The past five years of my life have felt like continuous upward momentum — an era of growth, healing, discovery and expansion (despite a few setbacks, of course).
But a couple of months ago, that momentum suddenly came to a halt.
It was as if my body had hit the emergency brakes before my mind could even catch up to what was happening. I no longer felt as energized and motivated as I did before. I felt dull, as if I had lost my spark — a little despondent. I felt pulled towards solitude, which was strange, given that I’d become more social over the past few years. I even found myself struggling harder than normal in certain areas: doom-scrolling, caving into cravings, skipping workouts, etc. It wasn’t quite as intense as depression (which I’d experienced before); it was more like … depletion. Like I didn’t quite feel like myself.
I knew what I ought to do — setting new goals to bring back motivation; working out to gain back energy — but I couldn’t get myself to do it. It was like a very real part of me wanted nothing more than to bum around and be a complete mess.
It wasn’t long before my Inner Critic gave me a good beating. I didn’t understand how I could feel so depleted while literally doing nothing. In fact, ‘doing nothing’ was precisely what was stressing me out; it was so unlike me. Couldn’t I see that ‘doing nothing’ was causing my misery? That I felt more engaged with life when I was doing something, anything? Why couldn’t I just snap out of this strange vortex and be more productive? What was wrong with me?
One day, in my desperation to climb out of this rut, I pushed myself too hard during a workout and ended up injuring my back.
For an entire week, I could not fully stand up straight. It hurt to walk. But as I was forced to slow down — allowing myself to walk slowly because it was all my mobility would allow — it felt strangely liberating. It was the first time it felt like I was meeting myself where I was rather than berating myself for not being where I should be, respecting my current limitations and listening to my body’s needs rather than forcing it to comply. Each wince of pain told me to slow down and adjust. It felt good being attentive to myself again. It felt comforting to let myself to take it easy and simply do what I could, rather than forcing myself to perform at a certain level. It then occurred to me that perhaps I should apply the same approach to other areas of my life.
Whenever I forced myself to sit down and plan solutions for getting out of this rut, my soul would scream in protest. I felt strangely allergic to a process that I normally would have welcomed, which bewildered me. Didn’t I want to help myself? But then I realized:
Perhaps I didn’t want a plan in this particular season of my life. Perhaps all I wanted was to go outside and touch some grass. Perhaps I didn’t want to get my shit together at the moment, because I was tired of doing precisely that: trying to keep it together all the damn time. Perhaps the most healing thing I could do for myself right now, as ironic as it sounds, was to let myself fall apart. To do nothing and be nothing. To stop pressuring myself and let myself rest.
The more I think about it, the more it makes sense.
For months, my days had been consumed with trying to heal from heartbreak and grieve the loss of someone important to me. Simultaneously, I’d been preoccupied with buying my first home and all of the logistics that came with that. It was a strange tug-of-war, navigating the complexities of feeling grateful and excited about this accomplishment, while also grieving the loss of the city I had come to love — where I had spread my wings and reinvented myself — to move back to my hometown for the sake of investing in my future.
Now that I’d “completed” these major life transitions (the quotation marks are there because progress always fluctuates), it’s the first time my mind, body, and soul have had the chance to pause. And with that pause came the inevitable crash. I’m like a person finally collapsing after running on adrenaline for so long; it’s actually mind-boggling how this didn’t happen sooner! Given everything I’d just been through, I can’t believe I had the audacity to judge myself for “losing momentum.” Could you really blame me for shutting down and not having the capacity to strive for the “next big thing?”
Because here’s the truth: momentum can’t go on forever.
It’s unsustainable. Humans need rest. We need seasons that feel slower, less eventful, perhaps even more mundane and boring, in order to replenish and recalibrate. Not every season has to be a “glow up” era. It’s a myth to think that if we aren’t visibly moving forward, it means we are backsliding. Rest does not equal stagnation. In fact, Nature always reveals that the Hidden Life precedes profound change: the seed before the bloom; the gestation before birth; the cocoon before the butterfly.
So if you, too, are in a season where it feels harder to function like you normally do — where your sense of self feels far away — try to meet yourself with gentleness and compassion, rather than hammering yourself back into shape. Like with my back injury, no amount of force or shaming is going to accelerate healing. You have to go slow. You have to be attentive to what your soul needs. Every wince of pain is a messenger, guiding you to softly adjust, until things hurt a little less.
Allow yourself to be a mess for a while, if you have to. Don’t judge yourself too hard for the days when you can do nothing but eat an entire can of Pringles while collecting crumbs on your lap. Eventually, when you feel ready, return to the things that bring you joy, even if you feel resistance in the beginning. But only go in increments. Do what you can muster, and let that be enough.
Work with yourself, not against yourself.
That is how we heal. That is how we recover. That is how we thaw and let the warmth return to us.
One day, we will feel like ourselves again. But wiser, more mature versions of ourselves that aren’t afraid to face storms, because we’ve been through them before. More nuanced, complex versions of ourselves that have the capacity to experience the full spectrum of emotion — both the heaviness and the lightness — without the need to run away. Braver versions of ourselves that aren’t afraid to crumble, because we are proof that we can rebuild.
– Celine (@itscelinediaz)
If this stirred something in you, I’d be honoured to keep journeying with you. You can subscribe to receive future letters straight to your inbox.
If someone comes to mind who might need these words too, feel free to share — we all need reminders sometimes. Perhaps they’re meant to receive them.
Celine Diaz: Real Talk 