The quiet sticky feeling that stops us moving forward
A gentle reflection on overwhelm feeling during time pressure, and the sticky moments that stop us from moving forward.
Dear Beezee Bee,
You are in good company; it has been one of those weeks.
There are days when overwhelm feels less like a storm and more like a slow‑creeping honey glue, coating the inside of my hive. I wake up with good intentions, but the moment I open my laptop or glance long road ahead, the tightness me tightens. My thoughts clump together. My breath shortens. Even the simplest next step feels strangely too difficult to bear, as if my wings forget how to lift me. It’s subtle, but it stops my whole hive from moving forward.
“Stress is being the weeds. Overwhelm is being blown” ~ Brene Brown
Sometimes overwhelm doesn’t surface in obvious ways, it compresses. It tightens the edges of the morning before the day has even begun. I sit down to review my book chapter regularly since receiving it feedback from the reviewers, knowing exactly how little time I have before the school bell buzzes and disrupts the quiet day again. The clock feels louder than my thoughts. Every sentence I try to read swims a little, blurring at the edges, as if my mind is trying to move through thick honey. I can feel the pressure of the minutes slipping away, each one tugging at my breath, making my chest feel smaller, tighter. It’s not that the work is impossible, it’s that the window to do that feels too tight and narrow.
And in that shrinking window, my whole inner hive starts buzzing loudly. My thoughts clump together, my focus scatters, and the urgency to “just get it done”, the hard timeline makes everything feel faster than it should. I’m aware of the kids’ bags by the door, the lunchboxes that need washing, the dinner that needs cooking and the mental countdown, “Hi mum I am home”.
It’s as if I’m trying to hold two worlds at once the deep, quiet thinking my book chapter needs, and the relentless ticking of the clock. If only time would melt away and the concept of time would disappear.
The Experience
This week I caught myself spiraling before I had said good morning to the kids. I opened my laptop to read, saw the list of readings, and immediately heard that old familiar voice: I am behind. I am too old for this. I am going to fail. It was automatic, almost rehearsed.
Instead of trying to silence it, I did something micro, so micro it felt almost silly. I put my hand on my chest and said, out loud but softly, “I’m learning. I’m allowed to be new at this.”
It took three seconds.
It did not fix everything.
But it interrupted the spiral just long enough for me to just …. breathe.
Inward — toward my own creative center, where I keep discovering new language, new metaphors, new ways of seeing myself as a learner and a guide.
Outward — toward the people I am building for, the midlife learners and the younger visions of me, who will feel these ripples as invitations, not instructions.
Forward — toward the next intention, the next idea, the next micro action that changes the whole course of the day.
The Gentle Practice
The gentle gestures that helped me rewrite the stories in my head, that were there to tell me when I was tired, stretched, or scared are scribbled in my journal with a green ink pen.
This is the sentence I repeat when I feel behind: “I’m moving at the pace my life allows me to move.”
The one minute of grounding before I open my laptop: feet on the floor, one slow inhale, one slow exhale I say to myself “I am capable, keep going”.
A question I ask myself when the guilt creeps in: “What would I say to my children if they felt this way?”
A small celebration at the end of the day: A smile that says “I had a great day”
On a closing studio note, I used to think changing my thinking was impossible. It turns out my life needed gentle moments that reminded me I’m not failing and this is all part of the human experience.
Feed your learning mojo, keep on buzzing through these readings:
