Speaker 1: Us studios. Close your eyes if it feels safe to
Speaker 1: do so, and let your body settle into the surface
Speaker 1: beneath you. There is nothing to fix right now, nothing
Speaker 1: to perform, nothing to earn, Just as breadth and the
Speaker 1: next one in the soft space that opens between them.
Speaker 1: Let yourself arrive slowly into this small room of attention
Speaker 1: you have made for yourself. You do not have to
Speaker 1: be anywhere else. You do not have to be anyone
Speaker 1: else for these next few minutes. The only task is
Speaker 1: to be here, to let the breath move through you,
Speaker 1: the way it has been moving through you since the
Speaker 1: moment you were born, even on the days you forgot
Speaker 1: it was there, even on the nights it was the
Speaker 1: only companion you had. Let the breath come in through
Speaker 1: your nose, slowly, gently, Let it leave your body through
Speaker 1: your mouth or through your nose. It does not matter which.
Speaker 1: What matters is that you let it come and go
Speaker 1: without trying to control it. You are not doing the breath.
Speaker 1: The breath is happening, and you are simply the place
Speaker 1: where it is happening. The door does not check. The
Speaker 1: door does not ask what you have accomplished, or how
Speaker 1: many tasks remain. The door simply says, come in, Come
Speaker 1: in and sit down. There is nothing you owe me,
Speaker 1: there is nothing you have to perform. You have been
Speaker 1: carrying a great deal, not only the visible weight of
Speaker 1: tasks and worries, dead lines and decisions, but also the
Speaker 1: invisible weight of being the one who seems to hold
Speaker 1: it together, the one who notices, the one who remembers.
Speaker 1: Somewhere along the way, you began to believe that holding
Speaker 1: yourself was your job alone, that asking for help was
Speaker 1: a sign of failure, that needing something from another person
Speaker 1: meant you were not yet enough. And so you learned
Speaker 1: to grip, to tighten, to keep going on, the kind
Speaker 1: of strength that does not get to rest. You became
Speaker 1: very good at being the strong one. You became so
Speaker 1: good at it that no one thought to ask if
Speaker 1: you were tired, and you stopped asking yourself. I want
Speaker 1: you to notice for a moment how heavy that has been,
Speaker 1: Not to dwell on it, not to make a story
Speaker 1: out of it, just to acknowledge quietly that you have
Speaker 1: been carrying more than one person was ever meant to
Speaker 1: carry alone, and that the carrying, however steady, however dignified,
Speaker 1: has cost you something. Maybe sleep, maybe softness, maybe the
Speaker 1: kind of spontaneous joy that does not arrive when the
Speaker 1: shoulders are always up around the ears. You can choose
Speaker 1: rest while there's still more to do. You can let
Speaker 1: the to do list wait, and the world will still
Speaker 1: be there when you return. Nothing falls apart in the
Speaker 1: hours you set aside. In fact, some things quietly fall
Speaker 1: into place. But the truth, the quiet truth, the one
Speaker 1: that lives beneath all the louder stories, is that you
Speaker 1: are not actually holding yourself alone. You never were. The
Speaker 1: ground holds you when you cannot stand. The breath holds
Speaker 1: you when you forget to remember it. The people who
Speaker 1: love you hold you in ways you do not always see,
Speaker 1: because love, real love, does not announce. It shows up
Speaker 1: in small things, in a text that arrives at the
Speaker 1: right moment, in a hand on your shoulder that says
Speaker 1: nothing and says everything, in the quiet way someone leaves
Speaker 1: a cup of tea on your desk without being asked.
Speaker 1: You are held by the morning that keeps arriving, even
Speaker 1: on the days you wish it would not. You are
Speaker 1: held by the body that keeps breathing for you while
Speaker 1: you sleep, even when your mind is busy. Rehearsing tomorrow's worries,
Speaker 1: even when it feels like the smallest, most fragile thing
Speaker 1: in you. There is something holding the stars in their orbits,
Speaker 1: and the same something is holding you in yours. You
Speaker 1: do not have to understand it. You do not have
Speaker 1: to name it. You only have to let yourself be
Speaker 1: held by it, the way a child is held by
Speaker 1: a parent who has been holding children for years and
Speaker 1: knows exactly how to do it without thinking. That knows
Speaker 1: the winter is not a failure of summer. The earth
Speaker 1: understands this rhythm without trying. It does not struggle against
Speaker 1: the dark. It does not apologize for the rest. It
Speaker 1: simply rests and trusts that the green will come again.
Speaker 1: Noticed if you can the places in your body where
Speaker 1: you are gripping right now, maybe your jaw slightly clenched,
Speaker 1: maybe your shoulders lifted toward your ears, Maybe the soft
Speaker 1: place behind your sternum where worry lives like a small
Speaker 1: animal curled up trying to keep warm. You do not
Speaker 1: have to release them all at once. You only have
Speaker 1: to notice them, to say hell to them, to acknowledge
Speaker 1: that they have been working hard for you, even when
Speaker 1: you did not thank them. Place a hand, if it
Speaker 1: feels right, on one of those places, on your chest,
Speaker 1: on your shoulder, on your belly. Let the warmth of
Speaker 1: your own hand remind you that you are not as
Speaker 1: alone as you have been telling yourself. Your hand on
Speaker 1: your own body is a small act of being held.
Speaker 1: It is the body saying to itself, I see, I
Speaker 1: am here. You do not have to do this alone.
