By T.K. Coleman

Sometimes we stereotype boundaries as barriers—rigid lines that box us in or hold us back. But boundaries are what make freedom possible. 

Boundaries are like a magical force disguised as something mundane. Behind the outer appearance of routines, rules, and rituals lies a hidden power that creates space for synchronicity and serendipity.

I think of boundaries like improvisational jazz.

Let’s say you’re a saxophonist or a pianist and what you love most is to play around with melodies and harmonies, to take improvisational risks. 

You might have some types of songs that you enjoy playing more than others, but for the most part, the joy you get as a musician isn’t from a particular song, but from this broader musical game you’re playing to make the song your own, to put your unique signature on the song in some kind of way.

That approach can be quite fun, but there’s one problem: you can’t improvise without a predetermined structure. You need a song that has a well-defined musical structure. This is my hook, my verse, my chorus, or whatever. That structure is what makes it possible to improvise. Without it, you’re just playing a bunch of sporadic notes that never make sense or strike a chord with people.

So, if improv is your goal—or rather, the game you enjoy playing—then structure is your starting point. What song are you trying to play? “Well, I don’t really want to commit to a song. That will cramp my style. I just want to go with the flow and improvise.” But that doesn’t work. You need to commit to starting with a specific song, but you don’t have to cling to that song. You can use the song as a contextualizing agent for your creative iterations.

Coloring outside the lines is cool and delightfully rebellious, but where are you going to get your lines from? Without lines, you’re just scribbling. With lines, you’re making a statement.

It’s easy to stereotype constraints, rules, commitments, and guidelines as boring or draining, but the lesson from improv is this: Boundaries are not bullies that rob us of our joy. They are bodyguards that protect our dreams.

Our relationship to boundaries can be transformed when we treat them like a jazz musician treats the structure of a song: not as a cage, but as the necessary framework that lets the improvisation come alive. The structure isn’t the goal of the music—it’s the launching pad for surprise, play, and discovery. We can then commit just enough to give our creativity something to push against, but not so much that we forget the real joy is in the improvisation itself.

What are the structures that give you the freedom to improvise your life? What are the rules, rhythms, or lines that make your world not just functional, but fun?

If you’re feeling creatively drained, aesthetically uninspired, or too boxed in to improvise, some new and improved boundaries might be the answer.

Struggling with boundary clutter, emotional clutter, or physical clutter? Book a Clutter Counseling session with T.K. Coleman.

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By T.K. Coleman

Promises are tricky things.

If they were coins, they’d have two sides: making them and keeping them.

Making them is convenient.

A promise like “I’ll donate what I don’t use” can make accumulating things feel charitable.
A promise like “I’ll organize all this when life slows down” can make procrastination look like patience.
A promise like “I vow to never do that again” can sound like redemption.
A promise like “We’ll take that vacation soon” can buy hope, even if the calendar never changes.
A promise like “I’ll pay later with interest” can open doors that cash can’t.

Yes, making promises is convenient. But keeping them is costly.

The convenience of a promise is balanced by the cost of delivery—or the consequences of disappointment.

Delivery requires effort and sacrifice. It isn’t measured by what we say, but by what we do.

Disappointment erodes trust. When promises pile up without action, the entire coin loses its value.

Ask anyone who’s waited for a call that never came.
Or circled a date on the calendar for a trip that never happened.
Or worse—anyone who stopped believing in themselves because of vows broken to their own soul.

The point isn’t to make more promises. It isn’t even just to keep the ones we make. It’s to learn how to make promises that we can—and truly want to—keep.

Before you make your next promise, ask:

Am I making this promise to avoid conflict?
Do my promises reflect my values—or other people’s expectations?
Is a promise the best way to solve this problem—or to create this result?
Could I create the experience I want without making a promise at all?
And if a promise is truly necessary … am I prepared to pay the price of keeping it?

Anyone can mint promises. Fewer can spend them wisely.

Struggling with emotional, physical, or mental clutter? Book a Clutter Counseling session with T.K. Coleman.

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By T.K. Coleman

I recently attended a silent retreat at a monastery.

At one point, while sitting outside in meditation, I saw a beautiful image hanging on the wall of a chapel. My immediate thought was: I should take a picture of that and share it on social media.

As I reached for my phone, I paused and asked myself:

“Do I ignore my phone and continue to bask in the richness of this silence?”

Or…

“Do I get online and make some noise about the richness of this silence?”

I ignored the phone and returned to the silence.

I grew up on, “Dance like no one is watching.”

Now I navigate a world that says, “Hey kid…you gotta dance! Everyone is watching!”

Each one contains a kind of truth.

When we unplug from the commotion of crowds, we discover the moves and grooves of the soul. We learn to dance to the rhythms of our true self.

When we reach out and connect with others, we master the steps that only a community can teach. We learn to move in harmony with the world.

Silence is like a dance with yourself; connection is like a dance with others—and both are beautiful.

The beauty isn’t found in renouncing one or the other—it’s in knowing when to join each dance.

Without silence, we lose ourselves.

Without connection, we lose each other.

It’s a delicate dance.

Struggling with physical, mental, or calendar clutter? Book a Clutter Counseling session with T.K. Coleman.

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By T.K. Coleman

A boy comes home from his first philosophy class.
He asks his mom: “Is the glass half empty or half full?”
She smiles. “It depends. Are you drinking, or are you pouring?”

The condition of the glass is framed by the intention of the observer.

Half-empty isn’t always lack. Sometimes it’s an invitation to awareness.

A half-empty glass can mean…

You’ve already made progress.
There’s still work to be done.
You’re in the middle of the story.
It’s time to decide whether to savor or refill.
You’ve shared part of what you had.
You still have something left to give.
The moment isn’t finished yet.

Emptiness—and fullness—are in the eye of the beholder.

The important thing isn’t how you name it, but what you do with it.

What are your half-empty glasses telling you?

Struggling with mental or emotional clutter? Book a Clutter Counseling session with T.K. Coleman.

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