Have you ever finally had an opportunity to rest, only to discover that you couldn’t?
I have.
After spending a long time being alert and responsive to what was happening around me, I remember finally experiencing some calm.
There was nothing I urgently needed to do.
And strangely, I didn’t quite know what to do with it.
I would turn on the TV.
I would suddenly notice the kitchen counter and wonder whether there was a stain that needed cleaning.
I would find something to do.
It was almost as though part of me was saying:
Surely there must be something happening.
That was when I started noticing something interesting.
I had lost some of my connection with rest.
Familiar doesn’t always mean safe
We often assume that if something is good for us, it should immediately feel good.
Safety should feel safe.
Rest should feel restful.
Calm should feel peaceful.
Healthy relationships should feel comfortable.
But human beings are more complicated than that.
If someone has spent a long time needing to monitor what is happening around them—anticipating problems, noticing changes in other people's moods, responding to emergencies, navigating difficult power dynamics, or simply learning that staying alert is useful—alertness can become very familiar.
And sometimes, when the environment changes faster than we can adapt internally, calm can feel surprisingly strange.
That doesn’t necessarily mean calm is dangerous.
It may simply be unfamiliar.
When I couldn't simply “enjoy the peace”
At the time, I was practising mindfulness in a particular tradition.
Through consistent practice, I began observing what was happening when I tried to rest.
Restlessness.
Sensations.
Thoughts.
The urge to get up.
The urge to find something that needed doing.
Instead of immediately reacting to everything that arose, sometimes I could simply observe it.
And that became interesting.
Because underneath the question “Why can't I relax?” was perhaps another question:
What have I become accustomed to?
Sometimes we become so familiar with movement that stillness feels strange.
So familiar with vigilance that rest feels irresponsible.
So familiar with external validation that making our own decisions feels uncertain.
So familiar with complicated forms of care that genuine care can initially feel unfamiliar.
None of this means we are incapable of experiencing something different.
A three-year-old at Disneyland
I have a slightly silly way of thinking about this.
Imagine taking a three-year-old to Disneyland.
There are wonderful things everywhere.
But the child cannot experience everything yet.
Some rides might be too big.
Some experiences might be overwhelming.
There may be things they simply aren't ready for.
That doesn't mean Disneyland isn't for them.
They are simply meeting the experience from where they are.
Perhaps safety can sometimes be like that too.
We may arrive somewhere that offers more peace, autonomy, steadiness or genuine care than we are accustomed to.
And perhaps we expect ourselves to immediately think:
Wonderful! I'm safe now. I shall relax.
Human beings don't necessarily work like that.
Sometimes we need time.
Genuine care leaves room for us
There is another part of safety that I have been thinking about lately.
Healthy relationships do not require us to give up ourselves in exchange for love, care or attention.
People may have different roles, responsibilities, experience, expertise or authority.
But those differences don't mean one person has to become smaller in order to belong.
We don't have to surrender our individuality simply to receive care.
We don't have to agree with everything another person believes.
We don't have to make every choice understandable to somebody else.
Genuine care leaves room for us to remain ourselves.
And perhaps learning to experience that kind of space can take time too.
Take your time
I don't think we need to force ourselves to feel safe.
Nor do we need to criticise ourselves because calm, rest or steadiness doesn't immediately feel natural.
Sometimes noticing is enough.
- This is unfamiliar.
- I want to react.
- I want to find something to do.
- I want somebody else to tell me what is right.
- I don't quite trust this quiet yet.
And then perhaps we can stay curious about what happens next.
One of the things practice continues to teach me is that an experience doesn't necessarily require an immediate reaction.
Sometimes I can observe.
Sometimes I can wait.
Sometimes I can allow something unfamiliar to remain unfamiliar for a while.
And slowly, perhaps, discover that unfamiliar doesn't necessarily mean unsafe.
So if you are finding your way into a quieter season of life and part of you doesn't quite know what to do with it yet:
Please don't be hard on yourself.
You don't have to master peace.
You don't have to perform healing.
You don't even have to immediately enjoy the calm.
You can take your time.
Perhaps one day you will notice that you are sitting peacefully, doing absolutely nothing…
…and you no longer need to check whether there is a stain on the kitchen counter. 😄
What feels unfamiliar to you simply because you haven't had enough opportunity to experience it yet?
With love,
Alice