What Iâve been thinking about lately is this balance between flow and stillness. Not just being in one or the other, but being able to move between them without getting stuck or forcing it. I get frustrated when I canât start. I also get frustrated when I have to stop. And I think a lot of us live right there â either trying to keep something going when the energyâs gone, or trying to get something started when weâre not ready yet.
đ STILLNESS ISNâT FAILURE
When you hit stillness, it doesnât mean youâre lazy or unmotivated. Itâs just your system saying you need to recharge.
I think about it like a shooting range â not that Iâm into guns, but it makes the point. Youâve got moving targets, youâre firing at them, and then the chamber goes empty. The targets are still there, but you canât hit them until you reload. Trying harder doesnât fix it. You donât pull the trigger faster â you stop, reload, and then keep going.
Thatâs what stillness is. Boredom, restlessness, even sadness sometimes â theyâre signals that youâre out of ammo, and you need to reload. Toddlers show this perfectly. Too much disruption = tantrum. Too much stillness = chaos. Weâre not so different. As adults, we just hide the tantrum under irritation, self-talk, or distractions.
đ STARTING WITHOUT FORCE
Once youâve sat still long enough, energy starts to come back. And hereâs where Iâve made mistakes before â Iâd try to fill the time with everything. Clean the whole house. Get the whole project done. Be âproductive.â
But the better move is small. One cup in the sink. One paragraph in the book. One message youâve been meaning to send. And the real question to ask yourself is: do I actually have the energy to match this action?
Because when youâre low, ideas are everywhere: errands to run, things to fix, habits to start. But if your energy doesnât match, forcing it just leaves you frustrated. You start calling yourself lazy, undisciplined, whatever. Itâs not that. Itâs just mismatch.
Little actions keep you honest. They keep you from trying to sprint on empty, but they also get the gears turning again.
đ FLOW IS GREAT, BUT DONâT CLING
Flow feels incredible. Youâre not thinking about whatâs next, youâre just doing it. Hours go by. Youâre alive in it. But the thing about flow is it always ends.
Where Iâve burned myself out is when I tried to keep it going past its natural life. Work is done, but I try to stretch the energy further. Iâll stay in the office too long. Iâll carry that energy into the evening, and then when it finally dies, I crash hard.
The better practice is to not cling. Let flow shift into something else. Doesnât have to be big. Sometimes I just put a few tools away during a DIY project instead of grinding it out to the bitter end. Sometimes I close a couple tabs, turn off a light, and ease my way down instead of slamming the brakes.
Even doomscrolling is a kind of flow. Youâre absorbed, but at some point you realize, âDamn, Iâve been here an hour.â Thatâs your signal. Not to beat yourself up, but to say, okay, let me flow into something else. Maybe go outside. Maybe put the phone down and sit still. Maybe shift into rest.
The mastery isnât about staying in flow forever. Itâs about being fluid â letting yourself move between phases without gripping too tight⌠and anticipating the next cycle.
đ THIS CYCLE NEVER STOPS
One thing that helps me is realizing these shifts are happening all the time. Not just in seasons of life, but daily, even hourly. Sleep into wake. Stillness into movement. Flow into exhaustion. Back again.
And if you look at it this way, even the harder emotions make more sense. Depression, sadness, loneliness â thatâs stillness. Stress, overwhelm, anxiety â thatâs flow, just chaotic and scattered. Both are natural. Both are part of the cycle.
In stillness, youâre tending your fire. Protecting the spark, adding a little fuel, letting it build. It doesnât look like much, but itâs where the energy comes from. Thatâs regeneration.
In flow, youâre directing that fire outward, like conducting an orchestra. Everything feels like itâs clicking. Youâre not forcing each individual piece; youâre just guiding the energy where it wants to go.
But hereâs the catch â sometimes that same orchestra turns into pure noise. Youâre waving your arms, but instead of music itâs just chaos. Thatâs what anxiety feels like: all the instruments are playing at once, none of them in sync. Too many tabs open in your head, too many demands pulling at you.
And in that moment, the answer isnât to conduct harder. You canât just yell louder at the orchestra. Thatâs when you need to gather the energy back in. Bring it close. Quiet it down. The same way you would with a baby thatâs crying too hard to soothe itself â you pick it up, rock it gently, hold it until it rests. The baby doesnât need you to âfixâ the crying, it needs you to contain it, to give it a boundary until it can settle.
Energy works like that too. When itâs scattered and overwhelming, you donât need to keep pushing it outward. You need to hold it, let it rest, let it find its rhythm again. And once it does, thatâs when you can move back into flow (or settle into stillness).
âđ˝ JOURNALING PROMPTS
⢠Where do I fight stillness instead of letting it recharge me?
⢠Whatâs my version of an âempty chamberâ â the signal that Iâm out of energy?
⢠When I get little bursts of energy, how can I start smaller?
⢠Where do I hold onto flow too long, even after itâs time to let it go?
⢠What gentle ways can I wind myself down so I donât burn out?
⢠How do I recognize whether Iâm in stillness, flow, or the messy space in between?
â Thatâs where Iâll leave it.
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