When my daughter Avery was eight years old, we moved to a new state. Her swim team practiced at a local aquatic center, and every week she asked me to stay and watch.
Her reasoning?
“I need to see you when I come up for air.”
During those practices, I noticed an older gentleman pushing an empty wheelchair through the lobby. Every day at 4:15, he would make his way to the therapy pool to retrieve his beloved companion.
“Hello,” he said to me one afternoon. “I think we’re on the same schedule.”
From then on, we spoke each time we crossed paths.
The man was generous with his stories. And over time, I learned about pain and hardship I have not lived. This man—who was no stranger to loss—did not seem to need advice or sympathy.
He just needed someone to listen.
Our afternoon conversations became so routine that even on days Avery didn’t ask me to stay, the thought of that lonely man was enough to bring me anyway.
If I don’t show up, who will see him when he comes up for air?
It was a small thing. But it was a critical thing.
Lately, I find myself thinking about how many people are moving through the current days holding their breath.
Because knowing you matter is oxygen.
And when it is offered in the most difficult times, it can be lifesaving.
This is something I have been learning again in my own life this winter.
Not in big, dramatic ways.
In small, compassionate ones.
Letting myself cry when I need to cry.
Not forcing myself through what my body is asking me to pause.
Keeping small promises to myself—like stepping outside for a slow walk or sitting somewhere peaceful, long enough for my nervous system to settle.
For most of my life, I didn’t know how to do this.
I knew how to power through.
I knew how to take care of everyone else.
I knew how to stay busy, helpful, and agreeable, even when something inside me was asking me to stop.
But this season has been teaching me something different.
It has been teaching me how to stay human.
To stay with what I’m feeling instead of pushing past it.
To stay with what is tender instead of numbing it.
To stay with what is doable instead of trying to be efficient.
In Rachel’s Treehouse this winter, I’ve been hearing the same tender truth from so many readers.
They are starting this year tired.
Braced.
Overwhelmed.
Scared.
And those feelings are not letting up.
The world is asking the impossible of our nervous systems.
In times like these, we don’t need hard rules or lofty goals.
We need gentle permissions that allow us to come up for air.
Permissions like:
Let your body finish what it’s trying to do.
If you need to cry, cry. If you need to rest, rest. This is not weakness. This is your nervous system doing its honest work.
Remove one unnecessary demand.
Maybe it’s the scale. Maybe it’s one obligation. Maybe it’s lowering the bar on one thing today.
Make one small, compassionate promise you can keep.
A walk. A shower. A cup of tea by a window. Then keep it.
Bring your focus back down to where you can make your own small bit of difference.
When the world feels too big and too broken, return to what is close and reachable. A person you can comfort. A small kindness you can offer. A small corner of the world you can tend.
Sometimes, that is simply noticing who is around us, quietly hoping to be seen.
The man with the empty wheelchair taught me something I didn’t have language for back then.
Presence is not grand.
It is oxygen.
And the only reason I was in that exact place—the place where my life could intersect with his—was because Avery had already taught me the most basic human lesson of all:
When you are somewhere you’ve never been before, the face of love becomes a beacon.
“I need to see you when I come up for air.”
Some would say we are in a place we have never been before.
So, let’s be that for one another.
Let’s be the ones who stay close enough to be seen.
Gentle enough to notice.
Brave enough to keep showing up.
Because someone, somewhere near you, is quietly holding their breath.
And maybe today, without even realizing it,
you are the face they are hoping to see
when they come up for air.
My hand in yours,
Rachel
For those of us who are lifelong givers and nurturers, receiving care can sometimes feel surprisingly uncomfortable. If you’d like a little extra support, I recently recorded a short audio of me reading nine gentle permissions—ones inspired by a red cardinal (named Rudy) who began visiting me when Avery left for college last fall. This Treehouse essay + audio also includes a Take What You Need printable of those permissions, if you’d like a tangible reminder that you, too, are worthy of the same care you so freely offer. Click here to enjoy.
In-person opportunities for coming up for air…
1. I’ll be delivering the keynote address, Tend What Is True for You, at the Hanover College Women’s Brunch in southern Indiana on Saturday, March 14.
This message is being shaped very intentionally for this gathering and for the moment we are living in. It’s centered on helping women feel steadied, seen, and gently reconnected—to themselves and to one another—and on the quiet, powerful truth that healing so often happens in community. There will also be a book signing afterward, and it would truly be my joy to hug you. Click here for details.
2. April 24–26, I’ll be leading Only Love Today: A Restorative Retreat for Those Who Are Often Last on Their Own List at the Kripalu Center in western Massachusetts. This will be my only in-person retreat offering in 2026.
Women who joined me last November in North Carolina left with a renewed sense of self-trust, real restoration, and genuine connection—what one participant called “a miracle in these times.”
Because a minimum number of registrations is required for a Kripalu program to run, I’m also offering a special After-Hours Experience on Saturday night, April 25, exclusively for the first 15 retreat registrants (there are currently four spots remaining). I deeply appreciate the early registrants who already said yes and helped carry this gathering into being.
You can find all the details here, if you’d like to explore.
