The Things I Reach For When I Need Grounding
On the days that feel loud before they even begin, when the weight of everything presses in at once and my nervous system feels slightly frayed, I find myself reaching not for answers but for familiar objects, familiar rituals, familiar sensations…the quiet, dependable things that have learned how to bring me back to myself without asking too much of me.
Showers are one of those places. An everything shower, the kind that turns the bathroom into a small, private world of steam and warmth, the air heavy with eucalyptus until I can finally breathe again, until the noise in my head softens just enough for me to feel my body return to itself. There is something about water that resets me entirely, as if I can wash the edges of the day away before they have the chance to harden, before they settle too deeply into my bones.
Afterward, when my skin is still warm and open, I slow down. I take my time. I reach for rich, nourishing oils and balms and work them deliberately into my skin, touching myself with care, as if reminding my body that I still live here, that I am still worthy of gentleness, that I can bear another day inside this skin. The scent is clean and subtle, something that feels like open air and distant water, and it wakes something in me, something alive, something capable.
When it’s time to get dressed, I always reach for the familiar, almost instinctively, like muscle memory from a softer time. Worn-in jeans that feel grounding and honest, shaped by years of living and moving, holding me exactly as I am. A soft sweater pulled on against the cold, natural fibers that warm without suffocating, pieces chosen not for novelty but for how they age, how they soften, how they last. I believe deeply in quality over quantity, in things that earn their place through time and use, much like the life I am trying to build.
Once I’m dressed, I feel like myself again, steady, rooted, ready. Ready to plan for Clover’s birthday, ready to tend to the small joyful details, ready to move through the rest of the day with intention instead of urgency.
As the hours pass, I notice myself continuing to reach for what is steady and familiar. When the house begins to feel tight around us, when the air feels heavy with too much inside living, I take the boys outdoors and let fresh air and daylight do the quiet work of resetting us all. We walk, or play in the yard, or sit while they dig into the earth, hands dirty, knees muddy, eventually pulling out the hose and letting the day dissolve into water and laughter. Sometimes I sit nearby, replenishing myself slowly, watching them move freely, reminding myself that grounding doesn’t always look like stillness, sometimes it looks like motion, mess, and joy.
In the winter it’s harder, the cold pressing us back indoors, but on the warm days we soak it up greedily, knowing how rare and restorative it is, how much our bodies crave light and space.
None of these things are grand or revolutionary, and that is exactly why they work. They are small, repeatable acts of care, chosen not to impress or fix, but simply to return me to myself. When the days feel loud and my mind feels crowded, I don’t reach for escape, I reach for what I know, what has proven, over time, that it can hold me. A scent. A fabric. The warmth of the sun on my face. The sight of my boys with dirt under their fingernails, laughing without urgency.
This is how I ground myself. Not by removing the chaos, but by tending to myself within it. By choosing familiarity over noise, presence over perfection, and rituals that remind me that I am still here, still capable, still steady. These are the things I reach for when I need to be held, and in returning to them, I find that I can hold everything else a little more gently, too.
For the details, the objects, rituals, and pieces I return to, I share them more intimately in my letters.