The Practice of Staying, the Courage to Stand

I've always struggled with February. People say it's the shortest month, but it has never felt that way to me. It's cold and gray, and even Valentine's Day in the middle of it has never lifted my spirits much.

This February started with sorrow.

It began on January 29, when I lost my sweet kitty, Inky. But grief wasn't the only emotion moving through my life. My son also shared news about a major life change that will affect our entire family.

And in the midst of processing these emotions (grief, family changes, concern about the world), I also had a setback at work. I made an error in judgment and did something that has always been one of my greatest fears.

I disappointed someone.

For someone like me, an Enneagram 9 whose deepest motivation is peace, disappointing someone can feel almost unbearable. My instinct has always been to smooth things over, fix things quickly, apologize, and do whatever is necessary to restore harmony.

Around that time, I found myself reflecting on something I had written in my journal just days after Inky died:

“I think my body and I have an old contract. My body is used to me abandoning it whenever I move in new directions. So my body is protective, slow, and resistant to change.”

Historically, expansion in my life has meant leaving my body behind. If opportunity appeared, I'd devote myself to it so completely that I'd forget everything else. If depression appeared, I would try to outrun it. Ignore it. Distract myself. Replace it with something happier.

For most of my life, I didn't trust emotions. I believed that if I allowed myself to feel them fully, they would overwhelm me to the point that I couldn't function. It always felt like an all-or-nothing equation: either feel nothing at all, or be completely knocked down by the wave.

In fact, one of my first impulses after losing Inky was to adopt another kitty right away, just so I wouldn't have to feel the sadness.

But this month, I chose something different.

One of my mentors, Janice Gallant of Soulfully Aligned Women, shared a mantra that I've been carrying with me this month:

“I can expand in rhythms that honor my body.”

That simple sentence changed something for me.

Expansion no longer has to mean pushing through or leaving my body behind. It means bringing my body with me, even if we move more slowly than my imagination might prefer.

And it turns out, my body had something to teach me about emotions, too.

Sorrow didn't make me incompetent.

It just made me tender.

I could still care for my body. I could still support my family. I could still go to work, prepare for projects, and move through daily life.

Life continued even while I was sad.

When I allowed the sorrow to move through me instead of resisting it, something else happened: it completed its cycle. Instead of crashing over me like a wave, it moved through like a tide.

I didn't abandon myself even when I disappointed someone. Instead, I acknowledged that I had crossed a boundary they didn't want crossed. I apologized sincerely. And then I moved on.

To my surprise, I even slept peacefully that night instead of replaying the conversation over and over in my mind and drowning myself in self-criticism.

Seraphina, by Lori Poff Kellogg from June 2023

To help me process all that was swirling around in my mind and heart, I felt called to revisit my Seraphina painting. During meditation, a lioness had been appearing to me repeatedly, and I wasn't quite sure why.

Then during one of Janice's Monday meditations, she pulled the Archangel Ariel oracle card, and suddenly it made sense. Ariel is often associated with lioness energy: strength, courage, and standing in one's own authority.

As I painted, I began to hear a quiet message emerging.

Stand in your own authority

This has not traditionally been my default. My instinct has always been to rearrange myself in order to make others comfortable: to apologize quickly, soften my opinions, or step aside so that harmony could be preserved.

But the lioness doesn't disappear.

She takes up space, but only the appropriate amount of space.

She is calm, present, and respected. Her power isn't loud or forceful. It lives in her presence.

And as the lioness on my canvas slowly came into focus, I realized that this was the lesson February had been offering me all along.

Archangel Ariel, Lioness of God, a painting by Lori Poff Kellogg, February 2026

Stay present.

Stay with the grief of losing my sweet kitty and the empty feeling of arms that no longer have her to hold.

Stay present with my family's struggles without assuming they are mine to carry.

Stay present in uncomfortable conversations without disappearing from myself.

Stay present with the emotions I once tried so hard to avoid.

I am learning that I can sit with grief and it doesn't make me incapable.

I can sit with someone's disappointment and it doesn't make me incompetent.

I can sit with another person's pain without believing it belongs to me.

I can sit with anger and still be safe.

I can expand in rhythms that honor my body.

I can stand in my own authority and take up the appropriate amount of space.

My voice, my preferences, and my dreams are allowed to exist.

I don't need to defend.

I don't need to disappear.

All I need is to stand.

With love and light,
Lori

P.S. The mantra I mentioned in this reflection came from one of my mentors, Janice Gallant of Soulfully Aligned Women. If you don't already follow her work, I highly recommend checking her out. She creates a beautiful space for creativity, intuition, and spiritual growth.