Wow, you are such a mirror! I felt the same thing, a quiet dispair pulling me down. Unable to create and feeling that hopelessness knocking at the door. I sat, I cooked, I rested. But it wasn’t until you named it this morning that I knew. That’s the power of community. Extending our hands to each other and sharing what we have lifts us all up. Thank you 🙏
Sometimes we’re doing all the right things—sitting, cooking, resting—and still don’t know what we’re in until someone names it out loud. Naming doesn’t fix it, but it removes the loneliness.
That quiet despair loses its grip when it’s witnessed. That’s the gift of community—not advice, not solutions, just recognition.
Thank you for reaching back and naming it too. That’s how the lift happens.
Monica, your essay brings my mother, Margaret, to mind/heart. This was her practice of prayer: tidy-up, vacuum, wash the surfaces of baseboards, kitchen counters, bathroom porcelains, bedrooms and hallway, floors and walls, window sills! so many crevices to brush clean. I thought it was how we would play together. She taught me by example how to return the sparkle of calm to our rooms. When our tasks were completed we would rest, breathe in peace and share a laugh and a sweet treat at the kitchen table.
What you described was prayer. Not the kind made of words, but the kind made of care, rhythm, and presence. Your mother wasn’t avoiding feeling—she was restoring order so peace could return, room by room.
That moment at the end—resting, breathing, laughing, sharing something sweet—that was the still point. The calm she was creating all along.
Thank you for bringing Margaret into this space. Her practice belongs here.
Thank you. I’m really glad it met you where you are.
If it helped you feel even a little steadier or less alone, then it did what it was meant to do. Bless you too, and thank you for taking the time to tell me.
This moved through me slowly and stayed. I recognise that heavy quiet you describe, the kind that isn’t panic or pain but something deeper and more sobering. A bodily knowing that arrives before language, before tears, before meaning. The way you name it as long-view sorrow feels exactly right.
What touched me most was your honesty about having done the work and still being brought to stillness. There is something so important in that, the reminder that healing doesn’t make us impermeable. It makes us more able to feel the truth of the world, and sometimes that truth is simply too vast to metabolise quickly.
The ordinary care you describe, sweeping, dusting, eating something warm, feels sacred in this context. Not avoidance, not collapse, but reverence for a nervous system that needs gentleness rather than insight. It gave me permission just reading it.
Thank you for writing this without performance, without urgency, without trying to turn pain into productivity. It feels like a hand on the back of the heart saying you are allowed to stop. You are allowed to be still. And that is not weakness, it is wisdom.
And take care of yourself, keep taking your advice, posts like this can have a rebound effect. Thank you for sharing
Your words feel like a quiet echo in the same room I was writing from.
Yes—a bodily knowing that arrives before language. That’s exactly it. Not panic. Not collapse. Just that sober, unshakable truth settling in the bones before we can make sense of anything.
What you named about healing is so important. It doesn’t make us untouchable. It softens us to reality—and sometimes that softness means we feel more, not less. That’s not regression. That’s evolution.
And I felt this line land in my chest: “Not avoidance, not collapse, but reverence for a nervous system that needs gentleness rather than insight.” That might be one of the truest things I’ve read in a while.
Thank you for receiving the piece with such open presence. And for reminding me to take my own advice—I will. Slowly, gently, still.
Thank you for writing this, Monica. I read it slowly.
I’m also a survivor of sexual assault, and you captured something I don’t always have words for, that drained, heavy stillness that shows up before the mind can make sense of it. The line about “holy stillness, not a hustle” felt especially true.
I also appreciate how concrete your care suggestions are. Sweep. Dust. Sit. Warm food. Hand on heart. No performance required.
As someone who teaches mindfulness, I loved seeing nervous system wisdom offered in such an accessible way.
Thank you for naming this, and for holding readers with so much gentleness.
That “drained, heavy stillness” is exactly it—it arrives before words, before action, and before the nervous system even knows what to call it. I’m moved that the line about holy stillness resonated with you. That stillness isn’t collapse. It’s sacred pause.
