This morning, I noticed something small—but important. A thought came in, followed quickly by a feeling. Nothing unusual about that; it happens all day long.
But what I noticed was what came next.
There was a moment—brief, almost imperceptible—where I could have gone along for the ride. I could have followed the thought, believed it, and allowed the feeling to take over.
Or… I could pause, and become curious.
Sometimes that pause is nothing more than a breath, or a brief awareness within my body—feet on the ground, a hand resting quietly—just enough to remind me that I’m here.
That small space—that pause—is something we can begin to recognize, even in the midst of everything else.
I hear a lot these days about quieting the mind or rising above thoughts and emotions, about finding a place within that is untouched, still, and free.
There is truth in that. But as a caregiver that place often seemed very, very far away.
But I’ve come to see something else as just as important—perhaps even more so.
I’m not here to eliminate my thoughts or feelings.
I’m here to learn how to be in relationship with them.
A thought arises—I can’t do this… This shouldn’t be happening… I need to fix this—and a feeling follows. Tightness. Frustration. Fear.
This is where I used to get caught, and sometimes still do.
Without realizing it, I would become the thought. I would become the feeling. And from there, everything that followed felt true—but it wasn’t always helpful.
For those of us in caregiving roles, this can happen even more quickly. The stakes feel higher. The urgency is real. Thoughts like I have to get this right or I don’t have time to fall apart can take over before we even notice what’s happening inside of us.
And in that urgency, it’s easy to leave ourselves behind.
What I’m learning—still learning—is something quieter, and in some ways more demanding:
I can think this.
I can feel this.
And I can still stay with myself.
I’m learning how to hold what arises without abandoning myself in the process.
Lately, I’ve begun to think of this as being like a tree. The branches move. The weather changes. Thoughts and feelings come and go—sometimes gently, sometimes not. And yet, something beneath the surface remains.
These are the roots—quiet, steady, often unseen—holding me in place. Not because everything is calm, but because I am not leaving myself when it isn’t.
In caregiving, the weather can change quickly—emotionally, physically, relationally. Having something within us that holds steady becomes not a luxury, but a necessity.
This isn’t something I do all day, every day. I forget. I get pulled in. I lose my footing. That too is part of being human.
But even noticing that—even catching it afterward—is part of the process.
Because even then, I can come back.
We don’t have to live in a constant state of calm or clarity. We don’t have to get it “right.”
What matters is that, little by little, we begin to recognize the moments when we’ve left ourselves…and the moments when we return.
So today, you might simply ask yourself, very gently:
What am I noticing right now?
Not to change it.
Not to fix it.
But as a way of staying in relationship with yourself.
From my heart to yours,
Cindy