When the Surface Is Loud, Trust Your Depth
Dear friend,
It makes sense that you want reassurance right now.
When the weather turns loud — when the news shifts, when systems wobble, when events and conversations feel sharp or uncertain — something in us reaches outward.
Tell me it’s going to be okay.
Tell me this will settle.
Tell me I’m not foolish to hope.
There’s nothing wrong with that instinct. Reassurance is human. It’s tender. It’s what we offer children when they’re afraid.
But here’s the quiet truth I’ve been noticing — in myself, in the people I walk with, in the air of this moment:
Reassurance never seems to last.
You hear it. You nod. You feel steadier for a moment.
And then the next wave comes.
The next headline. The next conversation. The next tremor in something you thought was solid. And you find yourself reaching outward again.
I don’t think that’s weakness.
I think it’s a sign that reassurance lives at the surface.
The ocean has a surface too.
It responds to the weather. It rises and falls with wind and pressure and storm. But beneath that surface, something else is happening.
Deep water does not reorganize itself around every gust of wind. It does not apologize for the storm. It does not ask the sky to calm down in order to remain itself.
It trusts its depth.
And if you’ve ever stood near the ocean — really stood there — you know the feeling. The surface may be choppy. The horizon may blur. The air may sting.
And yet there is a sense, almost palpable, that something immense and steady is holding the whole thing together from below.
That steadiness does not cancel the storm. It does not deny the weather. It simply does not derive its identity from it.
I wonder if what we need right now is less reassurance — and more contact with that place inside us that trusts the depth.
Not the part that scans. Not the part that grasps. Not the part that refreshes the feed or rehearses the argument or searches for the next voice that will calm us.
The deeper place.
The one that can say:
The weather is loud.
And I am still here.
That place doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t perform.
It doesn’t try to fix the sky.
It holds.
And when we begin to live from that depth — even a little — something changes. We stop reorganizing ourselves around every storm. We stop bending to whatever is loudest.
We stop confusing urgency with truth.
Steadiness is not the absence of fear. It’s not certainty. It’s not blind optimism. It’s the willingness to stay rooted in what is real inside you — even when the climate around you shifts.
The ocean doesn’t fragment itself because the surface is rough. It doesn’t separate its calm from its turbulence. Both belong.
What if the work right now isn’t getting calmer waters? What if the work is remembering that you are allowed to live from the depth?
There is a place inside you that does not panic with every headline. A place that does not dissolve when someone disagrees with you. A place that does not need the weather to cooperate in order to trust itself.
It’s quiet. It’s strong. And it has always been there.
Reassurance can comfort you.
But steadiness can carry you.
And I believe — deeply — that this moment is asking for the kind of people who know how to carry themselves from the depth.
From my heart to yours,
Practice Postscript
Where the letter stops being read and starts being lived
Touching the Depth
This is not about becoming unshakeable, friend.
It’s about recognizing what is already steady.
Once a day this week:
Notice where you are reaching for reassurance.
A conversation. A scroll. A forecast. A promise.Before you move toward it, pause.
Take one slow, conscious breath.Ask yourself quietly:
What feels steady in me right now?
Not what feels good. Not what feels certain. What feels steady.
It might be your breath. It might be the weight of your feet on the floor. It might be a value you know you won’t betray.
Stay there for a few seconds longer than you normally would.
You don’t have to eliminate the storm. You don’t have to stop seeking comfort entirely. Just begin to practice living a little more from the depth than from the weather.
This is how steadiness is built.
Continue the Practice
If this reflection met something true in you, stay with me through this season of steadiness.
February has been about orientation — knowing where we actually are within ourselves and learning to live from the depth instead of the weather.
We’ll keep practicing here, one letter at a time.
