3 min read
By Dr. Maria K. Jimmy
We’re sold a story about growth that sounds suspiciously like construction work: keep adding.
More skills. More habits. More polished versions of yourself.
Build, build, build.
But what if real growth — the kind that comes with outgrowing old versions of yourself — isn’t about picking things up at all?
What if some of the most important work lies in knowing what to gently set down, and just as importantly, when to pick it back up again?
I like to imagine we each carry a small memory box, more like a trinket box. Inside it are our old modes — ways of being we once relied on, then quietly packed away as life asked us to change.
The Art of Strategic Abandonment
Think of the version of you who saw the world in sharp contrasts. Everything was right or wrong, urgent or unacceptable.
That intensity probably fuelled your earliest convictions. It also probably exhausted you.
As you grew older, you learned to soften. So that fire was carefully folded and placed back in the box, set aside conveniently.
Or the playful, utterly unserious creative who could lose an entire afternoon doodling nonsense in the margins.
You “grew up,” got busy, and set that part down. It wasn’t erased, only shelved. You traded endless play for focused output, calling it responsibility.
We do this constantly and call it maturity.
We swap risk for safety. Wonder for certainty. Emotion for control. Often, it’s necessary. You cannot move forward while carrying every version of yourself at once.
But here’s the part we don’t talk about enough: a meaningful life moves in seasons. No, not in straight lines.
And different seasons of personal growth require different tools from the archive.
The “When”: Your Life’s Recall Notice
This is where it gets interesting. The magic isn’t just in setting parts of yourself down; it’s in knowing when to retrieve them.
So how do you know when it’s time to open the box again?
1. When your efficiency starts to feel brittle.
You’ve mastered productivity, but life feels like a spreadsheet. Everything runs smoothly, yet nothing feels particularly alive.
Sounds familiar?
Well, that is your cue to call back your wanderer — the version of you that moved without a plan.
- Go somewhere without an agenda
- Let time stretch
- Let nothing happen
This is often how people begin rediscovering lost parts of themselves.
2. When you’re parenting, mentoring, or guiding.
The poker face that works in meetings can rest here.
What’s needed instead is your wide-eyed self — the one who believes people can grow, who sees possibility before proof.
That part listens better. It encourages gently. It knows how to guide without flattening curiosity.
3. When you’re facing a problem logic can’t fix.
Some problems refuse to cooperate.
- A relationship that quietly unravels
- A creative dry spell that ignores deadlines
- A grief with no clear edges
Logic runs out of lines. Planning shrugs.
This is when your poetic self steps in — the part that can sit with uncertainty, tolerate ambiguity, and remember that some truths aren’t puzzles to solve, but experiences to live through.
4. When you’ve forgotten how to play.
If your free time is mostly scrolling and watching, it might be time to bring your maker back — the messy one.
The you who baked ugly bread for the smell, dug into soil just to feel it under your nails, wrote terrible poems no one was meant to read.
- Make things for no reason
- Let it be silly
- Let it be joyful
Yes, bad art counts. Some things deserve to exist simply because they make you feel alive.
You Are Not One Role. You’re a Cast of Characters.
You’re not meant to move through life as a single, fixed version of yourself. You’re more like a rotating cast. Different parts step into the spotlight at different times, while others wait patiently in the wings, sipping tea.
- There’s the passionate one who wants to change the world
- The careful one who knows when to pause
- The night-dreamer who comes alive after dark
- The day-builder who shows up every morning and gets things done
Don’t fire half the cast and make one character do all the work. That’s exhausting — and frankly, bad direction.
A good life is about becoming a thoughtful director. Knowing which version of yourself this particular scene calls for. Letting them take the stage.
So maybe the better question isn’t
What do I need to add to my life?
Maybe it’s this:
What did I wisely set down — and what is this season asking me to pick back up?
Go find that trinket box. Brush off the dust. Some of your best parts are still in there, waiting for their cue.
And if an old version of you tapped on the glass while reading this, feel free to pass it on.
You may wish to read these next:
Dr. Maria K. Jimmy 