Slowing Down in the Glad Town

Last week, I spent an hour at the Littleton Community Center for the annual Mental Health Fair. Outside, it was rainy and damp—the kind of weather that makes the night feel softer somehow. Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting—full of familiar faces, new connections, and a shared sense of kindness.

Vendors were set up across the main room and hallways: nonprofits supporting addiction recovery and mental health, volunteer organizations helping people find purpose, a yoga studio, and a wellness center offering free massages. There was a collective spirit of care that was almost tangible.

People I knew—and some I didn’t—kept checking in on me, asking if I’d gotten one of the special drinks with fresh berries in it, or if I’d taken time to visit the tables that might be most useful. The whole evening felt like a gentle reminder that we’re all here for each other, that in this small community, no one’s well-being goes unnoticed.

At one point, I stopped near the refreshment table, just watching the room. People leaned in to talk, their coats still damp from the rain, laughter rising above the sound of the cars driving by on Main Street. It struck me that even in this small, ordinary moment, we were practicing care—showing up for one another in ways that quietly say, You belong here.

One of the highlights came from Sue at the Center for New Beginnings. She handed me a small box that fit perfectly in my palm. On the top, it said, You’re Turtley Awesome. Inside was a tiny turtle figurine and a short note about box breathing—a technique that helps calm the body and regulate the mind when life feels stressful.

You breathe in for four counts, hold for four, exhale for four, and rest for four before beginning again. It’s a simple, steady rhythm that helps restore balance when things feel off.

That little turtle now sits in the Zen garden on my desk. Every time I look at him, I smile—not just because he’s cute, but because he reminds me that I’m part of something larger than myself. He reminds me that I belong here.

As I sat on my couch that night, watching the rain blur against the window, I thought about another teacher of stillness in my life—my cat, William Wallace.

Some of you might remember him from the piece he “wrote” last month called Life and Legacy in Littleton. In it, he shared his reflections as an observer of Main Street, watching life unfold from his favorite window perch. Recently, I posted on social media that he’s contemplating his next great work: a book titled How to Do Nothing and Feel Great About It.

It started as a lighthearted post, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I needed that message myself.

The truth is, I’m a recovering Strava addict. For anyone unfamiliar, Strava is an app used by runners, cyclists, and hikers to record and share their workouts—complete with maps, mileage, and comparisons. For years, I believed that my worth was measured by motion—by how much I could do, achieve, or conquer outdoors. Bigger, faster, bolder. No activity ever felt like enough. And it drove me to do some scary, intense, and sometimes even reckless things. 

This past year, though, my body has forced me to slow down. I’ve been struggling with a chronic illness that’s taken much of the energy and strength I once relied on. The hikes, rides, and workouts that used to come easily now often feel out of reach. And if I’m honest, that’s been hard—sitting in stillness when I’d rather be summiting something, feeling the quiet ache of not being who I once was.

At first, it felt like failure. I told myself I hadn’t earned rest, that I needed to do something—anything—to prove I was still enough. But what I’m starting to see, slowly, is that this season isn’t punishment. It’s an invitation.

I remember finishing a long ride in the past and pulling out my phone before I’d even unclipped my helmet—updating the app to make sure everyone could see what I’d just done, chasing validation in orange thumbs instead of letting myself feel the mountain air. I was constantly moving but rarely present.

Now, I’m being asked to do the opposite: to stay still, to feel, to listen. And that’s where the lesson of William Wallace comes in.

When I see him stretched across the back of the couch, completely relaxed, I see something profound. He doesn’t earn his rest. He just exists in it. His ease is unapologetic.

I imagine his future book might have four lessons:

1. Actually, do nothing.

2. Feel what comes up.

3. Question the stories that tell you you’re not enough.

4. Give yourself permission to feel great right now—without earning it.

That theme—of trusting stillness and listening for what’s true—came up again this week in my North of Normal conversation with artist and storyteller Stacey Lucas, known for her shop in Woodstock called Fig Tree North.

Stacey talked about following intuition and learning to trust herself through creative transformation. “I unsubscribe,” she told me. “I unsubscribe to beauty standards, to where I think I should be, to all the ideals that keep us in comparison.”

She spoke about living with chronic pain and the slow work of learning to care for herself, to rest when needed, to stop measuring her worth by productivity. “You have to love yourself first,” she said. “And part of that love is letting go of what doesn’t serve you.”

Her words stayed with me. They connected to what I’d been feeling all week—the message of that tiny turtle, the lesson from William Wallace, the kindness I felt at the fair.

We live in a world that idolizes motion. I know, because I used to idolize it, too. I believed that my value lived in doing, in showing how far and how fast I could go. But the truth I’m learning, slowly, is that healing doesn’t happen through speed or striving. It happens in stillness. It happens in the pause between breaths.

That evening after the fair, I practiced box breathing in my living room. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Rest for four. William purred nearby, and the little turtle watched from the Zen garden, his expression forever calm.

It struck me that this simple rhythm—the breath, the stillness, the presence—is also the rhythm of belonging. When we slow down, when we breathe, when we allow ourselves to just be, that’s when we remember who we are.

So I’ll keep that turtle close by as I write, and today, as I head down to Woodstock to finally visit Fig Tree North, I’ll carry the lessons of this rainy week with me: breathe, belong, and remember that doing nothing can sometimes be the most healing thing of all.

-Amanda