Searching for Stillness
Thoughts from a mountaintop, self-imposed solo writing retreat.
Last week, I drove about an hour east toward an Airbnb with a picturesque view of Mount Si. No kids, no husband, no pets. Just me, all of my comfy clothes, my new Therabody facemask (thank you, Dave!), eight books, and five years’ worth of journals.
Sounds like a dream, right?
Friend, it was heavenly. Just not in the way you’d expect.
Planning for this started just before the holidays, likely the time when we should’ve been more thrify with our spending. We hopped into a local cocktail bar for our weekly Friday afternoon date, armed with a list of agenda items and topics for the weekly divide-and-conquer. We hadn’t had a date in a few because of his work travel, so our catchup was lengthy and filled with some backtracks to iron out miscommunications, look ahead to plans, and enjoy where we were in the moment.
I didn’t have a quarterly writing retreat on the agenda because we had more topics to discuss than time. As we started the travel list, we made decisions on Spring Break plans and a holiday break family outing to Suncadia. “Anything else on travel?” Dave asked, nonchalantly. I hesitated, stuttering with a few ummms that covered the racing mind that was equally telling me I could make do without a break while screaming that I needed to bring up the fact that writing had come to a standstill.
Why is it so hard to ask for the things we need?
“I need to plan a quarterly writing retreat,” I blurted out, bracing for his reaction. I know Dave - if I say I need something, he will agree to it without question. He knows I have thought through options, researched possibilities, and likely come to the end of my rope before asking for help.
“Of course,” he said, pulling up home rentals with great views of Puget Sound. “How long has it been since you’ve done that?”
“A year,” I said flatly. I was ashamed. This was a promise I made to myself once Evie was born. My brain was slowly shifting, making it so much more difficult to multitask or singularly focus on pivoting my career to more of a full-time writer than a full-time communications executive. A two-day trip up north and four completed chapters later, I saw that by being still, my brain could work fast and focused.
We both shook our head, wondering where the past year went. I booked the Airbnb and felt a calm instantly ooze over my shoulders and down my back. In a few weeks, I’d have a chance to unwind.
My hands jittered as I gripped the steering wheel, zooming down I-90. Once I entered Snoqualmie Pass, my shoulders began to slightly relax. I arrived with more gear than I’d pack for a three-day vacation packing for my kids and collapsed on the bed. I slept a glorious 12 hours that night.
What I want to tell you is that this adventure was completely rejuvenating, that I was able to quickly get into the writing groove and knock out three projects I’ve had on my mind.
Oh, how I wish I could tell you that.
Instead, like any object that’s hurled itself forward in motion, I spent the first half day buzzing with overwhelm. Apparently, my ADHD brain didn’t take the vacation seriously - to it, it was just the same challenge in a new location. I wanted to force myself to write, to will myself to focus, to push forward on a concrete wall that wasn’t going to budge because, surprise, the goal of this “writing retreat” was to be…still.
After a few cups of coffee, I decided to do a hard reset. I took a long walk in the crisp late winter trails, ice crunching underneath my boots. I stayed vigilant on the lookout for bears. I reminded myself - sometimes, audibly - to breathe.
The big insight that kept swirling in my head was: don’t rush. Don’t push. Just trust your body to know what it needs and listen to what it says.
The irony of listening to my body is that I’ve spent decades - especially the past three years - in vehement distrust. Despite what I really wanted to do (finish SLOW BOIL’s proposal and agent pitch, write Substacks, start the new essay collection, plan out my consulting business, reconfigure my social media), I took the harder road - the one that seemed most appealing when I booked the house: I sat still and waited. I breathed. I felt the ache in my hips and the strain of my ACL from the hike. I noticed the tingle in my shoulder that often knots when I hold Evie.
I closed my eyes and started inventorying the thousands of messages my mind ran through like a broadcast’s breaking news scrolling chyron. I wrote down the items I couldn’t address now in my “Parking Lot” sheet. I started journaling those thoughts, because that felt best.
Within 30 minutes, I’d opened up a portal to processing stories I held onto about my past - something that had taken years to access.
My body needed to clear out some cortisol and needed a distraction-free space. It craved stillness. I needed an exit ramp from the hamster wheel of dirty diapers, doctor’s appointments, and excel spreadsheets. I unlocked some big revision points for the memoir, the essay collection, a new project, and some clarity for the direction I want to take this Substack.
Past Amy would’ve laughed at the need to slow down in order to go deep, process, and then speed up. Present Amy laughs because I didn’t realize it sooner.
When I got back home, Dave asked if I felt like it was a productive retreat. “Yes…and no,” I replied. It’s true. Did I accomplish everything on my to-do list? No. Did I finally have the space for some of the excavating work I needed to do for these projects? Yes, but that isn’t necessarily viewed as “productive” even though it was the best and highest use of my time.
“It’s not that easy to sum up,” I continued.
He squinted at me, deep in thought. “Well, was it what you needed?”
“Unequivocably yes.”
Have you planned a moment where you’ve intentionally been still and quiet with no agenda? How did you approach it? (And did your mind scream profanities at you like it did for me?)
I’d love to hear more in the comments! Until next time, onward and upward my friends.
