In a world that worships accumulation — of possessions, of knowledge, of accolades, of experience — the act of curtailing feels almost subversive. To curtail is to reduce, to restrain, to cut short. And in that cutting, we often imagine loss.
But not all cutting is loss. Some is liberation.
There are seasons in life when expansion is natural, even necessary. Youth is such a season — a time to collect, to explore, to indulge the open-endedness of becoming. We try on personalities like clothes, we say yes to everything, and we stretch ourselves thin in the name of growth. But no one tells us that maturation — the deep kind — requires a reversal of direction. That wisdom begins not with adding, but with pruning.
To curtail is not to quit. It is not to withdraw from life. It is, paradoxically, a commitment to life — just not the overgrown version of it.
Think of the trees. A gardener who prunes does so not to punish, but to shape, to strengthen, to allow what matters most to flourish. In the same way, curtailing is an act of choosing. Choosing what stays, and with that, choosing what must go.
In an age where burnout is a badge of honor, the most radical choice a person can make is to curtail their pace. To say: I do not need to do everything. I do not need to be everywhere. I do not need to please everyone. I only need to move in alignment with what is real.
We curtail relationships that no longer honor our becoming. We curtail habits that once served us but now stifle us. We curtail the stories we tell ourselves — the ones that say we’re not enough unless we’re always more.
But curtailing isn’t just external. The deepest work is inward.
We must curtail the voice that criticizes more than it encourages. We must curtail the part of us that holds onto resentment, thinking it will protect us. We must curtail the compulsive desire to control outcomes, and learn instead to trust the unfolding — however uncertain it may be.
There’s a quiet courage in knowing when enough is enough.
And perhaps this is where we find the true soul of the word curtail: it teaches us to reclaim time, energy, space — not to have less of life, but to live it with greater presence.
When we curtail distractions, we find depth.
When we curtail ego, we find connection.
When we curtail fear, we find freedom.
Sometimes we must even curtail our own narratives — the way we define ourselves, the roles we feel locked into, the titles that no longer fit. Life is too fluid, too intricate, too alive to be confined by an outdated script.
So ask yourself: What in my life has grown too large for its purpose? What am I carrying that once felt essential, but now feels like weight? What conversations, commitments, or beliefs need to be gently — or boldly — curtailed?
You may find that in the cutting back, something unexpected happens. You breathe easier. You see clearer. And you begin, perhaps for the first time in a long while, to recognize yourself again.
Curtailing is not an act of scarcity. It is the discipline of devotion. It says: I care too much about my life to let it be cluttered. I care too much about my purpose to be pulled in every direction. I care too much about joy to keep feeding things that only deplete me.
The world may not cheer you on when you begin to curtail. It may label you difficult, distant, or selfish. But that’s only because we’ve forgotten that power doesn’t always look like accumulation. Sometimes, it looks like discernment.
And sometimes, the most generous thing you can do for the world is to live a life that’s been lovingly, fiercely, and thoughtfully curtailed — not for lack, but for truth.