Morning Rescue
Grounded in a moment that radiates quiet strength
The soft glow of dawn filters through River’s windows as I stir awake during what cuddles calls “Bill Time.” These early moments… before the world starts asking things of me, feel sacred. I peek out the campervan window at the mist-draped field beyond, everything still and barely there in the morning light.
Lately, things have felt… heavy. Meltdowns come like surprise thunderstorms, short-circuiting everything. A sudden change in plans, too much noise, too many people. It’s like my brain fries and my body goes all cortisol. After, I’m left exhausted and disoriented, like I’ve run a marathon I didn’t sign up for. Worse than the meltdowns, though, is the burnout. It's a thick fog that’s been sitting on my chest for months. Even simple stuff… remembering appointments, making small talk, doing laundry, feels like climbing uphill in mud. The world feels too loud, too bright, too much. And rest doesn’t fix it. Nothing resets it.
Then, out in the field, movement. A cow has managed to wedge herself awkwardly into the fence, tangled in wire. My body floods with panic. Should I help? Will I scare her? What if I make it worse? I freeze, breath shallow, thoughts racing.
But I don’t move. I just… wait. And as I do, she turns her head… slowly, deliberately, and with one careful pull, frees herself. No panic. No drama. Just patience and presence. And then she wanders off like nothing happened.
I exhale. Didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. And somehow, watching her, I feel a little lighter. Maybe the answer isn’t always to fight or fix or flee. Maybe it’s to wait, gently, and trust that with time and kindness toward ourselves, we can find our way out too.
This morning, wrapped in River’s quiet and the softness of first light, I realized something simple and true: we’re often stronger than the fences that snag us. Sometimes it’s not about breaking free. It’s about shifting perspective… then easing away.