We think the thing that saves us will be big.
A breakthrough.
A contract.
A yes.
A miracle.
But sometimes?
It’s a piece of floss.
Lemongrass-infused, stretchy, charcoal-laced floss — the kind you don’t expect to love but suddenly crave. Because for two minutes, your nervous system exhales. For two minutes, your body remembers it’s still here. For two minutes, the pressure lifts and something inside says:
“Oh. There I am.”
I watched this unfold in real time during a conversation with one of my clients — a brilliant, heart-led creative in the middle of a hard season. Life had thrown everything at him: loss, transition, uncertainty, overwhelm. He was holding it together, barely. Doing all the things, showing up for everyone else, moving from one responsibility to the next without room to breathe.
Until he found the floss.
He brought it up almost as a joke.
But it wasn’t.
That moment — that silly, sacred, sensory moment — was real. Untouched. Unbothered.
It was joy. Pure and present. Not manufactured. Not earned. Just there.
And it mattered more than any mindset tool or productivity plan we could’ve discussed.
Because here’s what I know:
The nervous system is the gatekeeper to momentum. Joy isn’t a luxury — it’s a signal.
It tells you that life still lives in you.
That creativity can still find you.
That you’re not gone — you’re just buried under the noise.
We forget this in high-functioning culture.
We’re taught that presence is a reward for productivity.
That rest is earned.
That joy is indulgent unless it’s monetized.
But that’s a lie.
And that lie is what keeps us spinning.
So if you're feeling stuck, scattered, or just off — try this:
Don’t fix it.
Feel it.
And then find one small thing that feels good. Not strategic. Not optimized. Just . . . good.
A walk. A stretch. A weird piece of lemongrass floss.
Whatever it is — trust it.
Because that moment of unbothered joy?
That’s not a detour.
That’s your way back.
Author’s Note:
There are moments that catch you off guard — not because they’re dramatic, but because they’re true.
The kind that pierce through the noise and remind you of something you didn’t know you’d forgotten.
This piece came from one of those moments. A small crack in the pressure where presence returned.
It reminded me how often we live in repair mode — always fixing, proving, performing. And how rare it is to just be.
Joy, when it arrives quietly and without permission, isn’t a distraction.
It’s a return.
— Carolina
If this Letter from the Fire spoke to you, consider sharing it or gifting it with someone else who’s ready to hear their own voice again — or give it a restack to ripple it wider.
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