Vienda Maria

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Tag: healing

  • her way deep rest

    SEP 21, 2025

    tldr; I created a *free* 10-day journey for you to reset your relationship with rest. enjoy!

    her way deep rest

    After a tragic start to summer, on my birthday, I made a promise to myself for August:

    To take the entire month off from: solving my life problems; making any significant decisions; doing anything simply because I think I should; or setting any future goals at all, other than giving myself the gift of not doing any of that.

    Emotionally exhausted after all the chaos, I knew I needed to slow down and listen deeply. To choose rest not as a last resort, but as a truly integrated practice. But it was haaaarrrrddddd!! And, I realised, I didn’t know how?!

    I didn’t feel tired, exactly, but I did feel like I could never fully exhale. Like some part of me was always switched on. Tracking. Tensing. Ready for the next thing. I knew how to “rest” in all the ways we’re taught: I took breaks, I stretched, I meditated, I journaled, I lit candles, took long walks and soaked in the bath. And they were all helpful, to a degree. But still, there was something in me that didn’t know how to feel rested. Not fully. Not deep in my bones.

    Rest, it turned out, wasn’t something I could figure out or do my way into. I had to meet it in a different way. What I discovered is this: for many of us, especially those of us who have built our lives around being reliable, strong, sensitive, capable… rest is not familiar. Not in the way we crave it. And not in the way we need it. 

    her way deep rest

    For the past month, I have been taking you on a journey called the 8 rules of her way club, a series (aka: how to change your life in 6-12 months). If you’re just joining, begin here:

    1/8 — deciding to play by your own rules
    2/8 — subtracting what doesn’t belong
    3/8 — the natural consequence: uncertainty

    This series is a rite of passage, a journey of transformation, with each rule a threshold: decide → subtract → disorient → differentiate → root → express → design → create. 

    Parts 1–3 (above) shape the self-concept (inner stance). 
    Parts 4–6 coming next map the ecosystem (inner/outer harmonics). 
    Parts 7–8 move into agency. We braid outwards from inner truth to outer action. 

    By the end of these 8 rules, you won’t be the same person you were when you started. They offer you a simple and gentle framework to begin choosing your way.

    After the most recent rule or step: uncertainty, many of you replied with some version of: “But how do I stay there? How do I not rush to fill the space?”

    And my best answer is this: you learn to rest. To rest in uncertainty, in the unknown. To lean, gently and softly, into the void and the magic dark. Not just take breaks, not just “self-care,” but rest in a way that lets the body exhale all the way down.

    This summer taught me that deep rest is a kind of surrender, a skill we have to practice if it has been forgotten. For me, that has looked like letting myself slow to the point where I could actually feel what was happening inside me. Letting myself soften enough that the tears, or the joy, or the hunger, or the pleasure could come through. Then, when the body feels resourced, gently introduce a bit of aliveness again.

    I had to learn to rest deeply and fully: to rest when I am resting. Matched by strategically putting myself in active stress states where the challenge slightly exceeds my skill level, that turns into flow, creating a sense of inspired action: to do when I am doing.

    Learning how to do this was not as obvious as I thought it would be. I want to share the process I took myself on with you, now.

    her way deep rest

    Our nervous systems have learned to associate safety with being “on.” And so when we try to slow down and try to rest, we don’t feel better. We often feel agitated. Anxious. Bored. Or quietly ashamed that it doesn’t feel good the way it’s supposed to.

    Rewiring our nervous systems so that we can experience deep rest is one of the hardest things we can do in the current world we live in. And one of the most important. It doesn’t happen overnight. You don’t wake up one day as a brand new person. These changes happen by showing up with dedication, even when our minds persuade us to turn back.

    Recently, I shared that:

    I refuse to sacrifice my health, social life, or time to build a business like most entrepreneurs do. Most people think those things are a natural part of starting a business, but they are not if you don’t choose them to be. 

