The
Pause
Practice

I remember working around the clock, managing volunteer commitments, always saying “yes”—all while my body was whispering “no”. I didn’t hear it. Or maybe I did and just didn’t know how to listen yet. This first prompt is simply an invitation to pause.

I used to rush through my days without ever really seeing them. Always on to the next thing. Sometimes witnessing ourselves honestly, even just for a moment, is the most loving thing we can do.

For years I had daily panic attacks and anxiety that I kept completely hidden. It got to the point where I couldn’t walk into a grocery store or a crowded place without feeling overwhelmed. But on the outside everything looked fine. Simply check in with yourself physically, the way you might check in with a good friend.

The to-do list was often louder than everything else. Underneath it, there was something quietly waiting for my attention. Before trying to solve anything, I began to ask what was actually on my mind.

I realised at some point that being busy had become my whole identity. If someone asked how I was, the answer was always, “Busy.” It became a badge of honour. But beneath all that busyness was a part of me that had slowly lost touch with what I enjoyed, what I needed and who I was beneath all the doing. Perhaps you’ve had moments like that too.

In the middle of everything I was carrying, I started to notice that joy was still showing up in small moments. A cup of chai in the morning. A message from a friend. A beautiful sunset from my window. This prompt is a reminder that joy doesn't wait for everything to be perfect. Sometimes it appears in the small things, even in a difficult season.

I told myself for years that once this retreat was over, once this project was done, once I got through this busy season—then I would rest. But there was always something next. The finish line kept moving.

I was the person everyone called. The one who always said yes. The one who held everything together for everyone else. And for a long time I didn't realise that some of the systems around me—work, relationships, commitments—were actually running on my depletion. It is simply about noticing.

When I finally stopped—really stopped—in Dharamshala during the pandemic, the first thing I felt was not relief. It was guilt. The feeling that I should be doing something. It took me a long time to learn that rest without guilt is one of the most radical acts of self-love there is.

I used to take holidays and still check my emails every morning. Still plan the next project on the beach. Still feel that low hum of anxiety even in the most beautiful places. The body was resting but the mind never stopped. I didn't even notice how exhausting that was until much later.

When I slowed down, I began to notice the tone of my inner voice. Some thoughts hurried me along. Others were quieter, almost unfamiliar. I did not need to work out where every thought came from straight away. First, I needed to hear what was there.

I used to walk into rooms and immediately start managing: How does everyone seem? What do they need? How can I help? I never stopped to notice what I actually felt in that first moment before all the managing began. I am learning to notice that first response alongside what I discover as I settle in.

My body sent me signals for years before I listened. The panic attacks I kept hidden. The anxiety that lived in my breath—shallow, tight, never quite full. Looking back, I connect that period of illness with how overwhelmed I felt. That is my personal interpretation, not a medical explanation. I became so good at overriding these signals that I stopped noticing them altogether. Until I couldn't anymore.

Have you ever just known something—about a situation, a relationship, a decision—but talked yourself out of it? I have. Many times. I would feel something clearly and then immediately find ten reasons why I was probably wrong.

Time in nature supported me during my recovery. Just the simple act of going outside and feeling the ground beneath my feet. If you are able to, go outside before you write this one. Feel the ground beneath you. For me, imagining the earth’s energy moving through my feet became a way to connect with God, grace and a sense of being held. Nature reminds us that life moves in rhythms and seasons. Rest is part of the cycle. I began to wonder whether I could make room for rest in my own life, too.

When the pandemic forced me into stillness, I didn't know what to do with myself. I had never just sat with nothing to do. No retreat to plan, no emails to answer, no one to help. At first it felt unbearable. And then slowly, very slowly, something began to settle.

In August 2019, I stood on a hotel balcony in McLeod Ganj. It was monsoon season. Everything was lush and green. I looked down at the villages below, closed my eyes and whispered a quiet prayer—God, please, I need a change. I didn't know how it would manifest. I just knew something had to shift. Years later, through faith, surrender and the most beautiful synchronicities, Araam was born—the healing home in the Himalayas we would eventually build. In ways I still cannot fully explain, life responded. A returning dream can be worth listening to, without needing to know where it will lead.

Stillness was something I had to learn. It didn't come naturally to me. When I first started sitting quietly—even for just a few minutes—my mind would race, my body would fidget, my hands would reach for my phone. But I kept coming back to it. And slowly something began to shift. A short pause can be enough. There is no need to remain still for longer than feels comfortable.

We often arrive at things carrying the weight of everything that came just before. A conversation, a deadline, a moment of frustration or tiredness. This prompt simply asks you to notice what you brought with you into this page. There is no right or wrong answer. Just honest noticing.

I know this pattern well. The rush of a new idea, a new project, a new opportunity. The immediate yes before I had even thought it through. I repeated this cycle many times before I began to recognise it.

I used to treat everything as urgent. Every email, every request, every opportunity felt like it needed an immediate response. Learning to pause before reacting was one of the most powerful things I did for my own wellbeing.

The present moment was something I had to learn to come back to. My mind was always somewhere else—planning the next thing, replaying the last thing, worrying about something that hadn't happened yet. The present moment is where life actually is. Returning to it became one way for me to find a little rest.

I remember the first time I truly felt at ease in my body after years of anxiety and tension. I was in Dharamshala. It was early morning. I was sitting outside with a cup of chai, listening to the birds, feeling the mountain air on my face. Nothing was required of me in that moment.