Rooted in Stillness

 I know. I know. Life seems nothing less than chaotic for most of us. A polarized nation. Real concerns about inflation and just making ends meet. The weight of losing loved ones — and the quieter, sometimes unspoken losses too, like a relationship that slowly unraveled or a job that slipped away. With all of that pressing down on us, "stillness" is probably the last word on our minds.

There's always something that needs to be done. Somewhere to be. Someone who needs something from us. And honestly? I've noticed — in myself and in others — that we tend to pour ourselves out for everyone else first, running on fumes before we ever think to refill. We keep moving, keep producing, keep giving — as if pausing, even for a moment, means something might come tumbling down.

But I've learned that the things worth holding onto don't come from the rushing. They come from the quiet. They come from prioritizing your inner world and needs.

I don't mean that in a self-centered way. What I mean is something a little more nuanced — decentering yourself. Sounds like an oxymoron, right? Prioritize yourself by decentering yourself. Let me explain.

Learning to Swim

I'm a therapist — relatively new, just over two years in. And I'll tell you upfront: it is not for the faint of heart. Learning to dive into the murky waters of someone else's inner world, while still tending to your own, is a muscle that has to be built deliberately and over time.

The best way I can describe what it feels like to enter someone else's world is this:

Imagine standing on a cliff with your client. Below you both is a river — and like most rivers, this one refuses to be still. Some stretches are calm and reflective; others are frantic, rushing. Some spots are clear enough to see right through; others are deep and clouded with sediment — browns, silts, grays, the kind of murky that only comes from years of weathering.

This river belongs to my client. They know it far better than I do. And in many ways, they've learned to navigate it — until the moment they realize the strategies that once worked no longer do. And so they find themselves swimming upstream, exhausted and unsure of how they got there.

My job isn't to coach them from a safe distance on shore. My job is to jump in with them.

The Weight of Being Present

This sounds scary and daunting–because now this means I have to constantly check in with myself. Not just to avoid causing harm, but to actively do good — and good in this work isn’t defined by my own comfort.

Life isn't just about me. It never was. It’s about us. But to genuinely show up for someone else, I have to decenter myself. My fears, my longings, my discomfort. Not suppress them or pretend they aren't there — that would make me less human — but learn to hold them while staying fully present in the deep end of that river with my client.

And to stay present, I've found I need something beneath me. Something that holds even when the current pulls hard.

That something is stillness.

What Stillness Actually Does

When I practice stillness, something shifts. My senses pick up on things that chaos drowns out. I notice what's beneath the surface — in my clients, and in myself. There's a quiet depth that grows the more I return to it, like something slowly taking hold.

I won't pretend it comes easily. It doesn't, not always. But the fruit of it far outweighs the discomfort of getting there.

In stillness, I become intimate with God. It's where He reveals His heart — and mine. Not for judgment, but to be seen, known, and loved. That kind of vulnerability moves me, and my response is to meet Him there. To love back. Not perfectly, but authentically. Rinse and repeat.

In stillness, I find a thread of peace. Sometimes even hope. I see myself clearly — my fears, my dreams, my highs and lows. I let myself sit with the joy of community and the ache of suffering, and somehow, in that quiet place, the two can hold hands. It becomes a space to simply be — not perform, not produce, not prove anything. Just be.

It's from that place — unhurried, tended, anchored — that I find I actually have something real to give. It's like the prayer I’ve adapted from Tim Keller. Lord, give me enough love for today. Enough love from you, so that I’m not scared or driven by anything outside of You. Enough love for You so that I’m not selfish or prideful and a resulting love for others so I’m not cold nor distracted.

Why This Work Is Personal

Like many therapists, I chose this path because I know what it means to want to be in that space — to be known, seen, heard, and understood. I've longed for that myself, and that longing is what drives me to offer it to others.

But I can't give from a depleted place. I have to tend to my own inner life — my own stillness — if I want to have anything real to offer. That means stepping outside myself. It means choosing, often, those stolen moments of stillness that bring me back to something steady.

Decentering yourself doesn't mean abandoning yourself. Sometimes, it just means going still long enough to remember what you're standing on and that you got this in the bag.

Choose Stillness

Here's what I want you to walk away with: it's okay to choose you. And it's also okay to choose them. These are not opposites — one makes the other possible. They can coexist and are significant for flourishing relationships; in which we are wired for–community. We need each other and have to adapt to the rhythms of living within a community.

Flight attendants say it every single flight — put your oxygen mask on before assisting others. It's not selfishness. It's wisdom.

Choose stillness. It'll serve you well — and as a result, you'll be able to serve well.

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1 Keller, Tim “How Tim Keller Seeks to Pray Without Ceasing.” The Gospel Coalition, October 22, 2019. https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/tim-keller-prays-ceasing/