The Exhale: Being Seen In Rest

There are times when the daily movement that keeps us busy becomes a way to avoid being fully present. It is not that we do not know stillness or rest, but that there are seasons when the Lord invites us into a deeper place of being seen.

I have been noticing how easily faithful activity can keep me moving just enough to avoid staying still with what love wants to touch. Not because rest is unfamiliar, but because movement can soften the edge of presence. Stillness removes distraction, and with it, our coverings.

There are places in the heart that only surface when momentum slows. Those places do not need fixing. They need to be met.

We live in a culture that quietly resists stillness. Even seasons set aside for rest, like the Christmas and New Year period, can feel unproductive if they are not filled with plans, events, or purpose. There is an unspoken pressure to stay connected, involved, and visible. Our fear of missing out keeps us reaching outward, when what our bodies, souls, and spirits are longing for is safety in stillness.

Neuroscience tells us that when the brain is not constantly stimulated, it enters a state that allows for reflection, emotional processing, and integration. What we often label as boredom is not wasted space. It gives the nervous system room to recalibrate and settle what has been happening beneath the surface. There are things that cannot be processed while we are continually engaged.

There is a spiritual parallel here. Rest, in the way we are talking about it, becomes a kind of relational recalibration with the Lord. Not prayer with an outcome. Not listening for direction. Not heart work with an aim. Simply being with Him.

It is reconnecting without purpose in mind. Sitting in His presence without needing something to happen. Allowing ourselves to be seen without explanation, productivity, or insight. At times, this can feel uncomfortable. Not because something is wrong, but because we are learning to remain without movement or meaning.

There is also a quiet discernment that often comes with seasons like this. All things may be permissible, but not all things are of value. Not all things feed the soul. Not all things allow the body to exhale.

As one year turns into another, we are often encouraged to ask what worked, what was productive, what moved us forward. I find myself drawn to different questions. What nourished me? What allowed my shoulders to drop? What made space for my spirit to breathe? What let everything fall for a moment without guilt or explanation?

For me, this past year has been both incredibly hard and profoundly beautiful. It has been a year of deep change, of heartbreak and new beginnings, of faith being stretched and familiar structures being undone. I am not the same person I was at the start of the year, and I could not have predicted the road that brought me here. In many ways, it has reminded me how little we actually control, and how much we are invited to trust.

There is something both freeing and confronting about laying down not only the expectations placed on us by the world, but the ones we quietly place on ourselves. The pressure to be more. To do more. To hold it all together. To be acceptable. To be impressive. To be strong.

The Father does not relate to us that way. He does not expect us to perform in order to be loved.

We change, yes, because change is part of being human. But we are not transformed by effort. We are changed by where we rest. By what we allow to fill us. By our willingness to stop and allow ourselves to be seen.

And perhaps that is the hardest part. Not the stopping, but the being seen.

We spend so much of our lives shaping ourselves into versions we believe will be more acceptable. Even when we long to be known and loved as we are, we shrink back. We justify. We perform. We keep the masks in place.

But learning to stay still with the Lord, long enough to be seen by Him, changes something in us. As we grow comfortable being seen by the One who never turns us away, who already knows us more fully than we know ourselves, we begin to learn how to be seen by others. Not by everyone, but by those who can be trusted with our hearts.

This is where the mask begins to fall. Where the risk of being known no longer feels unbearable. Where loving ourselves becomes possible, because we are already held in love.

Because our journey of faith is one of growing trust, learning to sit with the Lord without expectation or agenda increases our capacity to trust Him. Trust is not built through striving, but through remaining. The Father longs for us to abide.

Abiding is simply coming.

Sitting.

Being.

As we learn to stay with Him without needing anything from the moment, our trust deepens naturally. Not because we have achieved rest, but because we have allowed ourselves to be held.

Sometimes faith does not look like movement. It looks like remaining. Remaining present with God when everything in us wants to interpret, resolve, or move forward. Remaining long enough for love to reach what activity never could.

This kind of rest does not lead first to clarity. It leads to safety. And safety is what allows the deeper places to soften.

If rest has felt harder lately, it may be because the invitation has shifted. What if rest is no longer about stopping long enough to recover, but about staying long enough to be met?

There is no pressure to arrive here.

No requirement to resolve.

Only an invitation to remain.