Dear Beautiful Humans,
There is a way we move through our days that feels like holding our breath—not all at once, but slowly, so slowly we forget what ease feels like.
Force has a feeling. Not the dramatic, obvious kind, but the everyday, socially acceptable kind we live inside of without questioning.
I feel it when I’m rushing the kids to brush their teeth, when I’m coaxing them to eat dinner even though their bodies are clearly done, when I push my own body to keep moving even though it’s tired, or when I try to force words out of myself before inspiration has arrived.
It’s the energy of override.
Force isn’t loud—it’s tight. It lives in the jaw, in the shallow breath, in the sense of dragging life forward instead of being in relationship with it. It sounds like, “I have to,” “I should,” “There isn’t time to slow down,” or “If I stop, everything will fall apart.”
And here’s where nuance matters.
Sometimes we do need to do the opposite of what we feel. Sometimes staying still keeps us stuck. Sometimes movement, structure, or showing up anyway is exactly what brings us back to ourselves.
So how do we know when we’re forcing—and when we’re supporting ourselves through resistance?
The body knows.
When pushing is supportive, there is effort but not self-betrayal. There’s resistance, but also momentum. Afterward, you feel clearer, warmer, more yourself.
When force is misaligned, the body contracts. Energy drains instead of builds. You feel depleted after, not restored. There’s a subtle sense that something inside you went quiet so you could keep going.
Force feels like abandonment. Supportive stretch feels like encouragement. One overrides the body; the other collaborates with it.
This distinction has been showing up everywhere for me—not just in parenting or work, but in how we live our lives.
So much of what we call discipline is actually disconnection. So much of what we call productivity is quiet exhaustion. So much of what we call strength is just bracing.
And again—this isn’t about doing less or never pushing ourselves. It’s about listening while we act.
Not asking, “What should I do?” but asking, “What happens in my body when I do this?”
Do I feel more alive afterward, or more numb? Am I mobilizing life—or am I leaving myself behind to get through the moment?
What I’m learning is that flow isn’t passive; it’s responsive. It doesn’t mean life gets easier—it means I stop treating myself like something that needs to be forced into cooperation.
When I soften my grip, something surprising happens. Life doesn’t collapse. It responds.
Journal Prompts:
Where in my daily life do I notice I’m operating from force rather than presence?
What does force feel like in my body—breath, jaw, chest, energy?
When I push myself and it’s supportive, how does my body feel afterward?
When I push myself and it’s misaligned, what signals show up later?
Where might I be confusing discipline with self-override?
What would it look like to listen to my body while I take action, instead of overriding it?
In what areas of my life could I experiment with cooperation instead of control?
👉 Hit reply and tell me—where do you feel force in your body, and where are you starting to sense another option?
With so much care,
Em 💜⚡️🌟
đź“· by Jabari Timothy on Unsplash
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