Everything I Write Feels Shallow
Everything I write feels shallow.
Not because it isn’t true, but because it cannot touch the depth of what I am feeling. The words arrive, and yet they fall short of the immensity of the grief, the anger, the fear, the sustained pressure of witnessing something that does not resolve and does not pass. Language wants edges and conclusions. What I am carrying feels ongoing.
What I am feeling is not one thing. It is layered.
Anger, the body’s response to something being deeply wrong.
Grief, heavy and wide, carrying names, faces, futures interrupted.
Fear, not imagined, but recognized, born of pattern and repetition.
And beneath it all, a weariness that comes from staying awake to it for so long.
This grief does not live only in the mind. It settles into the body. It shows up as shortened breath, tight shoulders, restless sleep, and a low hum of unease that follows us through the day. It feels less like a wave and more like pressure, slow and cumulative, stretching the container that holds it.
I keep thinking about cracks.
Not cracks as failure, but as openings. The places where the old ways of holding can no longer contain what is being asked of us. Expansion does not always arrive as relief. Sometimes it arrives as strain. Sometimes it comes through rupture rather than choice.
And lately, I keep returning to a particular juxtaposition.
The peaceful intention of a silent pilgrimage.
Monks walking for peace. No signs. No slogans. Just presence.
Intersecting with a violent reality on the ground.
This isn’t a contradiction so much as a mirror. The world is simultaneously capable of profound intention and profound harm. Peace and violence unfold in the same landscape, sometimes within the same day. Holding both together in awareness is disorienting. It is heavy. It stretches something that does not stretch easily.
This is where I find myself now, cracked open, stretched, awake. Less able to rush to answers. Less willing to smooth over what hurts. More aware that what we are living through exceeds any single response or explanation.
And still, the body needs tending.
From this place, I realized how important it feels to return to practices that help me listen inwardly, not to escape what is happening, but to stay present inside it. That is why I am bringing back Virtual Somatic Yoga, beginning Wednesday, February 11 at 6:00 pm. This is a 10-week shared practice, meeting weekly through April 15, held as a shared container where familiarity and trust can form over time. It is a quiet, body-based practice, slow and attentive, where we listen to sensation, breath, and the subtle signals of the nervous system. Not to fix, but to notice. Not to push, but to stay. The full shared practice is $61, offered with accessibility and continuity in mind.
My close friend and podcast partner, Sherry Sadoff Hanck, shared that her Monday Mindfulness Meditation would be returning. I registered immediately. I noticed how much I have been longing for connection, for the simple act of sitting together in shared presence. Sitting with Sherry and this community, I know I will feel held as we gather and sit with our minds as they are, grateful to sit with my teacher this way. It feels like a companion invitation to my own, one that meets the mind with the same care I hope to offer the body.
Together, these practices form a gentle rhythm.
One invites listening through the body.
One invites observing the mind, noticing its patterns, and returning to the present.
You may feel drawn to one, both, or simply to the knowing that these spaces exist. There is no right way to tend yourself right now. Just take care of yourself.
In peace and gratitude,
Theresa