The Wisdom in the Pause

What I Learned When I Let My Body Set the Pace

Artist unknown / Image from Europeana on Unsplash

One of my teachers has often said, “If you don’t know what to do next, just wait.”

And that’s what I’ve been doing.

For the first three months I was on Substack, essays flowed easily. Inspiration came naturally. I felt clear, energized, and aligned. The writing felt like me.

And then it all just…stopped.

I didn’t plan to take a break, but the pause came anyway. I wasn’t sure what it meant. I wondered if my season of writing in this form had ended. I’ve learned over time that I move in cycles, usually three months at a time. I dive into something with full presence and passion, pulling from my creativity, lived experience, and inner knowing. I build something and I offer it to the world. And then I rest.

While my somatic practice has continued in the background, this pause has been more about creative projects. It’s the creating and the sharing that have slowed - the outward expressions.

Last winter it was wellness boxes. This spring, it was essays. And each time I think, maybe this is the one! The sustainable thing! And often...it isn’t.

But what I’ve come to understand is that I’m a sprinter, not a long-distance runner. I thrive on project-based work, and I need a break in between. That part’s tricky when you work for yourself, when no external structure tells you when to start or stop.

That way of working doesn’t fit well into a capitalist framework, where value is tied to continuous production, and worth is measured in consistent output. But when you’re working for yourself, there’s no imposed system to override your natural rhythms. You’re faced with your own body and your own breath. It’s just you and your own nervous system. And mine was asking for deep rest.

So I listened.

When the essays stopped coming, I didn’t push. I stepped back. For the past month, I’ve slowed down in a way I never have before. Not just mentally but physiologically. My nervous system settled into a resting place I had never quite accessed before. I allowed my body to find its own pace and surrendered to the question of what comes next, free from urgency, pressure, or performance.

And somewhere in that stillness, something began to shift.

What I’ve realized is that I can’t force myself to do things out of alignment. If I try to create something just for money, my body will shut down. It’s not even a choice at this point. My system will not let me continue. That’s how deeply I’ve come to rely on my own internal compass.

This has been one of the hardest lessons to learn in a culture that teaches us to hustle, perform, and prove our worth through productivity. I’ve been unlearning all of that. I’m starting to understand that my value isn’t something I have to earn. I am valuable because I exist. Living in the world in alignment with who I am is its own kind of offering. An offer without being an offer. Just me, being fully myself.

When I was finally replenished, the spark came back. Gently, and not all at once. And I noticed: the desire to create again came from alignment. It came from deep listening, and from having waited.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I’ll never write another essay. Maybe I’ll write a hundred more. I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is that I’ve lived into something this past month. I’ve moved from understanding the idea of rest to embodying it. I stopped ‘doing’ stillness and started ‘being’ it.

When I was no longer trying to figure things out, something deeper emerged. I felt and acknowledged the grief, pressure, and beliefs that kept me in a cycle of constant doing. I had to meet the emotions underneath. I had to stand strong in trust. I let my nervous system guide me. I didn’t try to make it happen. I just did it. I let go.

Stephen Porges, who developed Polyvagal Theory, invites us to “Go at the pace of the slowest part of our nervous system.” And that’s exactly what I did.

And maybe part of what made this level of surrender possible was loss.

The recent death of a close friend helped me get there. He died unexpectedly in his sleep at 55. No known cause. And a few weeks ago, I heard about a friend of a friend who also died in her sleep at 49. No warning or explanation.

These moments remind me we really don’t know how much time we have. Whether I have one day or thirty more years, I want to savor the simple things and the beauty of just being alive. I want to cherish the sacred. And the truth is, I don’t think I could live any other way anymore.

So maybe this piece is just an exhale into the wind. But if you’re reading it, and you find yourself in a moment of uncertainty and don’t know what to do next, let this be a reminder:

There is wisdom and intelligence in the pause.

I am living proof that when you let yourself rest, when you let yourself truly slow down, the wisdom in that stillpoint will guide you to whatever comes next.

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