It's been a while since I've written to you. Not because there wasn't anything to say, it was because the energy for saying it had gone quiet within me.

I've learned over the years that forcing words when they don't want to come rarely serves anyone, not me, and not you. Sometimes the most honest thing we can do is stop. It's not a feeling of giving up, it's more like listening and honouring what wants to happen naturally rather than what we think should happen.

After trauma, many of us struggle with this. We learned that stopping meant failure, that gaps meant we'd lost something, that pauses meant we weren't committed enough. We push through even when the energy has left, even when the words feel empty, even when our body is saying "not now."

Here's what I've noticed: the things that matter come back when they're ready. On a timeline that is honest and true. There is no forcing the schedule. Sometimes we are asked to stop and keep our energy to ourself.

So I stopped writing for a bit. I tended to other things. I rested. I let the words go quiet without making that mean something was wrong. Although there is a small part of me that I work with that has me feeling like I should be writing.

And now the energy for writing is back. I didn't force them, the energy simply returned. And interestingly, in that quiet space, the idea for my second book arrived, well formed, clear, and ready to be bought into the world. And I have the energy of a third one in my field. They came precisely because I stopped forcing the weekly words and created space for something larger to emerge. This wasn't a cognitive decision, this was being responsive to the dissolution of energy for Trauma Bytes and the internal request to stop.

In the time of withdrawal, we had to say goodbye to our oldest horse (he was in his early thirties we think). The timing of things is a mystery, and if we pay attention, it often works out better than we could plan. I had time to be with the loss of this beautiful being.

What I've Learned About Natural Rhythms

Everything has seasons. Writing has seasons. Energy has seasons. Life has seasons. Even the things we love and are committed to move through cycles of fullness and emptiness, expansion and rest, aliveness and death.

Autumn taught us about letting go and gathering in. Winter asks for dormancy. And sometimes, our creative work, our writing, our teaching, our sharing, needs to follow that same rhythm. Stop producing constantly, and move with what wants to emerge and what wants to rest.

This may be classified as laziness or lack of commitment. The reality is that it is listening. And sometimes what emerges from the quiet is bigger than what we were producing in the busyness.

I invite you to explore where you are nudged to stop or pull back from. Practice working with the energy that comes and goes. I'd love to know what shows up for you if you practice what I am suggesting.

Practice: Honouring When Energy Leaves

This week, notice what you're pushing through even though the energy has genuinely left. Notice the work or activities that still have life in them. We want to capture any of the things you're doing  from "I should..."

Ask yourself: Does this still have energy? Am I forcing it because I'm afraid of being judged? What will people think of me? I don't want to let them down. Or any other thought that comes to you.

If the energy has gone, try letting it rest. It doesn't have to be forever. Although it may be something that completes. Mostly, it needs space. See what happens when you stop pushing and start listening. You might be surprised by what arrives in the space you create.

Reflection

What are you continuing simply because you started it, even though the energy has left?

What story do you tell yourself about stopping? That it's quitting? That it means you failed?

What might return if you let it rest instead of forcing it? What might emerge that's even bigger?

I'm glad to be writing to you again. Not through force, but because it wanted to come back. And I'm grateful for what arrived in the quiet, books that needed the space to begin forming, ideas that couldn't come through the noise of weekly production.

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