Do Not Disturb
Shown on a letter board in front of a dandelion blanket is a quote from Anne Morrow Lindbergh that reads, “Patience, patience, patience is what the sea teaches.”
Editor’s note: This is written from my current vantage point
Welcome back, curious minds and kind hearts, to The Things That Stay, my September series about reflection, integration, and what we carry forward as life continues to change us.
Over the past few weeks, I’ve written about unexpected shifts, the parts of ourselves worth keeping, and what happens when we return to old dreams with new perspectives.
If you’re just joining The Things That Stay, you can catch up on the previous chapters here:
Chapter One: Somewhere in the Mix
Chapter Two: Keep the Change
Chapter Three: Still in the Running
Or, stay right here as each chapter pulls its own weight.
Meanwhile, this week feels a little quieter.
Literally.
Most mornings, I start my day at the pool. I’ll say hello to people I know, maybe have a little chat. But then, I’ll put in my ear plugs, and get into the water.
When I first started swimming again, I didn’t particularly like how quiet it was. But now, I appreciate it.
Sometimes I’m counting laps. Sometimes I’m thinking about plans for the day ahead. Sometimes I’m working through an idea. And sometimes I’m simply swimming.
Overall, it’s me who gets to decide.
And there’s something I’ve grown to love about that kind of quiet. It’s not necessarily the complete absence of sound, but the absence of everything competing for my attention.
It’s something I’ve also found on my walks. The more I incorporated walking into my routine, the lighter and more grounded I started to feel.
It gave me time to decompress. Think. Reflect. Keep me tied to the present. And the ability to look around.
That last part probably sounds ridiculously simple, but it made a difference.
There could be something going on in my life that felt overwhelming and then, I’d walk past flowers blooming or reach the lake and watch the crashing waves for a while.
While my circumstances hadn’t changed, suddenly they weren’t the only thing in front of me. There was still an entire world happening around them.
Something beautiful. Something peaceful. Something completely unrelated to whatever problem had taken up residence in my head that day.
It brought me back to reality. But not in a things could always be worse kind of way. I’ve learned enough about toxic positivity to know I don’t need to talk myself out of feeling something just because something beautiful also exists.
Rather, both can be true.
Something can suck. And the flowers can still be beautiful.
I’ve also learned there’s a lot of peace in allowing both.
An maybe that’s part of what being grounded has started to mean to me.
Not pretending everything is fine. Not having everything figured out. Just being able to come back to myself when everything feels loud.
With that, I’ve learned that noise doesn’t always make a sound. Sometimes it’s other peoples opinions. Perceptions. Expectations. Social media. Comparison.
Ideas about what we should want, where we should be, or what we should’ve accomplished by now.
I don’t think I realized how much I was absorbing until I started creating more distance away from it.
While I’ve always enjoyed alone time, living on my own took that to an entirely different level.
At first, it was an adjustment. Eventually, though, my space started to feel like home. Because as it turns out, there are admittedly some very glamorous perks to having a place to yourself. The thermostat stays exactly where I want it. Everything has a place, which means I actually know where things are. If I want to take an unnecessarily long bath or shower, no one cares. If I sleep in, fine. If I wake up early, I don’t have to tiptoe around my own home.
It’s not exactly the dramatic version of independence they put in movies, but I love it.
Rather, there’s a freedom in creating your own rhythm.
I’ve learned what makes me comfortable, what routines work for me, when I need interaction, and when I’d rather be on my own. And, as it turns out, I actually like spending quiet ab it of time on my own.
That doesn’t mean solitude is perfect. It can still get lonely. There are still things I’d rather experience with someone else, and there are days when I’d prefer company.
But I don’t think living alone or spending lots of time by yourself is automatically som higher level of personal growth. It may not even appear to everyone. But for me, it created space I didn’t know I needed.
Space to notice.
Through that, I’ve become much more aware of how I feel, what I want, how other people treat me, what affects my energy, and what actually matters to me.
Ive also become more comfortable not immediately knowing where all of it will lead. Nor do I need an answer about where I’m going.
