Why knowing better is only the beginning, and how small moments of care can help us live what we know.
I attended a parenting webinar today, and something the host said afterwards has stayed with me.
She spoke about the awareness we might have gained through listening. The things we could now recognise in ourselves, our children, our responses. And then she acknowledged something that felt quietly significant: just because we have that awareness doesn’t mean we suddenly have the capacity to change what we do.
I found myself sitting with that.
Because I often say, “When we know better, we can do better.” It’s one of those phrases I’ve gathered along the way and carried with me, without necessarily stopping to unpack everything it asks of us.
And yet, I’m also known to say, “Just because we know better doesn’t mean we do better!”
Both feel true. But there’s a whole lot of living in the space between them.
There’s the moment we recognise something needs to change. And then there’s the actual Tuesday afternoon when we’re tired, someone’s asking what’s for dinner, the washing is still in the machine and the thing we were so inspired to do this morning feels very far away.
I can say both of those things with conviction because I’ve lived both of them. I know the difference between understanding what I need and actually finding a way to give it to myself.
And it has me wondering how we can help ourselves cross that space with a little more kindness.
The space between knowing and living
In Ayurveda, the concept of Prajnaparadha, often translated as “crimes against wisdom”, speaks to those moments when our actions move away from what we know serves us. I’ve explored this more deeply in the article, Crimes Against Wisdom and the journey back to ourselves.
Today, though, I want to linger with capacity. With what it takes to give the things we know a place in the life we’re actually living.
There is certainly no shortage of information available to us. We can learn about nourishment, digestion, nervous system regulation, parenting, sleep and daily rituals until our heads are positively overflowing.
We can save the post, attend the webinar, buy the book. We might even feel a beautiful flicker of recognition: Yes. This is what I need.
But consuming all that information doesn’t automatically change how we live. At some point, we need an opportunity to try it for ourselves.
I’ve always believed that the knowledge we receive becomes wisdom through living it. Through noticing how a practice feels in our own body, what it brings to our day, what shifts when we return to it.
Before that can happen, though, it needs somewhere to land.
And sometimes we are already holding so much.
What are we asking ourselves to hold?
You can know exactly what would nourish you and still get to the end of the day having tended to everyone but yourself. Even the thought of doing something lovely for your own body can feel like another person asking something of you.
When I think about capacity, I think about the room we have to welcome something in. Some of that room is practical: time, support, something nourishing in the fridge. Some of it is the attention and energy available to us when the day has already asked a great deal.
A practice can be lovely in theory and still feel like one more thing we have to remember.
We know what we “should” be doing. And somehow, this beautiful thing we wanted to offer ourselves becomes another reason to feel we aren’t doing enough.
There’s very little nourishment in that. And guilt and shame don’t get a seat at this table.
So perhaps, before asking how we can fit more in, we might pause and ask: What would make this easier to receive?
A smaller beginning? Less preparation? Some help? Permission to let something else wait?
Sometimes making space means putting something down.
Listening to the resistance
This is often where resistance wanders into the conversation. Another of my favourite topics.
I don’t have time.
I already know all this.
I’ve tried something similar.
That won’t work for me.
I’ve heard these stories in my own mind, too.
Some are so familiar that we barely notice them anymore. Some carry the memory of previous attempts, when we asked too much of ourselves or tried to follow a rhythm that never really suited our lives. Some may be beliefs we’ve inherited about what caring for ourselves is allowed to look like, or whose needs get to come first.
And sometimes “I don’t have time” is a very honest description of a day that is already full.
Perhaps we can listen before we try to push past it. What feels difficult? What are we afraid of repeating? What would help this feel possible?
I think there’s room to gently question an old story while also respecting what our day is actually asking of us.
We can also question the belief that meaningful change has to require an enormous effort.
Because from my own experience, the things that become part of how we live often begin much more quietly.
Little pockets of nourishment
From my own experience, small moments of follow-through can help us begin to trust that change is possible. We try something manageable, notice what it offers us, and have a reason to come back.
And sometimes the easiest place to begin is by sneaking in tiny nourishing practices, in the little pockets of our day.
One way I love to approach this is to let a new practice sit alongside something we already do.
You brush your teeth each morning. Perhaps tongue scraping finds its place just before that.
You have a shower. On a day when there’s a little room, perhaps you spend a few minutes massaging oil into your body beforehand.
You make your coffee. Perhaps you have a cup of warm water while it’s brewing.
You prepare lunch. Perhaps you bring a little more awareness to the spices you cook with, and what suits you.
You read in the evening. Perhaps you put your legs up for a few comfortable minutes while you settle into your book.
These little moments are opportunities to offer yourself something. A little warmth. A little attention. A reminder, in the middle of an ordinary day, that your needs belong here too.
The intention we bring matters. Massaging oil into our skin because we feel we should can feel quite different from taking those few minutes to offer our body some kindness. The action might look similar, but our experience of it can change.
You don’t need to take on every one of these. Perhaps one catches your attention. Perhaps there’s something else you’ve been wanting to return to.
Choose one that feels inviting, and small enough to return to in the season you’re in.
Then let yourself experience it.
How does it feel? Does it offer you something you want to come back to? Does it need adjusting?
This is where the knowledge begins to become yours.
A gentler path
I don’t believe caring for ourselves always requires finding hours upon hours of extra time each week. For many of us, that expectation alone would be enough to stop us beginning.
Small moments, chosen with care and returned to with kindness, can change our experience of the path ahead.
What looked like a mountain we couldn’t possibly climb may begin to feel more like a gentle hike through beautiful countryside. There is still effort involved, but we can find a pace that suits us and pause when we need to.
Along the way, there are things we wouldn’t have experienced had we stayed where we were. A view opening up. A little more room to breathe. And that lovely satisfaction when we finally sit down to rest, feeling the walk in our muscles and taking in how far we’ve come.
In our ordinary days, those discoveries might be quieter. Enjoying a few minutes of care before the household wakes. Noticing that we’ve remembered ourselves in the middle of a busy day. Beginning to look forward to something that once felt difficult to fit in.
At first, there is awareness. We glimpse another way of doing things. Then, little by little, we make room to experience it. We discover what supports us, return when we’ve wandered away, and allow it to become familiar.
Until one day, something we once had to think about has become part of how we live.
Knowledge, lived in our own ordinary days, becoming wisdom.
Perhaps there’s one small pocket in your day where something nourishing could begin. Something you already know, waiting for a little space to be welcomed in.
If you can see what you need but you’re struggling to find a place for it in your life, we can begin there. I’d love to help you find the little pockets where nourishment feels possible, with practices that meet you in the season you’re actually in.
I’m very happy to hike alongside you.
