The Art of Turning Inward

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to turn inward - how it can feel both like a retreat and a reckoning. It’s something I do without even realizing sometimes, especially when life feels too heavy to hold out loud.

I withdraw, go quiet, and let myself disappear a little. On the outside, most people wouldn’t notice much change - I’ve learned how to mask it well. But inside, I can feel it. My mind becomes loud, fast, chaotic - a tornado of thoughts I can’t quite catch.

It’s something I’m trying to change, but truthfully, it feels unnatural. Staying open when things hurt feels terrifying. It’s like standing completely exposed - naked in a room full of people who can see everything you usually keep hidden. Turning inward feels safer, even when it’s lonely.

For a long time, my ways of coping weren’t kind to me. They were survival, but they hurt. I threw myself into work, into people-pleasing, into anything that made me feel like I was in control. There were also other ways I numbed - ones I’m not quite ready to share yet, but they are a part of my story. They helped me survive when I didn’t know how else to.

Numbing out gets a bad reputation, but sometimes it’s necessary. It’s a way for our systems to take a break from the weight of it all. It’s okay to need that pause. The important part, I’ve learned, is to find gentler ways to do it - ways that don’t destroy us while trying to save us.

These days, when everything feels too big, I try to reach for softer ways to quiet my mind. I write. I build Lego. I walk. I listen to music. Sometimes I just let myself sleep. These are small things, but they help me come back to myself slowly - without shame or judgment.

I’m still learning that turning inward doesn’t always have to mean shutting down. Sometimes it can mean turning toward myself instead - giving that quiet, scared version of me a little grace and reminding her she’s safe now.

And if you’re not there yet - if you’re still in the thick of the hard coping, still reaching for the things that numb instead of heal - please know you’re not broken. You’re not failing. You’re surviving in the only way you know how right now. There will come a day when you start to crave gentler ways too. When that day comes, you’ll be ready. Until then, hold on with tenderness. You’re doing your best.

Healing isn’t about perfection - it’s about patience. It’s about meeting yourself where you are and whispering, it’s okay to be here.

I’m learning that turning inward can also be an act of love. A quiet homecoming to the parts of me that once only knew how to hide.

Thank you for being here 💕