There comes a point in every life when the body starts speaking up. Not loudly at first. Just a little bark here. A twinge there. A tightness you can’t stretch away. Fatigue that sleep won’t quite fix.

At some point you realize those sensations aren’t random. They’re not inconveniences. They’re signals. Invitations, really. The body saying, “Pay attention. There’s more going on here. There’s more you’re carrying.”

I’ve reached that point.

Recently, I started working with a body-work therapist. She’s one of those rare people who understands anatomy and humanity in equal measure. Strong hands. Quiet presence. Deep intuition.

As she worked, she pressed into old scar tissue. Some from injuries I remember clearly. Others from years of bracing myself against the world. Some, I’m sure, from emotions I never gave enough time or space to feel.

At one moment, almost offhandedly, she said, “Your body remembers everything.”

Immediately, I thought of The Body Keeps the Score. A title that stops being a metaphor the moment you recognize your own life inside it.

Because the body really does keep score.

It remembers the seasons you pushed past your limits. The years you carried responsibility because someone had to. The losses you never fully grieved. The tension you normalized. While your mind kept sprinting toward the next obligation, your body quietly stored what never had room to move.

And, when you finally slow down enough to listen, the truth emerges. Sometimes gently. Sometimes with force.

Most of us were shaped in cultures that confuse depletion with devotion. We were taught to move faster than our souls can travel. Productivity became virtue. Exhaustion became evidence. And, somewhere along the way, we forgot something essential:

Life moves fast. The soul does not.

When your soul can’t keep pace with your calendar, something inside you starts to fray.

So here’s a quiet truth, offered without urgency or apology: you’re allowed to pause before you break.

You don’t have to earn rest by collapsing.
You don’t need permission to justify being human.
You can stop because you’re listening.

There’s no prize for running past your own limits.
Only distance from yourself, from your people, from the life you’re trying to build.

Our nervous system tells the truth in ways our ego never will. Slow breathing shifts the body out of hustle. Intentional time clears the mind. Stepping out of the noise lets the voice you’ve been missing finally speak.

This isn’t weakness.
It’s wisdom. The quieter, deeper kind.

Rest isn’t a finish line.
It’s a rhythm.
It’s how we return to ourselves after wandering too far out.

Slowing down isn’t about doing less. It’s about becoming whole. Honoring the parts of us that have carried the load faithfully and without complaint.

And, if this season is asking anything of us, it’s probably this: trade pressure for presence. Speed for stillness. Proving for being.

Not because ambition is wrong.
But, because your body is telling the truth about what it takes to live well.

You are not behind.
You are not failing.
You are being called back home to yourself.

Slowly. Gently. Honestly.

Move at the speed of your inner life.
Let your body speak.
Let your soul catch up.

And, may the weeks ahead offer this quiet blessing:

May you find enough stillness to hear yourself again.
May you remember the parts of you work doesn’t get to define.
And, may you enter the new year not with pressure, but with presence.

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Steve Knox | Kansas City

\\\ Thanks for sharing part of your day with me. Reread this post a time or two, and share it with your circle. I won’t be back in your inbox this year. Putting this wisdom into practice and heading on a little Sabbatical. Until 2026, be honest. Be you. Much love.