Episode 13: Why Rest Feels Impossible
What if the most radical thing you could do for your growth right now… is nothing?
In this deeply personal episode, Brooke invites you to slow down long enough to feel what's actually been simmering beneath the surface—the grief, the grayness, the soul cry that no amount of productivity can silence. This conversation is about the deeper kind of rest that reconnects you to your inner realm, your instincts, and what this particular season of midlife is actually asking of you.
Drawing on the wisdom of Marian Woodman, Lianne Raymond, and James Hollis, Brooke explores what we lose when we keep moving outward all the time—and what becomes possible when we finally stop long enough to enter ourselves rather than transcend ourselves.
What You'll Learn:
Why exhaustion often gets mislabeled as responsibility—and what's really underneath it
How chronic busyness severs the connection between your heart and head
What the "soul's cry" sounds like—and why so many of us miss it
The crossroads midlife women face between keeping busy and turning inward
Why you can't think, plan, or optimize your way back to yourself
How the Italian concept of dolce far niente—the sweetness of doing nothing—offers a different way of being
Bookmarks:
You can't repair what you won't stop using.
We label the exhaustion that follows that rhythm as responsibility—as proof that we're serious about living our best lives.
It's so easy to miss our soul's cry when the calendar is full and someone always needs something from us.
I didn't have the language for it then. But I sure as hell felt it.
You can't think your way back to yourself. You can't optimize your way back to trusting your own instincts.
A day spent responding to what arises and being in real relationship with yourself, even if it's not what you planned, isn't a day lost. It's a day lived.
Seed to Carry:
May you find, somewhere in the fullness of your week, one true moment of connection with yourself.
💌 Want to Go Deeper?
Original theme music by Dustin Hofsess.
