Yesterday, we survived a snowstorm like we haven’t seen in years. The wind howled, the snow fell relentlessly, and everything felt unsettled and intense. But this morning, I woke up to something completely different — stillness.

My backyard is covered in untouched white, except for tiny creature footprints scattered across the snow. I find myself wondering what animals passed through during the night, searching for warmth, shelter, or food. Even nature has been busy surviving. Yet, by morning, everything looks peaceful.

My street is quiet too. No cars rushing. No early morning hustle to get to church, because COVID taught us how to prepare ahead. Services are already recorded. For once, the world — or at least my little corner of it — feels paused.

But I woke up with a dull headache.

I had one yesterday too. I can’t quite pinpoint the cause. Maybe I haven’t been drinking enough water. Maybe I’ve been pushing myself harder in my workouts. Maybe it’s caffeine withdrawal since I’ve cut back. Maybe it’s that old TMJ tension resurfacing.

Or maybe… it’s something deeper.

When my body whispers, my mind always drifts back to my mother. She had a way of listening to pain that went beyond the physical. Mama used to say that when your shoulders and back hurt, spiritually it could mean your load was too heavy — and more than likely, you were carrying someone else’s too.

She would talk to me about the Law of Detachment. She’d remind me that you can love people, listen to them, counsel them, and pray for them — without absorbing their burdens into your own body and spirit. She learned that from her dear friend Ava Taylor Williams and from my Aunt Eloise, both counselors. They had their own therapists because even trained professionals know how easy it is to carry what was never meant to be theirs.

I think about that – them – often.

My life’s work has been walking alongside young people. From college women at Bennett to students at A&T, GTCC, UNCG, elementary school, high school, middle school, and now the middle college — I have carried the hearts and concerns of countless students. Their struggles with literacy. Their family situations. Their fears. Their dreams. Their silent battles.

Then there’s family. Community. Nonprofit work. Clients. Deadlines. Expectations.

It adds up.

Mama used to ask specific questions depending on where the pain showed up. If my temples hurt, she’d say, “That’s stress. That’s anxiety. Stop what you’re doing.” She’d tell me to get some chamomile tea and to go lie down, and she’d insist the work could wait.

If my neck hurt, she’d ask, “What are you holding in (emotionally)?” That question would sit with me long after the pain faded.

She believed headaches were signals. Not inconveniences. Warnings.

This morning, as the world sits quietly under snow, I hear her voice again:
“Watch your head, daughter. Pay attention.”

The work will still be there tomorrow. The problems will not disappear overnight, but if I don’t take care of the vessel God gave me, I won’t be able to do the work at all. And sometimes, if we refuse to rest, God will reassign what we were too tired to steward.

Stillness outside is an invitation to stillness inside.

So today, I’m listening. I’m drinking water and tea. I’m slowing down. I’m praying instead of pushing. I’m releasing what was never mine to carry.

Even the animals left footprints in the snow on their way to shelter.

Maybe this is my sign to find mine too.

In love and charity,

Giselle (aka) Blooming-Lillie