That’s probably one of the biggest switches. Because I’ve always been the one who overthinks. Second-guesses. Questions. And tries to figure out what comes next.
The uncertainty hasn’t disappeared. I’ve just become more comfortable living alongside it.
I trust myself more to make the best decision I can with whatever information I have when the time comes.
That doesn’t mean ignoring other people’s perspectives either. If someone has a strong opinion about something I’m doing, I still want to understand where they’re coming from. I’ll even consider it. I’ll ask myself how much of it is true. And then, I’ll decide where I stand.
Being grounded isn’t believing I’m always right. It’s trusting myself enough to know that someone else’s opinions doesn’t automatically have to become mine.
I’ve found another version of that by spending less time on social media.
I’m still there. I post, I comment, I connect. But I just consume much less than I used too. I don’t spend as much time time on there.
I’ve unfollowed old connections and people who aren’t really a part of my life anymore. And it’s been surprisingly liberating to realize that I don’t need to know what everyone is doing.
There’s less comparison. Less pressure. Less wondering whether I should be somewhere else, doing something else, accomplishing something else.
Instead, I can see someone having an incredible experience and think, I’d love to do that someday, without turning their experience into evidence that I’m behind.
Someone else’s opportunity doesn’t mean I’m late for mine. It’s also added extra meaning.
Someone gets to tell me what they e been doing instead of hearing me respond, “Yeah, I saw that.”
There’s something quite nice and refreshing about not knowing. With less time spent consuming more and more content on social media, I’ve had more time to be present in my own.
And apparently, my creativity really likes that. Ideas tend to find me when I’m relaxed.
But maybe it’s the quiet that gives it somewhere to land.
The same can be said for my faith. Quiet gives me time for gratitude, reflection, prayer, and trust. It reminds me that I can acknowledge what’s difficult without allowing it to become the entire story.
Maybe that’s why the ordinary things seem more noticeable now. A good swim. A walk. Flowers. The lake. An idea I’m excited about. A conversation with someone I know at the pool.
Coming home and knowing exactly where I left something because, yes, everything has a designated spot. None of these things are particularly extraordinary.
But that’s kind of the point.
For a long time, I think fulfillment felt more connected to what was happening next. The next accomplishment. The next opportunity. The next answer. The next thing that would somehow prove I was heading n the right direction.
These days, peace looks surprisingly ordinary.
Calm. Quite. Peaceful. Space.
A life that doesn’t constantly need to announce that something important is happening. Because maybe quiet isn’t empty. Maybe it’s contentment without needing external noise, or accomplishments, to fill the void.
And that’s different from independence.
Independence taught me that I can do things on my own. Meanwhile, being grounded taught me that I can trust myself while I do them.
I’m calmer. I take my time more. I don’t seek reassurance as often. I’m more confident in my decision making, when I can’t know exactly how it’ll turn out. And I don’t need to know exactly where I’m going to believe I’m still moving somewhere worthwhile.
The strange thing about my life becoming quieter is that I’ve become louder about what I want. Not necessarily louder to everyone else. Louder to myself.
I can hear my own preferences. My own beliefs. My own ideas. My own direction. And maybe that’s the loudest thing I’ve discovered in all of this quiet. Just how beautiful life becomes when I’m present enough to actually notice it.
So this week, give yourself a little room to notice. Take the walk. Put the phone away for a while. Sit by the water. Turn off whatever is playing in the background.
You don’t have to figure anything out. Just see what happens when nothing else is demanding your attention. What gets louder when everything else gets quieter?
Maybe the answer isn’t something new at all. Maybe it’s something that’s been there all along.
Check back next Monday for the final chapter of The Things That Stay series. Until then, sending you love, light, and happiness.
As a signature of my blog, I’d like to end this post with a suggestion to “Pass on kindness.” There’s no time like the present to Inspire Those Who Inspire You. Acts of kindness, no matter how big or small, can have a direct, positive impact on someone else. Go out there today and change someone’s life for the better!
***These are my personal opinions and may not be those of my employer.***
