Asides

The Space Between Motion and Stillness

Movement is neither effortless nor certain. Spastic CP is a neurological condition that disrupts the signals between brain and muscle, creating stiffness, rigidity, and involuntary contractions. Movement becomes a negotiation, each step a conversation between intention and limitation.

The hamstrings tighten too soon, bracing for movement that has not yet begun. Knees hesitate, caught between stiffness and release—never fully straight, never fully bent.

Tension settles deep, winding through the backs of my legs, twisting into the hamstrings like a knot that will not come undone. A knee locks mid-step. Feet drag. Movements jerk. The body does not resist in defiance. It resists because release is not the same as control.

In the sterile quiet of a Doctor’s office, hands press into tendons, measuring, stretching, noting. I become a case. A treatment plan emerges: four injections per leg. Four months of silenced nerves. Spasticity gone? Maybe. Maybe not.

The needle presses in. The machine crackles with static, a hum caught between white noise and electricity. They call it spasticity, the misfiring nerves made audible. Each pulse of current sends muscles flaring, twitching, resisting. Then the injection.

Cold spreads deep. The hamstrings should loosen within hours. The knees, caught between tightness and release, should find a middle ground. Yet expectation does not always match reality.

Sometimes, the body resists less. Other times, it does not resist at all. A knee that once held firm buckles. A leg that once pulled tight gives way. Muscles do not just relax. They let go. What was once certain is now unsteady. Steps falter, strain, slip.

I wait for the return of tightness, rigidity, movement—but it does not come. Nine months pass. It becomes necessary to relearn movement in the absence of what was once familiar. To wait for sensations, though no one can say if feeling will return.

Waiting is not a pause. It is a stretch of time, filling space, forcing adaptation. Movement is more than motion—it is expectation, rhythm, trust in the body’s response. The poem below explores what happens when that rhythm breaks.

Between Stasis and Step — The Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

Waiting is not empty.
It takes shape, fills space,
lingers in what was.

No before. No after.
Only time stretched thin,
where a step is no longer certainty
but a question.

Somewhere between resistance and surrender,
this is not stillness,
but something close.

The night does not break.
It takes.
It presses in, quiet and full,
heavy with what was,
what wasn’t,
what never found its way to words.

Movement is not gone.
It lingers,
threaded through what remains,
folded into absence.

Footsteps vanish into rain.
Breath unwinds into dark.
Nothing moves except time,
slow, indifferent,
dragging what remains through the cold.

Even beneath the surface, something lifts.
Even the lost hear the pull of their name.
Even now,
wind, tide, shifting sky
trace something just beyond the edges.

Not mercy.
Not promise.
Not yet.

But somewhere, still,
a thread, a spark,
a hunger that refuses to close its hands.

And that will be enough,
until enough becomes more.

Recovery and the Space Between

Botox cannot erase years of tension. It interrupts it. It creates a space where movement might return—if the balance is right. If the dosage is precise. If the body adapts as expected.

Expectation is not certainty. The risk of Botox is not just whether the injections will work. It is trust. Relinquishing control to an unseen drug, measured in units and vials. Balanced on guesses and adjustments.

After treatment, the body waits. It lingers between hope and hesitation, between relief and uncertainty. Sensation shifts. Muscles quiet. Yet the question remains: What will settle? What will return? What will be lost?

When the body does not respond as it should, when waiting stretches from weeks into months, adaptation becomes something else. The absence of movement becomes its own weight, its own kind of resistance.

This is what nine months of recovery feels like. Time slows, dragging everything with it. Each day feels like a breath held too long, a hesitation stretched past its breaking point. Recovery does not feel like progress. It feels like grasping for a threshold that has dissolved.

Until movement, hesitant but returning, becomes its own momentum once more. It lingers in muscle memory, in the quiet rhythm of balance—waiting to return.

Poem Analysis

The poem opens with the assertion that waiting is not passive—it takes up space. Even in stillness, something remains: sensations, the imprint of movement that once was.

The line “No before. No after.” disrupts linear time. Recovery exists in limbo, where movement is no longer a guarantee but a question.

“Somewhere between resistance and surrender,” speaks to the tension of uncertainty. The body does not fully move, but it does not fully stop. It lingers.

“The night does not break. It takes.” Darkness becomes a metaphor for loss, absence pressing in. The inability to move is not just physical—it is emotional. The weight of unspoken experiences fills the silence.

“Movement is not gone.” Here, the poem shifts. While motion is absent in the present, it still exists in memory, in the subconscious patterns the body once knew.

“Footsteps vanish into rain.” This deepens the contrast between motion and stillness. Steps dissolve into something intangible, leaving only time—dragging everything forward, indifferent.

“Even beneath the surface, something lifts.” This is the first sign of hope. Though movement is lost, something stirs—perhaps muscle memory, will, or something deeper than physical ability. Even in uncertainty, there is a pull toward motion.

“Not mercy. Not promise. Not yet.” There is no certainty of recovery. The waiting is neither a gift nor an assurance. It simply is.

Even in limitation, something lingers—a refusal to close one’s hands around absence. Even in uncertainty, there is a thread, a spark, a pull that does not let go.

