There’s a part of me that has always been restless.
Maybe it’s the part that craves new songs, new cities, new versions of myself. Maybe it’s the part that never fully settles, even in comfort. For a long time, I thought that was how it had to be—that creation came from motion, from chasing something just out of reach.
But lately, I’m beginning to wonder: what if there’s another kind of creativity, the kind that isn’t born from pursuit but from presence?
I’m starting to learn that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stay.
Stay when things feel uncertain. Stay when the next step isn’t clear. Stay with the unfinished songs, the questions without answers, the emotions that can’t be neatly sorted. Stay with the discomfort. Stay with the wonder. Stay with yourself.
It’s uncomfortable at first—excruciating, even. We are so wired to move, to react, to fix. Sitting still feels like failure. But there’s a strange kind of beauty in staying. A slow unfurling. A deepening. A richer song being written—not with urgency, but with patience.
These past few weeks, I’ve been practicing staying.
Some days, it’s sitting by the window long after the sun has gone down, letting the darkness press in, letting the silence expand. Other days, it’s walking the same familiar streets with no destination, breathing in the sameness, noticing how even the ordinary shifts under different skies.
I’ve been listening to the same melodies over and over, allowing them to live without forcing them into structure. I’ve been letting lyrics sit incomplete for days, trusting that the right words will come—not because I demand them, but because they’re ready.
And something is shifting inside me.
There’s a different kind of depth that grows in stillness. A richness that only reveals itself when you’re willing to linger. To listen without rushing to respond. To stay with your own heart long enough to hear what it’s really saying.
It’s not easy. Sometimes the urge to move is overwhelming. To abandon the stillness before it reveals something uncomfortable. But every time I stay—truly stay—I discover something real. Something that wouldn’t have shown itself any other way.
Maybe the songs I’m working on right now will take longer to finish. Maybe they’ll arrive softer, less polished, but more true. Maybe they’ll carry more silence between the notes. Maybe they’ll breathe differently. And maybe that’s exactly what they’re supposed to do.
Maybe that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do, too.
If you’re feeling restless, if you’re longing for movement but unsure where to go—maybe try staying. Just for a moment. Stay with the silence. Stay with the question. Stay with the version of yourself that doesn’t have all the answers yet.
You might be surprised what finds you there.
B.
