Yesterday was warm enough for shorts and bare feet on the grass. Today calls for a light cardigan and hands wrapped around hot tea.

The body has trouble with this. It can't settle into either temperature. Can't fully relax into warmth because cool is coming. Can't adjust to cool because heat returns tomorrow. It stays somewhere in the middle, never quite landing, always preparing for the next shift. There's a cost that comes with this constant recalibration; exhaustion that has nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the body never resting into what is.

Healing moves like this too. There are days when we feel steady, capable, like we're finally getting somewhere. We handle a trigger with grace. We sleep through the night. We notice ourselves laughing without that split-second surprise that we're capable of joy. We think, Progress…Finally.

Then something shifts. A trigger we thought we'd worked through lands hard. A memory surfaces. A bad night's sleep unravels our capacity. Someone's tone of voice, a particular smell, the way light falls through a window and suddenly we're back in that familiar contracted place. Heart racing. Breath shallow. The world feeling dangerous again.

We decide we're failing, and the idea we had of having success with our healing suddenly joins the sinking feeling in our body.

We can expect recovery to be linear, cumulative, always forward. We think healing should steadily increase with more capacity each week, fewer triggers each month, consistent measurable progress. When we slide backward, when we lose ground we thought we'd gained, we assume we're doing something wrong.

The body learns through experience, through repetition, through slowly accumulating evidence that things might be different now. And that accumulation isn't steady.

The body dips a toe into safety, then pulls back to assess. Ventures further, then retreats to the familiar territory of hypervigilance because at least that's known. Takes two steps into expansion, then one step back into protection because expansion still feels vulnerable, still triggers all the old alarms that say opening up isn't safe.

This is how learning happens in a nervous system shaped by threat. The body practices safety in small doses, then returns to what it knows. Tries again. Retreats again. Gradually, the ventures into safety get longer and the retreats shorter. It's never a straight line.

Think of the inconsistent heat. The body can't settle into one temperature when it keeps shifting. The nervous system can't settle into safety when it's still carrying patterns of danger. So it moves between them, forward into new possibilities, back into old protections. On again, off again. Not broken. Learning.

Check in with yourself now, in this moment. No need to compare to yesterday or worry about tomorrow. Ask yourself: where am I right now?

If you're in a place of capacity, say it aloud: "Right now, I have capacity." Feel what that's like in your body. Notice it without needing to hold onto it.

If you're in a place of contraction, say that too: "Right now, I need to stop pushing myself." Or "Right now, this is hard." Name it without judgment.

Place both hands on your thighs. Feel the solid surface beneath your palms. Take one full breath. Let this moment be exactly what it is.

You can hold two truths at once: you're healing AND you're struggling. You've made progress AND you're having a hard day.

Sit comfortably. Place one hand on your heart, one on your belly. As you breathe in, say silently: "I'm healing." As you breathe out: "And today is hard." See if you can feel deep compassion for yourself at the same time and you breathe and speak to yourself.

Here’s a couple more ideas for what to say: "I've come far / And I'm tired." "I'm learning / And I'm scared." "I have capacity / And right now I don't." It can be a little challenging to find the words in the beginning. More and more you will become clear about what is true for you. The key is to have a go at naming what is happening and see if it resonates in your body.

Practice holding both. Not choosing one over the other. Both, at the same time. This is what recovery actually looks like.

Recovery anxiety often comes from comparing: I was better yesterday, I should be better tomorrow, why am I here again?

Look around you right now. Name five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.

Then say aloud: "This is where I am. Not where I was. Not where I'll be. Here. Now."

Place your feet flat on the floor. Press down gently. Feel the ground holding you. All you have to do is be here, in this moment, exactly as you are.

You may like to journal with these prompts or you may like to sit quietly with them.

What does "forward movement" feel like in your body? Where do you feel it? What changes physically when you have capacity?

What does "pulling back" feel like? How does your body signal that it's contracting, protecting, retreating?

Can you identify your particular rhythm? Some people cycle daily. Some weekly. Some have longer stretches. What's your pattern? Knowing it helps you trust it.

What do you need in forward moments? Maybe to acknowledge them fully, to store up the evidence: this is what safety feels like.

What do you need in contracted moments? Maybe more gentleness, more permission to slow down, more recognition that this isn't failure.​

Recovery isn't about never going back. It's about the back-and-forth becoming less jarring over time. It's about contracted moments getting shorter and/or less intense. It's about learning to trust that forward movement will return even when you're in a pullback. Your capacity yesterday doesn't make today's struggle a regression. Your difficulty today doesn't erase the progress you've made.

All any of us have is this moment. Try not to miss it by wishing it were different, by comparing it to yesterday, by rushing toward tomorrow. This moment, exactly as it is, with whatever capacity or contraction you're holding, this is where healing actually happens.

Let me know if this resonated with you.

May you be well, may you be happy and may you have inner peace.