And a Hush Fell Over the Land

I thought I left snow behind when I moved from Illinois to North Carolina nine years ago. Apparently not.

This storm brought what some are calling a historic amount of snow. Over twelve inches in parts of the region. And while I truly despise the cold, I have to admit something surprised me.

There is a deep serenity that comes with forced stillness.

Snow slows everything. Roads empty. Calendars pause. Pilates closed. The gym closed. Meetings canceled or rescheduled. Neighbors check on each other. Even the local police urged everyone to stay off the roads and stay home.

As inconvenient as it was, the tranquility was undeniable.

As I have been writing and thinking about reset, recharging, and rest, I noticed a shift I did not anticipate. When we intentionally slow down, something opens. When the excess noise loosens its grip, new thoughts rise to the surface.

I know that can sound basic. Or mystical. Stay with me.

My mom, Little Mama, earned her wings in 2016. My dad, Papa Kemp, followed in 2023. In the years surrounding both of their journeys, my mind and body lived on high alert. Full throttle. Adrenaline fueled much of my forward motion.

Then came my cross-country move. Then convincing my 87-year-old Papa Kemp to move across the country to be closer to me. I could write a book on that alone.

Life layered responsibility on top of grief and trauma. Grief and trauma often arrive together and hold hands, even while your loved one is still with you. You grieve who they used to be while navigating the trauma of a role you are thrust into with no warning and no instruction manual.

Slowing down was not an option. It was not even on the menu.

Caregiving does that. Survival does that.

The cruise I mentioned in my last newsletter quietly cracked something open. My end-of-year reset widened that opening. And now, in this unexpected stillness of two back-to-back weekends of snowstorms, the clearing is ongoing.

Here is what I am learning.

When your daily thoughts are in a tailspin, it is nearly impossible to see beyond your own perspective. Everything feels urgent. Everything feels heavy. Everything makes you tired. Everything gets on your reserve nerve.

But when the noise settles, even briefly, clarity has room to arrive. I think of it as finally being able to relax enough to truly think and process. I like to imagine this epiphany shows up with my favorite red blend wine in tow.

I am not talking about forgetting what was hard or minimizing it. I am talking about finally being able to look back without holding my breath or carrying that tightness in my chest.

To be completely transparent, the stillness allowed me to revisit the past and see moments from another person’s perspective. To acknowledge the impact my actions had on them. Impacts that were once easy to erase, diminish, or glaze over. And to finally recognize the need to ask for forgiveness.

This heightened state of alert that caregivers live in impacts every facet of their lives and the lives of those around them. As colleagues, managers, leaders, HR professionals, and event planners, we all have a role to play in creating supportive environments for caregivers and helping quiet the noise long enough for clarity to return.

This season has reminded me that rest is not indulgent. It is instructional. School is in session.

Sometimes the quiet is not empty at all. Sometimes it is where others have been waiting for us to finally see them.

What I experienced in those years is not unique. It is quietly sitting inside your workforce right now.

More to come.

Chef Maria