Culturally, we believe in endurance. When something painful happens, the phrase “yatapita tu” becomes both comfort and command—keep going, don’t dwell. But healing doesn’t always follow that pace.
There are seasons when everything feels quieter, yet the air is still heavy. People return to work, the streets fill again, and daily routines resume. On the surface, life looks normal, but inside, something feels unsettled. You wake up, go through your day, laugh when you should, and still sense that your body hasn’t fully exhaled. The world continues to move, even when you’re not sure you’ve caught your breath.
Psychologists describe this situation as residual stress, the tension that lingers after a difficult experience. It is the body’s way of staying on alert long after the danger has passed. You might not have words for it, but it shows up in quiet ways: tiredness that won’t go away, a short temper with people you care about, or a sense that rest never feels restful. The body often remembers long after the mind has decided to move on.
Culturally, we believe in endurance. When something painful happens, the phrase “yatapita tu” becomes both comfort and command—keep going, don’t dwell. But healing doesn’t always follow that pace. Some people bury themselves in work; others distract themselves with noise. A few just go quiet. Silence can feel like control, but it can also trap emotions that still need space to breathe.
Collective stress doesn’t always disappear when life returns to normal. People carry it quietly, each in their own way. Some stay busy to keep from thinking. Others turn inward. Many stop talking about it altogether. Silence can feel like safety, yet it can also keep emotions trapped inside, where they grow heavier over time.
Small ways to regain balance
Calm can’t be rushed. It’s rebuilt slowly, through small, steady habits. Start with the basics: eat well, rest properly, and move your body. These are not minor things; they are signals to your mind that you’re safe again. Walking outside, watching the sunset, or sitting in the morning light can help your body remember peace.
Writing helps too. Put your thoughts down without trying to make sense of them. Sometimes release comes before understanding. Prayer and faith can also bring rhythm back to the heart. Showing up to spiritual spaces, or simply creating moments of quiet reflection, reminds you that you are still connected to something larger than fear.
The role of connection
Recovery grows easier when you’re not alone. You don’t need deep conversations or grand advice, just presence. Share a meal. Sit together. Talk about everyday things. You don’t have to explain what feels heavy for the company to help. Psychologists describe this as co-regulation, when being around calm people helps your body find its own calm. Isolation may feel safer, yet over time it deepens the ache. Healing often begins in quiet company.
Learning to feel safe again
For many, the hardest part after difficult periods is learning to trust calm. When you’ve lived with tension, peace can feel unfamiliar. Relearning safety takes time. Notice the small signs that you’re okay in this moment: the sound of rain, the smell of food cooking, and the rhythm of your breathing.
When thoughts start to race, anchor yourself in what you can touch and see. Feel your feet on the floor, trace the texture of your clothes, and listen to the world around you. These small acts remind your body that not every silence hides danger.
Moving gently
Healing doesn’t have a finish line. It’s not marked by a single day when everything suddenly feels better. It happens slowly, in the days when laughter feels genuine again or sleep comes easily. Some days will feel steady; others won’t. Both count.
If the heaviness feels too large to carry, talk to someone. A counsellor, a friend, a faith leader. Often, we realise the size of what we’ve been holding only when we speak it out loud. Sharing doesn’t make you fragile; it helps your heart breathe again.
Life will always ask us to keep moving, though sometimes movement needs to be gentle. Healing doesn’t erase what happened; it teaches you how to live with it. Peace returns quietly, not as a loud arrival, but as a gradual softening.
We rebuild through small acts of care, cooking, resting, walking, laughing, showing up to work, checking on someone, and sitting in stillness. The world continues, and so do we, one ordinary act of steadiness at a time.
Haika Gerson is a writer and psychology student at the University of Derby, passionate about human behaviour and mental well-being.
