is a ship or a lighthouse.

Reorient: Consider what steadiness might look like here.