Stillness.

My home sits on about two acres. These massive trees with their steady sway calm me so much when I sit outside. That is they did until I walked the property with an arborist! Looks like a lot of tree work in my future.

I have a hard time being still.

I’ve always thrived on motion. Movement feels natural to me—almost necessary. In fact, I’ve often thought that walking is the closest thing to stillness I know.

But lately, I’ve been working on something different.
You could call it meditation.
You could call it practice.
I’m calling it stillness.

And here’s what I’m beginning to see.

I’m not going to pretend this time in my life is anything other than what it is. I try to be a truth-teller, especially with myself. And the truth is, these last few months have tossed a wave of overwhelming feelings on my heart and soul.

Grief about the past.
Worry about the future.
A sense that an imaginary rug of safety was simply yanked out from under me.

There’s the shock of betrayal—from someone I trusted deeply.
And alongside that, the quiet, constant hum of deep concern for someone I love who is facing serious health challenges.

It’s a lot.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s this:
I do believe I will come through this. Stronger. Wiser. More myself.

But that’s not where I live yet.

Right now, I am simply learning how to be still.

So I’ve made a decision—to gently shape my days around it.

I will walk, but without music or podcasts.
Just me, the rhythm of my steps, the sound of the world, and my breath.

I will wake up slowly.
No rushing. No grabbing for my phone.
Just easing into the day as it comes.

I’m setting aside noise where I can. (Well… mostly. I may still share this, because I love when words connect us.)

There’s a line from the Bible that has been sitting with me:

“Be still, and know…”

I’ve always loved that verse, but right now I’m holding onto these words in particular:

Be still. Know.

Because I have so many unanswered questions.

And “knowing” feels far away.

But what if stillness is the way back to it?

What if, in the quiet, something shifts?

A different kind of knowing—not answers, exactly, but truths:

That I am not my feelings.
That feelings move through me; they do not define me.
That even now, I am safe.
That I can hold myself, right here, in the middle of all of this chaos.

What if being still, even for a few moments at a time,
could gently return me to that place?

I don’t have this mastered. Not even close.

But I’m willing to try.

When your life feels overwhelming, where do you go to find stillness? I am listening. And yes. I know I have comments off. I like it that way. It forces people who want to answer to reach out to me directly. And I like that private connection. You can email me here if you don’t have my number: robbbin@robbinphillips.com.