When Thoughts Race Like Sticky Notes in the Wind: Finding Ground in Uncertain Times

Before we begin, I want to offer you something: a soft invitation to stay with me.

What follows isn’t a single, polished story. It’s a constellation of thoughts—some tangled, some tender—that have been swirling in my mind like sticky notes caught in the wind. They jump from anxiety to memory, from preparation to pain, from grief to grounding. They may seem scattered, but they all belong. Each one holds a piece of something truer than what linear language can offer.

So if you find yourself wondering where this is going, or why I shift from money fears to rosemary sprigs to Jill Scott’s “Golden”—trust that you’re not lost. You’re in the middle of it with me. This is what it looks like to make meaning when the world feels like too much.

Now, let’s begin.

My mind lately feels like a storm of sticky notes caught in a gale, thoughts swirling so fast I can barely grasp one before it’s torn away by another. Maybe you know this feeling too? That moment when worry about the state of the world collides with next month’s mortgage, then jumps to that sharp twinge in your shoulder, only to circle back to the headline that set your nervous system off hours ago.

I sit down to meditate, only to discover how unruly my thoughts have become, like wild horses running in every direction. Some mornings, I can’t hold attention on my breath for more than three seconds before my mind kidnaps me into another spiraling “what if.”

Is this just me? Or is this something we’re all moving through together?

I suspect it’s the latter. Our brains weren’t designed to process this much information, this much uncertainty, this much collective unrest. Yet here we are, trying to navigate life with nervous systems stretched taut, bouncing between personal stress and global crisis without pause.

So, I won’t pretend I’ve mastered serenity. What I can offer is the honest texture of my thoughts, these sticky notes flying through my consciousness, and the simple, imperfect practices that sometimes help me gather them into something resembling coherence. Because underneath it all, I keep hearing a single question rising: How do we keep our hearts open when the ground beneath us keeps shifting

The Daily Practice of Grounding

Most mornings, I wake already mid-sprint. Before my eyes even open, my mind has begun cataloging what might go wrong today, what nearly went wrong yesterday, and what could go terribly wrong next year. My breath shortens. My chest tightens. I hate this feeling.

I’ve tried the apps, the breathwork, and the gratitude journals. Sometimes they help. Often they feel like just one more thing I’m not doing well enough. But one practice I return to, when I remember, is placing my hands on my heart and simply feeling it beat. My heart doesn’t care about politics or pandemics. It just beats. That rhythm reminds me that beneath the noise, something steady continues.

Last week, during an anxious spiral, I found myself absentmindedly picking rosemary from the pot on my windowsill. The scent, sharp and earthy, cut through the static. I took my first full breath in hours. Since then, I’ve been noticing what helps me return to my body: the solid weight of my favorite mug. The sound of rain. Cold water on my face.

They’re not revolutionary, just small returns when everything else feels like departure. On hard days, I need these moments dozens of times. I used to see that as failure. Now, I see each return as a victory. Five seconds of presence is still presence.

I’ve started meeting with a small circle of friends, just to breathe together. No performance, no pretending. Just truth. When I admitted how scared I was about the world’s direction, I saw that same fear reflected in their eyes. There’s a grounding that comes from being witnessed—fully, messily, lovingly.

Preparing Without Knowing What For

One sticky note keeps returning: Prepare. But for what?

Some days, I find myself counting cans of beans like they’re talismans. Other days, I’m pricing out solar generators I can’t afford. Is it preparation? Or anxiety with a to-do list?

What helps me distinguish the two is intention. When I move from fear, everything feels frantic. But when I move from care, when I plant vegetables, when I bake bread, when I learn to tend to the essentials of daily life, it feels different. I think of my grandmother’s hands, dusted in flour, kneading dough on the kitchen table with a kind of reverence. She wove love and quiet magic into each loaf, feeding more than just bodies, but hearts too. I remember the way she spoke gently to her orchid plants, coaxing them to bloom again and again, and how the house always felt clean, welcoming, and deeply alive. She moved through her days with a soft devotion, folding laundry, wiping counters, humming to herself, all small rituals that transformed a space into sanctuary. She never called it healing, but that’s exactly what it was. I didn’t see it then. Now, I do.

These small acts of care extend beyond crisis. Planting a tree I may never sit under connects me to something larger than this moment. It’s not about doomsday prepping, it’s about ancestral rhythm. It's about rooting in a future where I trust life will still unfold.

Financial Uncertainty and Spiritual Trust

If there’s a sticky note that flies most often through my mental storm, it’s the one labeled money.

