Held in the Pause

A moment for the overwhelmed

by Chloe Rivers

There are days when even brushing my teeth feels like too much.

It starts small. I open my laptop to ten tabs. I answer a message but forget the one before it. I try to do something simple, like make lunch or book a thing, and my brain just… stops.

And that’s when I know. I’ve gone over the edge.

Not into panic. Not into burnout. Just into that quiet kind of overwhelm that wears a calm face on the outside, but inside… everything is clenching.

A few months ago, I stood in my kitchen barefoot, holding a half-made cup of tea, and stared into nothing.

I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even doing anything.

I just couldn’t move forward.

The to-do list was too long. The house was too loud. My head felt like cotton.

I stood there for a full ten minutes, caught in a kind of freeze I didn’t have words for at the time.

Overwhelm isn’t always explosive. Sometimes it’s quiet. Heavy. Dull like fog.

And most of the time, I used to power through it. Keep going. Be strong. Tick one more thing off.

But powering through never actually brought me back. It just buried me deeper.

So I started doing something different. And it changed everything.

Now, when it happens, I try to name it out loud.

I feel overwhelmed.

It sounds small, but that one sentence shifts me. Instead of swimming in the chaos, I step onto the edge and observe it.

It creates a moment of honesty. And for me, honesty is the first kind of safety.

Sometimes I sit on the floor.

Literally, the floor.

I stop trying to be upright and fine. I drop my shoulders. I close my eyes. I breathe into my belly and feel the tension in my jaw.

I ask, what feels tight right now?

Not why. Not how do I fix it. Just… what’s tight?

Often, it’s my chest. Sometimes my throat.

The pause makes space for softness to begin.

One time, all I did was wash my hands slowly. Warm water. Gentle soap. Nothing fancy. But I stayed with it. It was the first time in hours that I felt grounded.

Other times, I open the back door and just stand outside. Or I hold a warm mug and feel it with both hands. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I don’t.

But in those moments, I remember. My nervous system is trying to protect me. And small acts of presence help remind it. I’m safe now.

Here’s the thing. I don’t get it right every time.

Some days, I loop. I feel better for five minutes and then I’m back in the fog.

But I’ve stopped calling that failure.

Now I see it as a return. Again and again. To myself.

Because overwhelm doesn’t mean I’m broken. It just means I’m human. And I need care.

If you’re feeling that quiet overwhelm today, the kind that steals your energy without warning, I made a short 3-minute audio just for you.

I talk you through it slowly. No fixing. No advice. Just a pause.

Held in the Pause - by Chloe Rivers

0:00

Let it hold you for a moment, the way I’ve learned to hold myself.

You don’t have to power through. You don’t have to be fine right now.

You're allowed to stop. You're allowed to soften. You're allowed to begin again.

Even here. Even now.