Passion Struck with John R. Miles - Before the New Year Begins, Let Something End | A Christmas Reflection EP 707 w/ John R. Miles

Episode Date: December 25, 2025

What if real transformation does not begin with what we add, but with what we finally allow to end?In this deeply reflective Christmas Day solo episode of Passion Struck, Episode 707, John R. Miles invites listeners into the quiet, liminal space between the year that is closing and the life that is still taking shape. Rather than rushing toward resolutions, this episode explores the power of gentle endings and the release of old stories, habits, and self-protections that have outlived their purpose.Drawing on psychology, lived experience, and the themes of The Season of Becoming, John unpacks the quiet cost of carrying what is finished, the unexpected beauty that emerges when we let go without violence to ourselves, and how gentleness creates the space where imagination, flow, and renewal can return.This episode is not a call to fix yourself. It is an invitation to lay something down.If you are entering the new year feeling tired, tender, or quietly ready for change, this episode offers a different starting point, one rooted in compassion, presence, and honest release.Before the resolutions come the revelations, before the beginning, let something end.Resources and LinksCheck the full show notes here: https://passionstruck.com/before-the-new-year-begins-let-something-end/All links gathered here (books, Substack, YouTube, community):https://linktr.ee/John_R_MilesA Gentle Ending PracticeReflection prompts, a simple release ritual, and space to name what is ready to rest. Designed to help you enter the new year lighter, clearer, and more present.Download the free Companion Workbook at: https://www.theignitedlife.net/p/let-something-end-before-the-yearSupport the MovementEvery human deserves to feel seen, valued, and like they matter.Wear it. Live it. Show it.https://StartMattering.comDisclaimerThe Passion Struck podcast is for educational and entertainment purposes only. The views and opinions expressed are those of John R. Miles and do not necessarily reflect those of Passion Struck or its affiliates. This podcast is not a substitute for professional advice, diagnosis, or treatment from a licensed physician, therapist, or other qualified professional.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

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Most of us will spend the next few days thinking about what we want to begin. New habits, new intentions, a new version of ourselves. But Christmas sits somewhere else entirely. It's not a starting line. It's a threshold. And sometimes, before anything new can take root, something old needs permission to end, quietly, privately, with compassion. So tonight, instead of asking what you're going to carry forward into the new year, I want to ask you a different question. What are you finally allowed? to put down. Welcome to Passionstruck.

I'm your host, John Miles. This is the show where we explore the art of human flourishing and what it truly means to live like it matters. Each week, I sit down with change makers, creators, scientists, and everyday heroes to decode the human experience and uncover the tools that help us lead with meaning, heal what hurts, and pursue the fullest expression

of who we're capable of becoming. Whether you're designing your future, developing as a leader, or seeking deeper alignment in your life, this show is your invitation to grow with purpose and act with intention. Because the secret to a life of deep purpose, connection, and impact is choosing to live like you matter. Hey friends, welcome to Passionstruck. This is episode 707 and it's Christmas Day. We've spent the last four weeks walking together through the season of becoming. That strange, tender stretch between who we've been and who we're allowed to become. We've reawaken possibility. We found courage and

discomfort. We remembered how to matter, really matter to the people who matter most. And now, here we are. The calendar is about to turn. The tree is still up. The world is soft and away. It won't be tomorrow. Before we talk about resolutions, before we name what we want to start, I want to name something quieter and more honest. Transformation isn't about addition. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is subtraction, not in a harsh or self-critical way, not by shaming ourselves into change,

but by choosing, gently, deliberately, lovingly, to lay down something that no longer deserves to travel with us. Every one of us is carrying at least one thing that has outlived its purpose. Not because we're broken, but because at one point it kept us safe. Safety, though, is not the same thing as freedom. And tonight, Christmas night, the world gives us a rare permission slip. We're allowed to outgrow what once protected us without having to hate it first.

Because the space it leaves behind is where imagination returns. It's where flow begins to move. It's where the person you're becoming finally has room to breathe. So today, I'm not here to hand you a list of things to fix. I'm here to invite you to do one small, brave, private thing, while the year is still soft. Choose something to end. Not because it's bad, but because it's finished. And when you do, you're not closing a chapter.

