The Sacred Work of Stillness

Ever since I stepped away from my stable career in the sky, life has felt like a long initiation. Full of chaos, uncertainty, and moments of deep questioning. There are days I wonder if I made the wrong choice. Days I think about going back to the skies where things were simpler, more structured, and less vulnerable.

The world of healing can be both beautiful and brutal. It asks everything of you: your trust, your patience, your authenticity. And when the external rewards don’t match the internal effort, it’s easy to feel invisible. I post online and maybe four people respond. I share from my heart and sometimes it echoes back with silence.

When that happens, a familiar voice in me says, “You’re not doing enough.”
But lately, another voice (quieter and steadier) has begun to whisper, “Wait.”

This waiting is reallllly uncomfortable.
It doesn’t feel like success.
It feels like being suspended between worlds. One foot in faith, the other in fear.

And yet, something deep inside knows that this stillness isn’t punishment. It’s sacred.

I’m learning that the pause itself is a teacher. It asks me to release my need for validation and remember who I am without the constant doing. It’s showing me that integration (real, soul-level integration) happens in the quiet moments when nothing seems to be working. It's teaching me to look for the myriad of ways that the universe has always had my back. It's teaching me to trust -- not in humans, structures, or finances, but in the source of creation itself.

Spirit keeps reminding me: growth doesn’t always look like movement. Sometimes it looks like standing still in the middle of a storm, trusting that the ground beneath you is rearranging in ways you can’t yet see. Yikes. That's a big ask. But it's a VERY important one.

If you find yourself in this kind of season, where motivation feels distant and clarity hasn’t yet arrived, please know this:
You’re not broken. You’re becoming.
You’re not failing. You’re integrating.

So I’m learning to honor the pause.
To trust that stillness can be just as transformative as action.
To believe that what looks like emptiness is actually fertile soil.

And maybe that’s what healing really is: not rushing toward light, but allowing the dark to hold us until we’re ready to rise again.

If this reflection resonates with you, you’re welcome to share it or reach out through my website. Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do for one another is to admit that we’re both still learning to trust the pause.