Where the Tension Goes

Where the Tension Goes

It started on a Tuesday. The kind that arrived like static, all buzzing nerves and half-finished thoughts. Maya sat at her kitchen table, staring at an untouched cup of coffee, the steam long gone, the silence heavy.

Her mind had been sprinting for days. She wasn’t sure what triggered it—work, bills, that strange text from her ex—but whatever it was had curled into her chest like a stone, and it wasn’t letting go.

She needed to *breathe*, but even that felt like a chore.

The cat, a sleepy tabby named Spoon, rubbed against her ankle and blinked up at her with the face of someone who understood everything and said nothing.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she mumbled into the quiet.

And so, she didn’t.

She started with the smallest rebellion: turning off her phone. No silent mode, no “Do Not Disturb”—just off. Like slicing a wire. The absence of the screen’s glow felt primitive. Freeing. She stared out the window and watched the afternoon slip past like a slow wave.

Outside, it had started to rain. The good kind—the rhythmic, soft-pattering kind that seeps into your bones and tells you to *slow down*. Maya cracked the window open just enough to let in the sound. The smell of wet pavement mixed with petrichor drifted in.

She lit a candle without even thinking. Lavender and sage. The flame flickered gently in the dim room, casting shadows that swayed across her bookshelf.

It wasn’t a plan. It was more like instinct.

She walked barefoot into the bathroom and ran a warm bath, pouring in whatever bath salts had been collecting dust on the shelf. She let the water rise slowly, steam curling around the edges of the mirror.

In the bath, she let her muscles remember what softness felt like. She closed her eyes and didn’t think about deadlines or notifications. Only the way her arms floated when she let go.

Afterward, wrapped in her softest towel, she made herself tea—not the usual quick bag dipped in a mug, but the good stuff. Loose-leaf chamomile in a pot, steeped slow, poured carefully. The scent filled the kitchen, light and grassy, like a meadow in her hands.

Spoon leapt onto the couch and stretched with the same lazy authority cats are born with. Maya curled up beside him with her tea and wrapped herself in the old quilt her grandmother had made. She hadn’t noticed how cold her toes were until they started to warm.

The world had shrunk down to this small, sacred space—and it was enough.

Later, without quite realizing it, she began to draw. Not well, not for anyone to see—but for herself. A notebook, a pencil, a slow-moving hand. Swirls. Trees. Her own face, distorted and silly. No pressure. No rules. Just motion.

The act of doing something with her hands, something without expectation, was like breathing underwater and realizing she wouldn’t drown.

Music came next—soft jazz, the kind with crackling vinyl sounds woven into it, even though she streamed it online. The notes curved around her kitchen like wind chimes in slow motion. She danced a little. Just her feet at first. Then her arms. Then all of her, spinning quietly in the low light of her living room.

Spoon watched with unimpressed approval.

That night, Maya journaled.

Not the kind of journaling that looked cute for Instagram—no prompts, no stickers. Just raw, messy handwriting that spilled everything out. She wrote about the way her chest had felt earlier. She wrote about her fears, the weight on her back, and a strange dream she'd had about floating above the ocean. She didn’t worry about spelling or structure. She just let it out.

After pages of that, her shoulders actually dropped. Not metaphorically—*literally*. She hadn’t realized how high they'd been clenched until they relaxed.

The next morning, the sun filtered through the curtains like honey. Maya opened the window wider. The city buzz was quieter this early. She made breakfast slowly—eggs over easy, avocado on toast, fresh orange slices. She actually sat down to eat, not scroll.

Afterward, she took a short walk around the block, still in her pajamas under a big cardigan. The breeze was cool but kind. A neighbor waved. She waved back.

She found a patch of sunlight on a bench and sat with her eyes closed for ten whole minutes.

Just the sun.

Just her breath.

No need to “earn” it.

Later that day, she reorganized her bookshelf—not because it needed it, but because it felt calming. Touching each title, flipping through pages, letting her fingers remember the texture of paper. She found books she hadn’t opened in years. Some made her laugh out loud. One made her cry.

She sat on the floor and read a chapter, curled up against the wall like a teenager again.

That night, she baked banana bread. She mashed the bananas by hand, feeling their strange softness between her fingers. Cinnamon and vanilla filled the kitchen as the oven hummed. She put on a facemask while it baked—green clay, minty and cold—and hummed a song she hadn’t heard in years.

She ate a warm slice with butter and stared out the window at the stars. No music. No show. Just her breath, and the sound of the house settling.

The next few days passed like clouds—quiet, slow, and full of softness. She tried stretching before bed. Not yoga. Just reaching, letting her body unfurl like it wanted to be taller. She lay on the floor afterward, palms open, watching the ceiling like it was a sky.

On Friday, she drew a bath again—but this time, she added music and fairy lights around the tub. She sipped lemon water with ice and mint and listened to her favorite childhood songs. She even brought a book into the bath, wrapped carefully in a towel, reading like she had all the time in the world.

And she did.

Because now, she made time.

She allowed space.

She started noticing things—like how much she enjoyed brushing her hair slowly. How calming it was to press lotion into her skin. How certain fabrics—soft cotton, warm wool—felt like kindness in a world full of static.

She wrote letters to herself—small, loving notes tucked into books, under her pillow, in the fridge.

“You’re doing better than you think.”

“Take the long way home.”

“Breathe. Then breathe again.”

By Sunday, she didn’t feel fixed—but she felt *held*.

By herself. By the quiet she used to fear. By the space she made instead of filled.

And when the week began again, she didn’t go sprinting.

She walked into it.

Softly. Steadily.

Knowing now where the tension goes—

Not away, but somewhere gentler.

Somewhere she could return to, again and again.