And yes to the concrete. There’s something deeply kind about sweeping or warming food when the soul is raw. No pressure to process—just care, movement, presence.
Your words mean a lot coming from someone who teaches mindfulness. We’re speaking the same language from different paths, and I’m grateful our paths crossed here.
Getting grounded in everyday life, in simple tasks. This helps so much. For me, getting out in nature helps too. I live within fifteen miles of Acadia National Park. Walking there, looking at the ocean, seeing what is bigger than me, bigger than the evil abd hypocrisy, that helps.
Yes! I am surrounded by the beautiful blue ridge mts. Currently unable to actually hike, so I enjoy their majesty from afar. Frankly it’s this landscape the prevents me from moving closer to my kids, both live in high density, flat landscapes. so. Momma is staying put bc I have nirvanna!
Yes, this! Exactly this! I myself have been struggling with the death of my father over the weekend, an imminent estrangement from my husband's family, the usual stresses of life (cars in need of fixing, appliances in need of replacing), along with all this cultural cruelty.
Today, I feel very still. The tears are falling. My heart is hurting. I can't move.
Thank you for giving me the permission to just sit and listen to what's inside for awhile. To not push myself to be productive.
All of this hurts, but that's because I still have a heart.
Oh sweetheart… that is a lot for one heart to be holding at once. Loss, family strain, daily life pressure, and the wider cruelty in the world—it makes complete sense that your body has gone still. Sometimes stillness is not shutdown, it’s protection. It’s your system saying, this is tender, move gently.
The tears, the heaviness, the not-being-able-to-move… none of that is failure. It’s grief moving through at the pace your heart can handle. Productivity has no place here. Presence does.
And you said something so important: it hurts because you still have a heart. Yes. That pain is proof of aliveness, of love, of connection. Nothing is wrong with you for feeling this. You are responding exactly as a human heart does when it has loved deeply.
Sit. Breathe. Put a hand on your chest if that feels okay. Let the waves come and go. You don’t have to carry all of this at once, and you don’t have to carry it alone. 💛
Oh Monica.. I am so sorry that happened to you. And I am so grateful for the piece that you wrote. Because you’re right, naming something brings it out of the closet and takes some of the sting away. 💕
Such a beautiful piece and peace, Monica. I love the idea of allowing and be-ing instead of stuffing the sorrow away with action. Next time the fog of sadness rolls over me, or the storm of hurt hits me like a bus, I will try to remember to breathe and allow my Self to come back to centre when it is ready. Because if I can't honour myself by believing I am hurting, who will?
I haven’t been able to do much for a month…sick in body, mind, heart…. Just stillness all month….grief, anger, fatigue….its all there. Yesterday I spent an hour with my wonderful therapist on zoom and spent the day just puttering, reading, re-regulating…. Today I got up at 4 -went back to bed at 5, got up again at 10. Made coffee, visited with the women live with, did some dishes. More and more women are being told in so many different ways to perform, work, be busy…. You know I know the drill!!!! Not today. Today I smile
Wow, you are such a mirror! I felt the same thing, a quiet dispair pulling me down. Unable to create and feeling that hopelessness knocking at the door. I sat, I cooked, I rested. But it wasn’t until you named it this morning that I knew. That’s the power of community. Extending our hands to each other and sharing what we have lifts us all up. Thank you 🙏
Yes. This is it.
Sometimes we’re doing all the right things—sitting, cooking, resting—and still don’t know what we’re in until someone names it out loud. Naming doesn’t fix it, but it removes the loneliness.
That quiet despair loses its grip when it’s witnessed. That’s the gift of community—not advice, not solutions, just recognition.
Thank you for reaching back and naming it too. That’s how the lift happens.
