The Light Before It Shifts: Reflections at the Halfway Point of 2024
From Zen Gardens to Conflict Zones: The Journeys Still Shaping Me
(3-minute health update video)
Introduction
Somehow, we’ve already reached the halfway mark of 2024. The solstice came and went, the full moon dimmed—and here we are, standing on the edge of another turning point. I don’t know about you, but it feels like the days are flying faster than ever, each one reminding me just how precious time really is. Whether you're living with a terminal illness like I am, or just navigating this wild, fleeting ride we call life, the truth holds: every moment matters.
This time of year always nudges me to pause. To look back, take stock, and ask myself what still wants to be nourished as the second half of the year unfolds. Back in January, I invited you into a New Year's reflection practice—a space to plant seeds of intention and growth. Now feels like the perfect moment to check in, deepen the inquiry, and gently shape the path ahead. If you joined me then, welcome back. If not, don’t worry—it’s never too late to begin.
So grab a cup of something warm, find a quiet corner, and settle in. I’m writing this with a flickering candle, my cat curled up beside me, and that familiar tug toward reflection. (True to form, I got so into it that this post turned into a bit of a saga—so I’ve tucked the rest of the reflection questions at the end.)
Let’s walk together through what’s passed—and open ourselves to what might still be waiting to arrive.
"One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted. Do it now.” - Paulo Coelho
1. What journeys have I taken over the last six months, and what is memorable about them?
The year kicked off in Japan amidst the backdrop of an earthquake and a serene zen retreat. Adrian and I were drawn to Wabi Sabi, embracing its philosophy that finds beauty in imperfection, honors life's fleeting moments, celebrates simplicity, and respects the natural cycles of growth and decay.
One of the most poignant experiences of the year was our visit to Hiroshima, where we spent a profoundly moving day with a hibakusha—a survivor of the atomic bomb. Before walking through the solemn memorials and haunting museums, we sat with her and listened to her powerful story, which I wrote about here. The encounter left a lasting imprint, a quiet but undeniable reminder of the resilience of the human spirit in the face of unimaginable loss.
Earlier in the year, I also completed the final portion of an intensive certification in Internal Family Systems (IFS Level 1). The training was transformative—opening new windows into my inner world and offering tools I immediately began integrating into my coaching practice. I was one of the few coaches in a group of seasoned therapists, and the learning community we formed was rich, generous, and deeply connective. (If you’re curious about IFS—or “parts work”—the Inside Out films, especially the sequel, bring some of its core ideas to life in a delightful way.)
In February, I returned to Claremont McKenna College for Parents Weekend with my cousin. Unlike last year—when illness kept me mostly in bed—this time I was able to truly enjoy being there. I loved reconnecting with Adrian’s friends and professors, and was especially moved to watch him perform on the oud, sharing not just his musical gifts but also his deep passion for peacebuilding in outer space. That passion recently led to his first published article—on the Sino-US space race—in a journal called Astropolitics! (Yes, that’s a real journal. I had to double-check too.)
Sitting in on a few of Adrian’s classes—especially one taught by Minxin Pei, an old friend from my days in China—made me feel the thrill of being a student all over again. I also couldn’t help but spark a lively conversation with CMC’s President about the Israel-Gaza conflict (always one to stir the pot!).
What struck me most, though, was the college’s thoughtful approach to navigating campus divisions and protests. At a time when so many universities are struggling, CMC has carved out a reputation as a national leader in protecting free speech and expression. Its commitment to fostering real dialogue—even when it’s uncomfortable—stood out. Of course, being a smaller school helps. But the culture they’ve created around respectful disagreement and learning through difference felt genuinely hopeful.
In Arizona, I took a short but meaningful trip to speak at a conference hosted by a small pharmaceutical company focused on rare diseases, including my own. I’ll admit, I was skeptical at first—but their scrappy dedication and heartfelt commitment quickly won me over. Meeting the doctors, researchers, managers, and even the salespeople behind these life-extending treatments was unexpectedly moving. It reminded me of the profound human effort and compassion that form the bedrock of many medical advancements.
While there, I also took up an invitation from a childhood friend to visit Sedona. And I have to say—Sedona absolutely lives up to its hype as the mystical capital of the US. The red rock landscapes, the energy in the air, the sheer beauty of it all—I’m pretty sure I left with at least two new chakras.
In March, I embarked on a profound journey into plant medicine and Temazcal (sweat lodge) rituals deep in the Mexican jungle, accompanied by my cousin, soul friends, and local healers. My cousin and I brought with us the weight of our family’s tangled lineage—a tapestry of generational trauma asking to be witnessed and healed. The Temazcal ceremony was one of the most powerful experiences of purification I’ve ever had. Emerging from the lodge felt like a rebirth. The intense heat and steam didn’t just draw toxins from the body—they opened a portal for deep emotional release, ancestral healing, and a sense of starting anew.
