Sometimes, I just stop.

Not because the day is over. Not because everything’s done. But because I’ve reached my limit. Sensory, emotional, existential—doesn’t matter which. My system throws a little internal breaker switch and suddenly it’s time.

Back in the box.

It’s not a literal box (though if you told me I could crawl into a softly lit, soundproofed cube lined with velvet and just breathe for a while, I’d ask where to sign). It’s more like a state. A surrender. A re-entry into the quietest version of myself.

Getting into the box is an art form. It starts with the arrangement. Pillows positioned with obsessive precision. A weighted blanket. A second, lighter blanket. Maybe one more, just for security. Every limb has its place. My neck supported just so. My legs stacked or splayed, whatever feels right that day. My arms tucked in close—but not too close. I need to feel held, not trapped. It can look like I’ve melted. Or like I’ve been staged for a photo in a missing-persons reenactment. But I assure you, I am home.

Back in the box is where I remember I exist outside of output.

My former career coach used to remind me, gently but firmly, “You don’t always need to do. Sometimes you just need to be.” It took me a long time to understand how radical that was for someone like me.

Because I can “do” all day. I can answer, perform, show up. But being? That takes effort. Stillness, softness, and full permission to exist without justification.

Sometimes I come out of the box feeling better. Sometimes I come out feeling like I need a second round. But either way, it’s mine.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about how kids sometimes believe their teachers live at school. That they don’t have lives outside the classroom. They just… turn off when we’re not there. As a child, seeing a teacher at the grocery store felt wrong. Like catching a ghost off-duty.

And honestly? I still get that way. If I see someone out of context. Someone I only know from one part of life, then showing up in another.. I don’t always recognize them. Even if I love them. Even if they’re my own brother. It’s like object permanence, but for humans.

But that’s another post.

For now? I’m boxed. Propped. Stilled. Status: stasis.

What’s your version of the box? How do you power down—fully or briefly—when your body says it’s time?