    A big piece of that is that I am incredibly intentional with how I design my days. I have written before, and often, that my choices stem from knowing what I don’t want, the above, for example, which informs what I do want, which is:

    To be of service without overgiving or burning out. And to show others how this is possible.

    That means I practice what I preach, putting my needs for both: activation and challenge, as well as rest and peace, at the forefront of how I design my days. While this is a moving target, it generally means that I start my day with meditation and leave my phone turned off for the first 2-4 hours of the day, while I write/feel/think/dream/dflow. I am meeting my need for time and space, which is necessary for me to be of service.

    While I aim to start my days with slow mornings, sometimes my nervous system kicks in and says, “you have to get straight to work” (I don’t, not really). Or “you have to check your phone to see if there’s anything urgent you may need to see “ (there never is). 

    There’s this survival instinct inside of me that feels that if I don’t get started on my work immediately, my entire business/life/world will fall apart. Because this is precisely what I’m trying to rewire, I breathe into it, force myself to put away my phone, and sit down to write. Often, I sit there and it’s really uncomfortable. But this discomfort is exactly what rewires my old operating system.

    When I slow down, I create more time. With more time comes more space. Practising deep rest is the best way I know how to slow down and rewire my nervous system to create the two things I value the most: space and time.

    Deep rest is not really glamorous or sexy. It’s essential training for learning to hold discomfort without collapsing or distracting. To be with oneself and notice what is really going on underneath the superficial currents, feel the feelings, think the thoughts, to hold them for a moment, and then to let them pass. The more we can hold, the more we teach our bodies to rest deeply.

    This audio-visual ‘her way’ deep rest reset was born from that space. 

    The tender space between knowing you need rest and not knowing how to reach it. I created her way deep rest first for myself. Then, for my private clients. And now for you.

    For you, who has done the work, who is self-aware, who understands the theory, but whose body is still waiting to feel what her mind already knows. For you who doesn’t necessarily feel tired, but is wired. Who lives with a hum of subtle vigilance just below the surface. Who doesn’t want another thing to do…

    This is a quiet invitation to meet your body where it is. To stop performing “rest” and begin to experience it as something safe, nourishing, and real. Let’s go there together.

    her way deep rest

  • begin again

    there are seasons of our lives that strip us bare

    There are seasons of our lives that strip us bare. That take more than we thought we could bear losing. That ask more than we believed we had left to give. And still, we begin again.

    That’s what the first half of 2025 has been for me.

    Beginning again is not always a declaration. It is rarely bold or glamorous. Often, it is quiet. Awkward. Messy. It doesn’t look like courage from the outside. 

    It looks like sitting on the kitchen floor with tears in your eyes because you don’t know which place to call home anymore.

    I’ve had to begin again — and again — more times than I thought I would. 

    Recently, it was moving continents. Leaving behind a life I built. Letting go of places, people, patterns that had once held me, and realising they no longer could. I said goodbye to my beloved cat, Danger-baby, with a grief so physical it felt like my chest had caved in. I packed my life into a few bags. I watched plans dissolve, relationships shift, and dreams turn to dust.

    It looks like trying to breathe through a kind of grief that doesn’t announce itself, because it doesn’t come from one loss, but many. Layered, silent, and unseen.

    There are days when I cannot find words. There are nights when the ache is so wide it feels like I am floating through it. There are moments where I forget who I had been, and haven’t yet glimpsed who I was becoming. I watched plans unravel. I watched myself unravel, too.

    Something deeper kept whispering. Keep going. Keep going.

    Beginning again requires a kind of surrender most people don’t talk about. The kind that comes when life has cleared the path for you. When you no longer have a choice except to let go of what was and place one unsteady foot in front of the other.

    I’ve always had a strange kind of love for these moments. 

    The ones where everything is uncertain. Because inside the wreckage, there is a rawness that is unmistakably alive. A freedom that only comes when the identities and routines and ideas that once defined us have been stripped away. There is something holy in the not knowing. Something exquisite in the beginning.

