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This morning my brain feels like a pinball machine.
Thoughts ricochet off a dozen flashing bumpers. The ping of my phone. The ding of an email. The hum of the dryer. The soup on the stove. My 15-year-old calls from school. My mom’s life alert company rings to say she’s had a fall.
My heart pounds. Blood pressure soars.
My sisters, my brother-in-law, and I are all texting and holding our breath.
The fire department is on their way.
She’s okay, thank God. She had dropped her life alert while taking a shower. Oy. The cortisol and adrenaline linger long after the call ends.
I try to return to my work, to get into that elusive “flow state.” Instead, I’m a hummingbird, flitting from thing to thing, wings blurred, heart racing, accomplishing nothing.
And then I see the Quince tab open. Oh, those Quince sweaters are so cute and affordable.
Wait.
Stop.
This is exactly what I’m talking about.
I remind myself what I teach my clients—when the world feels too fast, start small. Start with posture and breath.
The Two-Minute Reset
I sit tall. Shoulders soften. I exhale all the angst out.
Deep inhale. Exhale.
Inhale again. Exhale longer this time.
For two minutes I do nothing but breathe.
I feel the air moving in and out, the rise and fall of my belly.
My mind wanders, of course it does, and each time I bring it back.
Robin’s got this.
Oh, of course. I switch to third-person self-talk, a technique I’ve used with clients, students, and myself.
It sounds simple, but it really works. Speaking to myself in the third person creates psychological distance, like stepping back from a painting to see it clearly. It shifts me from reactive to reflective, from problem to solution, from drowning in emotion to observing it.
Robin is feeling scattered, I tell myself. But she’s beginning to feel better. Those breaths are helping. She’d like to feel focused and get something done today. She can do this. She’s going to make a list and start one thing at a time.
I smile because she’s right.
Each breath resets the game and gives me another chance to aim.
The ball stops careening wildly and starts moving with intention.
And that’s the thing about peace.
It doesn’t arrive in a flash of inspiration.
It’s built one breath, one posture, one gentle redirection at a time.
~
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