Closing Thoughts

Movement is more than motion—it is certainty, rhythm, trust. When that trust falters, what remains is harder to define. The space between stillness and motion is not empty. It holds tension, uncertainty, the persistence of what once was.

Between Stasis and Step explores this in-between, where the body lingers but does not move with ease. Waiting is not passive; it is something tangible. It carries the weight of absence, the slow drag of time, and the quiet pull of hope that refuses to be extinguished.

Recovery is not linear. It moves in fragments, shaped by tension and release. The body does not simply let go—it recalibrates, searching for balance where none exists. Muscles, once rigid, loosen beyond expectation. Stability shifts. A step that once held firm wavers.

Stillness is not the absence of motion. It carries its own weight, its own kind of resistance. The muscles quiet, but tension lingers. Expectation wavers. Time stretches.

In that stretch of waiting, something stirs. Movement shifts at the edges, unsteady but present. It lingers—until, finally, it returns.

Edges Unseen: The Photo and the Spoon

The drawer opens. A hand searches as it did years ago, when a photograph rested at the edge of a mirror. Always there, until one day, it wasn’t. It must have slipped, fallen behind the dresser, or perhaps ended up in a forgotten box. At first, its absence went unnoticed. Only later, when fingers reached for it, did something feel amiss. A second search, slower this time. Still nothing. There are others. Another photograph will do. Yet, something lingers.

The Weight of What Isn’t There

Some things quietly fade—a name, a photograph, a voice once close, now distant. Many absences go unnoticed. A hand reaches for what was, only to find the space it once filled.

It is not just the spoon that once stirred coffee, now gone. Like the photograph, once resting at the edge of the mirror, always in place—until it slips away.

Some losses arrive sharp and sudden: a farewell at the door, a train pulling away, an empty chair at the table. These absences have names and carry rituals, final goodbyes that echo long after they have passed. Some moments linger long after they’ve gone. The reminders stay, hard to forget.

Others slip away unnoticed, their absence felt only later No sound, no final touch—just a gradual unraveling. A childhood home, now in someone else’s care, its floors creaking under unfamiliar steps.

A friendship, once vibrant, now stretches thin. It fades like a photograph left in the sun too long, its edges curling until it’s no longer recognizable. The moment of change is elusive—hard to pinpoint, yet undeniable: one day, it’s simply gone.

What the Silence Holds

The missing object carries echoes of a life once lived, its absence a quiet reminder of what’s no longer there. A spoon that once clinked against a coffee mug in the quiet of morning, stirred soup as conversation filled the air, and rested between hands during late-night confessions.

It isn’t about the spoon. It never was. The drawer closes, and a fork is taken instead—a quiet substitution, but it never fills the same space. The rhythm of the day continues, steady and unchanged.

For a moment, something lingers—not in the absence itself, but in the memory of what once was. The weight of the photograph once resting at the edge of the mirror, the spoon that stirred more than just coffee, the quiet comfort of what had always been there.

It cannot be fixed, only felt—the echo of what once was, still present.

The Future of Access: What’s at Stake for Section 504

The framework of access is rarely dismantled all at once. More often, it shifts in ways that go unnoticed—until the supports many rely on are no longer guaranteed. That is the conversation unfolding around Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, a law that has shaped disability rights for over 50 years. Seventeen states are challenging recent updates, raising the question: What happens if the foundation of access is weakened?

What Is Section 504?

Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973 was a landmark law that prohibited discrimination based on disability (National Education Association, 2019).

It laid the groundwork for later legislation, including the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). Unlike the ADA, which applies broadly to both public and private entities, Section 504 specifically protects individuals in programs and services that receive federal funding. This includes public schools, universities, hospitals, and government agencies.

It also applies to employers with federal contracts. These protections ensure that individuals with disabilities are not discriminated against in these federally supported settings (National Education Association, 2019; U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, n.d.).

At its core, Section 504 ensures that people with disabilities have equal access to education, employment, and healthcare (National Education Association, 2019; U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, n.d.). It prohibits policies and practices that exclude or limit participation (U.S. Department of Education, n.d.). The law also requires reasonable accommodations to remove barriers (National Education Association, 2019).

These protections did not come easily. Disability advocates fought for years to secure Section 504 regulations. Their efforts culminated in the 504 Sit-in of 1977, one of the longest federal building occupations in United States history. Activists, including Judy Heumann, pressured the government to issue enforcement regulations, which solidified the law’s impact.

For many, Section 504 is more than legal text. It is the reason a student receives necessary support in school. It allows a patient to communicate clearly with a doctor (Northeast ADA Center, n.d.). It ensures that an employee can perform their job without unnecessary barriers. This law requires schools to provide accommodations so students with disabilities can learn (U.S. Department of Education, n.d.).

It compels employers to create accessible workplaces. It holds hospitals accountable for offering accessible medical equipment (Northeast ADA Center, n.d.). It also applies to digital spaces (ADA Site Compliance, 2024). Websites and online platforms must be designed so that blind and low-vision users can navigate them with assistive technology (ADA Site Compliance, 2024). Digital accessibility ensures that critical information, communication, and services are available to everyone, regardless of disability.

