You are okay

There is a kind of constant attention that accompanies many of our days.
Not because something is actually happening, but because the system is used to being that way.

You often feel it in the body before you notice it in your thoughts:
a tension that doesn’t quite release,
a breath that never really drops,
a subtle difficulty in fully resting into the moment.

Over time, this way of being becomes normal.

Tension doesn’t make noise. It doesn’t announce itself.
It settles quietly into the body, into the way we inhabit the world.
And at some point, we stop asking whether it’s even necessary.

Our brain is not designed to make us calm.
It is designed to keep us safe.

That’s why it maintains a background level of vigilance,
even when there is no immediate threat.
This function is useful.
It becomes exhausting when it never switches off.

Over time, it drains energy, makes stability harder to feel,
and creates that familiar sense of having to hold everything together,
even in moments that don’t actually require it.

This is where a simple—but not trivial—practice comes in:
noticing that, in this moment, you’re OK.

Not in an absolute sense.
Not because everything is working.
Not because life is easy.

But because, right now, there is something holding.

The body is doing its job, even when it’s tired, even when it’s repairing.
The breath arrives.
There is presence, even if it’s not continuous.
There is life, even if it’s imperfect.

It’s important to be clear: this is not a practice meant to deny pain.

There are moments—and for some people, long periods—when you are not “OK” at all.
Illness, loss, mental or physical exhaustion are real.
They are not crossed with a sentence.

In these cases, being “OK” doesn’t mean feeling well.
It means, when and if possible, recognizing a minimal point of support:
a breath that is still there,
a body that, despite the difficulty, continues to hold,
a moment that doesn’t ask to be fixed.

Training yourself to return to these micro-moments doesn’t change reality.
It changes how you move through it.

It’s a simple, concrete gesture.
A way to stop forcing—if only for a moment.

This practice doesn’t solve life.
It doesn’t fix what hurts.

It’s about noticing that, here and now, something holds.
Not because everything is fine.
Not because pain disappears.

But because, in this moment,
there is a point that holds.

You’re OK.

And you continue from there…