Mind Notes

Mind Notes

September 15, 2025 - The Weight of Rest

Rest has always felt complicated to me. There’s a part of me that equates stillness with falling behind, as though pausing means I’m failing. But lately I’m learning that rest isn’t absence—it’s presence of another kind. It’s the body repairing, the mind resetting, the heart gathering enough courage to keep going.

This week, I gave myself permission to slow down without guilt. I noticed how much softer the day felt when I allowed myself to nap, to read without rushing, to sit in silence without filling it. Nothing in the world collapsed because I stopped moving. Instead, I found myself steadier when I returned.

Rest, I’m realizing, is not a sign of weakness. It’s a form of strength—an act of trust that life will still be there waiting when I rise again.

If you’re carrying too much today, I hope you let yourself set it down for a while. Rest doesn’t take you away from the journey—it makes the journey possible.

Mind Notes

September 8, 2025 - Carrying Light

On the darker days, I catch myself searching for something steady—something to remind me that I can still move forward. I’ve realized it doesn’t always take much. A kind word, a gentle memory, a moment of stillness can be enough to carry light into a place that feels heavy.

This week, I noticed how even the smallest sparks change the way I see things. A smile from a stranger, a song I’ve heard a hundred times, the warmth of a familiar routine—they don’t erase the weight, but they soften it. They remind me that hope doesn’t have to arrive in grand gestures. It can live in the quiet, in the ordinary, in the overlooked.

I’m learning that light doesn’t only come from outside—it can be something I choose to carry. In how I speak to myself, in how I pause to breathe, in how I keep moving even when the path feels dim. That light, however faint, is enough to guide me through.

If you’re searching for brightness today, look for the small sparks. They might not change everything at once, but they’ll help you take the next step. And sometimes, that’s all we need.

Mind Notes

September 1, 2025 - The First Step

Beginnings are always the hardest. There’s a hesitation in me every time I face something new—the weight of doubt, the pull of comfort, the fear of not being ready. But I’ve learned that the first step doesn’t need to be graceful. It just needs to be taken.

This morning, I thought about how often I’ve waited for the “right moment,” as though life would hand me a perfect sign. But the truth is, moments don’t arrive fully formed. They become meaningful because we choose to step into them. The first word on a blank page. The first breath after a long pause. The first decision to keep going, even when the path is unclear.

The beauty of beginnings is that they don’t have to be loud or dramatic. They can be small and quiet, unnoticed by anyone but ourselves. What matters is that they happen. And once the first step is taken, the second always feels lighter.

If you’re standing at the edge of something new, don’t wait for certainty. Begin where you are. Begin with what you have. Let the act of starting be enough.

Mind Notes

August 25, 2025 - The Quiet Work of Healing

Healing doesn’t always announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with trumpets or clear milestones you can point to. Sometimes it’s nothing more than waking up and realizing the weight you carried yesterday feels a little softer today. Sometimes it’s finding yourself laughing at something small, without that shadow of heaviness tugging it back down.

For the longest time, I thought healing had to be visible, measurable—something I could chart like progress on a graph. But I’ve learned it’s more like a tide. It ebbs and flows. Some days it pulls you back into the ache, and others it carries you gently forward, almost without notice. Both are part of the same current.

There’s no perfect pace to it. The body remembers, the heart resists, the mind circles back. Yet even in the silence, even in the stillness, the work continues. Healing moves in whispers, not declarations. It’s in the pauses, the breaths, the courage to keep going even when nothing feels new.

If you’re in the thick of it, don’t mistake the quiet for emptiness. The shift is happening, just beneath the surface. Trust it—healing rarely looks like what we imagine, but it arrives all the same.

Mind Notes

August 18, 2025 - Holding Space for What Hurts

Today, I want to reflect on the importance of holding space for what hurts—how allowing myself to acknowledge pain, instead of rushing to “fix” it, has been an essential part of living with Schizoaffective Disorder. There’s a quiet courage in sitting with the discomfort instead of turning away.

This week, I had moments where the ache in my chest felt heavier than my words could carry. My instinct was to distract myself, to move past it quickly. But instead, I chose to stay. I let myself cry. I let the weight settle. I reminded myself that feeling pain doesn’t mean I’m losing—it means I’m human.

One of the most meaningful moments came late at night, when I realized that the act of allowing pain to exist made it feel less like an enemy and more like a visitor. And visitors, eventually, leave.

Holding space for what hurts has taught me that emotions don’t need to be silenced to be survived. They can simply be heard, honored, and then released in their own time.

To those reading this: if something hurts today, let it. Give it a chair, let it speak, and know that you are still safe within yourself.

Thank you for sharing this journey with me. Your presence reminds me that pain is not a permanent place—it’s a passing moment, and we can walk through it together.