To integrate the deep teachings from the jungle, I retreated to the quiet beaches of Tulum for a week of yoga and meditation. With the ocean’s steady rhythm as my backdrop, I found space to rest, reflect, and begin to absorb the healing that had unfolded. I left feeling more clear, grounded, and spiritually replenished—grateful for the pause, and the perspective it offered.
From the stillness of Tulum, I shifted gears into the sprawling hum of Houston, timing a CT scan at MD Anderson to line up with the solar eclipse—because if I’m going to stare down the unknown, it might as well be under a cosmic sky. The scan showed new lung nodules. Not actionable yet…. A small shadow cast across the map of what comes next.
Afterward, Adrian, EJ, and I set out on an impromptu road trip—from the belly of Texas through the endless skies of Oklahoma and into the vastness of Arkansas. Adrian, ever the space nerd, tracked cloud cover like a hawk and rerouted us to Mount Ida, a place steeped in quartz and silence. We stood there, watching the moon slide over the sun, and for a few breathless minutes, the world dimmed in what felt like a collective breath across humanity—fleeting, beautiful, and impossibly sacred.
A week later, I landed in Salt Lake City for the Annual Cholangiocarcinoma Conference—my annual pilgrimage into the heart of the cholangio world. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be surrounded by the people devoting their lives to solving the riddle that’s trying to end yours. Doctors, researchers, biotech mavericks, nurses, and fellow patients—all gathered with a kind of fierce optimism. The air buzzed with possibility. Each session, each poster board, each hallway conversation whispered the same thing: we're getting closer. A cure may not be here yet, but it's no longer a dream—it's a direction.
Unlike last year’s edgier vibe—where I gave the patient keynote and we ended the night at a bar with a mechanical bull shaped like male anatomy (yes, really)—this year unfolded with a quieter kind of power. A few of us piled into a 4x4 and headed into the mountains, where early spring was just beginning to stir. We walked along a trail beside a cold, clear river, the kind that reminds you you’re still alive. And then, one by one, we dunked our balding heads in the icy water. A kind of baptism—part play, part prayer, part surrender.
Before we all parted ways, some of us gathered in a nearby town for a drum circle. Nothing fancy—just a few folks, a few drums, and a shared rhythm that seemed to echo everything we were holding and everything we were letting go.
I left Utah with a full heart. Grateful for the science, yes—but just as much for the love, the humor, the depth of connection that keeps us going in a world that doesn’t always know what to do with people like us.
By the end of April, my path took a detour through Athens on the way to Ramallah, after flights into Tel Aviv were suddenly canceled. What followed was a remarkable week in the West Bank, spent alongside an indomitable and deeply committed group of legal aid lawyers. Their work—defending some of the most vulnerable, often juveniles and refugees—happens far from the headlines, but it carries immense weight. I was moved again and again by their courage, showing up day after day in a landscape shaped by conflict and uncertainty, offering not just legal support but dignity to those so often denied it. It was humbling. It was galvanizing. And it reminded me of what it means to keep showing up when the world isn’t watching.
Traveling with them from Ramallah to Nablus and Jenin, I caught just a glimpse of what they navigate daily—separation walls that stretch impossibly high, unpredictable checkpoints, road closures, and the ever-present undercurrent of physical threat. Bearing witness to their work, and stepping into it even briefly, left me with a renewed sense of purpose. It felt as though every twist in my own path had been preparing me for this kind of work. Before I left, I found myself sketching out rough plans to return to Myanmar before year’s end and finally make my way to Afghanistan after that.
In May, I embarked on another unforgettable journey, thanks to an extraordinary gift from a dear friend: the Saving Philippine Reefs Dive Expedition at Tubbataha Reefs, a pristine marine sanctuary a 10-hour boat ride from Palawan. Each day, alongside marine biologists and ecologists, we dove into the depths, documenting the coral tapestry on our underwater slates. We carefully recorded coral types in quarter-meter segments along 50-meter transects, laid out with GPS precision—contributing crucial data to long-term conservation efforts.
It was a steep learning curve, but I was completely immersed—both in the science and the love that this crew carried for marine life. That love was as tangible as the warm, crystalline waters surrounding us. Tubbataha’s reputation for marine biodiversity—home to over 600 fish species and 360 coral species—came alive for me as I started recognizing indigenous butterflyfish flitting through the coral gardens like their namesakes. Adrian and I shared some truly magical encounters with marine wildlife, each dive revealing new details of a world so intricate and alive it felt transcendent.