The Legal Challenge to Section 504

A lawsuit is challenging Section 504 (TER Staff, 2025), arguing that recent updates proposed by the U.S. Department of Education (www.ed.gov) and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (www.hhs.gov) impose new and costly obligations on states.

These updates clarify and strengthen existing protections. They reinforce modern accessibility standards and set clearer expectations for how schools, workplaces, and healthcare providers serve individuals with disabilities. Supporters believe these changes protect rights already established by law. Opponents argue that they add financial and administrative burdens.

Seventeen states are behind the lawsuit, claiming the updates expand federal authority too far. If the challenge succeeds, enforcement could weaken, leaving individuals with disabilities with fewer options for recourse (TER Staff, 2025).

The states challenging these updates include Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Georgia, Idaho, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Missouri, Nebraska, South Carolina, South Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Virginia, and West Virginia (TER Staff, 2025). Their lawsuit could reshape how Section 504 is enforced and interpreted in the years ahead.

Moving Forward: Advocacy and Action

The discussion around Section 504 reaches beyond courtrooms, shaping conversations in communities, workplaces, and organizations across the country. As legal proceedings continue, staying informed helps individuals understand potential changes and their impact.

Government agencies provide valuable updates on this evolving discussion. Checking in with the U.S. Department of Education (https://www.ed.gov/) and the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (https://www.hhs.gov/) offers insight into proposed revisions. At the state level, residents in the 17 states involved in the lawsuit can reach out to their Attorney General’s office, where public comments are often welcomed.

Keeping others informed also makes a difference. Sharing updates with colleagues, educators, healthcare providers, and disability advocates helps build awareness and prepare for what may come next.

Section 504 was born from advocacy. Its protections remain in place because individuals continue to speak up. The choices made now will determine the strength of these protections in the years ahead.

Access is not static; it shifts as people recognize barriers, revisit policies, and advocate for change. Each effort, whether quiet or bold, contributes to a broader movement. The direction of these conversations will shape the future of inclusion.

References

The Unseen Thaw

The morning carries a sharper chill than expected. Winter’s air stings, crisp and unrelenting. The world lies still beneath its white cover. Snow clings to branches, intricate and crystalline. Yesterday’s hurried footprints are gone.

The night’s snowfall has erased them, leaving no trace. The landscape feels cleansed. Yet, there is an unease in that kind of erasure, a sense of loss that lingers.

A moment of almost—but not yet—readiness: waiting, suspended breath, for something just beyond reach. A single drop falls from a branch, catching the faint morning light. Another follows, then another. The thaw begins. Ice creaks softly, loosening its grip.

The thaw arrives whether it is welcomed or not. Readiness does not delay it. It arrives unbidden—just as it always does. This moment, the quiet dissolving of certainty, feels familiar. The buried thought, the echo of a conversation, the grip on an old belief: each loosens its hold. Even winter cannot hold on forever.

The Unseen Thaw — A Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

The thaw arrives, unseen, unasked,
melting the once-unyielding past.
A stillness untangles what has hardened within,
a whisper in the quiet light.

Diamonds weep from bending trees,
as beauty trembles, caught between
the weight of loss and the hope unseen.

Each frozen word, each silenced plea,
encased in frost, they linger, still,
vanished footprints the snow does fill.

Yet within the quiet, a stirring sigh
weaves through the hollows where memories lie.
Not all that fades is truly gone;
some things endure, some move on.
Not all that vanishes is lost.
Not all that remains is real.

What melts, what lingers, what slips away,
the thaw unravels what was before,
revealing truths that lie at its core.

The Unraveling

There is something unsettling about the thaw.

It is simple to prepare for the storm, to brace against the cold. There is a certain comfort in anticipating the challenge ahead. No one teaches how to get ready for the thaw—how to let go, how to release what was once solid. The undoing does not break but bends. It does not strike; it erodes, steady and unspoken.

The poem lingers in that delicate space. Yet the thaw is more than just a moment—it is a force, shifting beneath our lives in ways both seen and unseen. When the thaw begins, it takes what once felt certain. Frozen footprints disappear. Sharp edges blur. Delicate patterns melt away.

There is beauty in the breaking. Before something is lost entirely, it lingers, fragile, shimmering, holding on for just a moment. The space between presence and absence, between what was and what is to come, is where The Unseen Thaw finds its meaning.

“Not all that vanishes is lost. Not all that remains is real.”

These words hover, asking:

Is it the holding on that gives something its weight?

Or is it the letting go that sets it free?

Everyone has stood here. Watching as something they thought would last begins to fade: a relationship, a phase of life, an unspoken certainty. The thaw reaches them all, in different ways. Each time… it comes as both an ending and a beginning.

As the ice melts, the weight lifts, and the air feels lighter. What emerges next is uncertain.

What is Left Behind

Certain feelings defy easy expression. The Unseen Thaw captures the fleeting moment when something begins to dissolve. It lingers in the space between holding on and letting go.

The opening lines remind us that change arrives unbidden:

“The thaw arrives, unseen, unasked, / melting the once-unyielding past.”

Control is an illusion. The thaw is inevitable, moving silently through our lives, dismantling what we thought would last.

In the second stanza, “diamonds weep from bending trees” evokes both beauty and sorrow. More than a description of melting ice, it speaks to the grace in endings—the way release can be both painful and exquisite. There is no resistance to the thaw. It simply happens.

