We Need the Darkness — Resilience, Impermanence, and the Hidden Wisdom of Slow Seasons

I've been in a transitional phase of my life for quite some time. A season that felt grey, muddy, still. And while I’ve known difficult periods before, this one unfolded more slowly, more quietly. Less laughter, less momentum, less outward energy. But what used to scare me now feels like something else entirely. I no longer resist these seasons. I no longer view stillness as stagnation. Because I’ve come to believe something deeply:

We need the darkness.

There is no light without the dark and the dark is no punishment. It’s a part of life’s rhythm, even though we’re taught to stay productive, to soothe ourselves with chocolate or beer, to push through. But that steals the quiet power of the darkness. Busyness becomes a distraction from what’s unfolding beneath the surface.

Have you truly surrendered to the restlessness, the uncertainty within? The grief, the spiraling thoughts, that vague sense that something feels off? What if we stopped avoiding and looked at it directly — saw the darkness for what it is: a place where growth begins. Not in the sparkle of motivation, but in the ache of honesty.

The Psychology of Resilience: Not bouncing back, but expanding

When I tried to name what I’ve been going through these past months, the word resilience kept showing up. But am I learning to be resilient?

Resilience is often misunderstood. It’s not about toughness or speed. It’s not about “bouncing back.” According to contemporary psychology, resilience is our capacity to integrate challenge — to metabolize difficult experiences into deeper flexibility, awareness, and strength. Hardship, when processed rather than suppressed, increases long-term adaptability and meaning-making. These grey seasons aren’t wasted, they’re formative. They help us better understand who we are, what matters, and how we want to live.

Life is uncontrollable. We forget that over and over. There will always be moments of rupture, especially when we least expect them. They pressure-test what we thought we knew. And in the tension, a quieter intelligence begins to grow.

Personally, I still catch myself panicking, wondering how I got here, with tingling fingers and the urge to numb out. Netflix. Chocolate. I whisper, haven’t I done enough growing already? But then, unexpectedly, I act differently than I once would. I meet people I never imagined I’d meet. And it takes my breath away how far I’ve already come. That’s resilience, not a badge, but a process. And sometimes, it sounds like this:

“This is hard. But I trust the process. And I trust myself.”

We’re not always meant to understand a season as it unfolds. Look back at the biggest turning points in your life, did you know then why they were happening? Probably not. Meaning takes time. Perspective takes distance. This is part of being resilient. To surrender. To navigate while it’s still dark. You won’t always see the next step — but you’ll find it anyway.

What Buddhism offers: The structure of impermanence

When I meditate, I often visualize myself back in the forest monastery in Thailand where I spent Christmas 2022. A fellow traveler had recommended the place to me (thank you, Tor 🫶🏼), and I’m deeply grateful he did. For ten days, I lived in silence, followed a rhythm of stillness and reflection, and immersed myself in Buddhist teachings. One thing I learned there has stayed with me: Suffering — dukkha — isn’t a glitch in the system. It is part of the system. Joy and grief. Clarity and confusion. They all belong. The practice isn’t to escape difficulty, it’s to recognize its transience.

Buddhism teaches anicca, or impermanence. And this truth, more than anything, helped me survive the fear and instability of recent months.

Everything shifts.
No state is final.
What feels like loss today might become insight tomorrow.

For many months afterward, I repeated a quiet mantra to myself: This too shall pass. It became my anchor. Not a way to bypass pain, but a reminder that neither joy nor sorrow is permanent. Holding this in mind helped me enjoy the light more fully — dinners with friends, soft sunsets, moments of peace — because I knew: this is precious, and it will pass.

And it helped me move through the dark more gently, too. Fear. Anger. Overthinking spirals. That pit-in-the-stomach freefall when everything feels out of control. Yes, I was afraid. I had been without a job for months. “What if I run out of money?”, “What if I never find work again?”, “What if I fail?”. What Buddhism taught me wasn’t to replace those thoughts with blind optimism. It taught me to look at them softly. To sit with fear, not fight it. To say: I see you. I feel you. And you, too, will pass.

There’s power in not needing to feel okay all the time. Because when we stop clinging to the idea that we should always feel okay, we open ourselves to something else: Presence. Awareness. Acceptance. Not resignation, but a deeper kind of agency. Buddhism doesn’t promise ease. But it does offer clarity: You don’t need to make this season beautiful. You just have to meet it as it is.

And here I am. Next week, I begin a new job. The fear has lifted, not dramatically, but steadily. And now, with hindsight, I realize: None of the things I was so afraid of ever came true. Not a single one.