Monica, your essay brings my mother, Margaret, to mind/heart. This was her practice of prayer: tidy-up, vacuum, wash the surfaces of baseboards, kitchen counters, bathroom porcelains, bedrooms and hallway, floors and walls, window sills! so many crevices to brush clean. I thought it was how we would play together. She taught me by example how to return the sparkle of calm to our rooms. When our tasks were completed we would rest, breathe in peace and share a laugh and a sweet treat at the kitchen table.
Oh, this is beautiful. Truly.
What you described was prayer. Not the kind made of words, but the kind made of care, rhythm, and presence. Your mother wasn’t avoiding feeling—she was restoring order so peace could return, room by room.
That moment at the end—resting, breathing, laughing, sharing something sweet—that was the still point. The calm she was creating all along.
Thank you for bringing Margaret into this space. Her practice belongs here.
Thank you for this heartfelt post, Monica. I can relate to it and feel better for having read it. Bless you.
Thank you. I’m really glad it met you where you are.
If it helped you feel even a little steadier or less alone, then it did what it was meant to do. Bless you too, and thank you for taking the time to tell me.
Why do I feel like I always need to be doing something? Thank you for this.
Because you were taught that worth comes from motion. From fixing, managing, proving, or performing. Most of us were.
Stillness can feel uncomfortable at first because it asks nothing of you except presence. No productivity. No improvement. No explanation.
You’re welcome. And you’re not wrong for feeling that pull to do. You’re just learning that you don’t have to answer it every time.
I constantly feel this way. Guilt if I’m not
THIS!!!
This moved through me slowly and stayed. I recognise that heavy quiet you describe, the kind that isn’t panic or pain but something deeper and more sobering. A bodily knowing that arrives before language, before tears, before meaning. The way you name it as long-view sorrow feels exactly right.
What touched me most was your honesty about having done the work and still being brought to stillness. There is something so important in that, the reminder that healing doesn’t make us impermeable. It makes us more able to feel the truth of the world, and sometimes that truth is simply too vast to metabolise quickly.
The ordinary care you describe, sweeping, dusting, eating something warm, feels sacred in this context. Not avoidance, not collapse, but reverence for a nervous system that needs gentleness rather than insight. It gave me permission just reading it.
Thank you for writing this without performance, without urgency, without trying to turn pain into productivity. It feels like a hand on the back of the heart saying you are allowed to stop. You are allowed to be still. And that is not weakness, it is wisdom.
And take care of yourself, keep taking your advice, posts like this can have a rebound effect. Thank you for sharing
Your words feel like a quiet echo in the same room I was writing from.
Yes—a bodily knowing that arrives before language. That’s exactly it. Not panic. Not collapse. Just that sober, unshakable truth settling in the bones before we can make sense of anything.
What you named about healing is so important. It doesn’t make us untouchable. It softens us to reality—and sometimes that softness means we feel more, not less. That’s not regression. That’s evolution.
And I felt this line land in my chest: “Not avoidance, not collapse, but reverence for a nervous system that needs gentleness rather than insight.” That might be one of the truest things I’ve read in a while.
Thank you for receiving the piece with such open presence. And for reminding me to take my own advice—I will. Slowly, gently, still.
Monica . . . I hear you, understand and I have been there too. You are a brave and amazing woman
Thank you for writing this, Monica. I read it slowly.
I’m also a survivor of sexual assault, and you captured something I don’t always have words for, that drained, heavy stillness that shows up before the mind can make sense of it. The line about “holy stillness, not a hustle” felt especially true.
I also appreciate how concrete your care suggestions are. Sweep. Dust. Sit. Warm food. Hand on heart. No performance required.
As someone who teaches mindfulness, I loved seeing nervous system wisdom offered in such an accessible way.
Thank you for naming this, and for holding readers with so much gentleness.
Thank you so much for this, truly.
That “drained, heavy stillness” is exactly it—it arrives before words, before action, and before the nervous system even knows what to call it. I’m moved that the line about holy stillness resonated with you. That stillness isn’t collapse. It’s sacred pause.
