I Am in the Season of Deep Rest

I am in a season the world does not know how to name.

There is no applause here. No hustle. No proof.

Only breath. And the brave art of staying still.

I have laid myself down on the altar of enough.

Let the scaffolding collapse.

Let the masks rot in the sun.

Let the stories I once used to outrun my own exhaustion be buried, bone by bone.

This isn’t rest the way capitalism defines it—

a brief pause so I can return more productive.

No.

This is sacred undoing.

This is womb time.

This is the soil returning to itself after the harvest.

In this season, I do not bloom.

I compost.

I decay.

I descend into the underworld of my own unmet needs.

And I stay there long enough to feel them.

I am not healing to get back to work.

I am resting because my body remembers what the world forgot—

that stillness is holy.

That softness is a form of power.

That silence is not the absence of life, but its deepest chamber.

Here, I do not perform resilience.

I honor the holy fatigue of surviving.

I wrap blankets around the parts of me that kept going long after they should’ve been allowed to stop.

I no longer apologize for my slow.

I sleep without shame.

I cry without rushing to understand why.

I listen to the ache beneath my ambitions.

I let go of what I clung to just to feel worthy.

This rest is not an interlude.

It is initiation.

I am being rewoven.

Rooted.

Remembered.

And when I rise—

because yes, I will rise—

it won’t be in the way I used to.

Not as a warrior in armor, but as a woman who has learned the power of her softness.

Not driven by fear, but led by the wisdom of her own rhythm.

The world may call it disappearing.

But I know better.

This is resurrection work.

This is soul restoration.

This is rest as resistance.

This is how I return to myself.

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