You're making space for the next one to arrive whole. And the reason this matters is because letting something end rarely happens in a single decision. It happens in moments, usually quiet ones, where we finally see what we're still carrying and what it's quietly costing us. I didn't learn that from a book. I learned it in a moment that didn't look like an ending at all, but changed what I carried from that day forward. Let me take you there. Thank you for choosing Passion Struck and choosing me to be your hosting guide on your journey to creating an intentional life. Now, let that journey begin. We've all felt it, that subtle drag, the way certain thoughts, certain stories, certain old

ways of being, show up again and again, like guests who were invited once, but never quite left. We tell ourselves, they're harmless, they're just background noise, part of who we are, but they're not neutral. They cost something, and the cost isn't always loud, it's quiet, gradual, almost invisible, until one day you realize the space inside you feel smaller than it used to. When we carry things that have outlived their purpose, we don't just hold on to the past. We hold on to a version of ourselves that no longer fits, and that version has rules, expectations, limits, it insists we still obey. So we keep apologizing for taking up space.

We keep waiting for permission to rest. We keep measuring our worth by how useful we are, how productive, how unflinching. We keep believing that if we soften, even a little, something will break. And slowly, the life we're actually living starts to feel like a rehearsal instead of the real thing. Relationships feel at first. We show up, but part of us is still guarding something old. A hurt we haven't released. A story we haven't unwritten.

A fear we haven't laid down. That guardedness creates distance, even when we're in the same room. Conversations stay surface level. Laughter feels a little forced. Presence, the kind I talked about last week in episode 705, becomes harder to offer because part of us is still holding something heavy. We feel it in our bodies, too, the tightness in the chest that never really fully relaxes, the shoulders that stay up even when there's no threat, the exhaustion,

that doesn't match how much we've done, because we're not just living the day. We're living the day plus the weight of what we're still carrying. And here's the part that's hardest to admit. We get used to it. We adapt. We tell ourselves, this is just what adulthood feels like. We call it maturity. We call it responsibility.

We call it being realistic. But it's not maturity. It's adaptation to a smaller version of life. And over time, that smaller version. becomes the only one that we know how to live. The dreams we once had quietly shrink to fit the space we've left them. Joy starts to feel indulgent. Tenerness gets rationed. We become efficient at surviving the life we're carrying, but less and less skilled at truly living it. And the worst part, none of this announces itself. There's no crisis moment, no single day when everything collapses.

just a slow, steady thinning, like a riverbed that gradually erodes until the water barely moves. I felt this most clearly a few years ago. I was hearing an old story about what success had to look like, how I had to prove my worth every single day, how rest was something I could only earn after I had exhausted every other option. I told myself it was ambition. I told myself it was disciplined, but it was a weight I'd forgotten I could put down. One day, I noticed I was no longer excited about the things that used to light me up. And it wasn't because I'd outgrown them.

Instead, it was because I'd run out of room inside myself to fill them fully. The old story had taken up so much space, that joy, curiosity, even simple ease had nowhere left to land. That was the moment I understood carrying what's finished. It doesn't just cost energy. It costs possibility. It costs presence. It costs the very life we say we want. So if that's the quiet cost, what becomes possible when we finally choose to pay a different price?

The price of letting go. That's exactly where we're headed next. Before we go there, I want to pause on something that's been hitting me hard lately. The stories I just shared, the subtle drag, the shrinking space inside, the way we adapt to a smaller life, they stay with me not because they're dramatic, but because they're so quiet, so ordinary, so easy to ignore until they aren't. And every week I hear from listeners who say things like, I felt that heaviness in my chest. But how do I actually figure out what I'm carrying? And how do I let go without feeling

like I'm betraying who I used to be? That's why we create free companion workbooks for episodes just like this one. They're simple, intentional tools designed to help you move from insight to live change. Reflection questions to help you gently name what you've been carrying without judgment. Small private practices you can do tonight to begin releasing it with kindness. Prompts to notice how much lighter you feel when something old finally has permission to end. Gentle challenges to protect the new space you've created so it doesn't refill with the same old weight because letting go isn't automatic. It's not a switch you flip.

