Sanctuary, Where I Am

This week wasn’t supposed to look like this.

An ice storm rolled through and turned the roads into glass. School shut down. Plans dissolved. The usual rhythm of our days disappeared almost overnight. We’ve been staying at my partner’s house this week while the roads have been unsafe, tucked in together as the world outside slowed to a crawl.

And without trying to make it mean anything profound, it did.

At first, forced stillness can feel loud. When everything stops, your thoughts don’t. The mental noise ramps up. The urge to fill the space kicks in. The quiet fear creeps in that if you’re not moving, you’re somehow falling behind.

But then, slowly, something else happens.

You settle.

The girls have played surprisingly well together this week. Not perfectly, not without the occasional disagreement or dramatic sigh, but well in the way that matters. They’ve found their rhythm here. They’ve claimed spots on the couch. Their shoes land by the door like they belong there.

Because for now, they do.

The adults in the house have worked well together for the girls this week. We’ve navigated decisions, tired moments, and the general chaos that comes with kids being home far longer than planned. We’ve talked things through instead of rushing past them. We’ve handled friction without letting it turn into distance.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I put some of my clothes away in a closet that isn’t technically mine. Not all of them. Just enough.

Some of the girls’ clothes made their way into a dresser too. Again, not everything. Just enough to stop living out of overnight bags and half-unpacked piles.

It felt small. Practical. Almost mundane. And also quietly significant.

A few years ago, my word for the year was sanctuary. Back then, I thought sanctuary was something you reached once everything settled. Once life felt stable, predictable, finished enough to finally exhale.

This week reminded me that sanctuary isn’t a destination.

It’s a practice.

Sanctuary isn’t the absence of uncertainty. It isn’t a perfectly arranged life or a resolved story. Sanctuary is the feeling that you are allowed to take up space even when things are still unfolding.

It’s choosing to soften instead of brace.
It’s letting yourself belong without demanding guarantees.

I’ve felt that deeply this week as I’ve slowed down. And I truly have slowed down.

I started making sourdough. Which still makes me laugh a little. I’ve joked for years that I’m basically a carnivore, and yet here I am, baking like it’s my side hustle.

Pretzel bites. Hamburger buns. Banana bread. Loaves of sourdough cooling on the counter.

Sourdough has no interest in being rushed. You can’t force it to be ready. You feed it, you wait, you trust that something is happening even when it doesn’t look like much at all.

It requires patience. Attention. A willingness to move at a pace slower than the one most of us are used to. Which is exactly what this week has asked of me.

There’s been no optimizing our days. No squeezing productivity out of the margins. No trying to make this pause useful or impressive or worthy of documentation. Just living.

Cooking meals. Cleaning up messes. Drinking coffee while the girls color at the table. Watching the weather reports like they hold answers. Letting the days blur softly around the edges.

And the surprising thing is how safe it’s felt. Not because everything is perfect. Not because everything is decided. But because I’m letting myself be here instead of hovering halfway outside the moment. That’s what sanctuary looks like for me now.

It’s not control.
It’s acceptance.
It’s permission.

Permission to slow down.
Permission to nest a little.
Permission to let a season be what it is without rushing to define it or lock it into a narrative.

I think a lot of us are exhausted not because we’re doing too much—but because we never let ourselves land anywhere. We’re always preparing for the next thing. Always holding space for what’s coming. Always bracing for what might change.

This week, the ice took that option away.

And in return, it offered something quieter and steadier.

A reminder that I can create sanctuary wherever I am. If you know me personally or know much about my past, a sense of sanctuary and refuge were not easy for me to come by. I fought tooth and nail for every ounce of peace that I have, and it took years to get here. But now I've found it, and have been reminded that I create and carry that sense of sanctuary.

For myself. For my girls. In borrowed kitchens and shared routines and imperfect weeks that don’t go according to plan. (Especially there.)

If you’re reading this from a place that feels in between, unsettled, or slower than you’d like, I want to say this gently:

This pause doesn’t mean anything is off track.
You don’t have to solve this.
You’re allowed to just live inside it for a while.

What would it look like to let yourself belong where you are right now, even temporarily?
What small ritual could make this season feel a little softer?
Where could you stop holding your breath?

You don’t have to answer those right now. You don’t have to fix anything.

Sometimes sanctuary begins the moment you stop resisting the pause, and let yourself sit down. ☕️