The Four Agreements on the Hill

The first time I read The Four Agreements, I was a woman still learning how to inhabit her own body. Back then, I thought “agreements” were mental things—ideas, intentions, mantras. Now I know they live much deeper: in the nervous system, in the breath, in the way I respond when a child slams a door or my husband goes silent, in the way my heart contracts when old wounds try to take the wheel.

These agreements found their way into my real life—not in a quiet yoga studio but sprawled across the messy, beautiful chaos of being a mother, partner, co-parent, healer, and horsewoman living on a prairie hill.

Below is how they live through me now.

Agreement One: Be Impeccable With Your Word

From Overexplaining to Living in Truth

For years, my “word” was shaped by survival.

As a child, I learned to explain myself quickly and thoroughly so no one could twist my intentions. I learned to soften my voice so my stepdad wouldn’t erupt, to apologize for things I didn’t do, and to stay small so others felt comfortable.

Impeccability, at first, felt like obedience.

But now, on the hill, impeccability looks radically different.

It looks like naming my needs without apology—even when he tenses or she rolls her eyes.

It looks like telling my son, “You are not wrong for wanting a haircut,” even if that truth causes friction.

It looks like telling my body the truth: “I am overwhelmed,” instead of forcing myself to host, clean, or smile shape-shifter-style.

The word became sacred in the small moments:

• when I choose warmth instead of panic as horses like Sawyer go wild in the pasture

• when I tell myself, “You are safe,” instead of spiraling about imagined scenarios

• when my body tenses but I breathe and say, “We’re okay. It’s just energy moving.”

Impeccability, for me, is speaking from the grounded self—not the wounded protector.

Agreement Two: Don’t Take Anything Personally

The Echoes of Old Wounds

This agreement found me in the parking lot of a hockey rink.

A couple of individuals stood stiff-faced, offering no smile, no warmth. Their eyes slid away like I was something inconvenient.

And my entire body dropped into old memory: the dressing room where the girls ignored me, the year I was placed on the ice and left to fail.

I felt twelve again.

But the truth arrived like a quiet inner whisper—the higher self I’ve been learning to trust:

“Their reaction is about them, not you.”

It was the same whisper that came when:

• An unregulated adult blamed my son

• Another created chaos

• Unsolicited comments about screentime

• Teachers singled out my kids without seeing the whole picture

• He shuts down instead of showing presence

  
  

Every time someone acted from their wounds, my nervous system tried to take it personally.

But the more I practice this agreement, the clearer it becomes:

People project. People deflect. People respond from their own pain, patterns, and blind spots.

I stopped making their story about me. And in doing so, I reclaimed a piece of myself I hadn’t seen since childhood.

Agreement Three: Don’t Make Assumptions

The Invisible Conversations That Used to Fill the Room

If there is one agreement my nervous system needed the most, it is this one.

For so long, my mind filled in the gaps before anyone spoke:

“He’s avoiding me—he must be angry.”

“The kids are loud because they don’t respect me.”

“She thinks I’m a bad parent.”

“The team is judging me"

“If he is quiet, danger must be around the corner.”

Old Me lived inside invisible, catastrophic conversations.

New Me asks:

“What is actually true right now?”

And the truth is usually simple:

• The boys aren’t disrespectful—they’re overstimulated and learning boundaries.

• They aren’t plotting against me—they’re wrapped in their own anxieties.

• The text wasn’t ominous—it was just poorly worded.

• Her behavior isn’t proof I’m failing—it’s a pattern she carries, not a reflection of me at all.

  
  

Assumptions fill in the blanks with fear. Asking clarifying questions opens the door to connection.

This agreement now nurtures my marriage, my sanity, and the way I parent.

Agreement Four: Always Do Your Best

And Let That “Best” Change With My Capacity

Doing my best used to mean:

• hosting even when drained

• pushing my body past its limits

• trying to be a perfect mother, partner, co-parent, healer

• ruminating through guilt

• trying to save everyone

  
  

Now, my “best” is flexible.

On some days, it’s hosting kids on the hill with cocoa and sleds.

On others, it’s hiding under a blanket on the couch because my body says, “Enough.”

Some days I can decode wounds and hold space.

Other days I speak in short sentences and stay silent so I don’t overflow.

Some days I move mountains—shoveling the ice surface, tending horses, teaching my boys emotional intelligence.

Other days my best is resting, drinking warm tea, and letting the house be messy.

My best changes with my capacity.

And healing my nervous system has shown me that “barely functioning” Raegen is not failing—she is honoring her humanity.

Doing my best is not about perfection. It’s about presence.

It’s about living from the grounded self instead of the survival self.

And that, I am learning, is enough.

Closing Reflection:

What Ruiz wrote as ancient Toltec wisdom became, for me, a daily practice:

• in the barn

• in co-parenting

• in marriage

• in financial healing

• in mothering five very different children

• in tending my own inner 12-year-old who was over placed and unprotected

The agreements are not rules. They are reminders.

They don’t require spiritual retreats or silence—they live in the chaos of family life, where my real work is.

They live in every moment I choose regulation over reaction.

Every moment I choose clarity over assumption.

Every moment I choose grounded truth over old narratives.

Every moment I speak to myself with kindness.

They live on the hill.

They live in my breath.

They live in the woman that I AM.