By Joanna Hughes · JoyPath Coaching

I was drowning, and no one could see it.

It was an ordinary Tuesday evening. Dinner plates cleared, homework checked, lunches packed for tomorrow. I stood at the kitchen sink washing a coffee mug when something inside me simply cracked.

The tears came without warning. Quiet at first, then shoulders that would not stop shaking. My husband found me clutching the countertop. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What can I do?”

That was just it. Nothing was wrong, and everything felt wrong. I had a family I loved, meaningful work, a roof over my head. I was doing everything “right”: showing up for everyone, meeting every need, never complaining. I had even stopped trying to control my husband’s schedule and choices, something I had worked hard on for months.

And there I was, coming undone over dirty dishes. “I feel so overwhelmed,” was all I could say.

That night became my doorway into something that changed my marriage and many of my relationships. What I learned in the months that followed was embarrassingly simple: you cannot give what you do not have. The way back did not come through another communication technique. It came through learning to return to myself, again and again. I call it soul renewal.

Tending your own garden

At JoyPath I often talk about staying on your own paper: caring for what is truly yours, your own heart, choices, and needs, instead of trying to manage everyone else’s.

Soul renewal is how your own paper becomes something more. Picture it as a secret garden. Neglected, it is a place you avoid. Tended with a little care most days, it becomes somewhere delightful to be. Somewhere you actually want to spend time.

And here is the best part. A garden in bloom draws people. Not because you are chasing anyone, but because life and delight are simply fascinating to be near. When we come to our relationships full rather than empty, the connection we have been straining for often begins to find us.

“He restores my soul,” the psalmist writes (Psalm 23:3). Restoration is not a luxury for when everything else is done. It is how God designed us to keep coming home.

What depletion does to us

Jason was a contractor with a reputation for being tough as nails. His wife had practically pushed him through my door.

“I don’t need to find myself or whatever,” he said. “I work sixty hours a week. I’m home for dinner most nights. She says I’m ‘not there.’ Whatever that means.”

“What is your experience?” I asked. “Do you feel there?”

He looked out the window for a long moment. “I don’t know how to be,” he said finally. “By the time I get home, I’ve got nothing left.”

I asked him when he last felt truly at rest. After a long pause: “Fishing. With my dad, before he died. Standing in the stream, nobody talking. Just the water and the rhythm of casting.” His whole voice softened.

Jason agreed to a small experiment. Each morning, before his phone and before the kids woke, he would sit on the back porch with his coffee for five minutes. No agenda. Just the birds at the feeder, the morning light, the warm mug in his hands. He found a few similar pauses later in the day.

Three weeks later he came in looking softer. “My wife asked what was wrong with me,” he said, half smiling. “Last night my son asked me to throw the ball after dinner. Normally I’d say I’m too tired. I said yes, and I actually had fun. I was just there.”

Jason’s circumstances had not changed. What changed was how much of him was available.

Three places your body can be

It helps to know where you are before choosing what you need. One simple map comes from Polyvagal Theory, which describes how the nervous system is always quietly scanning for safety. It is often pictured as a ladder with three rungs. Researchers still debate the details, but as a map for daily life, many people find it remarkably helpful.

At the top: connected. You feel calm, present, and like yourself. You can listen without getting defensive, think clearly, and stay curious about someone else.

In the middle: revved up. Anxious, irritable, always “on.” Muscles tense, breath gets shallow, thoughts race. Your body is preparing to fight or run.

At the bottom: shut down. Numb, foggy, exhausted, far away. Even thinking can feel like pushing through mud.

Here is why this matters: what helps on one rung can make another worse. I learned this the hard way. In one stressful season I kept trying to fix my anxiety with intense cardio, because that is what everyone recommended. I would finish more wired and irritable than before, sometimes with a racing heart, and then crash later. My body needed calming, not more revving. When I switched to gentle walks, poetry by the fire, a felting project I loved, and a group that practiced quieting together, my whole body seemed to exhale.

On the other hand, on days when getting off the couch feels impossible, quiet meditation can sink me deeper. What helps then is something gently lively: singing along to old records, a brisk walk, dancing in the kitchen, even bouncing on a trampoline. Just enough to spark some energy without overwhelming me.

One client put it well: “I used to beat myself up when meditation didn’t help during panic. Now I know my body needs movement first, then stillness. It’s like finally learning to speak my body’s language.” (If the middle rung feels familiar, you may also find Growing Beyond Overwhelm helpful.)

The question that opens the door

If I could offer only one soul renewal practice, it would be this question: What am I feeling right now, and what do I need?

Kate, a mother of three teenagers in one of our groups, laughed out loud when I first suggested it. “I don’t have time to feel anything,” she said. “And what I need doesn’t matter. My family needs me to keep all the balls in the air.” Heads nodded all around the circle.

I invited her to try a tiny experiment. Three times a day, place a hand on her heart and ask, “What am I feeling right now?” without trying to change or judge the answer. Thirty seconds.

