What If You Remembered It Wrong?

2 min

Many years ago, Baba was helping settle an argument between one of my brothers and me. I don't remember what the disagreement was about, and I don't remember who was right. What I do remember is leaving the conversation with the belief that Baba had said I wasn't compassionate.

Even as a child, I understood compassion to be an admirable quality. I associated it with generosity, care, and the ability to see beyond yourself. It was also something I knew Baba valued. So hearing—or believing I had heard—that I wasn't compassionate stung. It became one of those stories we carry about ourselves, tucked away in a corner of our minds, shaping how we see ourselves without fully realizing it.

Years later, Baba and I were having a conversation. He was sharing how proud he was of the woman I had become. At one point he said, "You are compassionate."

I was taken aback.

I laughed and said, "Baba, years ago you told me I wasn't compassionate."

He looked at me, confused.

"No," he said. "I said you weren't practicing compassion."

I was struck by how different those two statements felt. What I had remembered felt like a verdict. What Baba was offering felt like an invitation.

And suddenly I realized I had spent years carrying one when what had actually been offered was the other.

Looking back, what surprises me most is not that I misunderstood Baba. What surprises me is how willing I was to carry that misunderstanding for so many years.

At some point, I stopped remembering the conversation and started remembering the conclusion.

Since that conversation, I've started noticing how often we speak about ourselves in absolutes.

I'm not creative.

I'm not a leader.

I'm not the kind of person who can do that.

What would happen if, instead of treating those statements as conclusions, we treated them as practices?

Instead of saying, "I'm not creative," we might ask, "Am I practicing creativity?"

Instead of saying, "I'm not a leader," we might ask, "Am I practicing leadership?"

The shift may seem small, but it changes the direction of the story. One assumes the story is finished. The other leaves room for another chapter.

The older I get, the more I appreciate the language of practice. Not because it guarantees a particular outcome, but because it reminds me that we are still becoming.

There is a profound difference between believing something is fixed and believing something is still unfolding.

Maybe that's what Baba was offering me all those years ago—not a verdict, but an invitation.

And maybe we are more like invitations than verdicts.

Invitations to practice.

Invitations to grow.

Invitations to become.

Stay safe, curious, and healthy.

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