Date: 11-09-2025
On Deep Rest, Dormancy, and the Birth of a New Self
I haven’t done one of these in a long time. Mostly because I haven’t felt like it. I’ve been putting it off.
Part of that is just practical chaos—camera mishaps, noticing my cat’s new tree in the background (which, by the way, was a real pain to assemble, but she loves it, and that’s what matters). But underneath that, there’s something deeper going on.
I honestly don’t even know why I’m still doing these sometimes. I’m no longer in what I’d call my dark night of the soul. I still have rough days, sure—but I’m not in that place anymore. I also haven’t been journaling much lately, which is unusual for me. I’ve been telling myself that this is because I’m transitioning into video journals—learning to vocalize my thoughts and feelings rather than just writing them down.
That shift matters, because articulating my truth out loud has always brought up a lot of anxiety for me.
At the same time, I feel strangely unmotivated to continue this practice at all. I wonder if its purpose has already been served—if it was simply meant to be therapeutic. Still, there are a few things I want to talk about.
The Loss of Ambition and the Stillness Beneath It
Lately, I’ve felt a complete lack of ambition. Not just career ambition, but motivation in general. All I want to do is sleep, walk in nature, paint occasionally, read, spend time with my family, and be with Milan.
I no longer feel driven to be “successful,” to build an impressive career, or to prove anything. The ambitions I once had have simply fallen away.
And I keep asking myself: Is this normal?
From what I understand, it is. Apparently, this kind of collapse of old desires is part of the process—something like a death that comes before new life. Old ambitions die before new ones can emerge. And so I find myself in a deep, still waiting place.
This reminds me of a passage from Women Who Run with the Wolves, which I had already saved in my notes:
A woman at this stage of the psychic process—waiting to birth something—may enter a psychic state in which all that was once held valuable is no longer so. The topside world and its ideals pale. For a time, she may feel restless and unsatisfied, because fulfillment is still being born in the inner reality.
The passage goes on to describe how new cravings arise—often for odd or earthy things:
cooking, gardening, pulling things out of the ground or placing them into it. A new self is on the way. Our inner lives, as we’ve known them, are about to change.
This doesn’t mean throwing away what supports us. But it does mean that for a time, nothing external—a mate, a job, money—can satisfy what we hunger for. What we’re waiting on belongs to another world entirely.
And it can only be brought forth by waiting.
The Dream of the Crushed Baby
The book also says that during this time, dreams often presage what’s coming. Women dream of babies, new homes, new lives.
That immediately made me think of a dream I had on November 3rd, 2025. I call it The Tiny Baby with the Crushed Head.
In the dream, I was caring for a baby no bigger than the palm of my hand. I loved this baby deeply. But it belonged to a wealthy couple, and I was only caring for it temporarily—trying to help it regain its health.
At some point, I noticed the baby’s head was caved in. The mother pointed it out, and I was horrified, wondering if my excessive affection—holding it too tightly—had caused the damage. She suggested previous caretakers were responsible, but I wasn’t sure.
A man—someone with more experience—took over the baby’s care. I overheard him say the results were “mostly good, but with something bad.”
I was overwhelmed with worry for the baby. Then the dream shifted, and I experienced flashes of memories of Leon—memories that don’t exist in waking life, but caused profound grief. I missed him so deeply.
When I reflect on this dream now, I wonder: Am I smothering my new life by anxiously trying to define it? Am I crushing something fragile by obsessing over questions like: What is my vocation? Who am I meant to be? What is my life’s work?
Maybe this isn’t about destruction—but about awareness. About learning to loosen my grip.
Deep Rest and Dormancy
Physically, I’ve been exhausted—but in a good way. I’ve been sleeping eight, ten, sometimes eleven hours a night, and waking up feeling incredible. It feels like I’m digesting something deep, like energy is flowing in a healthy way I’ve never experienced before.
There’s a dormancy in me that feels new. I’ve never truly allowed myself to rest or simply be. For the first time in my life, I’m not trying to improve myself, not chasing productivity, not crossing off to-do lists.
And yes—part of me panics.
Are we becoming lazy? Are we giving up on life?
But paradoxically, it feels like I’m opening to life rather than forcing it. I’m allowing life to happen to me instead of trying to make it happen.
That’s terrifying for someone who used to be an overachiever. But it’s also strangely peaceful.
Receiving Help and Rewriting the Story of boundaries
Another huge shift has been learning to receive.
My Mom—and my family in general—have been extraordinarily generous. Because my car was in the shop and I couldn’t work for a couple of weeks, she’s helped however she can: groceries, gas money, offering to pay for our trip to California, even offering to compensate me for time I’d lose working.
This is a real sacrifice for her. She doesn’t have much. And it’s been humbling beyond words.
For a long time, I resisted help. I was told—by therapists, by friends—that distancing myself and enforcing rigid boundaries was “healthy.” But when I actually needed support, the people who showed up weren’t the ones who gave that advice.
It was my family. Unquestionably.
Every time I visit, they send me home with bags of essentials—food, paper towels, sponges. Small things, offered with so much care. It makes me grieve the years I spent distancing myself from them in the name of healing.
Learning to receive has unlocked something in me. Receiving is not weakness—it’s a gift to the giver, too. My mom wants to help. It empowers her. And I don’t want to rob her of that by refusing.
And the truth is: I actually need the help.
That realization brings immense relief.
The Seed Beneath the Surface
I told a friend recently that I feel like a seed planted deep underground. society exists up on the surface, and I’m far below it—quiet, unseen, out of sync.
But I trust the process.
I trust that the seed will sprout. And when it does, it will emerge as something far more authentic than who I was before—when I was driven by people-pleasing and relentless ambition, completely misaligned with my true self.
I always knew who I was—at least in my journals. But that part of me never saw daylight.
Letting that inner truth live in the world has been painful, uncomfortable, and intensely anxiety-provoking. But it’s also been fascinating.
None of this is what I expected my life to be.
And maybe that’s exactly the point.