Sitting in the Ebb

Lately, I feel lost.

Not dramatically so—just quietly, deeply, alone.

I notice myself pulling inward. Sleeping longer. Wanting less noise, fewer conversations. The days are shortening, the cold settling in, and I find myself wondering:

Is this simply the body remembering how to slow with the seasons?

Or is this something heavier—something closer to depression?

I don’t have an answer. And maybe that’s part of the discomfort.

What feels true in this season of my life is that I am surviving, not thriving. I’ve lost sight of the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, I see a long, dark hallway—endless, quiet—where I keep hoping and praying that today will be the day a small glimpse of light breaks through.

As I sit with it, I can feel that my body is being tested. Expanded. Asked to hold more than it ever has before. My nervous system feels locked in fight or flight, bracing, gripping, trying to control what feels uncontrollable. And I know—somewhere deeper—that this tension is asking me to release. To loosen my grasp. To let go.

But knowing that doesn’t make it easy.

Letting go is exhausting.

Holding on is exhausting too.

This place of in-between—between certainty and surrender—has me questioning everything. My energy. My path. My sense of direction. And when I try to name it, define it, diagnose it, I feel even more tired.

So lately, the only words that feel honest are these:

It is what it is.

Not in a dismissive way—but in a soft, spacious one. A permission slip to stop trying to figure it all out. To stop forcing meaning where none wants to land yet.

Maybe this season isn’t asking for clarity.

Maybe it’s asking for presence.

To ride the ebb.

To trust that the flow will return.

To believe that even in the long hallway, light still exists—whether I can see it today or not.

For now, I’m letting myself be here.

Unnamed. Unfixed.

Breathing through the dark, trusting the body’s wisdom, and allowing the season to be exactly what it is.

In Peace, Love and Service,

Rebecca