Regret weaves through the lines:

“Each frozen word, each silenced plea, / encased in frost, they linger, still.”

The words never said, the opportunities left untouched—they remain, frozen. Until the thaw. It forces them to the surface, briefly… before they slip away. The thaw does not just take; it reveals. The shift is soft.

The fourth stanza introduces a whisper, a forgotten trace, stirring beneath the surface. The thaw is not just an ending; it also uncovers what lies beneath, waiting to be noticed.

Finally, the poem’s closing lines reflect on impermanence:

“What melts, what lingers, what slips away, / the thaw unravels what was before.”

These questions invite reflection. What truly endures? What was never really there at all? The thaw does not merely dissolve; it illuminates, revealing both what has been and what still lies ahead.

The Space Between

Letting go is a gradual shift, a subtle release, a quiet easing. Sometimes it feels like relief; other times, it is wrenching. More often, it is both. The thaw does not erase what came before. It reveals what remains.

The thaw is neither sudden nor merciful. It does not wait. It moves in silence, undoing the edges of certainty. Footprints fade. Ice weakens. What seemed immutable gives way—not all at once, but in pieces, in moments, in the slow surrender of what no longer holds.

There is no clear line between what remains and what changes, only the quiet space between them. Not all that disappears is gone. Not all that softens is broken. The thaw carries both release and renewal, making way for what comes next, even if it is not yet visible. Perhaps the weight is not in what is left behind, but in the waiting. In the moment before something new takes shape.

The Pause Before Dawn

There are moments when life shifts, but the direction remains unclear. A door closes, but another hasn’t opened. A decision is made, but the outcome lingers. That space—where one chapter ends and another waits—is where Between Darkness and Light lingers.

This poem doesn’t just describe the moment before dawn. It captures the feeling of standing on the edge of something new, unsure whether to step forward or hold on to what was.

Between Darkness and Light
The Poem
By: Kerry Ann Wiley

The sky unravels in whispers of gold,
a hush that bends where shadows fold.
Silent, it climbs,
spilling warmth through the night’s last flinch.
A blade of fire parts the deep,
carving the hush where secrets sleep.

Is this birth, or is it decay—
another chance, or time slipping away?

The dark retreats but never dies,
Shadows do not run; they listen,
folding themselves into the seams of light.

And here we stand—
not divided, not whole,
but something unnamed in between.

The dark steps back but does not break,
a quiet pulse beneath the wake.
A hush where echoes hesitate,
neither lost nor returning.

The space between motion,
the weight of a step never taken,
unfinished, but present—
not waiting, only watching.

Trace the seam, shape the gray—
not meant to leave, nor meant to stay.

The Uncertainty of Change

Change rarely unfolds as neatly as it’s imagined. In hindsight, it is often easy to see how one thing ends and another begins. In the moment, however, change is slow, uncertain, and often unclear. It is in the spaces between these shifts, the gaps, where uncertainty lingers.

The poem begins with the sky unraveling in whispers of gold. The light doesn’t rush in; it arrives slowly, almost cautiously. This mirrors the way transitions often feel. They don’t occur all at once. Instead, pieces shift, moments pass, and only later does something new become clear.

Then comes the lingering question:

Is this birth, or is it decay—
another chance, or time slipping away?

At times, change feels like a fresh start; other times, it feels like something slipping out of reach. Often, it is a combination of both. The poem doesn’t offer an answer to this; instead, it simply acknowledges that transformation is rarely simple.

What Stays, What Fades

Change isn’t just about what’s coming; it’s just as much about what remains.

The dark retreats but never dies.

The past doesn’t vanish when something new begins. Shadows don’t run away; they listen, folding into the light and becoming part of it.

This line suggests that the past isn’t erased when change happens. Instead, it remains present, subtly shaping the future. The metaphor of shadows not fleeing, but listening, shows that the past doesn’t vanish—it lingers, adapting with the new.

Shadows folding into the light represent how memories and past experiences don’t disappear; they become part of the present, quietly influencing the future. It acknowledges that the past, though it may shift, continues to exist alongside the new, contributing to the ongoing process of change.

Memories work similarly. The things that came before don’t simply disappear. Some fade over time, while others settle into the present, quietly influencing the future.

The poem captures this tension: moving forward while still carrying pieces of what was.

The Weight of the Unfinished

Near the end of the poem, it lingers on a poignant idea:

The weight of a step never taken.

There is a subtle weight to the things that almost happen: the choices not made, the words left unsaid, the paths unexplored. Even what doesn’t happen still leaves its mark.

That’s why change often feels unsettling. It is not just about what is coming next, but also about what’s being left behind. The uncertainty lies not only in what’s ahead, but in what could have been.

Letting Change Be What It Is

The poem ends with quiet recognition:

Trace the seam, shape the gray—
not meant to leave, nor meant to stay.

Some moments exist simply to be noticed, felt, and understood. Change is not always a clear ending or a definitive beginning. It often lives in the pause before a choice is made, the hesitation before a step forward. It is found in the moment when light and shadow coexist.

