Something to Fall Into
===

I've always had a hard time slowing down. Sometimes I think it's just not for me because I basically live life at two point five times speed, and part of me likes it. I think there's nothing more satisfying than ticking things off my to-do list.

I'm Juliette, and this is The Quiet Between.

It's not that I can't see the value of slowing down. Of course I do, but it's just plain hard. It's usually when I am really tired that I realize how little time I take to actually hit the brakes. That's me, living in a constant state of readiness for whatever comes next. But don't get me wrong, although there are perks to being alert, which mainly involve being efficient and getting things done, I don't like it because it's exhausting.

You're gonna laugh, but sometimes I even catch myself holding my breath as if I was free diving through a task. No, but it's true. And so, I thought I had to carve out the time in order to make the time. Like a "me time" block on a calendar thinking, "Right, there it is. I've made space. I can relax now." Which when you think about it, it's a bit ridiculous.

I was basically trying to schedule the feeling of not being scheduled. And of course, it did not really work. Some part of me was still switched on. Even when I manage to sit for a minute, I'm already thinking about the next hour before it has even begun. Filling the space before space has a chance to exist.

And I think that's why slowing down always felt strangely elusive to me. Because I was approaching it as yet another thing to do rather than something to fall into. I did not really understand the difference until I went to New Zealand.

I went to a place called Annandale. It's a working farm on New Zealand's Banks Peninsula, where a handful of houses are scattered along the coast overlooking the Pacific Ocean. There's nature everywhere, dramatic landscapes, cows and sheep, and very little to do except relax. Actually, their tagline is, "Stay where the world can't find you."

And honestly, that's exactly how it felt. The place is incredibly remote. There are steep cliffs dropping into the Pacific, tall grass all around, and the horizon stretching as far as the eye can see. No traffic, no notifications, no background noise, just the waves breaking against the rocks below. Sounds nice, doesn't it?

Everything around me felt so much bigger and slower than the pace inside my own head. And I think for the first time in a very long time, I simply stopped trying. There was nowhere I needed to be, nothing I needed to accomplish, no schedules to keep up with, and no phones. No phones, guys. 

I remember sitting on the couch one late afternoon looking at the sea, and at first, honestly, nothing happened. Or more precisely, the usual happened. My body was still, but I was still internally busy, still slightly elsewhere, my mind moving ahead of myself. 

But it's not like I was meditating or reflecting on my life. I wasn't searching for clarity or trying to have some sort of transformative experience either. No, I was just sitting there... and I stayed. And because I was not trying so hard anymore, something in me began to settle on its own. It was more a sensation than a thought. Like my body was gradually realizing that it no longer needed to brace for what was next. And what surprised me most was that my mind arrived much later.

I think it needed time to arrive and settle, and it felt so good. But more than good, actually, I think I felt relief.

I've thought about that a lot since, because I think I move on to the next task, the next distraction, or even the next thought before being able to reach that point of release. Anything to fill the space. 

And maybe that's why we miss these moments, not because the opportunity isn't there, but because we don't always stay long enough for something in us to finally catch up. We fill the silences too quickly. But that afternoon, there was finally enough space, enough space for my body to unclench, for the constant anticipation to soften, for that feeling of being pulled towards whatever came next to ease just a little. 

And the funny thing is, I don't think New Zealand created that feeling. If anything, it revealed something that had been there quietly underneath all along. Nothing new suddenly appeared inside me. It was more like reconnecting with something I no longer knew how to access.

And so then slowing down no longer felt like a destination, a performance, or a lifestyle I needed to perfect. It felt more like a relationship, a different way of relating to time and to myself.

And that's probably why this podcast exists. I didn't wanna create another place where we're supposed to get wellness right, optimize ourselves, or have everything figured out. I wanted to create a space where things could unfold at their own pace, where we could leave a little room and see what appears without forcing it, and without immediately needing to turn it into a lesson or an answer. A space where we don't immediately rush to fill the silence. 

Because most things don't soften on command. They need space before they can make sense.

We don't need to go anywhere or do anything in particular to slow down. 

Because in the end, I don't think it's about where we go or what we do. It's whether we let ourselves arrive. 

If you'd like to stay in touch, you can find my writing on Substack at read.thequietbetween.space. Thank you for listening. I'll talk to you soon.