The Pause No. 4: Finding My Anchors

A quiet return to the practices that ground us, calm the nervous system, and bring us back to ourselves.

In burnout, we often search for something big to fix how we feel.

But what if what steadies us is small, quiet, and already within reach?

In my healing from burnout, I have come to rely on my anchors.
Anchors ground us, calm the nervous system, and return us to ourselves.

Along the way, I noticed something unexpected.
I was returning again and again to the same small practices.

My breath.
Art.
Writing.
Being in nature.

I have come to think of these as my anchors.

Anchors are the simple practices that steady us when life becomes overwhelming.
They ground us, calm the nervous system, and slowly return us to ourselves.

The Inner Calling

Returning to these practices felt like more than a want.
It felt like a need.

It began as a quiet inner calling.

But when I paused long enough to listen, it grew louder.
What once felt like a gentle pull became something I could no longer ignore.

The call became a deep yearning.

Childhood Clues

When I looked back, I realised these anchors were not new.
They had always been part of me.

As a child, art was an ever-present pastime.
Hours were spent creating - painting, drawing, crafting.
Into my teens, the high school art room became a second home, where I experimented with different techniques and learned about the world’s “great” artists.

Then, like many of us, this childhood pastime slowly disappeared from life.
Resurfacing only on occasion, but never for long.

Nature also featured heavily in my childhood.
Growing up in a small country town, our garden was large enough to welcome the wildlife that would frequently visit.

In Australia, this meant an abundance of insects and birds, and occasional visits from our much-loved native animals - koalas, wallabies, kangaroos, and goannas.
Nature was never far from our doorstep. We were immersed in it daily.

As life moved on and the world of work arrived, I left this small country town and moved to the city.
Nature was no longer at my doorstep in the same way.
And as life grew busier, its absence went largely unnoticed.

The Moment of Return (The Pause)

When The Pause arrived, life as I knew it was interrupted.

And the absence of these childhood anchors became impossible to ignore.

As my nervous system began calling louder for help, so too did my need for creativity and nature.
It could no longer be ignored.

The Pause granted me space, time, and permission to return.

The quiet and stillness brought art, nature, and creativity back into my life.
And as these practices returned, I began to notice a shift.

I felt lighter.
My breath slowed and deepened.
My heartbeat softened.
My nervous system, once overwhelmed, began to settle.

Anchors in Practice

The beauty of this discovery is that these practices are now part of my everyday life.
Where they were once absent, they are now prioritised.

Breath - The Foundation Anchor

Breath was the first anchor I returned to.

It is the one I carry with me at all times.
Always available. Always accessible.

When everything else feels out of reach, I return to my breath.
It brings me back to the present moment.
Back into my body.
Back to myself.

Art

My art has taken on its own form.
A visual practice of line, repetition, and quiet attention.

It is meditative.
Rhythm and stillness calm my mind and body.

Art is now a daily practice.
Some days, it lives in the moments between moments -
the early hours of the morning while the house is still asleep,
or the quiet pause while dinner finishes in the oven.

No matter what life holds, I make space for it.

Nature

As a family, we have found ways to bring nature back into our lives.

My husband and I both loved camping as children, and as our own children have grown, we have begun to recreate those experiences together.

Our first camping trip as a family was monumental.
We left the city and found ourselves in wide-open spaces, surrounded by rolling ranges and open sky.

Nature was once again on our doorstep.

The birds, and the farm rooster, welcomed the morning.
The hum of insects carried us into the night.

Our days were filled with the sounds and smells of the natural world.
The children ran freely, immersed in space and time that felt unstructured and expansive.

It was simple.
And it was wonderful.

During that time, my husband and I noticed something unmistakable.
We had never slept so deeply.
Never felt so energised.
Never felt so connected as a family.

This experience allowed us to slow down.
To notice our surroundings, each other, and the subtle shifts within our own bodies.

Though the trip came to an end, it revealed something essential.

Nature is not optional for me.
It is necessary.

While daily life may not place nature at my doorstep, returning to it is now a conscious practice.

Listening to birds.
Looking up at the sky - the sun, the clouds, the stars, the moon.
Noticing the hum of insects.
Searching for wallabies, bush turkeys, or possums from our window.
Walking in nearby reserves.
Choosing camping over convenience.

Nature is never far away, if I pause long enough to notice - or choose to return to it.

Writing

I never considered myself a writer.

But in recent years, as I grappled with anxiety, sleepless nights, and an overactive mind, writing became something I turned to.

At first, it was informal.
Late-night scratchings in the dark -
a way to release thoughts from my mind onto paper so I could rest.

Over time, it evolved into daytime reflections.
Fragments of thought captured in moments of pause.

Since The Pause, writing has become something more.

It is now as essential to me as art and nature.
My mind is quieter.
My thoughts have somewhere to land.

And where I once felt disconnected from life, writing has helped me reconnect to it.

Naming My Anchors

Through my healing, I can now name my anchors:

Breath
Art
Writing
Nature

Breath brings me back to the present.
Art offers expression and quiet attention.
Writing creates clarity and reflection.
Nature provides grounding and perspective.

Together, these practices steady me when life feels loud.
They calm my nervous system and create space for clarity, presence, and return.

Closing

Anchors did not appear by accident.

I chose to listen.
I chose to return to what steadied me.

And in doing so, I began to participate in The Pause, rather than resist it.

These practices are no longer something I hope to get to.
They are part of how I live.

Anchors will look different for everyone.

But if you pause long enough to listen, you may begin to notice the same quiet call.

The things that steady you.
The practices that bring you back to yourself.

The things you return to when life feels loud.

These are your anchors.

- Michelle Valerie

If this resonated with you, you might begin to notice your own Anchors.

I have developed a gentle guide to help you find and return to them here

This essay is part of The Pause.

You can explore more writing from The Pause here