Between Darkness and Light embraces the uncertainty that comes with transition. Not every shift needs to be named. Not every change requires understanding. Some moments are meant to be lived, not defined. Eventually, they simply become part of what comes next.

What Silence Holds

Silence is never fully empty. It holds the echoes of unspoken words, lingering in the spaces where thoughts remain unsaid. It carries the weight of replayed choices, each one marking a moment in time. Memories remain, refusing to fade. A moment turns to a question, then doubt. The past does not rest; it stirs, reshapes, insists on being known.

The body begs for rest, but the mind resists. The room is still, yet something remains in the air, unspoken and heavy. What remains is not the silence itself, but all that it holds.

The Weight of What Stays: A Poem
By Kerry Ann Wiley

Thoughts spill like dye in water,
spreading, staining,
refusing to settle.

A voice lingers—uninvited, unshaken.
Was it theirs, or was it true?
Words, once spoken, are never undone.

Storms build slow in the mind.
Air thickens, charged with static.
Tiny moments unravel, distort,
until they become something heavier.

Something undeniable.

What if? What now? What was?
The script unchanged,
the endings unwritten.

A breath.
A pause.
A shift in weight.

For years, the choices seemed simple:
Drown the noise. Fill the silence.
Or fight it—push, shove, run.

Either way, the storm remains,
waiting for cracks to slip through.

This is fear.
This is doubt.
This is grief disguised as memory.

The clock glows red, its tick-tock a constant reminder of time’s unyielding march.

And still, the night offers no resolution.

When Memory Becomes a Storm

Silence is rarely empty. It carries what lingers—the unresolved, the unfinished. Moments that refuse to fade remain within it, waiting. The Weight of What Stays explores how memory shifts, reshapes, and resists stillness.

The image of thoughts “spilling like dye in water” captures how memory seeps, staining the present. As time goes by, conversations once forgotten become more defined. No longer fleeting, they become sharp, laden with the weight of years.

Doubt bends the past, reshaping it into something heavier and uncertain. The air thickens, charged with tension. It mirrors the slow buildup of unresolved thoughts and emotions.

Each one compounds the last, until the storm feels as though it is on the verge of breaking. Like a storm that builds gradually, the tension grows. It becomes heavy and thick, until it can no longer be ignored.

Memories, especially those shaped by doubt or grief, don’t strike all at once but build up gradually, like a storm waiting to break. As they gather, they distort the past, making it more difficult to process. The “charged static” in the air represents the discomfort that builds as these memories linger.

This static clouds the mind and disrupts perception. Some thoughts, like grief, persist, leaving their mark on both the mind and the way moments are remembered.

Letting Silence Settle

The natural instinct is to resist—to drown the silence, to push away what lingers. It might also be to escape or confront. Perhaps there’s a third option: listening. Not all thoughts are enemies; some simply seek acknowledgment. What if the past only needs to be seen, not rewritten?

Memory is never static. It shifts, reshapes, and blends into the present. The Weight of What Stays doesn’t ask for resolution, but for recognition: some memories aren’t simply recalled. They are relived, their significance deepening over time.

The mind craves certainty, yet memory provides none. A fleeting thought gives rise to a question, which gradually takes root as doubt. That doubt reshapes the past, leaving it uncertain and ever-shifting.

Did it happen that way? Was it ever as small as it seemed? Some memories fade, while others grow louder—not because they call for certainty, but because they were never given the space to exist.

Perhaps the past is not meant to be rewritten or fought against. Perhaps the past isn’t something to resolve, but something to live alongside. It lingers neither insisting nor fading. Some memories don’t need to be understood, only acknowledged for what they are—fragments of a time that has passed yet still echoes.

2:37 AM: The Thoughts That Stay

The clock reads 2:37 AM, its red digits cutting through the darkness. Exhaustion settles in, yet the mind stays awake. Eyes flutter shut, searching for stillness, as thoughts refuse to quiet.

A comment from days ago resurfaces—uninvited, unshaken. Its edges are still sharp, its weight still pressing. It plays on repeat, as crisp and stinging as the moment it first left someone else’s lips.

Now, it loops endlessly in the silence. Unfinished conversations, unanswered texts, the email that took too long to send—things once brushed aside now feel heavier. Sleep drifts further away.

Overthinking creeps in like a slow-building storm. The air grows heavy, charged with static, as though rain is imminent. Thoughts surge, louder and more pressing. Small moments twist, stretch, and take on new weight. Peace unravels, bit by bit.

A quote resurfaces: “The storms in my mind ruin the gardens of my soul.” The mind turns on itself, spinning reason into endless What ifs? What now? Does this even matter?

The weight is exhausting. For years, only two options felt possible:

  • Push the thoughts away. Shake them off. Keep moving.
  • Drown them out. Stay busy. Fill every moment with noise, work, distractions.

Still, silence creeps in, slipping through the cracks when things slow. The mind resists, but a few things help.

Give It a Name.

Uncertainty looms largest when it stays undefined. Naming it—This is anxiety. This is doubt. This is regret.—shrinks it down to something manageable.

Stop Wrestling With It.

Pushing thoughts away only makes them louder. Sitting with them, acknowledging them without chasing them, takes away their power. At first, it’s uncomfortable. Over time, the discomfort fades.

