Somewhere in my healing journey, there was this gentle slowing down – a soft withdrawal from my usual urgency to react, to fix. Before, when I felt triggered or when sadness and panic hit, there was always this restlessness, this need to fix something, to move quickly. That place was not comfortable to be in.
What I never expected was that this slowing down was actually nature’s way of teaching me to be present. Through my trauma, I discovered this was a sign in my healing journey – that I was learning to let go and be more accepting.
One day when my best friend was asking me how I was doing, the words just came: “I’m steeping, like a tea bag in hot water.” I was surprised I even said that, because it was exactly how it felt.
Now when I need this time, I grow quieter, naturally gravitating toward solitude – long walks in nature, visits to the spa, or simply sitting on my balcony watching the sky and trees. I write sometimes, or just think, or don’t think at all. During this time, I don’t rush to process or understand. I just let whatever I’m feeling exist.
There’s something profound in this stillness. A calmness emerges that I never found in all my previous rushing toward solutions. Realizations surface naturally, like bubbles rising in still water. And in those moments, I find myself talking to my Creator – not in desperation, but in surrender.
“This is where I am. I need your help.”
It might take a day, sometimes longer, but eventually something shifts. There’s lightness. Clarity. A deeper understanding I couldn’t have forced. And always, always, humility.
I realize now that healing doesn’t happen through panic or the urge for immediate fixes, but through presence. Through simply being with what is, without needing to change it right away.
The most healing happens when I stop trying to heal and just… steep.
This process has taught me that sometimes the answer isn’t to do something about our emotions, but to be with them. To trust that sitting quietly with our experience, creating space for it to exist, allows something natural and necessary to unfold.
I’ve learned I need time alone with whatever I’m going through. And in that solitude, in that steeping, I find not emptiness but fullness. Not avoidance but the deepest kind of presence.
Maybe what we call healing isn’t always about getting better faster. Maybe sometimes it’s about learning to be present with ourselves exactly as we are, trusting that this presence itself transforms us in ways our rushing never could.
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