On our way back to the U.S., we stopped in Kuala Lumpur for a long weekend, where we were warmly welcomed by an old friend and her family. One of the most moving moments was joining them in a Peace Walk alongside hundreds of Theravada Buddhists—a serene, grounded experience that landed softly in the heart. We also explored the city’s many temples, each revealing a different facet of Kuala Lumpur’s vibrant cultural and architectural tapestry.
We took Route 68, a scenic backroad that winds through the hills just outside Kuala Lumpur, heading into the countryside. The drive offered sweeping views—dense forest, rolling hills, and bursts of vibrant green all around. At times, the road curved above the jungle canopy, giving us the feeling of floating through the trees.
In town, I gave a talk on the intersection of peace and justice. The audience’s questions pulled me right back into the dense thicket of Southeast Asian politics, and the conversation that followed reminded me how alive I feel in dialogue about what truly matters.
And—as is always the case in KL—we ate like royalty. Every meal was a feast. I don’t think there was a single bite that didn’t bring joy.
Back in the States, I sat for an interview about my time on the UN Panel of Experts on North Korea at the Security Council, where I served from 2014 to 2019. The Panel was disbanded that same month after a Russian veto—an ending that only reaffirmed why I never looked back after leaving the UN for the third (and final) time. Third time’s the charm, right? These days, I celebrate that freedom daily, channeling my energy into executive coaching—supporting those working at the heart of meaningful, often difficult change.
2. Which parts of the last period would I do over if I could?
The idea of repeating experiences gets more layered when you're living with a terminal illness. Each trip now carries a strange, tender weight—knowing it could be the last time I breathe in Japan’s stillness, weave through the chaos of India’s streets, or stand in some once-familiar corner of China. Everything feels lit from within. Nothing is ordinary.
But these days, it’s less about the places and more about how I show up in them. What stays with me most aren’t the countries themselves, but the people I shared them with. The wildness of nature. The moments of spiritual clarity. If I could do anything over, it wouldn’t be a destination—it would be those moments of true presence, wherever they happened.
I remember how the ocean softened me—how the waves whispered their ancient stories against my skin, loosening something tight in my chest. Every rise and fall felt like a lullaby, slowly washing away the weight I didn’t even know I was carrying. . Below the surface, vibrant coral gardens teemed with life, colorful fish darting playfully, their rhythmic movements adding to the symphony of the sea. It all reminded me how alive everything is—how deeply connected we are, whether we’re paying attention or not.
In the jungle, wrapped in dense green and the wild music of life, my heart opened wide—it felt like a return to some primal home. Those days were deeply healing, peeling back the layers of fear until only something raw and honest remained. Every sunrise felt like a quiet celebration; every breeze, a whisper of life’s fragile, persistent beauty. These aren’t just memories—they’re soul imprints, vivid and alive, still shaping how I walk through the world.
3. What has been the most difficult aspect of these past six months?
The most searing challenge of the past six months has been witnessing the ongoing loss of innocent lives in conflict zones around the world. The scale of human suffering—amplified by the language of dehumanization and the erosion of empathy—has been almost impossible to grasp. At times, it feels like the world is unmaking itself in real time. The brutality of war crimes, the brazenness of impunity, and the deafening silence in response have left me reeling. For someone who has spent much of a career working toward the promise of “never again,” this moment has been not only heartbreaking but also profoundly disorienting.
“Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others.” - Pema Chödrön
While floating on a boat in the Sulu Sea, momentarily free from digital noise, I resurfaced into the world only to be met with the news of yet another civilian massacre. The calm I had briefly found was shattered. That same heaviness followed me to Kuala Lumpur, where, even as I prepared for talks and visited temples with Adrian, I found myself pulled into the vortex of unfolding atrocities—scrolling images I couldn’t unsee, absorbing headlines I couldn’t unfeel. The weight of global suffering pressed in from every angle, making it hard to be fully present for the living beauty around me, or for the people I love most.
4. What challenge am I actively working on, aiming to make meaningful progress by the end of 2024?
Right now, I’m working to find a steadier way to meet the anger and aversion that rise in me when I see atrocities being committed—especially when they’re carried out by individuals or systems I’ve spent my life trying to hold accountable. I’ve been turning to metta (loving-kindness) meditation as a way to stay present with these emotions without letting them take over. While it’s natural to identify with victims, I’m learning that true compassion is broader than that. It doesn’t excuse violence—but it does ask us to look beneath it, to the suffering, ignorance, and dehumanization that so often fuel it.
