Downton Abby and the tears surpised me

Surrender, and the sacred middle.

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Last night I sat down to watch a movie I’d seen before.

Because I needed something to help me get back to center after all of the political and social upheaval I’d witnessed. I felt unmoored.

I poured a glass of wine—very unusual for me—plumped the pillows on my couch, and let Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale be my solace.

I was not at all prepared for the actual unraveling that would occur.

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By the end of the film, I was in tears.

Not polite, cinematic tears.

Real ones. The kind that come from somewhere old and quiet and deeply human.

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What undid me was the storyline of Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham, having to step back—to release the role he’d held for a lifetime and allow his daughter, Lady Mary, to take the reins of Downton.

He wasn’t just giving up responsibility. He was giving up identity. Giving up the shape of the life he’d always known.

And he struggled with it.

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Watching him face the truth that his season as “the Lord” was ending stirred something in me that had nothing to do with English estates and everything to do with being human.

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Because whether we talk about it or not, we all come to moments like that.

Moments when we are asked to loosen our grip on who we’ve been.

Moments when life quietly says, “Thank you. That role is complete now.”

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And instead of celebration, what we often feel first… is grief.

Not because we want to go back.

But because becoming someone new always asks us to lay something down.

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Here Is Where the Reframe Comes In

It’s easy to label that ache as sadness, weakness, or regression.

But what if it’s none of those?

What if it’s integration?

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What if those tears are not a sign that something is wrong… but a sign that something inside you finally feels safe enough to release what it has been carrying?

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I talk a lot about the soul. Not in a religious way—I’m not talking about doctrine or dogma.

When I say “soul,” I mean that inner knowing. That quiet guidance. The part of you that recognizes truth before your mind can explain it.

You could call it spirit. Intuition. Energy. Vibration.

I just happen to like the word soul.

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Eleven months ago, I began a simple breathing practice.

Four in, four hold, six out. Every hour.

That practice lowered my anxiety enough that I could finally hear that inner voice clearly.

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And once I could hear it, I stopped forcing my life.

I stopped pushing through low-energy days. I stopped making decisions just to feel productive. I stopped arguing with myself about what I “should” be doing.

That’s not laziness. That’s wisdom. That’s energy management.

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It’s the same wisdom Robert Crawley was learning, in his own way—that dignity is not lost when a role changes. It simply shifts shape.

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So if you find yourself tender for no obvious reason…

If a movie, a memory, or a quiet moment brings unexpected tears…

Maybe nothing is wrong.

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Maybe you are simply standing in the sacred middle—between who you were and who you are becoming.

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And maybe those tears are not the end of something.

Maybe they are the gentle washing away of what you no longer need to carry.

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Breathe. Listen. Reframe.

You are not unraveling.

You are making space.

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xo,
Monica

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Heart it if you’re in the sacred middle. Comment with one thing you’re laying down.

I wrote a spify little guide about this particular breath technique. It is available here: Daily Breath Ritual-Women over 60

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