Where Rest Became the Revolution

There is something sacred about March.

It asks us to look back and look forward.To honor what has carried us… and gently release what cannot come with us.

This month, we celebrate Women’s History Month and Social Work Month — two spaces rooted in care, resistance, and liberation. And as I sit with both identities — as a woman, as a therapist, as a healer — I find myself reflecting not just on my work…

…but on my becoming.

It was the week after Christmas, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt quiet. The kind of quiet I had been craving but didn’t realize how much I needed. The holidays had passed, the expectations had softened, and I gave myself something I don’t always allow—space. I had plans for that space too. Not plans rooted in productivity or achievement, but plans rooted in care. I was going to rest. Reset. Reconnect with myself in a way that felt intentional and deserved. I remember thinking, this is the year I finally get it right. Balance. Wellness. Slowing down before my body asked me to.

🌊 The Breaking Was Also an Opening

In one last attempt to be who I have always been—the present mother, the dependable one, the one who shows up—I went to play soccer with my son. And I fell.

Not a small fall. Not something I could shake off or push through. I broke my leg—tibia and fibula. Metal and screws now holding together what once moved effortlessly. And just like that, everything stopped. The version of me that could move freely through the world, that could care for others without interruption, that could rely on herself above all else—she was no longer accessible in the way I knew her.

For nine weeks, I was non-weight bearing. Still. Dependent. Slowed down in a way that didn’t feel optional. And what I quickly realized was that the injury itself wasn’t the hardest part. It was what the injury required of me. I needed help. I needed people. I needed to receive in ways I had spent a lifetime learning how to avoid.

💔 The Truth About Hyper-Independence

Because if I’m honest, what I had built wasn’t just independence. It was protection. Hyper-independence had become a language in my body. I got it. I’ll do it. I don’t need help. It looked like strength. It looked like capability. It looked like someone who had it all together. But underneath it was a deep resistance to vulnerability—the kind that comes with needing, with trusting, with allowing yourself to be held.

And my body interrupted all of that.

There was a part of me that grieved deeply during that time. I grieved my mobility, my independence, my ability to move through life on my own terms. I grieved the ease I didn’t realize I had. But there was another part—quieter, less familiar—that began to emerge. The part of me that longed for care. The part that was tired of doing everything alone. The part that had been waiting for permission to soften.

Through my work with Internal Family Systems, I wasn’t just reflecting on these parts—I was in relationship with them. I was negotiating, listening, witnessing the tension between the part of me that resisted support and the part of me that deeply desired it. And instead of trying to resolve that tension quickly, I stayed with it. I let it be complex. I let it be uncomfortable. I let it be true.

✈🏾 Going Deeper psilocybin Style

In the midst of that, I made a decision that stretched me in a different way. I chose to go on a solo psilocybin retreat in Jamaica. Still healing. Still tender. Still in process. It wasn’t about escaping what I was going through—it was about going deeper into it. And what I found there wasn’t some immediate transformation or clarity. It was awareness.

🌿 What It Means to Be Witnessed

There’s something that happens when you are cared for in ways you didn’t grow up receiving. Your system doesn’t immediately relax.

It questions it.

Resists it.

Pushes against it.

My hyper-independent parts were loud on this trip. They were activated by being cared for, by being seen, by not being in control. They questioned the softness. They resisted the support. But at the same time, there was a part of me that exhaled in ways I didn’t even realize I had been holding my breath. A part of me that felt safe enough to be witnessed.

And that witnessing changed something.

🌊 Grieving the Self That Kept Me Alive

I began to see how much of my life had been shaped by survival. How much of my identity had been built around not needing, not depending, not asking. And I also saw how much I had been craving something different. The trees, the music, the community—they all held space for something I hadn’t fully allowed myself to feel before. Grief. Not just for people or relationships, but for versions of myself.

I realized I was grieving the version of me that had to be hyper-independent to survive. And that grief wasn’t something to rush through or fix. It was something to honor. Because that version of me carried me. She protected me. She got me here. But she is not the version of me that will take me where I am going.

As we close the first quarter of 2026 and move into April, into spring, into a season where everything begins to bloom again, I find myself holding a different kind of clarity. Not the kind that comes with having everything figured out, but the kind that comes with being more honest about what I need.

✨ The Pearls I’m Carrying Into Q2

1. From hyper-independence to interdependence

   I am learning that receiving care does not make me less capable—it allows me to be more whole.

2. Making space through grief

   I can honor the communities and versions of my life that shaped me, while still creating room for what exists now.

3. Grief as remembrance, not just loss

   Letting go does not erase what mattered. It allows me to carry it differently.

4. Openness as a pathway to healing

   When I soften my defenses, I create space for deeper connection—with myself and others.

   If you’re curious about this kind of work: https://www.afterlightretreats.com

5. Listening to my body sooner

   Slowing down is not something I want to wait to be forced into again.

6. Trusting surrender

   There is a quiet kind of joy that lives on the other side of releasing control.

🌿 What I’m Releasing

1. The need to over-function in order to feel secure.

2. The pressure to perform strength instead of living in truth.

3. The habit of ignoring my body until it demands my attention.

4. The belief that independence is the only way to stay safe.

🌸 What I’m Choosing

1. Interdependence.

2. Softness.

3. Slowness.

4. A version of joy that does not have to be earned.

As the flowers begin to bloom, I’m reminded that growth does not rush or force itself into being. It unfolds in its own time, in its own rhythm, in alignment with what it needs to become. And maybe healing is the same way—not something we achieve, but something we allow.

🎶 March Playlist: Softness, Surrender & Becoming

✍🏾 Journal Prompts for Reflection

• Where in my life am I still holding on to hyper-independence as protection?

• What parts of me are asking to be supported right now?

• What am I grieving that I haven’t given myself permission to name?

• What would it look like to move through this next season with softness instead of survival?

• What am I ready to release as I step into this next chapter?

🌷 Final Reflection

I thought I needed a break to rest.

But what I actually needed…

was to break open.

And in that breaking…

I didn’t lose myself.

I found the parts of me that had been waiting to be held.