There is a moment most people miss.
It comes after the crisis passes but before the story hardens into memory.
After the shaking stops, but before we rush to explain it.
After the tears dry, but before we decide what it meant.
That moment is where truth lives.
Not the loud truth. Not the kind that demands belief or applause.
The small one. The honest one. The one that feels like a long exhale you didn’t know you were holding.
Lately, I’ve been noticing how often we try to outrun that space.
We fill it with productivity.
We label it.
We narrate it into something manageable.
But the space between storms doesn’t want to be managed.
It wants to be listened to.
This is where healing actually happens, not in grand revelations or spiritual fireworks, but in subtle recalibrations of the nervous system. In the body, realizing it is safe again. In the heart loosening its grip just enough to let light back in.
I’ve lived long enough to know this:
Most transformation is quiet.
It happens when no one is watching.
When there is no audience.
When the only witness is your own awareness.
In my writing, whether fiction or reflection, I return to this space again and again. The place where a character pauses instead of reacts. Where silence does more than speech. Where love doesn’t arrive as spectacle, but as permission.
Permission to soften.
Permission to stop performing strength.
Permission to remember what was never actually lost.
The world teaches us to brace for impact.
To anticipate the next blow.
To stay vigilant, armored, alert.
But what if the deeper wisdom is learning how to rest between the waves?
Not collapse.
Not retreat.
Rest.
Rest as an act of trust.
Rest as an alignment with something older and kinder than fear.
This is the space my books come from.
This is the space this blog exists to honor.
Not to instruct.
Not to convince.
But to sit with you for a moment and say:
You don’t have to rush to become anything.
You don’t have to make sense of everything yet.
You’re allowed to pause here.
If you’re reading this in the aftermath of something difficult, let this be your reminder:
The storm passing is not the end of the story.
Neither is it the beginning.
Sometimes, it’s simply the breath in between.
And that is enough, for now.