There’s research showing that compassion practices can actually reduce empathic distress and burnout—shifting us from paralysis to purpose, from reactivity to resilience (Research and citations contained in Annex). But beyond the science, I know this in my bones: my fury doesn’t ease anyone’s pain. And left unchecked, it risks hardening me in ways that make me less effective, less human. So I’m practicing. Feeling what I feel. Naming it. And then letting it move—so I can stay grounded, stay useful, and keep showing up with both strength and an open heart.
Studies highlight that compassion practices reduce empathic distress and burnout while activating brain regions associated with resilience and altruism. (Research and citations contained in Annex).
By acknowledging my emotions without letting them paralyze me—experiencing them as experiential rather than existential—I aim to stay engaged and purposeful. A clear mind and a compassionate heart are essential for sustainable advocacy. My own turmoil does nothing to alleviate suffering, and unchecked anger risks mirroring the very forces I’ve spent my life working against. So I’m learning to hold it differently. To stay with the fire, without letting it consume me.
"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." Martin Luther King Jr.
I reflected on this inner tension when writing about the challenge of finding equanimity while doing justice work in Rwanda. Some days, I can soften into compassion—even for those who’ve caused great harm. Other days, I’m overtaken by anger and a sense of righteousness.
Compassion, as I understand it, never excuses or condones harmful actions. It simply affirms that every human being—including those who perpetuate harm—is shaped by their own unhealed pain and blind spots. Compassion becomes a practice of interrupting cycles of violence, both external and internal. It’s what keeps the heart open while staying fiercely committed to justice.
Looking back, I can see how approaching certain moments in my career with less reactivity and more grounded compassion might have amplified my impact—and conserved the energy I often lost to moral exhaustion. This is the edge I continue to walk: staying fully engaged without being consumed.
As I look ahead to the second half of the year, I’m reminded that this journey—like the current solstice—isn’t just about moving outward, but about returning inward. The quieter rhythm I’m settling into, with fewer flights and more stillness, feels right for this season. It offers space to metabolize all that has been, and to be more deliberate about what’s next.
I’ll continue showing up—for the people and places that call to me, for the clients doing courageous inner and outer work, and for myself, as I learn (again and again) how to be here fully, with compassion and discernment.
Thank you for walking with me.
With love,
Stephanie
Below are the questions for your half-year check-in. Please share any insights!
The Past: Lessons, Triumphs, Growth
What journeys have I taken over the last six months and what is memorable about them?
Which parts of the last period would I do over?
What has been the most difficult aspect of these past six months? What am I learning from it?
What felt fulfilling, and what felt less so?
What served as sources of inspiration for me?
What challenges and disappointments did I face, and how did I confront them?
What am I most grateful for? Most proud of?
In what new ways did I express myself or discover new facets of my being?
What did I consciously release or let go of?
The Present: Appreciating, Celebrating, Letting Go
What endeavors feel significant to me right now?
What need to be celebrated?
How am I evolving, and how can I approach this transformation with gentleness and acceptance?
What habits or mindsets no longer serve my growth?
Future: The Journey to Come
What do I desire for the rest of 2024?
What are the core things I’d love to happen in the coming six months?
What parts of myself do I want to nurture?
What will I need to say no to? What do I want to reduce or do less of?
What baggage do I no longer need to carry? (inner and outer backpacks).
ANNEX: How Empathic Distress differs from Compassion
Research with Matthieu Ricard, a renowned Buddhist monk, using fMRI scans, demonstrates a crucial distinction: empathic distress can lead to burnout, whereas compassion activates brain areas associated with resilience and altruism. Empathic distress, characterized by feeling overwhelmed by others' suffering, often results in emotional exhaustion, commonly referred to as "compassion fatigue."
In contrast, true compassion—defined as a genuine concern for another's suffering coupled with the motivation to help—engages different neural pathways. Studies show that compassion meditation increases activity in brain regions involved in empathy, emotional regulation, and decision-making. This practice not only builds emotional resilience but also reduces stress and promotes a more effective response to suffering.
By cultivating compassion, we can build resilience and prevent emotional mirroring from leading to burnout. These studies underscore the importance of fostering compassion, even towards those who commit violence, as a means to promote healing and disrupt cycles of retribution and hatred.
Here it is in a nutshell:
Here I’ve summarized some of the research and included citations and more information.
