Big can be loud, fast, and endlessly hungry.

Meaningful is quieter. It’s rooted.

After two decades listening to people in my counseling chair—and then writing about what I kept hearing in their stories and my own—I’ve learned that “more” is a moving target.

Meaning, on the other hand, stays put. It’s the hearth you can come home to, even after a busy, bright season. I’m writing this from that hearth.

I’m also writing as the same counselor-turned-writer you’ve come to know—a woman who cares about relationships, work that matters, and conscious living more than she cares about optics or algorithms.

Here are the nine practices that keep my compass set to meaningful, not big.

They aren’t magic bullets. They’re modest, daily choices. And they’ve been tested in the messy, beautiful lab of real life.

1. I measure success by alignment, not applause

When I was younger, I thought success was a checklist: a certain salary, a certain square footage, that one big break.

Now my first question is gentler: Does this align with my values?

Alignment looks like work that uses my strengths, relationships built on honesty, and money decisions that don’t mortgage my peace. It often means saying no to shiny opportunities that tug me off-center.

Try this: before a yes, write three sentences—what value does this honor, what will it cost, and what will it grow? If those answers don’t feel true, pass. The quiet relief you feel afterward is the sound of meaning returning.

2. I keep a small circle and a long table

I used to strain for a bigger network—more coffee dates, more names, more “we should connect.”

These days I keep a small circle I can text at 2 a.m. and a long table for neighbors, new friends, and the odd stray cat who adopts us. My circle holds me accountable; my table keeps me open.

Maya Angelou framed it well: “Success is liking yourself, liking what you do, and liking how you do it.”

Part of liking how I do life is investing deeply in a handful of people, then practicing generosity with everyone who crosses my path. I don’t need a crowd to feel connected. I need continuity, honesty, and a shared sense of “we’re in this.”

If you’re wondering where to start, ask: Who feels safe and stretching at once? Keep them close.

3. I choose craft over clout

A big life often chases virality.

A meaningful life keeps returning to craft.

When I write, I care more about the sentence that rings true than the metric that spikes. When I counsel, I care more about the slow questions that help a couple rebuild trust than the quick tip that gets clicks.

I protect time for deliberate practice. I read widely, I take humble notes, I rework a paragraph three different ways. That quiet investment compounds, the way a well-made garment outlasts five fast-fashion shirts.

4. I treat my calendar like a values document

If you want to know what you value, open your calendar.

In my life, Monday mornings are for deep work. Friday afternoons are for admin and a long walk. Evenings have guardrails because I’d rather share tea with my husband than chase the next event. I block time for yoga, community volunteering, and intentional nothingness.

You might have read my post on designing gentle mornings; the short version is that meaning prefers rhythm over rush.

Every time I protect a pocket of time, I’m casting a vote for the life I say I want. It’s less about productivity, more about integrity.

Try auditing last month’s calendar with a highlighter: one color for energy-giving activities, another for energy-draining ones. T

hen adjust this month by 10%. Small edits, big relief.

5. I practice boundaries that are kind and firm

As a counselor, I’ve seen the damage of “nice” without boundaries. It breeds resentment and quiet exhaustion.

So I template my no’s: “Thanks for thinking of me. I’m at capacity this quarter and can’t give this the attention it deserves.”

Or: “That doesn’t work for me, but here are two alternatives.” The moment I stopped overexplaining, I felt ten pounds lighter.

Boundaries aren’t walls; they’re gates. They keep my best energy for my best people and projects.

Michelle Obama’s words travel with me here: “Success isn’t about how much money you make, it’s about the difference you make in people’s lives.” Boundaries help me make a difference where I’m actually responsible and resourced to do so.

If saying no makes you queasy, practice a small one today. Meaning loves the oxygen that no creates.

6. I build rituals around simple, sustainable pleasures

Meaning hides in the ordinary.

The first sip of coffee in a ceramic mug I’ve had for years, not a disposable cup. The ritual of mending a sweater instead of replacing it.

A weekly “cook what’s left” night to honor the food we buy. None of this is glamorous. All of it is deeply satisfying.

Living sustainably is not about perfection; it’s about attention. Attention to the materials on our skin, the stories behind our clothes, the true cost of convenience.

When I choose the train over a short flight, or refill a bottle instead of grabbing another plastic one, I feel more aligned. Small choices, repeated often, build a life that feels congruent with my ethics.

Ask yourself: where could you switch from disposable to durable this month? Start there.

7. I keep learning—then I apply, not hoard

I’m a reader, a note-taker, a lifelong student. But information isn’t transformation.

Meaning shows up when I apply what I learn: when I try a new conflict script with a couple in my practice, when I test a different writing cadence, when I experiment with a breathing technique before a hard conversation.

To keep myself honest, I use a simple loop: learn one idea, practice it five times, reflect once. Then decide whether it earns a place in my toolbox.

This makes learning active and embodied, not a bookshelf trophy.

Journaling helps. So does sharing your experiment with a friend. Learning sticks when we live it.

8. I leave room for awe, not just optimization

It’s tempting to tune life into a self-improvement podcast we never pause.

But awe—those tiny wows—creates meaning as surely as goals do. The lemon tree’s first blossom. A stranger paying for someone else’s groceries. A sentence that lands like a bell.

I hunt awe on purpose: no-phone walks, sunset watch parties, slowing down in galleries even when the to-do list growls. I leave white space on weekends. I keep a running “delight log” in my notes app; on tough days, it recalibrates me.

Optimization asks, “How can I get more?” Awe asks, “How can I love this?” I want more of the second question in my days.

9. I serve something bigger than myself

At the end of the day, meaning has a direction: outward.

Service is the antidote to myopic striving. For me, that looks like mentoring younger counselors, supporting local climate initiatives, and writing pieces that help someone feel less alone.

Sometimes it’s as humble as checking on an elderly neighbor or picking up litter on my walk.

I think of clout as a balloon—it rises and pops. Contribution is compost—it breaks down and feeds everything around it. Which do you want to be known for?

Final thoughts

I don’t want a big life.

I want a rooted one—a life where my calendar reflects my convictions, my relationships are deep over wide, my work favors craft over clout, my choices honor the planet we share, and my attention is tuned to awe.

If you’re craving the same, start small. Choose one practice above and test it for two weeks. Adjust. Keep what fits. Let the rest go. Meaning is less a destination than a dailiness—a faithful returning to what you said matters.

Here’s the secret I wish I’d learned sooner: you don’t have to inflate your life to enlarge your joy.

You only have to live like you mean it.