    Iit is not easy. It takes everything. 

    Emotionally, it asks you to stay present with the discomfort when every part of you wants to numb out or run. Psychologically, it demands that you examine the beliefs and patterns that built the old version of you and ask if you are still willing to carry them forward. Physically, it is exhausting. The body keeps the score. And the body also clears the slate.

    Last night, a heavy thunderstorm rolled in at dusk. The air, thick and electric, cracked open with light. Rain began to fall in sudden, urgent sheets, pounding against the windows like it had something to say. I was inside, barefoot and restless, watching it come down with a kind of reverence… that feeling you get when nature mirrors something stirring in you.

    Without thinking, I flung the door open and stepped outside. The water was cold and wild as it hit my skin. I stood there, arms loose by my sides, letting the rain drench me. I tilted my face to the sky and let it all fall. The noise, the wetness, the rush of it. My clothes clung to me. My heart beat hard in my chest. I imagined the rain washing away everything I had carried. The grief. The doubt. The heaviness of holding it all together. I didn’t need to make sense of it. I just wanted to feel clean. Emptied. New.

    There, in the twilight, in the storm, I remembered: this is how we begin. Not by thinking our way forward, but by surrendering to the forces that ask us to feel. To clear. To come back to the body. To let life touch us.

    Sometimes, beginning again looks like walking through the world in a daze, unsure of your name or direction. Sometimes it is lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, convincing yourself that breathing is enough for now. Sometimes it is showing up to work or friendship or life, while something invisible inside you rearranges itself into a shape that can carry you forward.

    For the past two weeks, I couldn’t do much more than simply exist. 

    I pared life back to its most essential parts. Walks. Water. The sun on my skin. Gentle tasks. Stillness. I needed something to hold me that didn’t require words. Something I could lean on without having to explain myself. I remembered to turn towards rhythm. I anchored myself in the only thing that made sense: time. 

    Not the linear kind. Not the kind that pressures us to achieve or accelerate. The kind that follows the body. The cosmos. The planets. The pull of the week. The way each day carries a different tone, a different invitation, a different flavour of energy.

    This is what Planet Powered is made of.

    A lifeline. A way to gently orient myself to life again. To wake up and ask, “What does today want from me?” Monday is about movement and initiation. Tuesday helps me make decisions and take aligned action. Wednesday brings communication and connection. Thursday expands my vision. Friday reminds me to soften into love and beauty. Saturday returns me to my roots. And Sunday is the space to surrender and listen again.

    I created this, not just for me, but for you. 

    For the women who find themselves standing at the edge of a life that no longer fits, trying to hear what the future is whispering. For the ones who are not sure where to begin, but know they cannot stay where they are. For anyone who longs to be reminded that the pace of your life can follow the pace of your soul. That your days can hold meaning, even when everything feels uncertain. That rhythm can carry you when reason cannot.

    This is what I want you to know: nothing is wrong with you if your heart is aching. If the path is not clear. If you feel tired or tender or unsure. This is the precious work of becoming. There is a version of you that only emerges through this particular kind of fire. Not the kind that burns you down. The kind that refines you.

    You do not need a plan. You do not need to rush. You do not need to explain.

    You just need to be with what is here now. Let the rhythm hold you. Let the ache move through. Let yourself be remade.

    This is how we begin again.

    And if you’re craving a rhythm to hold you while you do, Planet Powered is here.

    It’s a guide, a practice, a gentle structure for your inner and outer life, rooted in the energy of the seven planetary days of the week. Beginning next Sunday, July 13th, we’ll move through it together — one day at a time — inside a live community space where I’ll share daily reflections, guidance, and invitations to anchor you into the energy of the day.

    If you’re in a threshold season — if you’re rebuilding, reimagining, or simply needing to remember your own rhythm — I’d love to walk with you.

    You can learn more and join us here: https://viendamaria.com/planet-powered/

    We begin again, together.

