Every year on my birthday, I have a quiet ritual. Before the house wakes, before the coffee finishes brewing, I sit with a notebook and attempt to capture the year ahead in a single phrase. I write down an intention—a Sankalpa—to serve as an anchor for the months to follow. It is a practice born of decades spent studying behavioral science and practicing yoga, a deliberate attempt to align the messy reality of daily life with a higher sense of purpose.
When my seventy-fourth birthday arrived, however, the ritual dissolved into the sweet, unpredictable momentum of living.
The day was not spent in quiet contemplation, but in vibrant, lived connection. There were long, laughter-filled video calls with my children across the miles, unhurried walks with my husband and our dogs along the coast, and messages streaming in from friends near and far. That evening, over dinner at a favorite local spot, Fuego Blu, the staff suddenly appeared with a dessert crowned by a flickering birthday candle. It wasn’t requested; it was simply a spontaneous, unprompted act of hospitality.
It was a perfect day. Yet, as I went to bed that night, a small, persistent voice in the back of my mind whispered: You forgot to write your intention.
The next morning, sitting at my desk with my computer, I felt that familiar, subtle pull of cognitive friction—the mild guilt of an unfulfilled routine. Then, I opened an email from teacher Jack Kornfield. He was responding to a question from a couple asking how to keep their marriage vows over a lifetime, but his words transcended wedding altars:
“We remember loving someone. Being present. Beginning again. Remembering how we want to meet this life. We don’t do it once. We do it everyday.”
Reading those words, the tension in my shoulders melted.
In behavioral psychology—specifically within the Transtheoretical Model (TTM) that has informed so much of my professional life—we often talk about Self-Liberation. We analyze the mechanisms required to move an individual from intention to action, and how to maintain a new behavior over time. But in our quest for self-improvement, we frequently trap ourselves in a rigid binary: we are either succeeding or failing, adhering to our plan or breaking it.
Kornfield’s insight strips away that clinical perfectionism. It reminds us that intention is not a static contract signed once a year and locked away. It is not an achievement to unlock or a streak to maintain. Intention is a living, breathing practice of beginning again.
In yogic philosophy, this is the heart of Abhyasa—uninterrupted, devoted practice carried out with patience over a long period. When we fall off the mat, when we get distracted, when we react out of old habit rather than conscious choice, the practice isn’t ruined. The practice is the act of noticing, softening, and returning.
Seventy-four years of living have taught me that the most profound shifts rarely happen through grand, sweeping resolutions. They happen in the micro-moments: choosing patience when frustration arises, offering an unexpected smile, listening fully without preparing a response, or accepting a surprise birthday candle with an open heart. These are the small, daily acts of kindness that construct a meaningful life.
So, this is my 74th intention. It requires no elaborate notebook entry or complex strategy.
It is simply the commitment to show up. To love well, to remain present, to offer and receive everyday kindness, and—when I inevitably stumble, forget, or get pulled off center—to offer myself grace, breathe, and begin again. We don’t do it once. We do it every day.
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