When I Don’t Know What I Feel

There are moments when you pause and try to check in with yourself — and there’s nothing clear there.

Not sadness.
Not relief.
Not stress you can name.
Not calm you can trust.

Just a kind of blank space.
Or a quiet distance.
Or something you can feel around the edges but not inside clearly enough to describe.

That can feel confusing.
Sometimes unsettling.
Sometimes strangely calm.
Sometimes like you’re supposed to be able to explain something — but can’t.

This space is not here to make you figure anything out.
It isn’t here to help you “get in touch” with something hidden.

It’s here to give you permission to exist exactly where you are — even if where you are is unclear, undefined, or emotionally quiet.

You are allowed to not have language for yourself right now.
You are allowed to not know.

If it feels natural, you might try noticing where your body meets the chair, bed, or floor.

You might let your shoulders drop slightly, without forcing relaxation.

You might look around and name three neutral things you can see.

You might place one hand somewhere steady — chest, stomach, arm, or leg.

You don’t need these to work.
They are simply here in case your body wants something steady to hold onto.

If nothing feels helpful, you can skip this entirely.

You might notice thoughts like:

I don’t have to understand this moment to be inside it.
Nothing is required of me right now.
Not knowing is still a form of being present.
I can exist here without translating myself.
If feelings come later, that’s okay. If they don’t, that’s okay too.

You can write something.
You can write nothing.
You can simply sit with these words and let them pass through you.

There is no timeline here.
No correct response.
No emotional target you are supposed to reach.

Start with whatever is here.
Even if what is here feels like almost nothing.