05/31/2025
Lately, I've been moving through something I didn't even have a name for until I found myself crying in the grass, begging for relief, mud on my hands, dandelion tea in my cup, and a truth rising in my chest: I can't live in survival anymore.
For years, I've carried caregiving, motherhood, grief, and an anxious relationship with my own health like armor. Always scanning, always bracing, always managing. I thought if I stayed alert enough, I could control the outcome. But all it did was exhaust me. Grief, fear, and panic became my coping tools.
Until I started letting go. This is the hardest part, because I didn't fully comprehend that "letting go" would mean purging it out.
I've cut out what was numbing me, including what I didn't realize was hurting me: energy drinks, synthetic overload, constant scrolling, fear-based media. I realized the fear machines of this world-social media and television-don't feed my spirit. They feed my fear.
Instead, I've started feeding myself peace.
I've been journaling, stretching, moving slowly, breathing again. I'm a beginner gardener now, growing from seed alongside my husband, who built our rainwater system with his hands. We're learning rhythm, not just routine. We have no idea what we are doing, but just following what feels right and light.
I'm drinking herbal tea, reconnecting with the piano, finding that like my dad and my uncle - nature & the woods are the only place where I know the rules. I've been reading a binder left to me by my great-grandmother - understanding my lineage in a way I never have. I even had a dream of my grandmother that shook something loose in me. It was grief. It was remembrance. It was permission.
Now I sit in the rain. I hold my daughters. I am learning to genuinely laugh again, i'm learning to spiral less. I listen to the silence between thoughts.
And for the first time in my life, I am letting myself
be still.
To heal.
To feel.
To live.
To lean IN.