  • practices that help me reclaim my self-trust

    one decision at a time

    “When I came in this evening, I was so identified with my emotion,” I said, twisting to face the teacher. “I was like: I’m so saaaaad! WWWAAAAHHHH!!!” I exaggerated, earning a few giggles from behind me.

    It was a rainy night in NYC’s Lower East Side. I was at a yoga and philosophy class.

    Speaking in front of others used to terrify me. I’d flush with heat, my thoughts would tangle, and my voice would betray me. I’d prepare what I wanted to say in advance, rehearsing endlessly in my head while others spoke. By the time it was my turn, I wasn’t even there anymore. I was so consumed by trying to say the ‘right thing’ that what came out was a jumbled mess. Then came the shame spiral. I hated the awkwardness of being seen.

    I used to think I was shy.

    But really, I didn’t trust myself.

    As I continued sharing, I said, “But then I moved and sweated and got into my body, and loosened the grip sadness had on me. I remembered that I am not my feelings, I’m just a person having feelings. And now, I feel fine! So I guess… yoga works!”

    We all laughed. That’s why we’re here. Because it works.

    It struck me again how easy it is to forget what we know when our minds are loud and cluttered. When we can’t hear the part of us that already knows. 

    That’s the ache of self-abandonment.

    When, at the end of the day or week, or season, you realise you’ve lived from doubt instead of trust. You ignored your intuition. You bypassed your knowing. You outsourced your truth. And now you feel like a stranger to yourself.

    That is not a feeling I enjoy. 

    You don’t trust yourself because you’ve never been taught how. Because you’re afraid of making mistakes. Because the noise of the world is so loud that your inner voice doesn’t get heard.

    Self-trust doesn’t just happen. 

    It’s not the result of being perfect or always making the right choice. 

    It’s a relationship. 

    One that begins when you decide to start showing up for yourself with consistency, clarity, and care. A big part of that is creating enough mental space to actually hearyourself.

    One of the most practical ways I anchor into my own self-trust is by gently clearing out the mental and energetic clutter. When my mind is quiet, my intuition becomes louder. My clarity returns. I know what to do next because I can feel it again.

    Here are some of the practices that help me return to that place:

    Let yourself take a proper social media break. Even one full day away can shift your entire nervous system. Delete the apps. Reclaim your attention. Eat breakfast without scrolling. Go for a walk without your phone. Remember what it feels like to live in your body, not just online. You’re not going to miss anything. Everything important will still be here when you return.

    Stop checking email first thing in the morning. Give yourself at least one sacred hour before you open your brain to the demands of the world. That slow morning is magic and deserves to be protected. Use it to write, stretch, dream, create, listen. You can reply to emails later, when your creativity doesn’t need your full bandwidth.

    Turn off all unnecessary notifications. Not every ping deserves your attention. Not every alert is urgent. Let your phone serve you, not the other way around. (The only notifications allowed on my phone are phone calls and messages.)

    Make a list of the decisions that are swirling in your mind. Take note of the unmade choices weighing you down, and decide on them. All at once, if you can. Yes or no. Now or later. Decide to decide, or decide not to decide until next month or next year. Give your brain the closure it craves.

    Close open loops. Send the email. Pay the invoice. Return the item. Follow up with the person. You will be astonished by how much mental energy you free up when you stop dragging yesterday’s loose ends into today.

    Declutter your phone. Most of us have dozens of apps we never use. Delete what doesn’t support the version of you that you’re becoming.

    Delegate what you can. For so long, I resisted delegation. But delegation is actually about accepting and receiving help. It’s wise. It creates more time, space, and energy for the things only you can do. And it gives others a chance to support you, which they often want to do.

    Make amends where needed. Apologise. Forgive. Repair. Set things down that you’ve been carrying around in silence. Even if it’s something small, clearing the emotional debris makes room for a deeper self-trust to take root.

    When you do all this, even a few of these things, you begin to soften into yourself. You feel more grounded, more lucid, more resourced. You don’t need to grasp or hustle for answers because you can access them right here, within yourself.