Speaker 1: Imagine for a moment that something larger than your own
Speaker 1: effort is supporting you. Not a person necessarily, not a promise,
Speaker 1: just a quiet sense of being met by life itself,
Speaker 1: the way a hammock meets the body, the way a
Speaker 1: pillow meets the head, the way silence meets grief when
Speaker 1: there are no more words to say, the way the
Speaker 1: ocean meets the shore again and again, without ever seeming
Speaker 1: to tire of it. You are allowed to be held.
Speaker 1: You are allowed to be the one who rests, who
Speaker 1: is carried, who is met. This is not weakness, This
Speaker 1: is not giving up. This is the deep, slow remembering
Speaker 1: that you were never meant to carry everything by yourself,
Speaker 1: that the universe, in its quiet way, has been holding
Speaker 1: you all along, even on the days it did not
Speaker 1: feel like it, especially on the days it did not
Speaker 1: feel like it. The held places in your life are
Speaker 1: not always obvious. You might not look like big gestures
Speaker 1: or loud declarations. They might look like the way sunlight
Speaker 1: falls through a window without trying, The way a song
Speaker 1: you forgot you loved comes on the radio, The way
Speaker 1: a stranger smiles at you on the street for no
Speaker 1: reason at all, The way you wake up again and again,
Speaker 1: still here, still trying, still reaching towards something soft. Let
Speaker 1: yourself be reached right now. Let this moment reach you,
Speaker 1: Let the words reach you, Let the silence after the
Speaker 1: words reach you. You do not have to reach back.
Speaker 1: You do not have to earn any of this. You
Speaker 1: only have to be willing to be met by it.
Speaker 1: There is a particular kind of rest that only comes
Speaker 1: when we feel safe, when we let our guard down,
Speaker 1: when we are with someone who does not need us
Speaker 1: to be anything. That kind of rest is precious. Let
Speaker 1: your breath get a little softer, now, a little longer
Speaker 1: on the exhale. Imagine each exhale as a small release
Speaker 1: not of a problem, but of the grip on the problem.
Speaker 1: You are not solving anything right now, You are only
Speaker 1: letting yourself be where you already are, and that is enough.
Speaker 1: That is more than enough. Think of someone real or
Speaker 1: imagined who has ever held you. A grandmother, perhaps, a
Speaker 1: friend from a long time ago, a teacher who believed
Speaker 1: in you before you believed in yourself, a partner, a
Speaker 1: stranger on a train who said the exact thing you
Speaker 1: needed to hear without knowing they were saying it. You
Speaker 1: only have to let the feeling of being held be
Speaker 1: real for a few breaths. Notice what happens in your
Speaker 1: body when you allow that. Notice if something softens, Notice
Speaker 1: if your jaw unclenches just a little. Notice if your
Speaker 1: shoulders drop even a millimeter. Notice if something loosens, even
Speaker 1: just for a moment. That softening is not you letting
Speaker 1: go of strength. It is you finding a different kind
Speaker 1: of strength, the kind that comes from rest, the kind
Speaker 1: that comes from being met, the kind that does not
Speaker 1: have to grip because it trusts the ground beneath it.
Speaker 1: Some of us have been told, in small ways and
Speaker 1: in large ones, that we do not deserve softness, That
Speaker 1: softness is something we have to earn, That we have
Speaker 1: to be productive, to be valuable and useful, to be
Speaker 1: lovable and if no one comes to mind, if you
Speaker 1: cannot think of any one who has held you, if
Speaker 1: your life has been more holding than being held, then
Speaker 1: let me be that for you. For these few minutes
Speaker 1: you are held, You have been seen, you have not
Speaker 1: been forgotten. Whatever you are carrying, you do not have
Speaker 1: to carry it alone. In this moment, in this breath,
Speaker 1: in this small room we have made together with our attention,
Speaker 1: we have to become the ones who hold ourselves, not
Speaker 1: because no one else will, but because we finally understand
Speaker 1: that we are worth holding, that we always were. You
Speaker 1: are worth holding even now, even here, even on the
Speaker 1: days you have forgotten how to ask, you are not
Speaker 1: taking from them when you rest. You are giving them
Speaker 1: more of yourself in the long run, by not running
Speaker 1: yourself down. We have been taught that the most generous
Speaker 1: thing is to keep giving, even when we are empty.
Speaker 1: You are going to return to your day. Soon, the
Speaker 1: phone will buzz again, the list will still be there.
Speaker 1: The world will ask its questions, but you do not
Speaker 1: have to answer them. From that old place of grieping
Speaker 1: and going alone, you can carry with you this quiet
Speaker 1: understanding that you are held, that you have always been held,
Speaker 1: that you are not and have never been doing this
Speaker 1: life by yourself. And if you forget, as you will,
Speaker 1: as everyone does, you can always come back here, to
Speaker 1: your breath, to the silence between the breaths, to the
Speaker 1: truth that you are allowed to be met, to be
Speaker 1: carried to rest in something larger than your own effort.
Speaker 1: You can come back here any time. This place does
Speaker 1: not close, this understand does not expire. So here is
Speaker 1: my invitation to you this week. Welcome rest. Don't push
Speaker 1: it to the bottom of the list, don't perform it
Speaker 1: for anyone. Just practice letting it in practice, trusting that
Speaker 1: you can stop and still behold. Take one more breath
Speaker 1: with me, long and slow, let it fill you all
Speaker 1: the way down to your belly, and let it leave
Speaker 1: your body like a tide going out, leaving you lighter
Speaker 1: than you were a few minutes ago, Lighter and also
Speaker 1: more health Lighter and also more rooted in something quiet
Speaker 1: and true. You are ready. Gently open your eyes, move slowly,
Speaker 1: bring this with you. You are held, you have always
Speaker 1: been held.