Let the Storm Do Its Work.

Not every storm destroys. Some uproot what no longer belongs. Others carve new paths where there once were none. When the noise settles, what remains might be what truly mattered all along.

In the stillness of sleepless hours, the storm itself isn’t the most exhausting part. It’s the resistance. The harder the mind pushes back, the louder the thoughts become. Staring at the ceiling, replaying moments that shouldn’t matter but somehow do. The more the mind tries to quiet itself, the more restless it gets. The more sleep is chased, the further it drifts. At some point, exhaustion wins.

The thoughts don’t disappear, but they lose their urgency. Their edges blur. Their weight shifts. It doesn’t happen all at once. It happens in moments—between tossing and turning, between one deep breath and the next.

The storm passes, not because it was fought, but because the struggle stops. And in that quiet, sleep finally comes.

Unrestrained, Unapologetic, Undiminished

The word “intense“ often surfaces when someone doesn’t quite fit the expected mold. At first, it may seem like a simple observation. Beneath it, however, lingers something unspoken—a subtle suggestion to ease up, to soften, to hold back.

It is a quiet plea to temper passion, to dial down certainty. This word appears when emotions are fully expressed, when conversations move beyond small talk, when conviction is unrestrained.

Intensity, in this sense, is often misinterpreted. It is not about volume or force but depth—a way of moving through life with awareness, curiosity, and emotions that refuse to remain superficial. For some, this depth can be unsettling. But should it be softened?

A Different Way of Experiencing the World

Some people feel everything. A passing comment lingers in their mind for days. A song isn’t just a song—it brings back a feeling, a memory, a person. Even the smallest act of kindness can be overwhelming, not just for what it is but for what it means.

This kind of intensity makes life both meaningful and exhausting. It is why beauty can bring tears, why a conversation can feel charged, and why even an ordinary day can hold such weight. It sparks a need to understand, to look beyond the surface, to uncover the deeper story beneath what people say and do.

Joan Didion (2005) once wrote, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” For those who experience life this way, stories are more than entertainment. They help process the world, revealing hidden meanings and forging connections that might otherwise go unnoticed. Through stories, life feels truly real.

Some may call it too much, but maybe it’s just a different way of noticing.

Depth, Not Distance

A woman who experiences life deeply is often labeled as intense, as if her nature requires softening. Depth, however, is not something to restrain—it is a presence that is deliberate, steady, and fully engaged.

She is the friend who asks how you are truly doing and listens with genuine care. She lingers in the pauses, unafraid of silence, allowing meaning to surface in its own time. Where others see only scattered pieces, she notices the patterns that connect them.

This kind of connection demands full engagement—it does not lend itself to half-measures. For some, this intensity feels unfamiliar. They may prefer something lighter, more manageable. But depth is not something to fear.

Clarity That Can Be Uncomfortable

Clarity comes not from harshness, but from focus. Some truths lose their impact when they are softened too much.

In Women Who Run With the Wolves, Estés (1992) describes the wild woman archetype as someone deeply in tune with her instincts. She refuses to be tamed or diminished, embracing her true nature with strength and certainty. This kind of clarity, grounded in authenticity and self-trust, can shift the atmosphere of a room. Superficial conversations may feel empty, while small talk often lacks the depth to keep her engaged.

The desire to understand, connect, and see things as they are isn’t about being difficult—it’s about being fully engaged. For those who find comfort in distance, this intensity may feel unfamiliar. Challenges arise when depth is met with an expectation of simplicity.

Reclaiming Strength Through Intensity

Depth and clarity are often what make women’s experiences so powerful.

Frida Kahlo, for example, used her paintings to express emotions that could not be easily softened. Through surreal, deeply personal imagery, she shared her experiences of pain, love, and resilience in a world that often asked women to appear pleasant above all else (Herrera, 1983).

Sylvia Plath wove the intensity of her inner turmoil into her writing. In The Bell Jar and Lady Lazarus, she invited readers into her struggles with love, loss, and identity, reflecting the raw realities of life (Alexander, 1991).

Marie Curie’s work was driven by a similar intensity of purpose. Her research in radioactivity, along with her discoveries of polonium and radium, contributed to major advances in science and medicine. Her relentless pursuit of knowledge led to two Nobel Prizes, establishing her as one of the most influential women in history.

Glennon Doyle (2020) captures this truth in Untamed: “When a woman finally learns that pleasing the world is impossible, she becomes free to learn how to please herself.” Women like Kahlo, Plath, and Curie found that their greatness didn’t arise despite their intensity, but because of it.

The Value of Feeling Deeply

The intensity often seen in women who embrace life with passion, who move through it with purpose, should not be feared or diminished. It is a force that shapes their lives—and leaves a lasting impact on those around them.

Frida Kahlo, Sylvia Plath, and Marie Curie prove that greatness isn’t born from ease or restraint but from fully engaging with the complexities of experience and emotion. To feel deeply, engage authentically, and move through life with unyielding intensity is not a flaw—it is power. It is a force that exists without apology. Trust it. Let it shape, challenge, and redefine what is possible.

