Taking a Seat

The journey through these past three years has a profound lesson in change. For years, my life had a specific rhythm—an exhausting tempo set by ambition, set goals, and the constant hum of "doing." When DT passed, that rhythm stopped entirely.

In the silence that followed, I found myself standing in the middle of a life I no longer understood, clutching a to-do list that suddenly felt meaningless.

If you knew me before, you knew a woman of action. I was the one who dug in, fixed the problem, and moved the mountain. My default setting was GO. But grief has a way of stripping away the illusion of control. It forced a redirection I didn't ask for but desperately needed…the transition from taking action to taking a seat.

I’ve had to learn the difference between being productive and being present. In the past, I measured a good day by how much I checked off. Now, I measure it by how much I felt, how deeply I breathed, and how intentionally I showed up for myself and my children.

Slowing down wasn't a choice at first; it was a physical necessity. Grief is exhausting. It makes your limbs heavy and your mind foggy. But in that forced stillness, I began to reevaluate everything.

I no longer feel the need to be involved in every issue. I’ve realized that many things I once labeled as emergencies were actually just distractions.

I’ve started questioning my "why." Am I doing this because it aligns with who I am now, or because it’s who I used to be?

I’ve learned to protect my peace. If a situation or a person requires me to sacrifice my mental well-being, I’ve learned the power of a quiet exit.

There is a strange, uncomfortable power in sitting down when your instinct is to run. Taking a seat means I have to look at the grief instead of outrunning it. It means I have to sit with the discomfort of an empty chair or a quiet house.

But in that sitting, I’ve found a new kind of clarity. I’ve become a student of minimalism—not just in my home, but in my soul. I’m shedding the clutter of old expectations and making room for the woman I am becoming.

My life isn't smaller now; it’s just more focused. I am learning that "just keeping going" doesn't always mean moving forward at full speed. Sometimes, progress happens when you finally give yourself permission to be still.