It's a quiet, courageous choice. We get to practice. One breath, one small release, one moment at a time. You can download this episode's free workbook and all the others directly from the stub stack post that accompanies every episode. Just head to the ignited life.neted.com and join the community. It's completely free. Now, a quick break from our sponsors. Thank you for supporting the people who make the show possible. You're listening to Passionstruck on the Passionstruck Network. Welcome

back. We've been reflecting on the quiet cost of carrying what's finished. The way it thins our presence, shrinks our joy, and quietly limits what's still possible. And we landed on a question worth sitting with. What happens? What really happens when we finally choose to set something down? Here's the part we rarely talk about. Letting something go doesn't immediately make life easier. It makes life lighter. And there's a difference. Ease comes later. Lightness comes first. it arrives as a subtle shift, not fireworks, not certainty, just a sense that you're no longer bracing in the same way. When something that's finished is finally set down, the nervous system notices before the mind does, breath deepens, the body softens just a fraction, shoulders

drop without being told to, nothing dramatic has changed, and yet something essential has. space returns, and space is where becoming actually begins. When we stop carrying what no longer belongs to us, attention frees up. Energy redistributes. Presence becomes less effortful. You're no longer living on top of the moment, trying to manage it, survive it, get through it. You're inside it. That's why letting go so often feels like coming back to yourself.

Not to an older version, not to a simpler one. but to the version that existed before everything felt so tightly managed. This is where imagination starts to move again. Not imagination as fantasy or escape, imagination as possibility, the quiet sense that life could be approached differently, that there might be more than one way forward, that you don't have to solve everything tonight. When we're weighed down by old stories, an unfinished emotional business,

imagination narrows. We repeat what we know, even when it no longer works. But when space opens, something else becomes available. Choice, not forced choice, not dramatic reinvention, just the freedom to respond instead of react. Flow begins here, and flow isn't about intensity or peak performance. It's about alignment. It's what happens when effort and resistance are no longer fighting each other when you're not dragging yesterday's weight into today's decisions when attention is no longer split between what's happening and what you're still carrying you can feel this most clearly in relationships when you let go of an old resentment you listen differently when you release a self-story about being too much or not enough you show up honestly when you stop proving your

worth through usefulness presence becomes a gift instead of a transaction action. You're not performing closeness. You're inhabiting it. And something else beautiful happens. When you stop carrying what's finished, you stop asking the future to compensate for the past. You're no longer waiting for the next milestone, the next validation, the next version of yourself to finally feel whole. You arrive as you are. Lighter, clearer, less defended. That's why letting go isn't loss. It's recovery. You recover energy. that's been tied up in vigilance. You recover attention that's been trapped in old loops, and you recover parts of yourself that went quiet, not because they were gone, but because there

was no room for them to speak. That's the beauty of what becomes possible. Not a new personality, not a perfect year, but a life with more room in it. Room for joy to land without apology. room for rest without justification, room for connection without armor. And on a night like this, when the year is still soft, when the lights are low, when nothing is demanding immediate answers, that room matters. Because what we release tonight shapes what we can enter tomorrow. So the question isn't whether letting go will change your life. It will. The question is how gently you're willing to allow that change to happen, and that's where we'll turn next. Here's where we usually go wrong. When we realize something needs to end, we tend to turn on

ourselves. We make ultimatums. We demand clarity we don't have. We try to rip something out of our lives, as if force will make the ending clean, but that kind of ending rarely frees us. It just replaces one form of tension with another. Letting something end doesn't require aggression, It requires attention. Most of the things we need to release aren't holding on because we're weak. They're holding on because they were built to keep us safe. So the first step isn't deciding what to let go of. It's recognizing why it stayed for so long.

That old story about needing to prove yourself, it helped you survive a season where approval mattered. That habit of staying guarded, it protected you from disappointment when trust felt risked. That belief, that rest had to be earned, it kept you moving when stopping didn't feel possible. None of these deserve condemnation. They deserve acknowledgement. So instead of asking, how do I get rid of this? Try a different question. What did this protect me from?

