When Rest Doesn't Feel Safe: A Talk

Summer invites us to slow down, but for many of us, rest is not always easy to receive. In this reflective talk, originally published in written form, Carolyn explores the nervous system’s relationship with safety, and why spaciousness, success and goodness can sometimes bring up unexpected fear.

Through personal stories of parenting, work, summer break and learning to pause, Carolyn shares a compassionate reminder: we can meet ourselves exactly where we are. In fact this is the only place we can actually reside. But the body can be slow to catch up to the safety of the present moment. Again and again, we can remember that rest does not need to be earned—it is something we slowly learn to trust. One mantra, one breath, one summer at a time.

Transcript

I wake up to the faint sound of ukulele picking in the room down the hall. It's the kind of instrument that stirs nothing but joy in me. There's an innocence to the ukulele. A sweetness. It reminds me of summer and somewhere over the rainbow. What a way to be lulled awake on the actual first day of summer break. My daughter strumming away any blues, Taking it slow, Making music. It's summer. There's finally nowhere to rush to, Nothing to check off, Nothing to plan for. I get to lie here and listen. For this moment, I get to be. These are the days we yearned for as children. I felt her excitement leading up to this day. Nothing but fun and freedom ahead. Or so I want to believe. But as a parent, My joy is mixed with weariness at the long stretched out weeks ahead. We're only a couple of hours in. And part of me is already longing for the routines of September. As much as I crave slowness and rest, They also unearth fear. The fear of parenting all day long for months on end. And the fear that rises in my body. Whenever I stop. So I waver between desperation for breaks and terror when they actually arrive. Of course, I know that in a blink, This summer break will be over. I think of those aggravating reminders parents are given to enjoy every moment. I know that the smells of sunscreen, Barbecues, And salt water will suddenly be a memory and that we only get about 18 summers with our kids. I know, Too, That the inner turmoil a season of rest brings does not need to be so confronting. Luckily, My mind holds years of techniques and tools to help me meet these emotions and return to the present moment. But my body is slow to change. My nervous system is slow to trust. This slower pace and the goodness of right now. Do not yet feel safe. Toolbox check. When things do not feel safe, I try to name what is true in the moment. I'm at home. The window is open and I hear birds outside. I've slept well. Hannah is here. My husband is making coffee downstairs. After five full weeks of retreats, Trainings, Family events, Medical stress, And big inner shifts, I am resting. These are all true. A full summer lies ahead with long, Spacious days. Also true. And my body does not feel safe. Also true. I know this melody. It came up last year at this exact time. Last summer, The fear had more to do with family, Old dynamics, Old protective responses. Nothing problematic had even arisen, But my body didn't know it. It was still replaying an older song, Jaw tension, Vigilance, A racing heart, That familiar internal bracing that arrives before I even have time to name it. This year, Though, The fear has widened. It isn't only showing up around family, Summer parenting, Or the loss of routine. It's rising around work, Too. What's surprising about this fear? Is that work has been good. Really good. The last couple of months have been rich and powerful. The work has asked a lot of me, Yes. But it has also felt meaningful, Aligned, And deeply alive. I have created things I'm proud of, Held spaces that felt honest and impactful, And watched my work mature into something that feels more and more like me. And yet instead of simply celebrating that. Or resting in the beauty of what has been created. I noticed my mind obsessing over financial fears. I kept fixating on the story of taking three weeks off during summer break. I compared myself to others. I became cynical about my own achievements, As if minimizing them might somehow protect me. Everything was safe. Everything was okay. And still the old story kept rising. I'm not safe. The work was going well and the fear was old. It is humbling to watch the body brace against the very things it longs for. Rest, Space, Success, Enoughness. The nervous system can grow so accustomed to vigilance that even goodness feels suspicious when it arrives. Safety doesn't always feel safe, Because sometimes it is unfamiliar. And so I lie here listening to Hannah strum her ukulele. And I begin to understand that this first day of summer break is not just inviting me to slow down. It is inviting me to tell the truth. The truth that many things can exist at once. I can be grateful and dysregulated. Proud and afraid. I can be deeply in love with my life and still be startled by the space inside it. I can crave rest and also feel afraid when rest arrives. I can know that I am safe. While my body takes longer to believe it. This too is part of the practice. So lately I've been trying to support myself in very simple ways. Not right now. I whisper when the urgency rises. Not right now to the email. Not right now to the idea that suddenly feels like it must be acted on immediately. Not right now. To the compulsion to fix, Plan, Compare, Or produce. I can get to it later and still be safe. Often what makes a response clearer and truer is waiting until it is less rushed, Less fear driven. I look back at all that I've accomplished. Not because I need a justification to rest. But because I need to remember what is actually true. I need to remember the spaces I've held. The ways I've supported people. The beauty that has moved through my work. I spend so much time teaching about rest, Presence, Regulation, And care. This is my chance to offer the same mercy to myself. When I notice myself looking outside myself. At who seems more productive, More poised, More successful, More secure. I try to turn inward. My teacher reminds me to imagine myself at the top of a mountain, Alone. Quiet. Listening. When I do, I remember what I am and am not committed to. I'm not committed to becoming a louder version of myself as a teacher. I'm not committed to the spectacle of performing. I'm not committed to selling to the masses from the mountaintop. I am committed to softening. Listening, And connecting. To feeling a little more like myself with each passing day. To discovering how to care more. And to trusting that the quiet has something to teach me. As I listen to her strumming, As I write this down, As I keep returning to the moment instead of the story. Something softer begins to emerge. Maybe the practice is not to force my body into trust. Maybe the practice is to keep meeting it there. And to keep whispering without urgency. You're safe. You are safe. And this morning, That practice sounds like a ukulele in the next room. And for now. That is enough.

Reviews

I so needed this right now. The reminder of what it is so and what I know right now in this moment is a great tool. Thank you!

I too am safe