How to Hold Peace

First, stop scrolling.

No, really.

You’ve already read enough about disasters, comment wars,

and someone’s tenth vacation this year.

You’re not falling behind —

you’re just being dragged.

Put the phone down.

Let it charge.

While you do the same.

Now close your inbox.

The deadlines can wait.

They’ll still be there when your spine isn’t pretending to be a coat hanger.

Trust me.

Pause.

Breathe.

Yes, that kind of breathing.

The one that makes you feel

a little ridiculous

but also a little better.

Let’s make something.

Something soft.

Not soup, exactly—

but a kind of calm you can wrap yourself in.

Step One: Choose a space

It doesn’t have to be a candlelit sanctuary.

You don’t need crystals, incense, or plants

(unless you like those things).

You just need a place where you feel

unwatched.

Maybe it’s your bed.

Maybe it’s the bathtub with the curtain drawn.

Maybe it’s under your desk,

next to the cat food,

with a pillow and a blanket

and your phone turned off.

That counts.

All sanctuaries count when the storm is in your mind.

Step Two: Add warmth

Put on socks.

Fuzzy ones.

Even if it’s July.

Wrap yourself in something oversized,

preferably something that smells like safety—

clean laundry,

vanilla,

that one hoodie that hasn’t been washed in months

but still makes you feel invincible.

Make tea.

Or cocoa.

Or just hot water with lemon and pretend it’s ancient wisdom.

(You’re a sage now. A cozy wizard. A soft witch in retreat.)

Step Three: Create a boundary

No news.

No headlines.

No scrolling past posts you didn’t ask to see.

Let the world spin without you for a while.

It’s loud.

It’s messy.

It’s addicted to its own noise.

You’re not.

Not right now.

If people call you selfish for stepping away,

smile kindly.

Then continue to walk into your calm like it’s a forest

and you are made of moss.

Step Four: Choose your sound

Silence? Perfect.

Birdsong from YouTube? Perfect.

A playlist called “Songs That Feel Like Blankets”? Perfect.

Lo-fi beats with no lyrics? Even better.

But if you must—

and only if you must—

put on the song that makes you cry.

The one you don’t tell anyone about.

Play it once.

Let the tears come.

Then wipe your cheeks

and say thank you.

To the song.

To yourself.

To whatever it is that cracked open your chest

just wide enough to let the sadness breathe.

Step Five: Add a story

Read.

Not the news.

Not online articles about why you’re doing life wrong.

Pick up a book.

That fantasy series you loved in school.

That worn paperback with the broken spine.

The poetry collection that speaks your language

even when you don’t.

Or write.

A letter you’ll never send.

A list of things you survived.

A single word on a napkin

that reminds you who you are

beneath all this noise.

Step Six: Get weird

Talk to yourself.

Out loud.

In the mirror.

In the quiet.

In your head if someone’s nearby.

Say something nice.

Or weird.

Or stupid.

Example:

“Hey, brain. Chill. You’re doing great even if your hair isn’t cooperating.”

Or:

“Dear Me, thank you for getting out of bed today. You didn’t have to, but you did. Love, Also Me.”

Weird? Yes.

Effective? Also yes.

Step Seven: Movement

If your body is screaming,

stretch it gently.

Reach up.

Fold forward.

Do that pose that makes you look like a sleepy seal.

Or just lay flat on the ground like a defeated boss fight character.

That works too.

Walk, if you can.

Even if it’s just to the kitchen.

Even if it’s just barefoot on the balcony.

Even if it’s just pacing

like a ghost

with really good taste in snacks.

Step Eight: Breathe again

Not the breath of panic.

Not the breath of holding everything in.

The real kind.

The “I'm still here” kind.

The breath that lets your ribcage be something other than a cage.

You’ve done enough.

Maybe not by the world’s standards.

But the world is noisy and strange

and always wanting more.

You made Stillness Soup.

Out of very little.

Out of too much.

Out of everything that hurt

and everything that healed.

You have stirred peace from chaos

with a plastic spoon

and a tired heart.

And that’s something.

That’s everything.

The world will still be there

when you return.

It may not be better.

But you might.

And that, too,

is a kind of rebellion.

A quiet one.

But powerful,

like soup.

Like rest.

Like you.

.........................................................................................................................

Thank you for reading,

With love and hope,

Muhammad Rahim