Because gratitude is what allows something to loosen its grip. Once you've named that, the ending can begin. And it begins quietly. You don't have to make a vow. you don't have to announce a new identity. You don't even have to know what replaces it yet. You only have to notice when the old pattern shows up again and choose not to obey it automatically. That's it. The ending happens not in a single moment, but in a series of small refusals to keep carrying what's finished. You pause instead of pushing. You rest instead of proving. You tell the truth

instead of rehearsing the old line. At first, it can feel uncomfortable, like stepping into space before you're sure the floor is solid. That discomfort doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. It means you're not numbing it anymore. That is what a gentle ending feels like. No drama, no collapse, just a growing sense that you don't need to live that way anymore.

And there will be days when you pick that weight back, up. That doesn't mean the ending failed. It means you're human. Endings don't require perfection. They require return. Each time you notice the old story and choose differently, even slightly, the ending deepens. The nervous system learns something new. The body learns it's safe to soften. The mind learns that change doesn't have to be violent to be real. And eventually, one day you'll realize you haven't thought about that old weight in a while. Not because you forced it away, but because it no longer fits in your hands. That's when you know the ending has taken hold, not as a loss, but as a release.

Before we close, I want to leave you with a moment, something you can return to tonight or tomorrow or any time you feel the weight starting to creep back in. And that's where we'll finish. So here we are, Christmas night, the lights are low. The year is almost finished. and in this small, unguarded window before the world asks us to be anything else, we have one last chance to choose what travels with us and what finally gets to stay behind. Letting go isn't a performance.

It doesn't require witnesses. It doesn't need to be dramatic or complete. It only needs to be honest and gentle. Tonight, you don't have to release everything. You only have to do one thing. one small, courageous private thing. Name one piece of weight you've carried long enough. Thank it for what it once protected.

And then, with the same kindness, you give a child who's finally ready to put down a heavy toy, give it permission to rest. You can do it in a single breath. You can do it in a quiet sentence spoken to the empty room. You can do it by simply noticing the old story rise and choosing not to follow it this time. However you do it, let it be gentle, because gentleness is not weakness. Gentleness is the shape courage takes when it finally trusts that it's safe to soften. One day, this night will be a memory, and what you remember won't be the struggle or the

weight, but the moment you chose gentleness over force, the moment you trusted that what comes next doesn't have to be heavier than what came before. So this isn't another resolution. This isn't a demand for more. This is a vow. I vow to be gentle with what I release tonight. I vow to honor what it once gave me, and I vow to protect the space it leaves behind. You don't have to say the words out loud, but you can feel them right here, right now,

because the year is still soft, the lights are still glowing, and you're still allowed to choose. Thank you for walking this season with me. Before we close, one quick look ahead. Tomorrow, Friday, December 26th, I'm sitting down with Mark Murphy. New York Times bestselling author of the new book, Team Players, the five critical roles you need to build a winning team. Mark is one of those rare leadership thinkers who actually grounds everything in research, not just feel-good ideas.

In this conversation, we'll explore the five essential roles every high-performing team needs. the director, the achiever, the stabilizer, the harmonizer, and the trailblazer. We'll talk about how to spot the gaps in your current team, why role switching can be more powerful than adding new people, when leaders should step back so others can step up, and how the right mix of these roles solves the everyday frustrations we all know too well. It's a conversation that feels especially timely as we move into the new year, when so many of us will be thinking not just about personal becoming, but about the teams, families, and groups. we show up for every day. You won't want to miss it. So join me Friday for that conversation.

I happen to come across, and so this is in the 90s, I happen to come across a line that Michael Jordan had said. So Michael Jordan's one day walking off the court and one of the assistant coaches, Tex Winters, the guy who architected the triangle offense, he hollers over to Michael and he goes, hey, Michael, there's no eye in team. And Jordan looks back and him and goes, yeah, but there is in win and walks off the court. And I said, yes, that is what I'm going to, when I someday write a book about teens, that is what I'm going to call it. Until then, you've been passion struck. Until next time, choose gentleness over force, choose space over weight, and live like the life you're becoming and feel it. Merry Christmas and good night.

I'm going to be able to be.