I have lost what once felt impossible to lose. I’m wrestling with an unshakeable feeling. I’m mindful of the present, pausing as moment becomes moments, and at a hair’s breadth, it envelops me. I feel it pulling—a deep-seated settling that crashes and wanes in a rhythm impossible to decipher. It’s a stillness almost beyond understanding or quantification, and as time passes, I catch a glimpse of its essence. One thing becomes clear: it’s inherent in all of us. The misery and joy that it can bring can affect any and everyone. Why? Because stillness is a constant theme in the background of being. It’s that unshakable quiet that settles in when the distractions are gone, and we’re left to face the truth we’ve been avoiding. It’s the angst of the beginning of an ending you’ve been dreading and it’s a byproduct of a life that is lived. It’s dark, cold, and empty, and there is no more complete way of describing it than to say that is simply is. When I pause to take a breath, I feel it beating on my chest, its energy reserves never expiring. It reappears whenever it chooses to. Yet, it isn’t the absence of motion; it’s the heavy presence of truth. It’s what lingers in the moments when the noise of hope, denial, or distraction fade away, leaving you with nothing but the reality before you. As I ponder my own life and how I have experienced and created this stillness, I’m reminded of the events and actions that unify experience. Sure, we’re dynamic and non-monolithic, but there are times, places, and situations when our shared experiences mirror each other. I’ve found that similarity in stillness. While the name “stillness” is probably irrelevant, and different people will call it different things, the truth is that we all experience it.

Stillness is reality at its most basic. With nothing to shape or form it, it simply is. It doesn’t coax or comfort; it doesn’t wound or heal. It simply exists, unaffected by how I—or you—feel about it. However, its existence is not independent of me. In fact, we can only understand it because of being. A being shapes its ontology because its existence is shaped by perception. And because it’s so tied to perception, its nature constantly changes. There is never a point at which stillness is permanently fixed; it exists in a constant state of flux. When I am hurting and grieving, I see it through the lens of pain. It becomes the cold finality of endings—a harbinger of grief, a weight of truth I chose to ignore. As I write this, I’ve lost. So, when I see this stillness, all I can grasp is pain. It feels cruel and indifferent. Its memory is jaded by the whims of now, and it brings misery in its wake. I’m so desperate to avoid sensing the presence of stillness in my life that I anxiously pace around, waiting for a moment of peace so this stillness can flee. I’ve screamed out in pain and anguish at the God who would allow one to experience this stillness so profoundly. Why would anyone choose to follow someone who allows His creations to go through such harmful stillness? What good does this bring to its bearer? How will this transform me or create something good and pure?

When I feel these thoughts rising, I’m reminded of my error because stillness isn’t inherently pain. I pore over the details of this grief like a magistrate poring over a case, and the more I seek to find the nature of this stillness, the farther it gets. Stillness has no form or shape. It’s not the cruel hand of fate or the warmth of hope. It’s not even the voice that whispers, “Let’s move on.” It’s just there—unchanging, unmoving. And that’s what makes it so profound: it becomes whatever I project onto it. It’s pain when I am grieving, clarity when I’m ready to see, and peace when I’m finally able to rest. The problem with stillness is that we often notice it when we don’t want to. We can accept the truth of a joyful evening without the need for further reflection. We revel in it, letting it provide a boost of serotonin that jolts our system. But it is in the moments of pain, just beyond the edge of an ending, where stillness has something to communicate. Perhaps stillness is teaching me that so much of this could have been avoided. Perhaps it wants to pull me closer, to show me that if I had followed it more, pain might have been avoided. Perhaps it’s a reminder of a promise I made to myself long ago—a promise of “never again.” Unfortunately, humans tend to learn truth at the most inconvenient moments, and that is where I find myself now: inconvenienced and broken, wishing for this stillness to claim someone else, so that I might delight in a fantasy of my own making. A fantasy where my problems are nonexistent, and things go right in the world with minimal effort.

I know it’s a façade, but living with this stillness feels like a knife cutting deeper and deeper with no hope for reprieve. The façade would at least give me feelings of euphoria, even if they’re not real. It would feel more comfortable, more routine and orderly. But stillness cannot exist in such a manner, and I want to escape it. Therein lies the problem: what I’m escaping from cannot be escaped because it reflects how I see the world. This stillness follows me in every situation, and seeking its end is a fool’s errand. At its worst, it can pull me into a pit of impossible proportions. At its best, it’s a gentle reminder of the beauty of my existence.

I’ll remember it all—every moment, every negative and positive interaction. I will cherish the moments stillness brought me and will grieve the moments that will no longer find me.