The Vows We Break

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the quiet vows we make to ourselves.

The ones no one sees.The promises to care more deeply, to start again, to finally shift something we’ve been carrying for too long. We whisper them to ourselves in the shower, in the car, in the soft spaces between emails and errands.
We mean them. And still, so often, we don’t follow through.

Not because we’re lazy or lacking willpower, but because leading ourselves, really showing up for ourselves is one of the hardest and most sacred things we’ll ever do. There’s no one watching. No applause. No consequences, except the ones that slowly accumulate inside when we keep breaking our own word.

A few weeks ago, my sister and I made a gentle agreement: to start taking better care of our bodies. No pressure. No rigid plan. Just intention and a desire to feel more at home inside ourselves.

For me, that looks like moving five times a week, walking, dancing, stretching, for 45 minutes. Nothing fancy. Just presence and movement.

And it’s been beautiful, but also hard in the most ordinary ways.

This morning I woke up tired, my to-do list already buzzing in my head before I’d even sat up.
The old voices came quickly, “There’s too much going on today. Just skip it. You can catch up tomorrow.”
They always sound reasonable. Familiar. Kind, even. But they’re not. Because underneath those whispers is the quiet question I’ve been learning to ask: What would it mean to keep my word to myself today?

So I got up. I walked. It wasn’t magical. It wasn’t profound. But it was aligned. And that felt sacred.

Somewhere in the steps of my feet on the ground, I found myself wondering, again, why it’s so hard to do the things I know will bring me closer to who I want to be. And the answer came gently, not as judgment but as truth: because I’ve spent years rehearsing the belief that comfort is safer than change.

And why now? Why this shift? Why has my default, for so long, been to honor the excuse?

When my husband passed away two years ago, my world fell apart but life didn’t pause. Things had to keep going. I’ve shared about this before, but it’s worth saying again: survival took everything. The day-to-day demands of life and running a business soaked up every ounce of energy I had. There was nothing left. Especially not for me.

But time, in its own way, has softened the edges. The exhausting weight of grief has become more manageable, or maybe just more familiar. And now, after years of pushing through, I finally have a little space again. Space for me. For what it takes to be kind to myself. For what it means to care for this body I’ve carried through so much.

So I’m learning something new.

Not through force, not through punishment, but through daily devotion. Through small, repeated choices that say: “I’m not abandoning myself this time.”

I want this to become as natural and unquestioned as putting on my makeup in the morning. I never skip that step, not out of obligation, but because I love the ritual. I love how it makes me feel. It’s part of how I prepare myself to meet the day.

That’s what this physical movement is becoming. Not a task, but a ritual. Not about my body changing, but about how I relate to it. How I honour it. How I show up for myself when no one else is around to witness it. Because self-leadership doesn’t happen in the big moments, it happens in the small, forgettable ones that no one claps for.

So if you’re in a season of starting over, maybe start smaller.
One vow. One honest choice. One morning where you say yes to yourself.

Let that be enough.

Let that be the beginning of something softer, truer, and more you.

Cheering for you, always…

Jacqueline