Real Nourishment
on coming back to oneself, gently, again and again
In the morning I tend to sit with a cup of something warm, notebook open, pencil in hand, and the question of how I am going to nourish myself for this day—not really my body, but the quieter, more elusive parts of me: the one who daydreams, who listens, who writes poems, who draws, who creates. I already know what I need for my body—more rest, sleep, gentler food that isn’t so inflammatory to my health issues, time to walk, to move, to simply breathe, but most days, I’m too tired to reach for those things. The overwhelm even thinking about it gathers like weather I can’t quite push through. Still, somewhere underneath, there’s an idea I keep returning to, even if only in thought—a belief that nourishment is not perfection, but attention. It’s in the remembering. In the longing. In the small acts of care I can offer to myself even when they feel too small to matter.
There’s a kind of wellness that doesn’t arrive in grand proclamations of new habits or even in the ever-elusive well-rested morning, but in the slow, repeated effort to keep showing up—even when I have failed my best intentions for the sixty-four-hundredth-zillionth time. It’s the wellness of someone who tends to something not because they feel radiant and inspired, but because some part of them still believes it matters even when they don’t feel well or radiant at all. A pot of veggie soup assembled even when the appetite is insisting on a big bowl of cheesy noodles. A few lines scrawled into a notebook between waves of self-doubt. A hand brushing the cat, the curtain drawn open to let in the light—not because everything is okay, but because something within longs for okayness.
This is the hidden labor of true wellness: the kind that accrues over time in the quiet, in the shadows, behind the scenes. It’s not about ease. It’s about willingness, not in the way of breakthroughs, but in the steady accumulation of small gestures. Like layers of lichen on stone, like the lull between waves, these are the things that make a life better—at least I think that’s true—not always visible, but deeply felt.
Sometimes the truth is even starker than longing to feel better or the deep fatigue that seems to plague me as of late. Sometimes I have to admit—with a quiet sigh and a bit of grief, or maybe shame—that I am not nourishing myself. Not in the ways that matter most. Not with tenderness, not with rest, not with the foods that my body needs, or the movement, not with the kind of deep listening that says, “You are worth tending to.”
That admission hurts. A lot.
I know how to do it. I teach others how to do it. I believe in it with all my heart. And still—I find myself here. Depleted. Disconnected from that part of myself. Ignoring my body’s clues, pushing through pain, being lazy about boundaries, scrolling past the quiet voice that says, Come back to what you really need.
It’s so easy to put nourishment last when you’re often the one who listens, who guides, who encourages, who creates calm in the storm. You become the vessel, the candle, the steady voice—and somehow forget that even vessels need refilling. That even the candle needs to rest in the dark. I am certain that most of us know exactly how that feels.
Maybe this is where nourishment begins again—not in flawless routines or green smoothies or lists of self-care goals, but in the raw honesty of naming what’s missing. Of saying, I want something different. I want to feel whole again. And maybe that desire—fragile as it is—is the first sip of something more sustaining.
I used to think nourishment was something I had to earn or get just right—the perfect blend of rituals, routines, willpower and intention—especially willpower—but I’m beginning to understand it differently now. Nourishing myself can be as quiet as choosing not to rush. As simple as not speaking harshly to myself. As tender as resting my hand on my chest and whispering, I’m still here. Brava. I am still here.
Here is something to consider: what I take in matters. Not just food, but tone, imagery, pace, silence, kindness. What I consume through my senses—light, sound, breath, softness—becomes part of me. And what I deny myself becomes a kind of hunger that eventually dulls the spirit. Especially when I deny myself what I truly need and settle for the ease and instant comfort of what I want.
Still, even in the hardest of days, even when I have failed the sixty-four-hundredth-zillion and oneth time, there are ways back.
Back through the ordinary things—the aroma of something that makes me feel well simmering on the stove, the act of washing and drying my favourite cup that my daughter gave to me, the feel of a pencil moving across the page of my beloved notebook. These are not grand acts, but they are real. They are enough to begin with.
This is how I’m learning to sustain myself—not through constant inspiration, energy or achievements, but through the humble, honest practice of being with what is. Letting my wellness be slow. Letting care be imperfect. Letting nourishment begin again in the smallest of ways.
And maybe that’s the truth worth writing down, worth holding close:
I don’t have to be healed to begin, to do the thing my heart is longing to do.
I don’t have to be well to want wellness.
I don’t have to feel worthy to offer myself care.
I just have to be willing to say—I want to come back to myself.
And then take one quiet step in that direction.
tea in the warm cup a pencil across the page not a cure, but this-- a pause a choosing of kindness once again again and again the light comes in through the steam
What might nourish you today? Even if it’s small, even if you feel weary? Is there a part of you that is quietly asking to be tended right now? I love when you share with me here. This space feels much more alive.
Thank you, as always, for being here ✨
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Your openness in admitting, “I am not nourishing myself. Not in the ways that matter most,” is incredibly brave and resonates deeply with me today. It’s something many of us feel but rarely voice. We’re so often the ones who pour into others that we neglect our own needs. Your vulnerability is a reminder that even those who are strong pillars for others need to take time to refill their own wells.
I am so proud of you for honoring that and writing about it. It's encouraging to see you emulate that when we stumble, even when we forget, we can always "come back" to ourselves. Thank you for the reminder to be gentle with ourselves and to keep taking those quiet steps in the direction of self-care. 🩵
I am feeling nourished having paused to read and reflect upon your beautiful words. A phrase that comes to mind is ‘a choosing of kindness’ to oneself as well as to those around. Thank you.