The Squeaky Sound of Softness

Laughing, I flew down the ski slope, powder flying in my wake. Without hesitation or planning, I plowed into a bank of snow on the edge of the run, using the deep powder to stop my momentum. I stopped, up to my chest in the snow. It glittered around me, the quiet of the forest just off to the side. I was stuck tight and it creaked and squeaked as I moved my arms. My legs, skis and boots held firm. It felt freeing to be so wedged in, held by the pillowy white. I rested into the deep support and sighed. Moments later, my step father asked if I needed help. He knew I was stuck tight! He lifted me up and moved me out like a crane shifting cargo.

When Snow Remembers What We Forgot

Today, bundled in layers, too hot inside but desperate to get out, I finally laced my boots and stepped into Charlotte's rare winter storm. The squeak of powder under my feet landed me right back in that ski slope memory - I was 9 again.

I trudged up the slope, the sidewalk disappeared under soft undulations of white. A few cars crept cautiously down the road. I waved to another brave soul among the drifts, watched kids tumbling in their yard. Fat flakes blew in my face. Even in gloves, tucked in pockets, my hands went numb.

Seven inches near my house. Twelve in other areas. Transit shut down. Pile-ups on 85. Independence Boulevard closed. Calls to stay home. Charlotte wedged in by snow, and it squeaks just like it did when I was 9.

Stuck or Softly Landed?

I didn't make snow angels or build a snowman. I walked home, grateful for warmth as I stamped my boots and peeled off layer after layer, tucking my hands close to thaw.

Maybe like you, I've felt like I'm wading through limbo this past week. First the ice, now this deep snow. How do we manage this weather? How do we hold this January - all the suffering and pain? How do we crane ourselves out of the deep?

But here's what I keep coming back to: at 11, I knew the difference between stuck and softly landed. I could rest into the powder, sigh, and wait for help. I wasn't afraid because I knew the softness would hold me and the crane would come.

Maybe that's what this snow is offering us now - time to rest where we can. Permission to stop fighting our way through and just... land. To let the softness catch us while we wait.

Landing Together

I hope you are warm and safe. I know not everyone is, and that breaks my heart. I don't have answers for how to hold all of it. But I wonder: Can we practice landing softly? Can we be still enough to notice the deep quiet within? Can we remember that being held isn't the same as being stuck - and that asking for the crane isn't giving up?

Here's what I know: I'm in the deep with you. I'm also learning to tell the difference between stuck and softly landed, to rest into the hold rather than fight it. And sometimes, I need help getting craned out, too.

For those of you who joined last week's virtual sound bath - thank you for resting with me. And for those who couldn't make it - I'm working on regular live streaming sound baths so you can drop into that deep quiet more often. More details coming soon.

That's what coaching is, too - someone standing beside you in the drift, helping you remember you're not actually stuck. Helping you find the ground beneath you so you can push up and out when you're ready. We do it together.

If you're feeling wedged in by more than just snow - by expectations, by shoulds, by the relentless pace that doesn't match what your body actually needs, I have space for new coaching clients. Let's talk about what it would look like to land softly, rest deep, and find your way back out.

Book a discovery call here - or reply to connect.

With you in the powder,
Liz