Skip to main content

Week 136: Why Stillness Feels Scary (and What It Might Be Telling Us)

When rest finally arrives, why does it sometimes feel so uncomfortable? This personal reflection explores the fear of stillness, the quiet rise of grief, and what happens when we stop running from silence. A heartfelt take on loss, love, and learning to sit with grief.


I Craved Peace—But Got Something Else

This past weekend, I was craving quiet. After weeks of nonstop movement—some necessary, some self-imposed—I thought having nothing to do would feel like a gift. I imagined rest. Stillness. Time with my husband and our adult kids, home for summer.

But as the weekend approached, I started to feel uneasy. Like walking into a quiet room and realizing the silence might not be safe.


When Life Is Full, the Inner World Can Feel Chaotic

Even when everything looks fine on the outside, my internal world can feel like a tennis match—grief and distraction smacking me back and forth. I wanted to rest. And on the surface, I did: music, a walk, a drink, time with family. It was lovely.

But rest doesn’t always feel like relief. Sometimes, slowing down is scary.


Why Stillness Can Trigger Grief

Stillness creates space—and in that space, things rise. Things we’ve been avoiding.

Grief. Longing. Sadness. Questions we don’t want to answer.

So I scrolled. I sat through a solar panel pitch I didn’t ask for (thanks, husband). I didn’t clean, didn’t cook, didn’t move much. I just… sat. And avoided. As best I could.

There was one honest, grounding conversation with the kids about their dad. It touched something real. But mostly, I stayed away from grief. Or tried to.

And yet… I bawled at a random YouTube clip of the Hollywood Medium. So yeah. Grief was still there. Just beneath the calm. Waiting.


Small Moments That Catch You Off Guard

At one point, a photo of Lily appeared on the digital frame in my room—her smiling face, one I hadn’t seen in a while. It tugged at something deep. I smiled back and whispered, I really miss you. Then I made my bed.

Later, while meeting with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, she said: “I always have dreams of Lily.” I smiled. I’ve heard that before—from more than one person. But I haven’t dreamed of her in a long time.

That lingered.


The Calm Surface Isn’t the Whole Story

The sea looked calm this weekend. And maybe, on the outside, I did too. But I know what’s underneath. The waves are still there. Still moving. Still waiting.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe stillness isn’t dangerous after all.

Maybe it’s just honest.


What About You?

Have you ever noticed emotions rise in moments of stillness?

What do you do when quiet feels like too much? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.



Labels:

We’d Love to Hear From You

Share a reflection, a memory, or just say hello below.

Popular posts from this blog

The Version of Me I’m Leaving Behind

​ April found me still reminding myself to pause before I speak. My patience feels thinner these days. But something else has shifted too. My relationship with my mother is ongoing and complicated. Boundaries have helped. It’s getting easier to hold them—which, strangely, makes saying yes feel cleaner too. I even set up a friendship blind date for her and a client, meeting them there to help it along. They both said they were lonely. They both said they wanted connection. Neither followed up. Instead, my mom booked a bus trip with the neighbor she insists she can’t stand. I laughed when she told me—really laughed. Not because it was surprising, but because it wasn’t. She moves toward what’s familiar, even when it doesn’t suit her. I know that pattern. I’ve lived inside a version of it. She either copies my hairstyle and clothes or criticizes them. There’s rarely a middle ground. I’m less affected than I used to be—not because she’s changed, but because I’m starting to see her m...
Read more

Week 152: Bearing Witness: Anne Frank and the Father Who Returned Alone

The third and final reflection on collective and personal grief and on the love that survives when everything else is lost. Bearing Witness: Anne Frank and the Father Who Returned Alone When Otto Frank stepped off the train back into Amsterdam in June 1945, the city he returned to was both familiar and unrecognizable. The canals still shimmered in the summer light, the bells still rang from the Westerkerk, but the laughter of his wife and daughters was gone. The war had ended, but for Otto, the silence had only just begun. For weeks, he searched. He wrote letters, visited refugee centers, and followed every rumor that his daughters, Margot and Anne, might still be alive. In his pocket, he carried hope like a scrap of paper—folded, worn, almost transparent. But each inquiry ended the same way: a shake of the head, a name on a list, a quiet apology. Eventually, the truth reached him—Anne and Margot had not died in Auschwitz as first reported, but in Bergen-Belsen, of typhus, just wee...
Read more

Week 153: Closing the Series & Turning Toward November

As I close this three-part series on grief—its collective echoes, its private chambers, its impossible tenderness—I find myself turning, as I always do this time of year, toward November. It’s the month that holds everything. Lily’s angelversary sits at its center like an ache I can feel before the calendar even flips. First in my dreams, then in my bones. My body always seems to remember before my mind gets the memo. One moment I’m functioning—answering texts, folding laundry. The next I’m swirling: emotional to numb, numb to sobbing on the dining room floor while her favorite pop songs pulse through the speakers, as if she’s just in the next room asking me to turn it up. And then the next morning… nothing. A strange, hollow quiet. Not peace, not calm—just a blank space where last night’s tidal wave had been. It still startles me how grief moves like unpredictable weather, sweeping in and receding on its own terms. November has a way of unearthing the memories I’ve tucked c...
Read more