118 Between Breaths: Learning to Trust the Quiet

There are moments in life when nothing appears to be happening—and yet everything is.

You’ve made a decision. Spoken a truth. Chosen sustainability over strain. Stepped away from what no longer fits. And then… silence.

No immediate response. No clear feedback. No visible movement.

This is often where fear enters. The mind scrambles to explain the quiet. Did I misstep? Should I reach out? Should I do something to restart the motion? We’ve been conditioned to believe that movement equals safety and noise equals success.

But intuition doesn’t work that way.

Intuition works on rhythm.

Between one breath and the next, there is a pause. A fraction of stillness where the body resets and life reorganizes itself. That pause is not empty—it is precise. It is necessary. It is where integration happens.

In nature, nothing meaningful rushes. Roots grow underground before a sprout breaks the surface. Tides pull back before they return. Snow settles before it melts. And yet when our own lives enter a quiet phase, we assume danger instead of design.

There is a very real recalibration that occurs after clarity. After a clean boundary. After choosing truth over familiarity. The nervous system listens. The relational field listens. Life listens.

Silence is often alignment settling into place.

Of course, the body doesn’t always interpret it that way. From a survival standpoint, stillness can feel threatening. The body remembers times when constant availability meant safety. When responsiveness equaled love. So when things go quiet, fear can arise—not because you’re wrong, but because you’re somewhere new.

This is where compassion matters.

Rather than arguing with fear or trying to fix the moment, the invitation is to stay. To let your body learn that stillness does not equal collapse. That pausing is not failing.

There is a quiet strength in staying with uncertainty without rushing to fill it. In trusting timing without demanding proof. In allowing life to move without pushing it forward.

Zen teachings remind us that growth cannot be forced. You don’t pull on leaves to make a plant grow faster. You don’t command the moon to rise sooner. And yet we often do this with our lives—asking for reassurance before we’re ready to receive it.

Intuition knows better.

What is real arrives whole, not rushed.

If you’re in a quiet moment right now, consider this: you may be standing in a doorway. The old way no longer works, and the new way hasn’t announced itself yet. This threshold is sacred. It’s where discernment replaces urgency. Where nervous systems rewire. Where intuition strengthens its voice.

You don’t need to fill this space. You don’t need to explain it. Your only job is to breathe.

A Stillness Practice: Between Breaths

Take a moment now to pause.

Sit comfortably. Place one hand on your chest or belly.

Inhale gently through your nose.
Exhale slowly through your mouth.

After you exhale, notice the natural pause before the next inhale arrives.
Don’t force it. Just notice it.

Silently say:
This is a pause, not a collapse.
This is a breath, not an ending.

Stay with that space for three rounds of breathing.

Let your shoulders soften.
Let your jaw unclench.
Let your body learn that stillness is safe.

Between breaths, life is listening.
Between breaths, truth organizes itself.
Between breaths, the next right movement gathers strength.

You are not late.
You are not alone.
You are not failing.

You are between breaths—and that is where wisdom lives.

With love,

Laura 🪷