Retreat Life & Reflection
A reflection on holding ourselves gently when the weight of the world—and our own worries—becomes too much to bear.
I was trying to reach the service department at my car dealership to ask a simple question about the warranty on my son’s car. That’s it. I needed to handle this before I jumped into my work day, which was full of Zoom calls and wading through a zillion emails. But the phone lines were malfunctioning. For ninety minutes, I tried repeatedly to get through. I got bounced between operators, then the line disconnected, then I was told to just leave a message and someone would eventually get back to me. At first, I was annoyed. Then I became anxious. Then suddenly, something inside me snapped.
Hot tears streamed down my face without warning. My chest tightened and my voice trembled. It was as if this one call held the fate of everything I was trying to manage. And in a way, it did. Because the phone call wasn’t just about a warranty; it was about control. It was about how much I’ve been holding silently on my own, and the mounting stress of things that had begun to feel too big.
I realized at that moment that I’d been living clenched for weeks. I’m trying to sell a house at a time when buyers have disappeared. I’m trying to secure a business loan while banks are pulling back. I’m watching the headlines about the conflict between the U.S. and Venezuela, knowing that my homeland, Trinidad and Tobago, is caught between these two nations that are now tangled in threats of war.
Then came news that my long-awaited trip to the Motherland might be derailed by both the U.S. government shutdown and the volatile rhetoric of a man threatening yet another international conflict. It was just too much.
That phone call wasn’t the problem. It was the small crack through which everything I’d been carrying came spilling out.
It feels like the whole world is trembling.
Everywhere I turn, people are stretched thin — emotionally, financially, spiritually. Colleagues are losing clients and income. Families are losing SNAP benefits. Parents are wondering how to stretch one paycheck to cover groceries and gas. My friends of Jamaican descent are trying to figure out how to support their families impacted by hurricanes. Immigrant loved ones are living in fear of ICE raids. And so many of us are trying to hold our children close and explain the chaos in ways that they’ll understand, yet not be fearful.
There’s a quiet despair humming underneath our collective days. Even those of us who are usually “the strong ones” — the helpers, the problem-solvers, the leaders — are tired. And that fatigue has layers. It’s not just physical exhaustion; it’s the erosion of certainty. We are living in a state of constant alert, bracing for the next blow.
When I look around, it’s as if America is on fire, and many of us are trying so hard to protect ourselves by pretending we don’t smell the smoke.
For me, there are small signs that tell the truth before I ever speak it.
I start rushing through everything — emails, meals, even moments that are meant to be savored. My attention span is short. My body stays tense, even when I’m lying down. I can’t get my shoulders to drop. I forget to play music. My mind wanders and it’s difficult to regain focus.
For others, the signs might be different:
Our bodies always know before our minds catch up. But we’ve been conditioned to override those signals — to keep going, to “push through.” Especially those of us who are caregivers, advocates, or leaders. We tell ourselves that others are depending on us, that we don’t have time to fall apart.
But what if noticing our unraveling isn’t failure? What if it’s the first act of care?
That day, after the phone call, I sat in silence. I didn’t try to fix anything. I didn’t even pray right away. I just sat. And in that stillness, I realized that my reaction wasn’t irrational. It was cumulative.
I’ve been carrying the stress of global instability, the unpredictability of entrepreneurship, the weight of parenting, and the grief of watching systems crumble around me — all while trying to keep my spirit steady.
So much of this moment asks us to pretend. Pretend we’re fine. Pretend we’re in control. Pretend that the economy, the wars, the climate, the violence, the hate isn’t shaking us at the core. But pretending only deepens the ache.
There’s something profoundly liberating about telling the truth: I’m not okay right now.
It doesn’t mean you’ve lost faith or strength. It means you’re human.
So I picked up the phone and I called my sister. When she answered, I said, “I’m having a rough time. Do you have time to talk?”
One of my favorite quotes from Maya Angelou is, “Each person deserves a day away in which no problems are confronted, no solutions searched for. Each of us needs to withdraw from the cares which will not withdraw from us.”
We don’t always have the power to eliminate the things that cause us stress. But we can take care of our mental health by creating small, steady practices that return us to calmness and remind our bodies we’re safe enough to exhale.
Here are a few practices that I turn to:
At Ayoku Healing Retreat Center, we often say, “Healing isn’t separate from the work. It is the work.” After much trial and error, I’ve come to understand that tending to my mental health isn’t separate from living — it is living.
We cannot sustain the fight for justice, or care for our families, or build our dreams if our minds are unraveling. Rest, therapy, prayer, and silence are not luxuries. They’re survival strategies for our spirits.
In this season, we must pause long enough to listen for what our souls are trying to say.
So if today feels too heavy — if your body aches, your patience thins, your spirit feels dim — pause. Close your eyes. Take one deep breath. Remind yourself that you are not the chaos around you. You are something steady underneath it.
The world will keep spinning. The fires will burn. The banks will tighten. The storms will rage. But you, beloved, still deserve to be well.
Protect your peace like your life depends on it. Because in times like these, it truly does.