And yes to the concrete. There’s something deeply kind about sweeping or warming food when the soul is raw. No pressure to process—just care, movement, presence.
Your words mean a lot coming from someone who teaches mindfulness. We’re speaking the same language from different paths, and I’m grateful our paths crossed here.
Getting grounded in everyday life, in simple tasks. This helps so much. For me, getting out in nature helps too. I live within fifteen miles of Acadia National Park. Walking there, looking at the ocean, seeing what is bigger than me, bigger than the evil abd hypocrisy, that helps.
Yes! I am surrounded by the beautiful blue ridge mts. Currently unable to actually hike, so I enjoy their majesty from afar. Frankly it’s this landscape the prevents me from moving closer to my kids, both live in high density, flat landscapes. so. Momma is staying put bc I have nirvanna!
Yes, this! Exactly this! I myself have been struggling with the death of my father over the weekend, an imminent estrangement from my husband's family, the usual stresses of life (cars in need of fixing, appliances in need of replacing), along with all this cultural cruelty.
Today, I feel very still. The tears are falling. My heart is hurting. I can't move.
Thank you for giving me the permission to just sit and listen to what's inside for awhile. To not push myself to be productive.
All of this hurts, but that's because I still have a heart.
Oh sweetheart… that is a lot for one heart to be holding at once. Loss, family strain, daily life pressure, and the wider cruelty in the world—it makes complete sense that your body has gone still. Sometimes stillness is not shutdown, it’s protection. It’s your system saying, this is tender, move gently.
The tears, the heaviness, the not-being-able-to-move… none of that is failure. It’s grief moving through at the pace your heart can handle. Productivity has no place here. Presence does.
And you said something so important: it hurts because you still have a heart. Yes. That pain is proof of aliveness, of love, of connection. Nothing is wrong with you for feeling this. You are responding exactly as a human heart does when it has loved deeply.
Sit. Breathe. Put a hand on your chest if that feels okay. Let the waves come and go. You don’t have to carry all of this at once, and you don’t have to carry it alone. 💛
Thank you
This helped my tears to surface
This was the voice I was needing
You’re so welcome.
When tears surface, it means something inside finally felt safe enough to speak. You didn’t force them. You listened.
I’m honored my words met you in that moment. The voice you needed was already inside you. I just helped clear the space so you could hear it.
Me too. Stillness is all I can do.
Yes. And that’s enough.
There are seasons when stillness isn’t a choice, it’s the only honest response. When action would be a kind of violence against what’s tender.
Staying still is not giving up. It’s staying with yourself.
And then you wrote this--thank your soul for me.
Oh Monica.. I am so sorry that happened to you. And I am so grateful for the piece that you wrote. Because you’re right, naming something brings it out of the closet and takes some of the sting away. 💕
Much needed today
Thank you
I know I’m not alone, but the validation is still a balm🩷
Such a beautiful piece and peace, Monica. I love the idea of allowing and be-ing instead of stuffing the sorrow away with action. Next time the fog of sadness rolls over me, or the storm of hurt hits me like a bus, I will try to remember to breathe and allow my Self to come back to centre when it is ready. Because if I can't honour myself by believing I am hurting, who will?
Yes. Exactly this.
When we rush to do something with sorrow, we often abandon ourselves in the process. Allowing isn’t passive. It’s an act of deep self-honoring.
That last line you wrote is the heart of it: if I can’t believe myself when I’m hurting, who will?
Breathing, waiting, and letting yourself return in your own timing is not weakness. It’s trust. And it’s how we stay whole.
I haven’t been able to do much for a month…sick in body, mind, heart…. Just stillness all month….grief, anger, fatigue….its all there. Yesterday I spent an hour with my wonderful therapist on zoom and spent the day just puttering, reading, re-regulating…. Today I got up at 4 -went back to bed at 5, got up again at 10. Made coffee, visited with the women live with, did some dishes. More and more women are being told in so many different ways to perform, work, be busy…. You know I know the drill!!!! Not today. Today I smile