I wanted to share a letter I wrote to myself in my journal a few months ago. I was approaching my first round of intensive lyme treatment and struggling intensely to wrangle the tornado of anxious thoughts that were running rampant in my mind.

I’ve used this practice before — writing a letter to my tenacity, fear, heart, etc… — and thought I would try out writing to my restlessness.

What came forth was a very gentle voice asking for pause, for slow and for space. It was a surprise to me and it brought tears to my eyes. Sometimes all we need to do is give space for our inner wisdom to speak, and then listen.

If you are currently in a season of restlessness, I hope this can help invite some calm and ease into your consciousness. As always, sending you so much love.

Dear my restlessness,

I see you, and I feel you. I know that you want me to keep doing, thinking, organizing, making lists — all of it. I know you want me to keep doing all of this to protect me.

To keep me safe from fear, hurt and the big dark unknown that we are fearlessly walking into daily. We’ve never been to this day before, this particular set of challenges and worries, and I know that makes it hard to pause. To be quiet. To be still.

The questions stampede through my mind with such urgent fervor — what does rest look like during this season of healing? How do I feel like this new treatment is going? Am I scared of what the new medication I am on might do to my body? Am I excited that I am trying something new? Is this flare because of the new protocol? Am I on the right path?

There is no online summit, peer reviewed study or expert who can answer all of the questions about my health that tear through my consciousness. And so they are hard to sit with. Because they are scary.

Fleetingly, I can process, box and label them. I can lay all of the questions I have in front of me and recognize them as fear or sadness or anger talking. But then there are the moments where the questions are so gaping, mysterious and dark it feels like I can hardly breathe.

It’s in those moments, that you (restlessness) become my savior. I stay busy looking at ottomans online, brainstorming Christmas gifts or scrolling instagram endlessly. I write grocery lists, to-do lists, blog lists, thank you cards or annotate my planner. All of this fills up some of the big space that is my uncertainty about my life and my health.

I know that you are trying to help me fill so that I don’t need to feel. I know you are trying to protect me.

But maybe, in this space I am filling — is where endless, expansive peace is waiting for me. Waiting for us.

Maybe, if we stop, and I mean really stop, exhales will come more easily. Maybe if all of that space is left empty it will help to create fuel and calm and understanding.

It’s tiring to be “on” all the time. To go to sleep listing all the things we might do tomorrow and to wake up at 3am or 5am desperate to fill the depth and quiet that feels like it might swallow me by scrolling through my phone.

I want you to know that it is okay, I am okay, without you filling every moment. I want to ask you for more pause. For less pressure in moments of sitting with hard emotions to replace them with distraction.

I know how dedicated you are to protecting me, and that you’ll keep filling time, but I can’t go on like this. At this pace of going and buzzing and going and buzzing. Let’s see what is in this space if we give it room to breathe, room to be. We will be okay, you are still important and I love you.

Love,

Me

Natalie Sayre