Returning to Stillness

One of the humbling truths I’ve discovered over the past year of transition is that even as someone who has practiced yoga, meditation, and breathwork for decades, I somehow lost my connection to stillness.

I often felt like a whirling dervish—or perhaps a tumbleweed carried by a warm, dusty wind, my feet barely touching the ground. There was so much to do in preparation for our cross-country move that everything truly important, including my meditation practice, quietly took a back seat.

It wasn’t only the planning that pulled me away from stillness.

I am deeply sensitive to sound and to my surroundings. Throughout my life, it has been important for me to create a home that feels beautiful, calm, and peaceful. We had created that on our property in British Columbia, but over time circumstances arose that left me feeling as though I no longer had stewardship of my own space. I found myself constantly compromising, adjusting, and accommodating, while moving further away from what I truly wanted.

The increasing number of large dogs living nearby became challenging as well, particularly when the sound of barking would penetrate the walls of our home—my inner sanctum. Added to this was the reality of summer after summer under the threat of forest fires.

My nervous system interpreted all of it the same way:

Stay ready. Stay alert.

That vigilance is wise in an emergency. It is exhausting as a lifestyle.

There were other reasons behind our decision to leave our little piece of paradise and the area of British Columbia that I will always love. But once the decision was made, we became very intentional about choosing where to go next.

When PEI entered the picture, we planned a visit. We spent a few weeks here in September of 2025, exploring not as tourists but as people imagining a life.

This place spoke to us.

Rolling farmland. Ocean light. Quiet roads. A small island with fewer sharp edges.

Yes, there are winds and storms and long winters. Weather has its own personality here. Yet the overall rhythm feels steadier in my body.

Just as important, the home we are grateful to have found—and this small piece of land—are ours to tend. No shared agreements to navigate. No one else's timeline in our space. That clarity, for me, is its own kind of quiet.

We made the move, and it took a few weeks to truly land.

Now something is returning.

My yoga practice is beginning to find me again. The longing to move mindfully with my breath is reawakening, and it feels like coming home.

Meditation has been slower to return.

For now, when I walk in the woods or along the shoreline, I simply practice being present. I notice the wind moving through the grasses. The sound of waves. The call of birds overhead.

And that is enough.

I can feel the conditions for stillness slowly reassembling themselves.

For the first time in a long while, I sense that creating new yoga nidra recordings may actually be possible again. My process has never been simply about sitting down with a microphone. It begins with listening. It requires stillness. It asks me to become quiet enough to sense what is needed—both personally and collectively.

Inspiration has always arrived that way for me.

Not through effort.

Not through force.

But through stillness.

And perhaps that is the lesson this past year has been offering me all along: stillness is not a permanent state we achieve. It is something we lose, forget, seek, and return to again and again.

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