Sourceless Light
PRACTICE THREE
The Refusal
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid, more accessible,
to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
— Dawna Markova
I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid, more accessible,
to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.
— Dawna Markova
That poem is not an aspiration. It is a claiming. A declaration made against everything in us — and everything around us — that has learned to settle for less.
The refusal at the heart of my story was not an act of anger or courage — not in the moment, anyway. It was something quieter and more absolute than either. It was the moment I recognised that I could no longer participate in my own disappearance. That the cost of continuing to make myself smaller had finally exceeded the cost of choosing myself.
That recognition was also, in the same breath, the first free breath I had taken in years.
I want to say something important here. The refusal does not announce itself with trumpets. It does not feel like liberation in the moment. It feels — at first — like grief. Like loss. Like standing at the edge of something enormous without being sure the ground will hold.
But it holds. It always holds. Because the refusal is not a departure from yourself. It is a return.
Every woman I have worked with has a version of this refusal somewhere inside her. Not always as large as mine. Sometimes it is very small and very precise: I will no longer apologise for taking up space in this conversation. I will no longer perform contentment I do not feel. I will no longer set myself down so that someone else can feel more comfortable. Sometimes it is enormous and life-altering. Often it is both at once — small in its form, vast in what it changes.
Whatever yours is — and your body already knows what it is — this practice gives it a form.
Because this is a practice of boundary and courage, we begin with the gut and invite head and heart to stand behind it.
Before you write, stand up if you can. Feel your feet on the floor — or the earth, if you are outside. Place one hand on your belly, one on your heart. Take three honest breaths.
First breath: feel your head soften a little in the background, willing, just for now, to be the witness instead of the one in charge.
Second breath: feel your heart acknowledge whatever grief or tenderness is here.
Third breath: feel into your gut — the centre that knows when the line has been crossed, the part of you that says, quietly or fiercely, no more.
Let yourself arrive in your own body for a moment, fully, before you begin.
Then take your page. Write today’s date at the top. And write, without softening, without managing how it sounds, without one eye on what anyone else might think:
What am I — right now, in this season of my life — no longer willing to participate in?
Let your gut lead the way. Let it be specific. Let it be true. Let it be as fierce or as quiet as it actually is. Let Markova’s words run underneath yours as you write — not as performance, but as permission.
When you have finished, read it aloud to yourself. Once. In whatever voice it comes. Hear yourself say it. Let your own voice be the first witness.
Then, just for a moment, let each centre respond:
Head: What thoughts or stories arise as I hear myself say this? Do I start arguing, minimising, explaining it away — or can I simply acknowledge, yes, this is what I have written?
Heart: What happens in my chest as I speak these words? Does something soften, ache, feel like it can breathe more easily?
Gut: How does my belly feel now? More clenched, or more steady? Do I feel a little more solid on my feet?
Notice: when your heart and gut feel steadier, more open, more themselves — and your head is the only voice still arguing — that is usually the clearest sign you are moving toward your own life. The head will catch up. It always does.
Then sign it — your name, the date — the way you would sign something that matters.
Because it does.
The refusal at the heart of my story was not an act of anger or courage — not in the moment, anyway. It was something quieter and more absolute than either. It was the moment I recognised that I could no longer participate in my own disappearance. That the cost of continuing to make myself smaller had finally exceeded the cost of choosing myself.
That recognition was also, in the same breath, the first free breath I had taken in years.
I want to say something important here. The refusal does not announce itself with trumpets. It does not feel like liberation in the moment. It feels — at first — like grief. Like loss. Like standing at the edge of something enormous without being sure the ground will hold.
But it holds. It always holds. Because the refusal is not a departure from yourself. It is a return.
Every woman I have worked with has a version of this refusal somewhere inside her. Not always as large as mine. Sometimes it is very small and very precise: I will no longer apologise for taking up space in this conversation. I will no longer perform contentment I do not feel. I will no longer set myself down so that someone else can feel more comfortable. Sometimes it is enormous and life-altering. Often it is both at once — small in its form, vast in what it changes.
Whatever yours is — and your body already knows what it is — this practice gives it a form.
Because this is a practice of boundary and courage, we begin with the gut and invite head and heart to stand behind it.
Before you write, stand up if you can. Feel your feet on the floor — or the earth, if you are outside. Place one hand on your belly, one on your heart. Take three honest breaths.
First breath: feel your head soften a little in the background, willing, just for now, to be the witness instead of the one in charge.
Second breath: feel your heart acknowledge whatever grief or tenderness is here.
Third breath: feel into your gut — the centre that knows when the line has been crossed, the part of you that says, quietly or fiercely, no more.
Let yourself arrive in your own body for a moment, fully, before you begin.
Then take your page. Write today’s date at the top. And write, without softening, without managing how it sounds, without one eye on what anyone else might think:
What am I — right now, in this season of my life — no longer willing to participate in?
Let your gut lead the way. Let it be specific. Let it be true. Let it be as fierce or as quiet as it actually is. Let Markova’s words run underneath yours as you write — not as performance, but as permission.
When you have finished, read it aloud to yourself. Once. In whatever voice it comes. Hear yourself say it. Let your own voice be the first witness.
Then, just for a moment, let each centre respond:
Head: What thoughts or stories arise as I hear myself say this? Do I start arguing, minimising, explaining it away — or can I simply acknowledge, yes, this is what I have written?
Heart: What happens in my chest as I speak these words? Does something soften, ache, feel like it can breathe more easily?
Gut: How does my belly feel now? More clenched, or more steady? Do I feel a little more solid on my feet?
Notice: when your heart and gut feel steadier, more open, more themselves — and your head is the only voice still arguing — that is usually the clearest sign you are moving toward your own life. The head will catch up. It always does.
Then sign it — your name, the date — the way you would sign something that matters.
Because it does.
You are not making a vow to be perfect. You are making a promise to remember — and when you forget, to come back.
