When it’s all too much, and self-care isn’t cutting it

Too much to respond to, too much to take care of, trying to be responsible but exhausted and worn out… What I’m hearing from many helpers and caregivers lately is “The Depletion of Too Much.”

With this particular flavor of depletion, you might even be doing lots of good self-care (or at least some, sometimes). But what we call self-care can feel like one more thing on the to-do list. Or it can help for an hour, and then it’s back to the grind. You might feel quite used up by the end of a day and not have much motivation for the next one.

Driving a couple hundred miles across the west Texas desert recently, the dusty, desolate landscape seemed to mirror this vast depletion. And yet, every once in a while, a bright blip of green would appear. Cottonwood trees, well known for their ability to survive a harsh arid climate. The cottonwood tree’s roots can spread both wide and deep to find water beneath the ground. While getting its own needs met in this way, the tree also becomes a beacon for other living beings in search of nourishment.

I wonder if we too can find a more sustainable way to both replenish and serve? 

For a human who has been doing plenty, adaptation can’t be about doing more. Seeking sustenance from where it is hidden yet abundantly available, we might instead root into the current moment experience–paradoxically receiving the relaxation, inspiration, and energy we need right here and now, in the middle of the busy.

I write these words and feel my fingers typing on the keys, while the heat of the day seeps into my skin, and the construction down the street sporadically beeps and rumbles.

Drinking in moments of being alive, no matter what those moments entail–this can be a survival skill too.

What if self-care became more self-caring? For anyone with a lot on their plate, wellness isn’t only about getting a massage or going to yoga class–though these supports are wonderful! It’s also a kindness to the struggle. A willingness to tend to the tired, rooting into what’s here and available.

Doing less, yet finding more.

May you feel your natural resilience in your very own personal way, and know how precious you are too, 

Julia Aziz

PS-If you could use some support in finding compassionate, sustainable ways to navigate life, please check out my individual, group, and community services. And sign up for my mailing list! It’s a great way to stay connected, receive a reflection like this once in a while, and learn when new groups and retreats are coming up.

When you’re feeling worried

Do you ever feel like your concerns are repeating on an endless loop? “What if… but then, what if…?” To deal with the noise, you might be controlling everything you can, googling down rabbit holes, or seeking distraction. No matter how you cope, it’s hard to think clearly with a worried mind.

In contemplating worry, I like to remember a morning walk I took in northern California last fall. My mind was full from a recent family crisis, and ruminating thoughts were completely distracting me from the surrounding beauty. Then I noticed a small opening inside a big redwood tree. Curious, I squeezed through and found myself in complete darkness. I felt my way around the space and sat down until the noise in my head began to settle.

“Don’t rush to a solution. Sit here and rest,” counseled the tree.

So I did. 

The troubles plaguing my mind didn’t get resolved, but slowly, their urgency lessened. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I began to see shapes–and options I hadn’t been aware of before. When I reemerged from the tree hollow, I felt like myself again, mind and body back to earth.

Worry likes to say:

“Don’t let your guard down. The other shoe is about to drop. Figure it out now–there’s not enough time.”

Quiet says:

“Oh sweetie, you’ve found your way through chaos before. It’s OK to slow down. Wait until you can see your next step.”

Only we can decide which voice to listen to. 

What if fear was a doorway to trust? Despite its compelling nature, worry is not a protection from bad things happening nor does it help us think clearly or creatively. What helps in long-term crisis and uncertain change is caring, thoughtful humans offering of themselves in the particular ways they are called to contribute. More pressure won’t help; solid ground can.

As our long story continues, may we find refuge through the fear, re-rooting ourselves for inspired action. And in our darkest of hours, may the quiet voice of compassion be a true companion and guide.

Sending love,
Julia Aziz

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