Slowing Down So We Can Human

Time softens when we dare to slow. As our pace eases, feelings long tucked away begin to surface - quiet at first, then insistent. Fear often arrives alongside them, not as an enemy, but as a familiar guardian that once helped us survive by postponing what felt too heavy to hold. And so we are ushered back into the tender work of human-ing.

We are wired to feel, yet the depth of our emotions can be daunting. In a world that celebrates speed and productivity, busy-ness is worn like a badge of honor. Still, for many, it doubles as armor - a way to stay just ahead of vulnerability, just out of reach of ourselves.

When life becomes a blur and presence feels elusive, numbness can quietly take up residence. If you notice this, consider it not a failure, but a signal - an invitation to turn gently toward yourself. What might unfold if you allowed time to move as it wishes, rather than how it is demanded? If you slowed enough to truly see, taste, smell, hear, and feel the moments that make up your days?

Perhaps slowing is not about doing less, but about allowing more - more honesty, more sensation, more aliveness. In choosing to pause, we may discover that what we feared feeling is also where connection, meaning, and healing have been waiting all along.

The Quiet Flicker of Grief

As the holidays draw near, I notice a familiar stirring in my chest - subtle, steady, almost like a quiet echo from a place I haven’t visited in a long time. Certain losses carry their own rhythm, and they tend to rise this time of year, not loudly, but like a gentle flicker that shifts with the light of the day.

I think many of us feel this. The holidays gather our memories - the sweet ones, the aching ones - and place them in our hands with a tenderness that can surprise us. Some days that weight feels warm. Other days it feels heavy. If your heart feels a little more sensitive right now, there’s nothing wrong with you. This season often calls forward the people we’ve loved and lost.

One of the ways I honor the person I miss is through movement - especially dance. It’s become a space where both joy and ache can breathe. Some days the movement feels bright; other days it carries a quiet sorrow. But either way, it allows love and grief to sit beside each other without needing to choose between them.

If this season stirs something in you, you’re not alone.
Grief can soften and still remain.
It can ache and still be an expression of love.
And there is room - always - for both the sadness and the beauty to coexist.

There is hope in that gentle meeting place.
And healing in honoring what we’ve carried, and who we’ve lost, in ways that feel true to the heart.