Last night, I woke at 2 a.m. calculating how long my savings might last. By 3 a.m., I was mentally selling possessions I don’t even own. The shame spiral wasn’t far behind, how am I still here, still not “stable”?

There’s a particular ache that financial fear brings—tightness in the chest, a fluttering under the ribs. Spiritual platitudes about abundance often ring hollow in the face of real bills. Yet some part of me keeps reaching for a wider lens.

What’s helped most? Small, practical shifts. I give myself twenty-minute windows to look at money stuff. Then I try (and fail, and try again) to let it go until the next session.

I’ve also been examining my inherited money stories. When I overstock groceries or underinvest in myself, I ask: Is this wisdom or unhealed fear?

Each time I’ve hit a financial edge, something has shifted, never dramatically, but enough to move forward. A new client. An unexpected gift. A reminder that clarity lives on the other side of constriction.

Sometimes, what I need most isn’t more money, it’s more meaning. More breath. More belonging. I have to remember that.

Embodied Wisdom in a Dysregulated World

My body speaks loudly when I don’t listen.

When the news hits too hard, or I push too long, my fibromyalgia flares. My skin hurts. Light hurts. Thinking hurts. It’s my body’s way of saying, you’ve reached capacity.

I used to see this as weakness. Now I understand it as wisdom.

Pain demands presence. It’s unfiltered truth. When my shoulders tense while reading headlines, that’s data. When my digestion unravels after a hard conversation, that’s feedback. The challenge is knowing: Is this intuition or old trauma?

Lately, when my system is in overdrive, I ask: What is this sensation trying to protect me from? What does it need to feel safe?

Sometimes the answer is water. Or a nap. Other times, it’s deeper, an invitation to reevaluate how I’m spending my energy, to reclaim time for what truly nourishes me, or to step away from spaces that no longer feel aligned.

I've learned that practices like cold water on my skin, gentle movement, and humming can bring my body back. They’re not a cure, but they’re a way home.

And perhaps most radical of all is rest. Not exhaustion. Not collapse. But true rest. Receptive rest. The kind that says, “I am still worthy even when I do nothing.”

The Courage to Shift When Called

Something in me has been calling for change. I can’t name it yet, but it’s there, a pull toward new expressions of my work, a reimagining of how I show up in the world.

Each time that sticky note appears, change something big, it’s quickly blown away by doubt: What if it fails? What if no one follows?

I don’t have a grand plan. What I do have is a story. A dream I had recently: I was standing at the edge of a foggy valley, afraid to cross. An old woman appeared, handed me a stone, and said, “Just place this one step ahead. Then move to it.”

That dream has stayed with me.

So, I’m experimenting. Speaking “as if” my voice matters. Creating “as if” the world needs what I carry. Sometimes, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t. But the act of trying is where the shift begins.

This in-between space—no longer who I was, not yet who I’m becoming—is uncomfortable. But it’s where real transformation lives.

Everyday Peace as a Radical Practice

Of all the sticky notes, the one marked find peace now feels both most essential and most elusive.

After reading a particularly heavy headline, I paused. Instead of spiraling, I took three conscious breaths. They didn’t fix the world. But they shifted me.

Peace isn’t about ignoring reality. It’s about meeting it from a grounded place. Sometimes peace is five minutes on earth. Sometimes it’s logging off. Sometimes it’s saying “no” even when the guilt screams “yes.”

Peace, for me, is also about intention online. Before posting, I ask: Will this bring connection or more division? I fail at this often. But the pause matters.

I’ve also learned: Peace grows in community. When I sit in silence with others, even for ten minutes, something settles. Alone, I spiral. Together, we regulate.

Living Like It's Golden

As I gather these swirling thoughts, I see their deeper thread: How do I live with an open heart in a world that keeps trying to close it?

This isn't just a story of anxiety. It's a story of resilience. Of returning. Of remembering.

And in moments of doubt, I think of Jill Scott’s luminous anthem, “Golden.” I play it when I forget who I am. Not to bypass reality, but to remember what’s still true: I get to live my life like it’s golden. Not because everything is easy, but because something sacred still lives inside me. Inside us.

Maybe our task is not to control the storm, but to gather the flying sticky notes and see the larger story they tell. A story of humanity. Of breath. Of beauty. Of becoming.

I don’t know what the coming months will bring. None of us do. But I do know this: we are more resilient together than apart. And in the sharing of our real, imperfect, unfinished stories, we remember we are not alone.

So I’ll keep placing my hands on my heart each morning. I’ll keep breathing. I’ll keep stumbling forward. And I’ll keep living as if this life—messy and tender and holy—is still golden.

With an open heart and steady feet,

Lisa