    This is the work of The Way She Knows.

  • this life is a dream within a dream ☁️

    about NYC being a place of contrast requiring inner stability, and the quiet strength of being well-resourced

    When I stepped out of JFK airport and followed the signs to the subway, I braced myself. New York is known for its edge, its abrasion. I am soft. I tend and protect that softness like a flame cupped in two hands. I wasn’t sure how it would survive here.

    I tapped my phone at the turnstile and joined a tall young man in the elevator. He wore headphones and held himself like someone accustomed to noise. Still, I turned to him, map pulled up on my phone, unsure where to go. He removed one earbud, glanced at the screen, and said in the gentlest voice, “You can’t get the F from here, but if you take the K, you can transfer in three stops.” 

    I blinked. He had such a kind presence. His softness mirrored mine. Maybe there’s space for gentleness here, after all.

    I followed his directions toward the Lower East Side. A few minutes into the ride, the unmistakable smell of urine filled the carriage. A man down the carriage—middle-aged, Chinese descent—had wet himself and begun swearing loudly. Slurring. Angry. A different kind of edge.

    This city, I’m learning, holds everything. Softness and despair. Precision and chaos. A young man with headphones offering quiet directions. An older man unravelling in public. Here, opposites coexist, unapologetically. New York is a city of contrasts, and that is, perhaps, its defining trait.

    The days have spilled into one another like rainwater pooling in uneven stone. Time behaves differently here. Moments stretch. Then vanish. Weeks slip past before I can grab hold. What I’m learning is this: I cannot tether myself to the outside world. It’s too volatile. Too fast. Too much.

    Instead, I tether myself inward. I return to a still point inside me — a quiet place I cultivate through ritual and self-devotion. I nurture it like a small garden: feeding it with breath, rest, laughter, water, movement, music. A daily act of remembrance. Of protection. Of belonging to myself.

    Sometimes, it’s as simple as walking to Whole Foods alone, sending a few voice notes to the women who hold me in their hearts. That ten-minute walk fulfils two needs: solitude and connection. It’s imperfect. But it’s enough.

    Work is another tether. Returning to it each day — whether I want to or not — grounds me. I write. I build. I teach. I remember who I am. Even when the city pulls me in every direction.

    Last night, friends made homemade pizza and poured glasses of white wine. We ate slowly, talked about art, about cities we’ve loved. And then, walking home, we passed a man with his trousers around his knees, bare bottom exposed, head buried in a trash bin. Of course. That’s New York, too.

    Right now, I’m writing this during a live co-writing session for The Art of Noticing. Eight of us are here, silent on Zoom, warm orchestral music in the background. Earlier, we spoke about a line from one of my recent essays about being a well-resourced woman. We explored how writing can teach without instructing. That sometimes, the lesson is simply in the living.

    In Her Way Club, this here community I lead, that’s what I teach: how to listen inward. How to find your way—not the right way, not the perfect way, but yourway. In writing. In loving. In parenting. In creating. In becoming.

    And to find your way, you must first be resourced. You need space. You need softness. You need access to yourself.

    Being resourced is a privilege, yes. But it’s also a practice. A skill we build and rebuild. I see it as the art of tending to our inner ecosystem. Of becoming our own safe haven.

    It means expanding your capacity to meet life without collapsing. Learning to sit with discomfort. Making choices from groundedness, not panic. It doesn’t mean you never need others. It means you’re not uprooted every time the wind blows.

    How do you become that person?

    You start small:

    • You build a daily rhythm that supports your nervous system.
    • You learn to breathe when you want to scream.
    • You create a home that feels like a hug.
    • You save a little money, even when it’s hard.
    • You learn to cook a meal you love.
    • You reach out and you know how to be alone.
    • You keep learning. Keep listening.

    This is what I’ve brought with me to New York. Not just clothes and books and dreams, but tools. Practices. A soft heart and a solid core.

    And maybe that’s enough to belong here.