Begin, again.

Letting go of one monkey bar to swing for the next.

Dear friends,

As we cross the threshold into 2025 I've been thinking about transformation. Not the surface-level resolutions we make each January, but the deeper renewal that comes when we let go of one monkey bar to swing for the next. The kind of beginning that starts when we kindle our courage to let something else end.

Illustration by Radio

Last month, I followed a trail of clues to Upaya Zen Center, where I spent a week in complete silence. In a world that (literally) profits from our distraction, it was a radical act: spending a week doing one thing at a time. No phones, no reading, no talking – just a continuous practice of paying attention.

In the run up to the retreat, the universe did its best to test my resolve. A speaking invite in Paris, an opportunity to join President Obama in Chicago – the wave of enticements was truly comical. But I couldn't ignore the question that had been nagging at me since launching The Flight School: How does my inner work intersect with my work in the world? I let the question lead — and I’m so glad I did.

Alongside 49 strangers, I spent 7 days and nights in a cone of silence practicing the art of attention while sitting, walking, eating and sleeping. Again, and again, and again.

The routine was simple, but not easy. 5am wake-up bells. No sniffling or sneezing in the zendo, no eye contact or arm-swinging outside it. An elaborate eating ritual (with a 37 page manual!) that took ten times longer to set up than to complete. Searing back pain by bedtime.

But as the days unfolded, insights began to peek through the silence:

✨ Commitment is liberating. Our teachers urged us to trust the process even when we wanted to leave. The week's precise schedule became our container, and in that container, a vast well of possibility appeared. Pema Chödrön calls this "the wisdom of no escape". It’s counterintuitive, but true: being all in is freeing.

✨ Suffering is what happens when we argue with reality. Most of our pain comes from fighting our circumstances, instead of accepting them. This isn't about becoming passive; it's about getting intimate with what's true. Time doesn't pass faster if I will it to; the cold wind is only an affront when I resist it. As Roshi Joan, the founder of Upaya, says before leading her Himalayan pilgrimages (at 82!): "The itinerary is, of course, subject to reality." The sooner we embrace this, the less we suffer along the way.

✨ Power flows from presence, not position. "Watch what happens to your ego when no one knows who you are," one teacher instructed. We left our identities at the door— no names, no titles, no stories. Only later did I learn it was a well-known VC mopping floors beside me, and an ER doctor lighting evening paths. When we drop our narratives and identities, something more essential (and, dare I say, trustworthy) emerges.

✨ Our teachers are everywhere. I signed up to meet with Roshi Joan on day 1 but wasn't called until day 6. Waiting felt like the ultimate pop quiz…in presence. When it was finally my turn, I sat outside her office for what felt like eternity, only to be told she'd run out of time. Watching my racing mind throughout this process taught me as much as any conversation could have. Namely, rehearsal is doubt; the real path to preparation is presence. If I can be here now, I can be there then!

✨ Do not squander your life. Each night, these were the final words we heard before bed. They pierced the silence and reverberated long after the chant was over. How we spend our days is how we spend our lives — and how we spend our attention is how we spend our days. With a pang I wondered, when was the last time I washed dishes without a podcast? Played with my kids without the urge to check my phone? Imagine a world where each of us placed our attention, with gentle precision, on what matters most. Easier said than done, but I’ll die trying.

On the last night, walking back to my dorm admiring the sparkling sky, a thought appeared: My life's work has always been about creating secular rites of passage – moments that invite us to pause, look up, and leap. And while the organizations I’ve built have been for young people on the cusp of adulthood, the process and its lessons are relevant at every age. It felt like the cosmic nudge I needed to take the leap to build this new community.

Re-entry is often the hardest part of a silent retreat. My first week home, I felt like a newborn with thin skin – highly sensitive to things I typically wouldn’t even notice. Loud noises, bright tastes and sharp colors; the onslaught of our digital firehoses; the frenetic pace of doing ten things in an hour, rather than one thing in ten.

Roshi Joan's wise instructions for navigating the transition home feel evergreen – they're now sticky-noted to my computer as a daily reminder:

Soon after returning, Joel and I decided to take another leap. We traded the house where our boys were born for a perch in the Berkeley hills. It's bittersweet — there's always loss in releasing what we’ve loved. But I know this is where the magic happens: in the liminal space between letting go and landing.

We're still unpacking, but parts of me have already settled. From my desk, I watch the sky cycle through dozens of seasons each day – a constant reminder to look up. The sweeping horizon grounds my nervous system and sparks my imagination in ways my soul craved but I couldn’t have articulated.

Sitting here now, eyes bright, wings outstretched, I feel the pull of possibility — toward the edge where courage meets freedom.

I’m finally ready to begin, again.

Bowing to the grace of new beginnings,

Abby

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For a New Beginning

This gorgeous poem by John O'Donohue, is one I've turned to time and again when I sense I’m on the brink of change. It has grounded and emboldened me — and I hope it may do the same for you.

A few questions to consider:

• What new beginning is quietly forming in you?

• What will it take to kindle your courage?

• What would freedom feel like?

Drop any thoughts in the comments below!