The Strength in Stillness

Stillness as resilience, not retreat.

Summary: This piece explores how stillness is not the absence of action but a deliberate practice of presence. It includes reflections on mindfulness and how, in the wake of illness and upheaval, stillness became a way to hold chaos without being consumed by it. The tone is quiet but strong—highlighting inner discipline.

When doing nothing becomes the bravest thing you can do.

I once spent three days snowed in during a solo trip. I was in my camper. The place I had chosen for the night was up a steep road—I was looking for a beautiful view to capture the sunset. I found the perfect spot. It was flat, far enough off the dirt road to not be noticed or bothered. Not that this remote place had many visitors.

The sunset was not as I’d hoped. Clouds thickened, the sky darkened—something was brewing. I settled into the camper, enjoying the quiet.

When I awoke, at least six inches of snow covered the ground. The road I came in on had vanished under it. I checked my phone for the weather—no signal. And now, no easy exit. The steepness of the road kept me from even trying. This little side trip was about to become an unexpected adventure.

There was no noise except the wind and my own thoughts. My plan had been to ski, write, and move through the landscape like I always did—deliberately, freely, with purpose. But the storm came in heavy and fast. I was grounded. And for those three days, the only thing to do was wait.

No progress. No achievement. Just breath. Snow. Stillness.

At the time, it didn’t feel profound. Just the reality of winter in the mountains—beautiful, quiet, inconvenient. I made the best of it. Read. Wrote a little. Listened to jazz. Watched the snow pile up. Waited for the storm to pass.

What I didn’t realize then was how much that moment was preparing me.

Because now, stillness isn’t a weather delay. It is my body saying no. It is fatigue so deep I can’t sit upright. It is sudden vertigo, breathless heaviness in my chest, nausea that demands I stop and lie down—now.

This stillness doesn’t feel earned. It doesn’t come after a long hike or a hard day. It arrives uninvited, unannounced, and non-negotiable.

But those three days in the camper taught me something I couldn’t yet name: Stillness doesn’t have to mean defeat. It can mean listening. It can mean honoring the moment. It can mean survival.

I needed patience—a skill I never fully developed. I was always moving, always expecting things to happen quickly. I didn’t tolerate delays well. But those days in the woods—and the ones still to come—taught me something different. Out here, it’s not about movement or progress. Sometimes it’s about slowing to a complete standstill, just long enough to witness the subtle motion around you. Movement that’s quiet, slow, almost imperceptible—but always there.

I ventured out into the storm—but only a few feet from camp, just enough to find my way back. I found a low-hanging pine and used it as shelter, brushing snow from the ground beneath its branches. Then I sat. And watched.

The world narrows in a snowstorm—sound muffled, outlines softened, time itself slowed. As I settled beneath my makeshift canopy, its branches heavy with snow, silence wrapped around me like another layer of insulation. My breath fogged the air, curling like smoke before vanishing into gray.

The forest is a quiet theater in winter—but not an empty one.

First, I noticed a snowshoe hare at the edge of the trees. Its white coat made it nearly invisible—only the quick flick of its ears gave it away. It hopped forward with its peculiar gait—hind feet landing ahead of the front—and then froze, perfectly still. Even in motion, it seemed to float, barely pressing into the snow. It nibbled at exposed willow twigs, turning its head every few seconds, always alert. No rustle, no sound—only the impression that something alive was testing the silence.

Minutes passed. Or maybe more.

Then a darker shape moved along a ridgeline—fluid, steady. A coyote. Snow dusted its coat. Ears sharp and scanning. Nose low. It moved with purpose, like it knew the path by heart. Occasionally it paused to listen. Then, with sudden precision, it leapt and dove nose-first into the snow—mousing. It emerged with a twitching vole, then trotted on, tail trailing behind like a slow-moving brushstroke.

Neither animal knew I was there. Or maybe they did—and simply didn’t care. There’s a rhythm to the wild that continues with or without us. A kind of grace that asks nothing more than stillness and attention in return.

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by falling snow and a world reduced to shades of white and motion, I felt less like an observer and more like part of it. The cold didn’t matter. The storm became background. What remained was the raw, silent beauty of life simply going on—wild and unbothered.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment in the woods—that silence, that breath, that watchful stillness—would return to me years later, in a very different setting.

I was in a treatment room, reclined in a chair that hummed and clicked and tilted my body just so. The IV line was in. The nurse adjusted the flow. I closed my eyes. And for a few minutes, there was nothing I needed to do but breathe.

That winter scene came flooding back.

The hare.

The coyote.

The weight of snow on pine branches.

And I realized: This is the same kind of moment. The same kind of stillness. Unchosen. Unavoidable. And still—alive.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel brave. I felt hollowed out. But I also felt something else—aware. Aware of the hum of the machines. The rhythm of my breath. The touch of the blanket across my knees.

And just like in the forest, the world narrowed—not in fear, but in focus.

There was no forward motion. No outcome to chase. Only this body. This breath. This moment.

And somehow, that was enough.

Before You Go…

Stillness has taught me many things—some of them I didn’t want to learn. It has stripped away my sense of momentum. It has challenged my patience. And it has asked me to sit long enough to feel what I’ve spent years trying to outrun.

But stillness has also given me something back: A quieter kind of strength. A deeper kind of attention. And a glimpse of what it means to live fully inside this moment—without needing the next one to arrive.

So if you find yourself in a moment where you can’t move forward— Where the ground beneath you has gone soft or silent—maybe that’s not weakness. Maybe that’s life asking you to listen. To pause. To witness.

And to trust that you are still becoming—even when everything feels still.