Long ago, while volunteering in hospice—quietly rubbing people’s feet near the end of their lives—I met one of my greatest teachers.

She was almost breathtaking in her vibrancy. An angel in human form, luminous even as her body was preparing to let go. In our brief time together, she offered me a message that has stayed with me for years. One I still return to. One I am still learning.

My Teacher

When I noticed that we shared the same birthday, her eyes flew open with delight. Without missing a beat, she began listing the qualities of a Capricorn: strength, independence, tenacity, hard-working, task-completing, don’t-take-anything-from-anyone attitude—basic bad-ass energy.

We laughed instantly, recognizing ourselves in each other. Our shared stubbornness. Our headstrong resolve.

As I rubbed her feet, she mostly kept her eyes closed, her face soft and peaceful. The room felt calm, sacred. When I finished and began to stand to leave, she suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm.

With unmistakable Capricorn fierceness, she locked eyes with me and said:

“Do not let your strength get in the way.”

The silence that followed was vast. The words hung in the air, echoing long after they were spoken.

Moments later, her beloved partner walked past the bed. My patient gestured toward her and explained, “She’s a Cancer.” Then she turned back to me and said,

“We are Earth dwellers. Sometimes we have to carry the water of others.”
(She nodded gently toward her love.)
“And sometimes, we must allow the water to wash over us.”

Her eyes closed again. A soft smile appeared on her face.

A few moments later, she opened her eyes once more and asked me a question that caught me completely off guard:

“What do you want your kids to know before you die?”

Without hesitation, I told her that I wanted them to know—deep in their bones—that they are loved unconditionally and accepted for exactly who they are.

She smiled and said, “They already know that.”

The room grew quiet again. Still. Tender. As we said goodbye, tears streamed down both of our faces. In less than an hour, I had received more wisdom than I could have ever hoped for. Holding her hand, I thanked her—filled with gratitude.

Once more, she repeated:

“Do not let your strength get in the way.”

The Part I Didn’t Expect

The most startling part of this experience?

That very morning, I had tattooed the word “strength” on my ribs—after asking my boys to each offer one word they associated with me.

Strength.

Perhaps what I have called strength has also been a wall. A protective barrier. A survival strategy born from necessity and resilience.

And maybe—just maybe—while that strength has served me well, it has also gotten in my way.

Because strength, when held too tightly, can block tenderness. Independence can resist receiving. Resilience can forget how to rest. And self-sufficiency can quietly keep love at arm’s length.

As Rumi reminds us:

“Your task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

I still carry her words with me.
Still practicing.
Still softening.
Still learning how to let the water wash over me.