References

  • Alexander, P. (1991). Rough magic: A biography of Sylvia Plath. Viking.
  • Didion, J. (2005). The year of magical thinking. Knopf.
  • Doyle, G. (2020). Untamed. The Dial Press.
  • Estés, C. P. (1992). Women who run with the wolves: Myths and stories of the wild woman archetype. Ballantine Books.
  • Herrera, H. (1983). Frida: A biography of Frida Kahlo. Harper & Row.
  • Quinn, S. (1995). Marie Curie: A life. Simon & Schuster.

Unique as Snowflakes: The Complexity of Depression

At first glance, snowflakes and depression might seem unrelated. Snowflakes are celebrated for their delicate beauty, each one unique and intricate in design. Depression, on the other hand, is often seen as heavy and persistent, a stark contrast to fragility. Yet, both are shaped by invisible forces, deeply personal in nature, and often misunderstood.

A Quiet Uniqueness

No two snowflakes are the same. Each forms as water vapor freezes onto tiny particles, with temperature and humidity shaping its design. Similarly, depression appears differently in each individual, shaped by a unique mix of biology, environment, and personal experiences.

Research on mindfulness and psychological health highlights how these individual factors affect mental health outcomes, making each experience of depression unique and deeply personal (Keng, Smoski, & Robins, 2011).

For some, depression feels like a heavy weight, dulling the senses and draining energy. For others, it may appear as a relentless stream of thoughts that never quiets. Physically, it can present as chronic fatigue or unexplained pain, while emotionally, it may emerge as sadness, numbness, or guilt.

Depression is often viewed as a spectrum, reflecting its unpredictable and varied nature. Symptoms can shift over time, appearing differently from one person to another. Some may experience moments of relief, only to face relapses that feel heavier than before (Melrose, 2015).

This variability makes diagnosis and treatment difficult, as no single description can encompass its full complexity. In the same way, calling a snowflake “ice” overlooks the intricate patterns that make each one unique.

Psychologists emphasize that understanding the multifaceted nature of depression requires looking beyond surface-level symptoms. Individual coping strategies and life circumstances play a significant role in how depression is experienced and managed (Lopez, Pedrotti, & Snyder, 2019).

Shaped by Forces Unseen

Snowflakes are shaped by unseen forces like temperature, humidity, and air currents, leaving a lasting mark on their structure. Depression is also influenced by forces that are often hidden, including genetics, trauma, relationships, and coping mechanisms. The relationship between neurobiological and psychological factors provides insight into how depression takes hold.

Research highlights how past trauma, stress, and genetic predispositions shape depression. These factors affect neurobiological processes, which include the brain and nervous system functions that regulate emotions and behavior. Key elements, such as serotonin and dopamine levels, significantly influence the development and persistence of depression (Rutten et al., 2013). This evidence shows that depression is not simply a reaction to challenging life events or a lack of effort. Instead, it arises from a combination of complex factors, many of which lie beyond an individual’s control.

Depression stems from a mix of internal factors and external challenges. These influences are complex and deeply personal. Recognizing this helps promote a more thoughtful and empathetic understanding of mental health.

The Weight That Shifts

Snowflakes rarely fall in a straight line; they twist and turn, carried by the wind until they finally settle. Depression mirrors this unpredictability. Some days, it feels unbearably heavy, making even the simplest tasks seem impossible. On other days, it is more subdued, a quiet ache beneath the surface.

Unlike snowflakes, which melt and vanish quickly, depression often lingers. Its unpredictable nature can make it difficult to recognize and may leave individuals hesitant to seek help. This is especially true for those whose symptoms don’t match common stereotypes. For instance, “high-functioning depression” refers to individuals who appear outwardly composed while silently struggling internally (Snyder et al., 2019).

Others experience cyclical episodes, where periods of relief are followed by sudden relapses, emphasizing the need for personalized care and tailored treatment.

Listening to What’s Unspoken

Depression, like a snowflake, can be subtle and easily overlooked without gentle attention. Many people stay silent, afraid of being judged or overwhelmed by the pain or discomfort of facing their struggles. This silence can feel heavy, deepening the sense of isolation. Over time, it quietly reinforces the stigma surrounding mental health.

Breaking that silence is crucial. Mindfulness-based approaches focus on establishing safe and non-judgmental environments that encourage individuals to share their experiences openly. These settings promote self-awareness and cultivate compassion for both the individual and others (Jacobs-Stewart, 2010; Keng et al., 2011).

Just as examining a snowflake shows intricate details, understanding an individual’s experience with depression can reveal its complexities. With proper care, time, and support, the burden of depression can be lessened, and its severity may decrease.

Finding Strength in Change

The snowflake metaphor represents individuality, transformation, and complexity. Personal growth involves managing difficulties rather than avoiding them. Research on resilience shows that gradual healing is possible through patience, self-compassion, and support (Lopez, Pedrotti, & Snyder, 2019). Over time, even significant challenges become more manageable.

Depression, like snowflakes, reflects the depth and variation of individual experiences, each contributing to personal growth. Environments that embrace vulnerability and prioritize mental health awareness help build resilience. Studies on well-being indicate these supportive spaces help individuals regain strength and find meaning in difficult times (Gautam et al., 2024).

