Power in the Pause
I wake up inside a quiet I can’t shake. Not the kind of quiet that calms or grounds. This quiet feels like a hum that won’t move. It sits low in my body and waits. Not urgent. Not dramatic. Just here. Steady. Unbothered by my mind’s desire to name it or fix it. I feel something thick and slow in my solar plexus and sacral area. Not pain. Not sharp. But dense. Like pressure trying to become something but not yet ready to move.
I press my right hand to my belly. Then lower. I let myself feel the weight of it without rushing. My breath stays close to the surface at first, then begins to drop. Still nothing shifts. I’m not crying. I’m not anxious. I’m not spiraling. I just feel full in a way I can’t describe with words. Full like clay that’s wet and waiting. Full like a body that remembers something before language. I notice I’m not afraid of the uncertainty of the moment. I just don’t know what she needs yet.
I reach for the tools that usually help me move energy. I check in with Spirit. I ask questions. I move gently but directly into inquiry. I ask about the things that usually activate me. The taboo. The hidden. The sensual. The parts of me that often get stirred in moments like this. I ask if I’m holding onto desire I haven’t voiced. If there’s someone still occupying my energy. If I’m feeling stagnant because I’ve been withholding my truth or suppressing my fire. And every answer comes back no.
So I go deeper. Maybe I’m spiritually bored. Maybe I’m frustrated with my own growth. Maybe I’m resisting change. Maybe I’m waiting for permission to evolve into my next self. I ask. I breathe. I listen. And again—no. Over and over again. No.
At first I feel a little frustrated. I want movement. I want revelation. I want something to make this feeling make sense. But then I get quiet. Really quiet. And I feel it. Not a thought. Not a voice. Just a knowing.
Stillness. Plus something else.
That phrase lands in my body like a soft drop of water into deep soil. Something settles. Not because I found an answer, but because I stopped demanding one. I understand now that this moment isn’t about release. It’s not about unlocking something. It’s about being with what already is. I’m not stuck. I’m being seated. Placed. Held in a frequency that doesn’t need action to be powerful.
I ask again, this time with more presence. Am I being asked to stay with the stillness, to learn their language? Am I in a space where something is forming that can’t be rushed? Am I being shown how to hold power without performing it? Am I learning to listen to the spaces between the signals?
Every answer is yes. And not just yes in the mind. Yes in the breath. Yes in the bones. Yes in the spaces that don’t need to speak to be real.
My solar plexus feels less constricted. Still full, but not tense. My sacral begins to hum again. Not loud. Not dramatic. But alive. A low, ancient rhythm that reminds me I’ve done this before. I’ve sat at thresholds like this. I’ve held energy that wasn’t ready to rise. I’ve midwifed myself through voids that weren’t empty—they were sacred.
This isn’t a waiting room. This is an altar. This isn’t where I pause before life begins again. This is where I remember what life really is.
I stop asking what I should be doing. I stop measuring the pause as delay. I let the silence have weight. I let my body stay full. I let myself feel the shape of what’s forming, even if I don’t know its name.
I learn to receive without reaching. I stop trying to force clarity and instead breathe into the truth that already lives inside me. This stillness is not absence. It’s intelligence. It’s alignment. It’s Spirit showing me what it looks like to hold myself without needing to move.
There is power in this moment. Real power. The kind that cannot be seen from the outside. The kind that doesn’t ask for applause. The kind that grows beneath the surface until one day it blooms without warning.
I don’t need to explain this to anyone. I don’t need to justify the slowness or the quiet or the pause. I don’t need to wait for it to be over to honor it. This is the thing. This is the ceremony. This is the recalibration.
So I stay with the stillness.
I let the pause be sacred. I let my belly feel full. I let my sacral buzz in its own time. I trust that when movement returns, it won’t be coming from urgency or exhaustion. It will rise from truth. From clarity. From alignment.
From the something else that only stillness could give me.
Thank you to my body for the guidance. Thank you, Spirit. Àṣẹ.