I guided a simple grounding practice to help the group orient in space — so their nervous systems could catch up with the moment and find what felt safe enough right then. After the practice, they wanted to talk.
Some spoke of distress and the habit of simply “carrying on” while something inside felt shaken, distracted or heavy. Others described difficulty sleeping, trouble concentrating, numbness or waves of emotion that arrived without warning. All of these experiences were real. All were valid.
After the program ended, the group agreed they wanted to rest. And so we did.
That moment stayed with me — not only because of the stories shared, but because of what they revealed.
What I heard in that room echoed countless stories I’ve encountered over the years — expressions of grief, fear, disconnection and fatigue that show up in many forms.
And in all of them, I’ve come to understand this:
These experiences reflect what it means to hold complexity — the diversity of human responses shaped by individual histories and by the particular ways each person has learned to protect themselves. They are normal responses, all in service of life in the face of a challenging situation.
They reflect the many ways our nervous systems try to protect us. When we are given space to acknowledge our experience — not as good or bad, but simply as what it is — something begins to shift. A sense of internal agency can slowly return. This is often described as coming back into the “window of tolerance”: a place where one can sit in dignity with whatever emotion is present in the given moment. Grief can be felt. Humanity can be shared. In that space, mindfulness makes sense.
Sometimes, what people most need is rest.
Not a practice of effort. Not a practice of “paying attention.” But a practice of remembering how it feels to be supported by the ground beneath us — a primordial relationship with gravity and stability.
Rest is not avoidance or apathy. It can be an ethical necessity — a way to restore emotional and internal resources with integrity, especially after periods of hyper-alertness or numbness.
When something unsettling happens around us, our nervous systems respond automatically — often before our minds can make sense of what we are feeling. This is the body’s way of trying to keep us safe. Understanding this can be a first step toward meeting ourselves with greater kindness.
Mindfulness, in times like these, does not mean forcing calm or positivity. It can be an invitation to listen — to notice what is present in the body and mind without trying to fix it or rush it away. It is an invitation to stay with complexity.
I wanted to share a small part of a grounding practice that I have offered in these moments, in case it may be supportive:
Pause for a moment and notice where your body is making contact with what supports you — your feet on the ground, your back against a chair, your hands resting in your lap. You do not need to change your breathing; simply notice that breathing is happening.
Gently ask yourself: “What do I notice right now?”
This might be a sensation, an emotion or even a sense of emptiness or fatigue. Whatever you find is welcome. Your experience is your experience — held in full dignity.
If things feel overwhelming, you might shift your attention to something neutral or steady, such as the feeling of your feet or a sound in the room. Choice is part of safety.
This kind of listening is not about reliving what has happened, nor about pushing it away. It allows the body and nervous system to register experience at their own pace — to digest what has occurred, just as we digest food.
Healing after difficult experiences is not linear, and it does not happen in isolation. Reaching out for support — through trusted people, counseling services or community resources — is a meaningful and courageous step.
If you find yourself struggling, mindfulness can help you remember that whatever response you are having makes sense. There is nothing wrong with you. Even in moments of fear or grief, the body carries an innate capacity to find steadiness again — especially when met with patience and care.
Mindfulness practice, when offered with ease and kindness, supports this process. There is no right or wrong way to practice. Who you are in this moment is who you are — and that, too, can shift. Moment by moment, as you listen, as you rest, as you digest.