There is a quiet belief many of us carry:
“One day I’ll finally overcome this.
One day I won’t feel anxious, doubtful, heavy, afraid.
One day I will stop being this way.”
But what if the journey isn’t toward erasing those parts of us -
what if the journey is toward learning to stay with ourselves
when they rise?
In my work - and in my own life - I often see the same pattern.
A thought arrives and spirals.
The nervous system tightens.
The mind starts preparing for impact.
And somewhere inside, a quiet voice asks -
“Why is this still here?"
We assume this means we’re failing.
But what if it simply means
we are sensitive beings living in a complex world -
souls with depth, awareness, memory, longing -
and the nervous system is trying to keep us safe?
Some parts of us may never fully disappear.
Fear. Tenderness. The shadow of old stories.
Not because we are broken -
but because we are woven from contrast.
So the orientation shifts.
Instead of forcing the darkness away,
we come back to what is real.
The weight of the body supported by the Earth.
Air entering and leaving the lungs.
Birdsong.
Dishes in the sink.
Someone we love.
Our own hand resting on our chest -
saying quietly: I’m here.
And the storm softens slightly
because we are no longer abandoning ourselves
to survive it.
We begin to remember something sacred:
We don’t have to resolve every wound
before we are allowed to live.
We don’t need to feel fearless
before we take the next gentle step.
We don’t have to adore every part of ourselves
in order to treat those parts with kindness.
Sometimes the deepest healing begins with:
“I will not leave myself -
even here.”
And if you are reading this
inside your own inner weather system -
please know:
You are not alone.
You are not behind.
You are not “too much” or “not enough.”
You are standing at a threshold -
learning the art
of staying with yourself
as you cross.
And that, too, is holy work.
With love and blessings,
Susan