Choosing Stillness in a World Addicted to Motion

Dear Not So Secret Diary,

Chaos had been a constant in my life for as long as I could remember. It was so consistent that I didn’t even realize many of the things I was dealing with weren’t normal (they were just my normal). My chaos was predictable. I knew how to maneuver around it, how to function inside of it, and how to survive it. There was a strange comfort in that predictability, even though it came at a cost. Chaos has a quiet way of eating at you over time and eventually I reached a point where I couldn’t live like that anymore. Something in me knew it was time to choose differently.

That choice led me to stillness. Ironically, stillness is something so many people dream about, yet when it finally arrived in my life, it felt like unfamiliar water. I didn’t know how to move in it (or rather, how not to move in it). I was used to noise, urgency, pressure, and motion. Slowing down felt unsafe. But I was tired, and I was willing to try something new, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet.

One of the first lessons I had to learn was how to actually be still. For a long time, I believed rest and stillness were the same thing. They both required stopping work, so I assumed they served the same purpose. But I learned quickly they were very different. Rest was stopping movement in order to recover strength. Stillness was stopping movement simply for the sake of not moving. No optimizing. No productivity. No outcome attached. That distinction challenged me deeply. I constantly looked for small things to do, little tasks to add, ways to stay busy. My nervous system had been overstimulated for so long that slowing down felt like withdrawal. It was uncomfortable, almost painful at times. Still, I made a promise to myself (one I read every day) especially in moments when I felt the urge to unnecessarily add something to my plate.

While not adding more tasks was difficult, my biggest struggle quickly became learning how to regulate my nervous system. Once I slowed down enough to notice myself, I saw things clearly for the first time. My breathing was uneven and jagged. My posture was deeply slouched. My eyes darted around rooms, rarely settling on one thing, my body had taken years of abuse. I didn't feel bad for me because this was a good bad problem to have. Every time I felt the impulse to add more to my day, I finally had something real to focus on instead. I committed to taking three ten-minute intervals throughout the day where the only thing I was allowed to focus on was my breath. For my posture, I returned to yoga and added five minutes each day where I simply laid on the floor to ground myself. These sound like simple solutions, but with a fried nervous system, they required real effort, intention, and determination. Still, because my focus had shifted from what I was building to who I was becoming, I was willing to do whatever it took.

By calming my nervous system, I was allowing a life of peace to take shape. Of course, I was the first person to benefit from this shift. My hair, skin, and nails became stronger. My mental health improved and I wasn’t irritated as easily. I even began losing weight because my body (especially my intestines) was no longer living in a constant state of tension. Healing internally made me better externally. My family experienced a stronger version of me. My community received a softer version of me. My employees were met with a more understanding version of me. Becoming someone new gave others permission (and proof) that they could become someone new too. Most importantly, I was finally embodying the very work I preached.

So often, we hurt ourselves all in the name of success. We spend so much time trying to reach a destination that we fail to notice the pressure we are placing on ourselves. We fail notice how deeply it is affecting us, especially when the journey takes longer than expected. We push past exhaustion in the name of success. But I had to ask myself: is success really success if you lose your mental, emotional, or physical well-being along the way? Consistency may seem boring, but it works. And more importantly, it allows you to arrive whole. Boring isn’t a bad thing; it simply means something is slow, steady, and deliberate. The “boring” path is where mistakes can happen without being detrimental, and where growth can occur without destruction.

If this entry met you where you are, you don’t have to move forward alone. I created the Becoming Welcome Package as a gentle starting point for those who feel called to slow down, reflect, and intentionally become. You can explore it when you’re ready.

Warm Hugs,

Capree'