Sometimes Numb Is Exactly Where You Need to Be

A gentle guide navigating the in‑between with patience, small anchors, and self‑trust.

There are seasons in life when everything feels like a loop—wake, move, repeat. You’re not excited.’re not exactly sad either. You’re simply there, suspended in a phase that feels like fog: a gentle weight that mutes the world but doesn’t stop it. It can be disorienting. You remember what passion feels like, what purpose tastes like, but your present reality is quieter—almost too quiet. And yet, somewhere deep inside, a steady voice whispers: this too shall pass.

Numbness often gets a bad reputation. We think it means we’re broken, disconnected, or failing. But sometimes numbness is a form of protection—your mind and body creating a buffer while you process, heal, or quietly reorganize. It’s a pause between emotional chapters. The not-knowing, the in-between, the waiting—it’s part of the journey, not a detour.

What makes this phase tough is the pressure to “fix it.” To force energy, force joy, force clarity. But calm can’t be commanded. It’s cultivated—often in small, almost invisible ways. When you can’t change the whole landscape, you can still tend to the ground beneath your feet.

A few gentle anchors for the in-between:

• Keep tiny promises to yourself. Drink water. Step outside for five minutes. Make your bed. Small wins restore trust.

• Name your season without judgment. “I’m in a quiet phase.” Labels like this reduce the urge to explain or perform.

• Protect your inputs. Curate your media diet. Choose voices that soothe rather than spike.

• Move your body, even minimally. A walk. Stretching. Light movement signals safety to the nervous system.

• Let routine do the heavy lifting. Consistency is a bridge when motivation is missing.

• Allow glimmers. A song, a sunrise, a warm cup—brief moments of okay-ness are not trivial; they are breadcrumbs back to yourself.

Most of all, remember that phases are designed to phase out. Just as seasons shift without our permission, so do inner climates. The numbness won’t announce its exit. One day, you’ll notice that the fog is thinner, that color has returned to the edges, that something small feels interesting again. You’ll look back and realize: you didn’t fail during this time—you endured. You honored your capacity. You stayed.

If you’re here right now, take heart. Stillness is not stagnation. Quiet is not emptiness. This is a chapter, not the book. And yes—this too shall pass.