As a psychologist with a background as a Buddhist monk, I've had my fair share of thought-provoking encounters with the scientific community, particularly when it comes to understanding the mind. I remember a moment in a health psychology class that really stood out to me. One of the students, confidently beginning their argument, stated, "We all agree that the mind is composed of the brain." I couldn't help but raise my hand and say, "Sorry, I disagree."

The room fell into a stunned silence, as if questioning, "Aren't you a scientist? Don't you agree that the mind is held within the brain?" I decided to illustrate my point with a simple demonstration. I took a cup and placed it on the edge of a table, where it teetered precariously. The tension in the room was palpable. "Right now," I said, "as I let go of that cup, you're interacting with me. You're feeling something, recognizing that it was me who put that cup there. And even if I leave the room, you're still, in some way,...

It's effortless to recognize when we're riding the high wave of a good day—when the birds are serenading us, the colors around us seem more vibrant, and the universe seems to whisper in our ear that all is well. Conversely, it's equally easy to acknowledge when we're trapped in the quicksand of a bad day—when the world feels gray, and every step forward feels like a battle against an invisible force.

But what about those subtle shifts in momentum? Those moments when our vibrant energy begins to wane, and we start to drift away from our self-care rituals or our positive affirmations? It's all too easy to dismiss these signs with excuses like "I'm just too tired today" or "I'll take a break from my self-care routine." These rationalizations sound familiar, don't they?

For me, this often manifests as a small but persistent voice that concocts excuse after excuse for not engaging in activities that fuel my self-evolution. It whispers things like:

• "Maybe I'll skip calling my...