When the Body Speaks: Learning to Rest Through Stillness

A reflection on healing, compassion, and the permission to rest

When Life Says Stop

Sometimes the body whispers: an ache, a fatigue, a weight that reminds us we’ve been carrying too much. Other times it speaks in a full stop.

For me, that moment came partway through a painting project. One small movement, one sharp pull in my mid back, and the weekend’s plans were gone. The brushes, the paint cans, the excitement all paused in an instant.

At first, I felt frustrated. I wanted to finish what I started. I told myself I should have known better. I replayed the moment over and over, looking for where I went wrong. But what I learned that week had less to do with my back and more to do with how I meet myself when life says no.

This unexpected pause became a classroom for something deeper: learning to rest through stillness.

When the Body Becomes the Teacher

Sometimes the hardest work is learning to meet ourselves with kindness, right where we are.

Our bodies are wise communicators. Pain and exhaustion are not enemies to conquer; they are messages asking for relationship. When we override them, we reinforce the old conditioning that tells us rest must be earned and that our worth is tied to what we produce or how much we can hold.

The body’s language is honest. It speaks the truth before our minds catch up. It tells us when we have reached capacity, when we need warmth, when it is time to come home to ourselves.

Listening inward, without judgment or urgency, is an act of radical compassion. It is not self-indulgent; it is self-honoring. And yet, slowing down can feel disorienting. Many of us have been taught that stillness equals stagnation or that rest is something we deserve only when everything else is done. But healing, like nature, happens in cycles of movement and stillness, effort and ease.

Learning to rest through stillness means trusting that quiet seasons are not wasted ones.

When Creative Energy Has Nowhere to Go

One of the hardest parts of being forced to stop was the energy that could not move.

My mind and body had been alive with creativity, color palettes, layout ideas, and the joyful hum of making something new with my daughter. Suddenly, all of that energy had nowhere to land.

It is a strange tension: feeling inspired but physically unable to act on it. Maybe you have felt it too, the frustration of creative momentum meeting an unexpected wall.

So I began to experiment with new ways for the energy to move. I wrote. I visualized. I made digital mockups instead of painting real walls. I dreamed from the couch and let my imagination do what my body could not.

That is when I realized something important: creativity does not live only in motion. It also lives in reflection, imagination, and rest. When we slow down, our creativity does not disappear. It composts. It transforms beneath the surface, preparing to grow in new ways.

Sitting with the Mess

spilled paint to symbolize the messy middle

As I sat in that stillness, the environment around me told a very different story. The room I had begun to transform was half-finished, with paint cans in corners and piles of books and clothes covering the floor. The order I usually keep in my home and within myself had given way to visible chaos.

It was humbling to sit in that space, surrounded by evidence of incompletion, and not try to fix it. Every instinct wanted to tidy, to organize, to restore control. But my body would not let me.

In a culture that prizes productivity and composure, living in the messy middle can feel unbearable. We are taught that outer order equals inner peace, that tidiness proves worthiness.

But sometimes the healing happens right there, in the piles, in the pause, in the permission to let it be unfinished. So instead of trying to manage the outer chaos, I turned toward the inner one. I noticed how the mess made me feel: the impatience, the shame, the discomfort. And I tended there, with breath, with compassion, with quiet acknowledgment that it was okay for things to be undone, both around me and within me.

Meeting the Inner Critic with Compassion

Of course, slowing down does not always feel peaceful. The inner critic often has a lot to say. It may tell us we are lazy. It might whispers that we have messed up, that we are falling behind, that we have made things harder for everyone else.These voices usually echo early messages, the cultural, familial, or religious rules that told us who and how to be in order to belong.

When we meet these voices with curiosity instead of resistance, something softens. We start to see that the critic is often trying to protect us, to keep us safe from shame or rejection. Compassion does not silence the critic. It changes the conversation .It sounds like:

“This isn’t a failure. It’s feedback. My body is showing me what it needs, and I can respond with kindness.”

This is the heart of somatic healing, learning to meet inner conflict with warmth instead of willpower. When we meet ourselves with compassion, we create enough safety to let go of the old rules and listen for what we truly need.

Receiving Help as a Practice of Love

Asking for help has not come easily to me. I am used to being capable, independent, and strong because growing up I had no other option. But this week, I could not even move a paint can. So I asked for help. Painters came to finish the project. My family rearranged what I could not. My clients received reschedules and understanding.

Every ask felt vulnerable, but it also felt real and I knew deeply was an opportunity for healing, I reminded myself that allowing others to show up for me is not a failure of strength. It is a deep expression of trust. Sometimes love sounds like “I need help.” Sometimes strength looks like letting someone else carry the brush. This, too, is permission to rest.

Writing Your Own Permission Slip

One of the most healing things we can do is give ourselves the permission no one else ever gave us. Here is a simple practice:

Title it: My Permission Slip

Then complete the sentence "I give myself permission to...." Complete this as many times as you need and feel free to borrow from the examples below.

I give myself permission to rest.

I give myself permission to ask for help.

I give myself permission to say no or set a boundary.

I give myself permission to feel joy without needing to earn it.

I give myself permission to be human.

This simple act of writing interrupts the old narratives of worthiness and control. It tells your nervous system, “I am allowed to stop.” You can keep it on your desk, beside your bed, or anywhere you forget that permission is yours to give.

Compassion as the Doorway to Permission

Stillness is rarely convenient, but it is often sacred. It calls us back to ourselves, back to the truth that we were never meant to perform our way into love. Compassion is the doorway to permission. And permission is the doorway to freedom.

When we stop pushing and start listening, when we let the body lead, we remember where strength really comes from. So the next time your body says stop, maybe it is not working against you. Maybe it is showing you the way home.

🪶 Inspired by a personal reflection originally shared in my newsletter.I f you would like more letters like this, filled with reflections on somatic healing, boundaries, and the practice of being human, you can subscribe here at the bottom of my homepage→.