Learning to Slow Down Saved Me

B1 – 6.6.26
A reflection from the journey. A lesson from lived experience. I do not write from a place of perfection, only perspective. These are honest reflections, life lessons, and moments of clarity gathered along the way. Take what resonates. Leave what does not. Maybe something here meets you exactly where you are.

For most of my life, I was always moving.

Always figuring it out.

Always surviving.

Growing up, independence found me at a very young age. I was what many would call a latchkey kid. Back in the 80s, it felt normal for children to walk to school alone. Although my siblings attended a nearby school and we often walked together, I still remember being in elementary school and walking nearly a mile home by myself.

At the time, it seemed normal.

Looking back now, I realize how much responsibility we carried as children.

My parents did not see much wrong with it or with many of the adult responsibilities we had at a young age. But now that I am older, I understand more deeply why.

Both of my parents grew up in Jamaica under difficult circumstances. They were exposed to hardships children should never have to carry and were forced to grow up quickly. I can see now that many of the beliefs they carried, the decisions they made, and the way they parented were shaped by their own survival.

Understanding that has helped me forgive deeper.

But understanding something does not erase the impact it had on you.

When my parents divorced while I was still in elementary school, life began shifting in ways I did not yet understand. My mother made the brave decision to leave because she knew she deserved better, and in many ways, we were both trying to figure life out together.

But that season came with instability.

We moved around a lot, and although I did not fully realize it at the time, it made it difficult for me to focus in school. For years, I believed I was not smart enough.

The truth?

I was overwhelmed.

I was carrying stress that felt too heavy for someone so young.

Eventually, my mother arranged for me to live with my father during high school, which meant leaving Florida and moving to New York.

That transition changed everything.

I went from feeling relatively safe walking into school each day to walking through metal detectors.

I lived with a father who provided financially but struggled emotionally. Love often felt conditional or distant unless I initiated closeness. And living with a stepmother who made me feel unwanted only deepened wounds I did not yet know how to name.

By the end of high school, things had gotten bad.

I was hurting.

And hurt has a way of showing up in ways that people often misunderstand.

I acted out.

I snuck out.

I stole.

I stopped caring.

Not because I was bad, but because I was hurting and had no healthy tools to express it.

No amount of punishment changed me because, in many ways, I already felt punished by life.

I often felt like I lived under a microscope.

Always hearing what I was doing wrong.

Rarely hearing what I was doing right.

Even writing this now makes me emotional because there is something deeply painful about wondering why your father could not simply say, “I am proud of you,” even for the smallest things.

Eventually, things became so difficult at home that I moved in with a close friend.

School had fallen apart.

My grades were terrible.

I was told I would have to attend summer school to graduate, but the thought of staying in that environment one day longer felt unbearable.

So, I chose a different path.

I dropped out and earned my GED instead.

And from there, life became my teacher.

I paid for my own cars.

I paid for college.

I built my own lifestyle.

I learned how to survive.

I learned how to adapt.

I learned how to keep going.

But there is something people do not talk about when you grow up too fast:

You become incredibly independent, but often at the cost of yourself.

You learn how to take care of everyone and everything while quietly abandoning your own needs.

You become productive.

Responsible.

Resilient.

But sometimes disconnected.

Always doing.

Always pushing.

I have always been a go getter. When I am passionate about something, I want to move fast. Create. Build. Grow. Share.

Stillness was never my natural state.

But these past five years of healing have taught me something I never fully understood before:

There is wisdom in slowing down.

For a long time, I thought rest meant laziness.

I grew up around people who believed hard work was everything. Success looked like sacrifice. Productivity looked like worthiness.

Slowing down felt dangerous.

Like falling behind.

Like failing.

But healing has taught me something different.

I do not have to inherit every belief I was given.

I am allowed to think differently.

To choose differently.

To live differently.

Because when you have spent decades surviving, constantly betraying yourself through the situations you tolerate, the behavior you accept, and the ways you abandon yourself just to cope… eventually your soul asks for something else.

Peace.

Stillness.

Breathing room.

For 34 years of my life, I lived in survival mode.

Pain that begins young has a way of disconnecting you from yourself. You become so focused on getting through life that you stop asking what actually feels nourishing, safe, or aligned.

You lose yourself.

And when healing begins, there is grief in realizing how much of yourself you abandoned just to survive.

But there is also compassion.

Because surviving what hurt you deserves gentleness.

It deserves pauses.

It deserves rest.

It deserves moments of stillness.

I am learning that healing is not a race.

My book is still being written.

My story is still unfolding.

And maybe I do not need to rush creating, posting, or constantly showing up in ways that drain me while I am still learning how to fill myself back up.

This chapter of my life is teaching me something sacred:

Peace is my birthright.

Stillness is my birthright.

Joy is my birthright.

No matter what is happening around me.

No matter who misunderstands me.

No matter who tries to go against me.

I deserve to enjoy the life God created for me.

And maybe slowing down is exactly what is helping me finally arrive there.

Love and light, Carolyn C.