The Shape of Permission

There are days I move slowly because I choose to.
And days I move slowly because I can’t do anything else.

I used to feel bad about it.

Even in stillness, something in me would whisper: You should be doing more. You should be coping better.

But over time—through breath, through yin, through moments of simply lying down and not trying to change anything—something softer arrived.

Not ease, necessarily.

But permission.
Not everything needs to shift.
Not every feeling needs fixing.
Not every sensation is a sign that something’s wrong.

Sometimes, the body just wants to be listened to.

This is what slow practice gives us.
A pause that interrupts the pressure.
A shape that holds space for whatever’s here.

Permission to be tired, without explaining.
To feel heavy, without needing a reason.
To be in your body without needing to improve it first.

In stillness, we start to notice what’s true.

The flicker of emotion behind the eyes.
The urge to move away from ourselves.
The part that’s still holding on—even when everything else is letting go.

This kind of noticing is tender.

It’s not loud.
It doesn’t always feel like clarity or insight.

Sometimes, it just feels like presence. Like staying with what’s here—even if what’s here is messy.

Slow practices don’t require performance. They don’t ask us to be “regulated” or graceful.

They offer something quieter: You’re allowed to be here.

Even in this.

That whisper—you don’t have to be different first—is something I return to again and again.
Especially on the days I don’t feel ready.
Especially when I’d rather disappear into distraction.

Permission has a shape.
Sometimes it looks like breath.
Sometimes it looks like lying flat on the floor.
Sometimes it looks like softening when everything says “push through.”

This is the practice.

Letting presence feel like enough.
Letting you feel like enough.
Letting rest be what it is - not a break from the work, but part of it.