Dr. Tania Singer and her colleagues at the Max Planck Institutes found that empathic distress differs from compassion both in the neural networks affected as well as the types of feelings generated, implying that they are very different inner states with different consequences for well-being. Dr. Singer and her colleagues showed that training in empathy increases activation in the parts of the brain associated with physical pain to oneself or others, increasing both feelings of distress and risk of burnout while decreasing interest in actually undertaking altruistic behaviors benefiting others. By contrast, training in compassion induced neural activations and feelings associated with positive emotions, affiliation and love. For example, an empathy-for-pain experiment generated fMRI data showing that the activated parts of the brain during both first-hand and observed experiences of pain were overlapping (in the anterior insula and the anterior medial cingulate cortex). According to them, nearly a decade of further empathy research showed no evidence of differences in reaction according to whether the person in pain was known or unknown to the subject. A first-person account by Mathieu Ricard of his reaction upon viewing distressing photos of Romanian orphans through the lens of empathy was emotional exhaustion verging on burnout. By contrast, when viewing the same photos through a lens of compassion, Richard recounted feelings of boundless love and the desire to console the children. This finding seems to have been supported by another experiment led by Dr. Singer in which non-experts trained in metta meditation for a few days showed an increase in altruistic behavior towards strangers, with better results resulting from further training.
An experiment conducted by Olga Klimecki et al involving non-experts trained in compassion (through metta meditation) or memorization showed increased self-reporting of positive affect in those trained in metta even in the face of others’ distress. This was reflected in changes in brain regions related to positive affect, affiliation, and maternal and romantic love. These findings were replicated in two other studies and again in first-person accounts by Mathieu Ricard. By contrast, training in empathy increased negative affect in reaction both to those in distress as well as in normal everyday situations. Based on these and other experiments, Dr. Singer and her colleagues concluded that while empathic resonance can lead to empathic distress, compassion offers a trainable strategy for and overcoming adverse experiences by strengthening resilience. (Klimecki, O. M., Leiberg, S., Lamm, C., & Singer, T. (2012). "Functional Neural Plasticity and Associated Changes in Positive Affect After Compassion Training." Cerebral Cortex, 23(7), 1552-1561).
With regard to the type of compassion we extend to ourselves in instances of suffering, Juliana G. Breines and Serena Chen conducted four studies on the effects of self-compassion in responding to moral transgression, personal weakness and test failure. Their first experiment generated evidence that college sophomores who wrote a compassionate letter to themselves after reflecting on a weakness were more inclined to adopt a growth-oriented mindset than those assigned to the control conditions of a self-esteem or no intervention. Experiment # 2 produced evidence that undergraduates who reflected on a recent moral transgression with self-compassion, when compared with a self-esteem or positive distraction control group, reported more motivation for self-improvement including the desire to make amends for and not repeat the transgression (which admittedly for undergraduates was unlikely to be major). Their third experiment showed that while self-compassion after lab-based test failure did not directly lead to improved performance, it increased study time in undergraduates, which the authors claimed predicts higher test scores. In a 4th experiment involving U.S. adults (as opposed to undergraduates), those subjected to a self-compassion condition were found to be more likely to engage in upward social comparison as opposed to downward or lateral social comparison. Together these experiments helped to clarify the role of self-compassion in promoting self-improvement. Given the wide use of undergraduates in these studies, Breines and Chen’s findings might have particular implications for enhancing coping skills in university settings.
Empathy and compassion by Tania Singer and Olga Klimecki https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0960982214007702
Compassion Is Better than Empathy: Neuroscience explains why https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-clarity/201703/compassion-is-better-empathy
Matthieu Ricard TED Talk, How to let altruism be your guide. https://www.ted.com/talks/matthieu_ricard_how_to_let_altruism_be_your_guide?language=en
Matthieu Ricard blog piece, ‟Empathy Fatigue” (https://www.matthieuricard.org/en/blog/posts/empathy-fatigue-1)
Matthieu Ricard’s book, Altruism: The Power of Compassion to Change Yourself and the World. For a less involved read, see his book, Happiness: A Guide to Developing Life’s Most Important Skill. (This book is not a navel-gazing, self-focused pursuit of happiness, but quite the opposite.).
https://www.lionsroar.com/matthieu-ricards-journey-to-compassion/
Kristin Neff on empathy and self-compassion (how to use self-compassion to deal with burnout / empathy fatigue). Her website contains an abundance of helpful resources: https://self-compassion.org/
· https://pro.psychcentral.com/self-compassion-as-an-antidote-to-empathy-fatigue/
· https://compassionit.com/2019/09/09/how-to-curb-workplace-burnout-with-self-compassion/
· https://self-compassion.org/why-caregivers-need-self-compassion/
Jordan Peterson and others on the pitfalls of empathy / the age of empathy:
https://quillette.com/2018/12/09/a-surfeit-of-empathy-and-an-absence-of-compassion/
https://quillette.com/2017/02/23/our-age-of-empathy/