The dining room felt warm this morning. She was already at the table, and there was a quiet steadiness in her presence, a calm I had rarely seen before. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat across from her.
"You look different today," I said, breaking the silence.
She focused on me. "Different how?"
I took a moment, choosing my words carefully. "You look more in tune with yourself—serene and relaxed."
She smiled a little, glancing down at her coffee with a hint of satisfaction. "I’ve been putting in a lot of work on that."
“What have you been doing, exactly?”
“I’ve been letting go of these layers of tension I didn’t even know I was carrying. It’s like I’m finally uncovering parts of myself that have been waiting for a chance to be seen.”
I absorbed her words. “That must feel like a relief.”
She looked up at me, her gaze steady. “For so long, I’ve been afraid of pain—physical pain, mental pain, all of it. And I’m realizing that fear has been this fog hanging over everything. It’s kept me from really trusting my body, from trusting myself. So now, I’m trying to unravel that fear and just be with what is, without projecting it into the future, you know?”
I nodded. I’d never heard her speak quite like this before. “So… how do you even start doing that?” I asked, curious. “I mean, it’s one thing to want to be fearless, but how do you actually go about… becoming that?"
She took a sip, thinking. “It’s not so much about becoming fearless. It’s more about shifting perspective, building a different relationship with myself, and learning to accept fear when it shows up. You know how people say that anxiety is a cycle? Fear of fear just keeps you trapped in constant dread. I'm trying to change that, break the cycle. I’m learning to step back and observe my fears, instead of getting caught up in them. It’s like there’s a part of me that can watch what’s happening without buying into the stories my mind creates—those rabbit holes I dig into, where I end up spiraling and can’t get out. The 'what-ifs,' the 'should-haves.'"
“What kind of practices have you used?” I asked, wanting more clarity.
She set her cup down and thought for a moment. “I’ve been using things like qigong, yoga, meditation, pain reprocessing, and Bone for Life... These practices teach me how to stay present, to feel my body without letting my mind drag me into its endless chatter. It’s about tuning into the here and now, instead of letting my thoughts pull me away.”
“So do you think your mind is your worst enemy?”
She laughed. “Not my enemy. More like a... difficult child.” She smirked, then grew serious. “My mind is restless. It’s loud. It loves to fixate on imagined dangers, pulling me out of the present moment and yanking me into places I don’t need to go. But the thing is, I don’t have to fight it. I just have to remind myself, and my mind, that I’m safe. Whatever comes, I can handle it.”
Without thinking, my hand reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly over hers. The warmth of her skin against mine felt like something unspoken but full of meaning.
"I admire how you strive to live beyond the suffering. You’ve chosen to follow that wisdom I once heard: 'Pain is the body’s response; suffering is the mind’s.'"
"I believe that too," she said. "Being present in the here and now helps me keep suffering at bay. There's no room for the past or future to pull me away from what’s real."
I squeezed her hand, feeling an odd mix of pride and awe. The way she spoke, with such conviction, made me realize how much energy she had used in facing her struggles.
"I think you’re already closer to that way of living than you realize."
She smiled, her eyes glistening. "Maybe. But there’s still work to do. I’ve been carrying so much, so many beliefs and fears, patterns I learned without even realizing. It’s not just mine, it’s generations of baggage—things I inherited without even knowing. Part of my purpose is to clear all of that out, to make room for something lighter, more loving. I want to make sure I’m not passing that weight onto anyone else—my children, my friends, or anyone who crosses my path."
There was silence then, the kind that feels full of unrealized potential rather than empty.
"So… all these practices—qigong, yoga … it's not just exercise for you, is it?"
She shook her head. “No, it’s so much more. Every movement is a way of tuning in, of learning to trust my body instead of fearing it. Strengthening my bones, feeling the way my muscles respond… it’s like I’m building this foundation of confidence. Like each stretch, each step, is a reminder that I’m capable.”
She paused, and then continued, "The more I connect, the less I feel like a stranger in my own body."
I watched her, struck by her honesty, by her courage to face things most people would shove aside. “It's inspiring, watching you go through this transformation. You’re facing things most people would run from.”
We sat there, our hands still touching, the morning light spilling over us like some quiet blessing. And for a moment, everything felt still, timeless.
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