Two weeks later she came back shaken. “I had no idea how angry I was,” she said. “Really, deeply angry. I’ve been pushing it down so long I didn’t recognize it.” As she kept noticing, she found sadness and fear beneath the anger, and beneath those, real needs: for rest, for acknowledgment, for a life beyond being needed.

“When you notice that anger rising,” I asked, “what might you need?” She thought for a moment. “Space. A few minutes to breathe before I respond. There’s a big oak in our backyard I’ve always loved looking at.”

The next week, her husband asked his usual “How was your day?” at dinner. “Instead of my automatic ‘Fine,'” she told us, “I heard myself say, ‘I’m feeling a little sad today, and I think I need some quiet time after dinner.’ I almost clapped my hand over my mouth. I never talk like that!” He nodded, handled the dishes, and later sat with her on the porch swing. “Not talking,” she said. “Just being there. It was healing, somehow.”

When we name what we feel and need honestly, without manipulation or martyrdom, we become knowable. And being known is where connection lives.

If this feels selfish, you are in good company. Jesus himself was honest about his needs. He asked a woman at a well for a drink because he was thirsty (John 4:7). In the garden he told his friends his soul was deeply troubled (Matthew 26:38). Naming a need is not a failure of faith. It is part of being human, the way God made us.

If finding the words is hard at first, the Heart to Heart Check-in offers simple feeling words to start with. Dr. Dan Siegel calls this “name it to tame it.”

Appreciation memories: a library of joy

Imagine a library of moments when you felt fully alive, at peace, or deeply connected, one you could visit any time stress or depletion pressed in. You already have one. Appreciation memories are how you open the door.

I first practiced this during a hard season. My husband was traveling for work, our children were struggling with transitions at school, and I could feel myself sliding into resentment. One evening I sank into a deck chair, looked up at the trees, and asked the Lord to bring to mind a time I felt deep peace.

A memory surfaced with surprising clarity: my daughter and I picking pears from our neighbor’s tree the fall before, juice running down our chins, laughing at our sticky fingers. I let myself step back into it. The warm breeze on my skin. Birds in the golden evening light. The sparkle in her eyes. My breathing deepened. My shoulders let go. A smile found its way to my face. For a few minutes, I was restored.

If memories are slow to come, small sensory moments can spark them: sunlight through a window, rain on the roof, bread baking, clean sheets, a child’s laughter, the first sip of morning coffee, a dog’s happy greeting, crisp autumn air, a campfire, waves on the shore, a hug when you needed it most, the sound of a favorite person’s voice.

James, one of the quieter members of a group, called this “touchy-feely” at first. The next week he pulled a worn photo from his wallet: himself holding his newborn son. “I was getting frustrated with him about choices he’s making as an adult,” he said. “I felt that tightness right before you say something you’ll regret. Then I remembered that day. How tiny he was. How he stopped crying when I talked to him.” His eyes filled. “Suddenly the huge problem didn’t seem so huge. I could see my son again, not just the problem.”

That is what appreciation memories do. They do not just lift the mood. They help us see the people we love clearly again.

Quieting: coming back to yourself

Have you ever been in a heated conversation with someone you love and heard yourself say things you do not mean, in a tone you barely recognize? Later you wonder, where did I go?

It happens to all of us. Under stress we can leave ourselves, sliding into old patterns: attack, defend, give in, or shut down. The good news is we can learn to come home, even in hard moments.

In the Life Model, one of the core skills of emotional maturity is quieting: the learned ability to calm yourself after something stirs you up and return to rest. It is a skill, so it grows with practice at any age. And it grows best in connection, with someone safe or with God, rather than alone.

I remember a night my husband and I slipped into one of those tense non-arguments, no harsh words, just thick, unspoken frustration. In the past I would have pushed for a resolution or withdrawn in hurt. This time I noticed the tightness in my chest and whispered, “I need a moment.”

I went to our bedroom and did something I had not done since childhood: I lay down on the floor. I put a hand on my heart and breathed. I felt the carpet against my back and watched the ceiling fan turn. I let myself feel the frustration without fixing it.

Slowly my breathing deepened and my chest softened. I began to feel curious instead of defensive. When I went back twenty minutes later, I could listen to my husband with new ears. Not because I had found the right words, but because I had come back to myself.

Quieting does not always look like recovery from a hard moment. Sometimes it is simply tending the garden. One snowy evening my husband was absorbed in his phone, and I felt that familiar sinking feeling of disconnection. Instead of criticizing or pulling away, I lit a fire and read poetry while the snow fell. Within minutes, warmth and peace filled me up again. Then my husband came to find me, drawn by the calm. I had not tried to get his attention. I had simply tended my own garden.

A tended garden does not chase anyone. It magnetizes.

There is a reason for that. When we are worn out or upset, the parts of the brain that help us stay relational, the ones that let us see people as people and stay curious about them, tend to go quiet. We start treating the people we love like problems to solve. Quieting brings those circuits back online. That is why a few minutes of real rest can make you warmer, not just calmer.

