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This morning, I felt like I was supposed to be somewhere.
Not just a vague pull—no, it was a tight, anxious urgency, like I was late for something important. But I wasn’t. I knew that. Still, I checked my Google Calendar three times while the kettle boiled, just to make sure.
This is the nervous system trickster I’ve come to know so well—fight, flight, or the classic fawn response, whispering that something’s wrong even when everything is right.
Right now, I’m recovering from a recent Lyme disease diagnosis. But honestly, I don’t separate illness from the spiritual path anymore. For me, every diagnosis is a deeper initiation. A portal. A reorganization of energy that forces me to pause, to listen, and to change.
Autoimmune disease, in particular, has always been a teacher of boundaries in my life. I was diagnosed with celiac disease in my twenties, and it was brutal at first—because it asked me to stop betraying myself. I had to say no. Speak up. Bring my own food. Skip the dinner party. Explain myself (again).
I had to honor my needs in rooms that didn’t know how to hold them.
That level of sovereignty is no small thing.
It still sometimes makes me feel like an outsider.
But here’s what I’ve come to know with time: when your body stops giving you full energy, it’s not abandonment. It’s wisdom. It’s redirection. It’s your soul putting up roadblocks so you finally listen.
So yes, I checked my calendar this morning like an old mental tic.
But I also caught myself.
I was about to carry my coffee outside and sit under the trees in my backyard—my sacred, everyday temple. The squirrels were already flipping out in the branches. My cat was weaving herself in and out beneath my chair, mirroring my own hypervigilance. Anxious to relax. Wanting to settle, but not quite able to.
It’s a pattern I’ve known for as long as I can remember.
A pattern so many of us know too well.
It’s the “rushing to yoga” pattern.
The “hurrying to meditate” loop.
The “frantic cat nap” energy.
The spiritual to-do list that forgot it’s allowed to rest.
But the squirrels reminded me—there’s another way. They leapt from branch to branch with zero agenda.
Just play. Just movement. Just presence.
And so I return to my practice.
The one I’ve built over years of unraveling urgency and over-functioning.
The one that reminds me:
Take a deep breath.
Feel the moment fully.
Let your senses lead you back to your soul.
Experience the miracle of just being.
As I dictated this piece, I paused to pour my French press.
I noticed the steam rise. The scent—that earthy, morning comfort. The smooth curve of the mug in my hand. The photo of my daughter and me, smiling on an Oregon beach.
This moment is enough.
Healing is slow. Awakening is gritty.
And sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is remember:
There’s nowhere to go.
Just here.
Just now.
Just you, learning how to stay.
~
Looking Deeper:
What does your body whisper when you finally get still enough to listen?
Where are you still rushing to… even when there’s nowhere to go?
~
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