If you're in it right now—a season of fog, fatigue, or friction—read this:

This isn’t a list of solutions. Maybe it’s a mirror. Maybe it’s a few gentle suggestions. Take what speaks to you.

1. Name the season you’re in

Say it plainly, even just to yourself: “This is a hard season.”

That one sentence does more than describe your reality. It brings you into contact with it. It anchors your nervous system in truth. It lets your body stop pretending everything is fine. Naming where you are doesn’t mean giving up, it means stepping out of denial. And denial is sneaky. It’s what lets you keep overeating. Keep overworking. Keep scrolling. Keep dating people who make you feel small. Denial lets you stay busy enough to never pause and ask, what’s really going on here?

But calling something by its real name — grief, burnout, misalignment, fear — is a form of self-respect. It says: I’m allowed to be here. I trust myself to see what’s true.

You haven’t failed because things feel heavy. You’re not behind. You’re human. And part of being human is walking through chapters that don’t make sense yet. Sometimes, the job that once felt perfect turns stale. The relationship starts to rub. The goals you used to chase no longer light you up. That doesn’t mean you’ve made a mistake. It just means you’ve changed, and you’re honest enough to admit it.

2. Ask: What’s underneath the discomfort?

Is it grief? Burnout? Disillusionment? Ask gently:

• Am I holding on to a definition of success that no longer aligns with me?
• Is my pace sustainable — not just in my calendar, but in my body?
• What part of me feels like it’s being left behind?

This isn’t an invitation to overanalyze or fix. It's a call to notice. Let yourself name what you feel without rushing to make sense of it. You might want answers — we almost always do — but clarity often comes later, not in the middle of the fog. So pause. Be curious. Let meaning emerge in its own time. You don’t have to understand the whole picture right now. You just have to be willing to see what's asking for your attention.

3. Get selective with your energy

This isn’t the time to optimize. It’s the time to tune in, gently, quietly, to what still feels essential. Not what looks productive on paper. Not what earns approval. Just the few, small things that bring steadiness back into your body. Let it be simple. Maybe one thing a day. That’s enough.

• Making a nourishing meal
• Cancelling something, without guilt
• Spending time with someone who doesn’t need you to explain yourself

These are your new coordinates. Let them guide you. Let them be your metrics for now. Not how much you get done, but how deeply you stay with what matters.

4. Clear space—internally and externally

Not to be tidy, but to make room. To quiet the noise. Cognitive science shows that small shifts in your environment can reduce mental load.

• Open a window
• Organize a single drawer
• Turn off one notification

Create a little order so your inner world has room to listen.

5. Observe the season without urgency

This is not a time to sprint. It’s a time to watch. To witness what’s fading, what’s ripening, what quietly wants to shift, without needing to control the pace. Notice what you’re drawn to now. What feels nourishing. What no longer fits. Not to judge, but to gently mark the transition. Let this season reveal itself to you, slowly.

You don’t have to know how this unfolds. You don’t have to force a breakthrough. You just have to stay close to yourself. And when the moment does come to rise again — not out of pressure, but out of truth — remind yourself:

I don’t need to rise quickly. I need to rise honestly.

The Return

These past months reminded me that growth doesn’t always look like forward motion. Sometimes it looks like stillness. Like shedding. Like sitting long enough with discomfort to finally hear what it’s been trying to say. And honestly? I love that. I love getting to know myself more truthfully, because I trust that’s what leads to a life that feels real. A life that energizes instead of drains. One I can root into, not just perform within.

Now, with a new job on the horizon and my energy returning in quiet waves, I can feel a new shape forming. Not a reinvention, but a slow unfolding. What I thought was a breakdown was really preparation. A dismantling of what no longer fits. I came into this season like someone stumbling through fog. I’m stepping out with clearer eyes. The fog didn’t lift all at once — but I stayed long enough to learn how to walk through it anyway. That’s what the darkness gave me. Not a sudden light switch, but patience. And a steadiness I didn’t know I had. A deeper capacity to stay with myself when nothing made sense yet.

And yes, I do feel resilient now. Not in a loud or performative way. More like a soft strength. An inner lining. A quiet knowing: I faced the fear, stayed with the mess, and I’m still here. If I did it this time, I’ll do it again when life asks me to.

So if you’re in it right now—in the still, the fog, the unformed—stay close to yourself. Show up in small, steady ways. You don’t have to rush. You don’t have to fix it all.

You’re not broken. You’re not behind.

You’re becoming.