As one group member put it: “Taking a breather to quiet myself isn’t abandonment or avoidance. It’s the most loving thing I can do when I’m triggered. Coming back to myself first means I actually have something real to offer when I return.”

Finding what renews you

The most common thing I hear is “I don’t have time.” I understand. The good news is that renewal does not have to be long. Sometimes five minutes is enough to shift your whole evening.

What renews you may be as unique as you are. One woman rediscovered painting, something she had not done since childhood. One man found that splitting firewood brought him back to himself after a hard day at work. (That one would definitely not make my list.) So please do not read what follows as a prescription. These are seeds: things others have found perk them up or settle them down. Notice which ones make something in you lean in, plant those, and see what grows.

If none of these quite fit, a few questions can help you find your own. What did you love to do as a child, before anyone told you it was a waste of time? When did you last lose track of time in a good way? After what kinds of moments do you feel most like yourself?

Many people find it helps to keep their own list somewhere handy, like a note on their phone. As one woman told me, “When I’m dysregulated, my brain can’t remember what helps. Having my list is like having a first aid kit.”

Inviting God into the renewal

What turns these small practices from self-care into something deeper is inviting God to join you in them. “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and confidence shall be your strength” (Isaiah 30:15). There is something about humbly admitting we are finite, people who need rest, that opens us to our infinite Creator.

One client, Emma, imagined Jesus sitting with her on a day she felt completely shut down. “I expected him to be disappointed in me for not doing better,” she said through tears. “But all I heard was, ‘I’m so glad you’re resting. I’ve been waiting to sit with you.'”

A month later she came in glowing. She had felt the old heaviness creeping in, walked to the lake, and sat on a rock watching the water sparkle. Then she remembered to invite Jesus to sit with her. “The beauty of the lake and the warm sun and this sense of being completely loved all merged together,” she said. “I started to laugh out loud. A couple walking by looked at me like I was a little crazy, and I didn’t even care.”

You might try it this way. Before your renewal time, pause and remember that God is already here, glad to be with you. You might begin with an appreciation memory and thank him for it, entering his gates with thanksgiving (Psalm 100:4). Tell him honestly how you are, the way the psalmists did. Ask, “Lord, what would you like me to notice about how I’m feeling right now?” Then be still (Psalm 46:10), and notice whatever comes.

Some people find it helps to write it down. You might write a few honest lines to God about how you are, then pause and write what you sense he might say back, starting with “I see you.” This is often called Immanuel journaling, and the answers are often gentler than people expect.

A rhythm for this week

Soul renewal grows best as a rhythm rather than a rescue. Many people find that three small renewals a day, morning, midday, and evening, become like vitamins for the soul. On especially hard days, a few more.

Over time, something encouraging happens. What we practice gets easier. Each time you return to yourself, the path back gets a little more familiar, and you may find you can hold more before you get knocked off center, and come back sooner when you do.

If you would like a simple way to begin, you might try a three-day experiment. For the first day, simply notice when you feel depleted or disconnected, and ask what you feel and what you need. Then choose three renewals that sound like you, and try them over the next few days, maybe even putting them on your calendar. At the end, look back: what did you discover about yourself? What would you like to keep?

This is not about doing it perfectly. You will forget some days. That is part of it. It is about coming home to yourself, again and again, with kindness and curiosity.

I will leave you with the words of a client named Melissa: “I thought soul renewal would make me more distant from my family, like I was choosing myself over them. It’s been exactly the opposite. The more I come home to myself, the more present I can be with them. I’m not constantly managing their emotions or chasing their approval. I’m just me. And they seem to like that person a lot more than the exhausted shell I was before.”

What small step toward soul renewal might you take today?

Soul renewal is one of the Seven Sacred Skills of a Gentle Protector. If you have been running on empty for a long time, and small steps are not enough to refill the well, you do not have to find your way back alone. I would be honored to walk with you. You can book a session whenever you are ready.

Further reading: Deb Dana, Anchored: How to Befriend Your Nervous System Using Polyvagal Theory (Sounds True, 2021). Rick Hanson, Hardwiring Happiness (Harmony, 2013). E. James Wilder, Edward M. Khouri, Chris M. Coursey, and Shelia D. Sutton, Joy Starts Here (Shepherd’s House, 2013).

Research behind the brain notes: Arnsten, “Stress signalling pathways that impair prefrontal cortex structure and function,” Nature Reviews Neuroscience (2009). Lieberman et al., “Putting feelings into words,” Psychological Science (2007). Coan, Schaefer, and Davidson, “Lending a hand: Social regulation of the neural response to threat,” Psychological Science (2006). Balban et al., “Brief structured respiration practices enhance mood and reduce physiological arousal,” Cell Reports Medicine (2023).

Client stories have been changed to protect confidentiality while keeping what they teach.