Week 04, 2026
ℱ𝓇𝓸𝓂 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓸 𝓎𝓸𝓊𝓇𝓈… 🫶💌☕
This week in Shetland, January still feels like January — slow, damp, and quietly unfolding. The crisp air still lingers, the ground holds its cool stillness, and the rain returns in steady rhythm.
Although the deeper snow has eased, a winter weight lingers in the light and the flow of the days (short, subdued, and reflective), even as each day grows slightly longer, giving us roughly an extra hour of daylight compared with a month ago.
Subtle undercurrents invite reflection, clarity, and gentle expansion. The wind carries a new kind of stillness. Even through the greyness, there’s space to feel your own flow and notice the texture of wet earth beneath your boots.
I sense a quiet shift around us — a gentle nudge toward noticing, seeing, and being present with others without expectation.
It’s an invitation to slow down, to connect, and to hold relational space with ease and curiosity.
Each breath, each pause, each noticing moment is a thread linking you to your inner flow, your body, and the subtle rhythms of the season… noticing:
The damp earth beneath your feet.
The crisp air on your skin.
And the spaces between movement and stillness.
As we settle into this stillness, I invite you to carry that awareness into the relational presence explored in this week’s letter.
When stillness feels uncomfortable
A subscriber from the Grounding Guide community shared a comment with us back in May 2025, and it feels so connected to our January theme of spacious relational awareness. She wrote about how reflecting on her own childhood made her feel compassion toward her little self:
I read a sentence recently that said something along the lines of ‘you were required to be a protector when you’d never been protected,’ and it made me feel so compassionate towards the little girl in me. I really want her to feel loved and protected now. The road is slowly revealing itself; we just need to keep coming back to our bodies with absolute trust and love.
— Karen @Saved by Grace
Her words reminded me how deeply our nervous systems carry stories of care—or the absence of it. Even the tiniest moments of safety are revolutionary.
Sometimes, just noticing that discomfort is enough.
Sometimes, your body is wired to stay alert, protective, ready for the next thing.
And that is not failure.
That is survival.
I notice:
Even small gestures of safety —
coming back to the body,
taking a breath,
pausing —
ripple outward,
reshaping our sense of
what’s possible.
Reflecting on her words, I wondered:
Where in your body do you carry the sense of having to protect yourself?
What might it feel like to offer just a whisper of care to that part of yourself?
I wonder:
What would it feel like
to meet yourself
with curiosity and compassion,
without needing to fix, push, or perform?
These reflections don’t require action. They don’t need performance. They’re about noticing and holding space — for yourself, and for others.
I penned a little poem for you because sometimes, words aren’t enough. Sometimes the body remembers before the mind does.
A Quiet Thread
In the stillness between breaths,
Where no words gather or press,
Lies a quiet thread of peace,
Soft and steady, a gentle release.
No need to chase or hold it tight,
It’s here — your calm, your steady light.
I realise:
Our nervous systems are responding,
not failing.
Whatever we notice
is valid information.
I hope these words offer you a gentle permission to:
Pause without expectation
Notice without judgement
Sit with the nervous system exactly as it is
Hold your inner little one with care and compassion
Even if stillness feels uncomfortable or impossible today, please know this:
You are seen.
You are held,
And you are allowed to return to yourself at your own pace.
Until next time,
Take care.
𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒹𝑒,
🙏 𝒟𝒶𝓃𝒶 𝓍𝑜
P.S.
On the last slide of this episode’s video, I typed “falling” instead of “fixing”, and tried to fix it, but somehow ended up writing it again! After a couple of hours of editing, I decided to leave it, thinking maybe it’s synchronicity and will resonate with someone out there. Let me know if it does ✨
Afterthought: perhaps “failing” = reassurance against a story of brokenness; whereas “falling” = invites noticing and acceptance.
If you’d like to revisit the start of the Grounded Echoes series, I’ve attached the original letter below (where I first shared the idea).
In this letter, I’m referring back to You Don’t Have to Perform Presence…
And if you’d like to explore Karen’s work, take a peek at Saved By Grace — I’ve shared her publication description below for those on Substack.
Related to the following offerings:
Other relevant links:
