I was raised on a farm where responsibility came first. My father served as a Marine, exacting and steady, and my mother refused the limits of traditional Southern womanhood, forging her own path with quiet strength. Our days began before dawn, feeding horses and animals before we ever sat at the table ourselves. Winters called for breaking ice with numb fingers. Summers demanded cleaning humid stalls that made the air heavy with scent and sweat. Riding the horses brought joy, but that joy was shadowed by the hard work that preceded it.
In that rhythm of duty I learned early that the measure of worth was tied to output. I became adept at proving my value through stamina, through motion, through focus. That drive propelled me through leadership, through business, through growth. It felt reliable.
Hard work became and still is my superpower. I was raised with it, I relied on it, and for many years, it defined how I showed up. It came not just from the farm, but from being dyslexic. I had to work harder to keep up before I figured out how to work smarter. That extra grind became second nature, and I learned to trust it like a tool I could pull out whenever I needed results.
But every superpower has its kryptonite.
If I’m not careful, my drive can exhaust me and the people around me. Not everyone wants to go at my pace. Not everyone should. As a leader, I’ve had to learn to adjust, to be mindful of what I’m asking of others, and to pay attention to the impact of my own intensity.
I’ve also learned that my superpower isn’t the only power I have.
I can be still. I can be creative. I can listen. I can reflect. Those powers might be quieter, but they’re no less valuable.
Superman didn’t walk around in the cape every day. He showed up as Clark Kent most of the time. The cape only came out when it was needed. That’s how our gifts work too.
Stillness as Discipline
After decades of conditioned belief of hard work=worth, I found it nearly impossible to sit still and simply breathe. The discomfort was immediate. My mind would race. My body would tense. I had spent so many years in motion that stillness felt like weakness.
Through deep personal work, I began to understand that my best ideas, clearest strategies, and most aligned decisions often came when I stepped back, not when I pushed forward. Stillness began as something I thought I should try, but over time, it became something I learned to value.
The truth is, I still struggle with it.
There are days I sit down to be still and feel like I am failing. I fidget. I reach for my phone. I think about the next task. Stillness is not something I mastered. It is something I practice, often awkwardly, sometimes unsuccessfully. Yet each time I return to it, I uncover something essential.
Stillness is not a luxury. It is a skill. It is not a reward for when the work is done. It is a way of accessing the kind of clarity and creativity that constant motion can never deliver.
Science supports what felt intuitive. Periods of quiet activate brain states where experiences are integrated, memories consolidated, and creativity stirred. Research shows that silence triggers growth in the hippocampus in animal studies, a region vital for memory and learning. Intentional stillness engages the parasympathetic nervous system—lowering heart rate and cortisol, allowing the body to repair and recalibrate. Regular mindfulness practices are associated with improved cognitive flexibility and emotional regulation.
When I learned this, I realized I needed to prepare for my work differently. Not just by planning meetings or building agendas, but by preparing my own mindset. The same way an athlete warms up before the game, I began building rituals that helped me arrive mentally, not just physically. Athletes like Patrick Mahomes and J.J. McCarthy incorporate breathwork and meditation into their routines for example.
In a fast-paced world, stillness is what sharpens your edge. It is what allows you to pause before reacting, to see the full picture before deciding, and to lead from clarity rather than exhaustion.
Here are a few ways I’ve made stillness a realistic part of my life:
- I found that I needed to schedule downtime like I would schedule any other important meeting. Otherwise, it would not happen.
- I also had to figure out what actually helped me unwind, not what looked relaxing from the outside. For me, that meant keeping a stack of fiction and non-business books nearby, taking walks without headphones, and carving out time to be in nature with hiking.
- Meditation apps helped me transition out of stress mode. I found soundscapes and guided breathing tracks that I now use before presentations or strategy sessions. Breathwork became a practical tool I could use anywhere and YOU can too – before a meeting, on a plane, at your desk – to shift out of reaction and into focus.
- A cold plunge, though uncomfortable for the first thirty seconds, has become one of the most effective ways to reset my nervous system.
Stillness is not a concept you understand once and carry with you forever. It is a practice you return to, again and again. Some weeks you’ll get it right. Other weeks, you’ll forget entirely.
If you’re not sure where to begin, start small. This week, take a few minutes to explore the questions below. Write your answers down. Let them be messy. Let them be honest. The point is not to be perfect – the point is to make SPACE.
- What activities genuinely help me feel grounded, not just distracted or entertained, but settled?
- When during my day do I feel the most rushed or reactive? What would it look like to create a pause right before that?
- What am I afraid might happen if I stop moving, even briefly?
- What’s one thing I can say no to this week in order to protect my energy or attention?
- What does rest look like for me when I’m not trying to earn it?
I cannot wait to hear what comes from you giving yourself the gift of space.
-Beth
