For a while, I felt overwhelmed by everything—grief, routine, the endless to-do lists. After losing my mother, life became hazy, like I was moving through fog. I kept showing up, doing my best, pushing forward. But deep down, I wasn’t really connected with myself.
I kept reading books and listening to podcasts that spoke about the importance of “sitting with yourself.” And at first, I thought—well, I am with myself all the time. What more could there be?
But the truth is, we often confuse proximity with presence. Just like we sometimes recite the ‘Father thou art in heaven’ prayer by habit, forgetting we’re actually speaking to the divine—the One who gave us life—so too do we forget what it means to truly be with ourselves.
“Sitting with yourself” isn’t just being alone. It’s about stillness. Not thinking. Not doing. Just listening. Letting the body speak. It always does—through fatigue, tension, even pain. But the noise of the world can be so loud that we stop hearing it.
Meditation became my doorway back to presence. Through it, I learned to pause, to listen—not just with my ears, but with my heart, my body, my soul. And what I discovered was that I was deeply tired. My body had been whispering it, even screaming it, through pain and illness. I’d heal one thing, only for something else to flare up.
Why? Because I hadn’t really listened. I was ignoring the lesson.
Unfelt emotions, unhealed wounds—they don’t just disappear. They live in the body. In tight shoulders, in headaches, in tension that refuses to leave. Sometimes, they even show up as physical swelling. Your system is always trying to tell you something: you need to feel this.
During meditation, I began to visualize those wounded parts of myself. And let me be honest—it hurt. Healing does. Old pain surfaced in waves, each one timed perfectly by my body, as if it knew I was finally ready to feel it.
That’s the truth about healing: you don’t get to choose only the light. You must walk through the heavy, uncomfortable parts, too. And if you don’t feel them willingly, life has a way of bringing them back to you—through people, through experiences that mirror the original wound.
It’s all chemistry. Emotional alchemy. What we suppress internally finds its way out externally, until we listen.
That’s why it’s so important to stay attuned to your body and heart. This inner relationship—the one we never learned in school—is essential. Getting to know yourself. Understanding your mind. Hearing your soul.
One moment that surprised me deeply was when, during meditation, I began to cry—unexpectedly, uncontrollably. It was like a river rising from within, and I finally let it wash over me. It made me realize: grief needs space. And tears are not a weakness; they’re truth. They’re healing.
Still, society teaches us to hide our sadness. To hush our tears. We’re told to stay strong, to keep going. But true strength is in allowing yourself to feel. To cry when your soul needs release. To stop patching wounds with productivity and just be.
Because in this life, we’re meant to experience. To feel. And yes, sometimes, to cry.
Your soul always knows what it needs to let go, to cleanse, to evolve. Crying is the body’s way of purifying itself. It’s not shameful—it’s sacred.
Toward the end of my meditation, I saw my mother’s smile with the eyes of my soul. It wasn’t a vision, not exactly—it was a knowing. A sense of peace. I understood, in that moment, that she was okay. That she had found her rest.
And that kind of knowing… it doesn’t come instantly. It comes slowly, with time. With love. With presence. And most of all, with the courage to sit with yourself—and listen.
Katherine's Blog 