By understanding depression’s contributing factors and responding with empathy, its impact can be lessened, allowing for recovery and growth. Much like a snowflake’s unique structure, healing is a gradual, transformative process that reveals strength through life’s challenges.

References

  • Gautam, S., Jain, A., Chaudhary, J., Gautam, M., Gaur, M., & Grover, S. (2024). Concept of mental health and mental well-being, its determinants and coping strategies. Indian Journal of Psychiatry, 66(Suppl 2), S231–S244. https://doi.org/10.4103/indianjpsychiatry.indianjpsychiatry_707_23
  • Jacobs-Stewart, T. (2010). Mindfulness and the 12 steps. Hazelden.
  • Keng, S. L., Smoski, M. J., & Robins, C. J. (2011). Effects of mindfulness on psychological health: A review of empirical studies. Clinical Psychology Review, 31(6), 1041–1056. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.cpr.2011.04.006
  • Lopez, S. J., Pedrotti, J. T., & Snyder, C. R. (2019). Positive psychology: The scientific and practical explorations of human strengths. SAGE Publications.
  • Melrose, S. (2015). Seasonal affective disorder: An overview of assessment and treatment approaches. Depression Research and Treatment, 2015, 178564. https://doi.org/10.1155/2015/178564
  • Rutten, B. P. F., Hammels, C., Geschwind, N., Schruers, K., Wichers, M., & Kenis, G. (2013). Resilience in mental health: Linking psychological and neurobiological perspectives. Acta Psychiatrica Scandinavica, 128(1), 3–20. https://doi.org/10.1111/acps.12095

The Roads We Carry

There are moments that linger. Late at night, headlights cut through the darkness, while a song stirs emotions beyond words. In these fleeting moments, strength quietly rises, guiding us forward even when the path ahead is unclear.

The Roads We Carry explores the resilience found in these moments. The poem captures how music, like the road, steadies us through uncertainty, offering no answers—just a rhythm to follow.

The Roads We Carry — The Poem

By Kerry Ann Wiley

A cassette hums in twilight’s haze,
Static crackles through forgotten days.
Neon signs flicker, a restless glow,
Edges blur—no place to go.

The chords rise up, a whispered dare,
A drifter’s hymn fills the open air.
“Here I go again,” the voice insists,
Each note a map, a chance, a twist.

The road unfolds, no end in sight,
Wheels turning under pale moonlight.
The music swells, a quiet roar,
Freedom hums through an open door.

When the weight of the world starts to press,
And silence cradles old distress,
The beat still echoes, steady and kind—
A guide to the heart, a solace for the mind.

Years unravel, but the melody stays,
Threading through life’s winding maze.
Not just a tune, not just a refrain—
The rhythm remains.

In The Roads We Carry, music becomes more than just a soundtrack. It carries emotions that words cannot express. The cassette hums softly, its crackle punctuating the silence, a fragile but steady reminder that even imperfections hold meaning.

The static doesn’t interrupt the rhythm; it deepens it. As the cassette moves through its cycles—rewinding, playing, and slowly fading with use—it retains something timeless despite its flaws.

The poem reflects the idea of moving forward, even when answers feel distant. In the poem, the road is more than just a path. It becomes a metaphor for transition, carrying the weight of the past while remaining open to what lies ahead.

The movement in the poem isn’t driven by urgency but guided by intention. The road reflects life’s steady pace, even when the direction and destination remain unclear. Its rhythm offers reprieve from uncertainty. These moments linger, carved into the spaces where the music fades and the road ends, flowing into the intersections of uncertainty and hope. Sometimes, simply moving forward is enough.

The Roads We Carry honors the strength in persistence. The road serves as a bridge, connecting past, present, and future. Both the road and music create a space for reflection, where life’s questions can coexist with forward motion.

The road symbolizes life’s path, while music represents rhythm and introspection. Together, they form a contemplative space where unanswered questions can be considered without halting progress.

This suggests that uncertainty doesn’t have to hinder movement; instead, reflection and action can happen simultaneously, allowing growth even without complete clarity.

The cassette’s static and crackle symbolize impermanence, adding depth to the moment. Listening becomes an act of remembering, feeling, and continuing. “The rhythm remains” echoes this persistence—a steady strength through life’s changes.

The road is a liminal space, always between what was and what is to come. Headlights carve clarity into the darkness, while the shadowed horizon holds the unknown This tension mirrors life—where clarity and uncertainty intertwine, allowing space for reflection without demanding answers.

The car, small and intimate, becomes a vessel for freedom. The music blends with the wind through open windows, connecting the interior and exterior worlds. Together, the road and music process emotions, allowing questions to linger without the need for resolution.

In The Roads We Carry, the road and music come together to create a space where uncertainty feels less overwhelming. The road, stretching into the unknown, reflects life’s transitions, while music offers a steady rhythm to follow. The crackle of a worn cassette and the hum of wheels remind us that strength lies in the act of moving forward, even when the way ahead isn’t always clear.

These moments—lit by headlights and accompanied by music—offer comfort in their simplicity. The road serves as a quiet presence, where clarity and uncertainty meet, and music fills the silence with emotions too deep for words. The music fades, but its rhythm lingers—a quiet reminder that moving forward, no matter how uncertain, is a strength in itself.