The Quiet Space Where It All Makes Sense
- Julian x
- Oct 7
- 6 min read
“Sometimes the loudest truth is the one that arrives in a whisper.” – Julian Jenkins
We live in a world that equates movement with progress. Trish’s passing stopped me in my tracks and reminded me how fragile life is. Suddenly what seemed urgent faded, leaving only questions: How present am I with those I love? Am I living in alignment with what matters? This essay is a fireside reflection born out of those questions. It is a gentle sharing from my own notebooks on awakening, sensitivity, grief and work. My hope is that it feels like a conversation between friends on a night when the stars seem especially bright and the ordinary suddenly feels sacred.
Awakening as remembering
My spiritual journey began not in a temple but at my kitchen table. One ordinary morning, as the refrigerator hummed and the sun rose, a single sentence landed in my awareness: “You are already what you seek.” I laughed and cried because I realised I had been striving to become something I already was. The years of reading, meditating and seeking weren’t wasted; they prepared me to hear that truth. Awakening, I began to see, is less about adding more and more knowledge and more about peeling away what isn’t true. When someone you care about crosses over, that peeling feels urgent.
Old journal entries confirmed this. In one from ten years earlier I’d scribbled, “The soul doesn’t shout; it points.” At the time it felt like poetry. Later it became instruction. The process of awakening isn’t a linear climb to a final destination; it’s an ongoing remembering of your inherent worth. It happens in kitchens, gardens and quiet car rides, often when you aren’t trying. Practices such as meditation matter because they till the soil, but the seed of insight tends to sprout when you soften rather than when you struggle. As I once wrote in a draft memoir: “Transformation happens on the in‑breath, not in the fight.” When you lose someone, the desire to hold on tight is natural, yet paradoxically it’s in softening that healing enters.
Sensitivity as a sacred instrument
From a young age I felt everything. A stranger’s sadness at the grocery store could linger in my chest for days. Growing up, this openness was labelled “too sensitive.” The world encourages thick skin, not porous hearts, so I learned to distract myself from my feelings with busyness. But numbing sensitivity is like dimming the lights in your house: you may see less of the mess, but you also lose the beauty. Trish’s passing reminded me that the capacity to feel is a gift, even if it hurts. In my book notes I wrote: “Your sensitivity is not a defect; it’s the instrument through which Spirit plays its music.” That line cracked something open in me. Seeing my sensitivity as a finely tuned instrument rather than a flaw gave me permission to stop apologising for it.
Honouring this instrument requires boundaries. Not rigid walls that block everyone out, but conscious choices about where I place my attention. A simple exercise that helps is the Golden Shell. I close my eyes, imagine a soft, luminous shell around my body and affirm: “I choose what enters my field.” This visual anchors me in my own energy and reminds me that I can be compassionate without absorbing everyone’s pain. As I wrote in my workshop notes: “Boundaries aren’t about keeping the world out; they’re about letting yourself fully in.” When you are fully inside your own field, your sensitivity becomes a sacred instrument rather than an open wound.
Triggers as teachers
No amount of practice eliminates triggers. Even after decades of meditation, I still get snagged by envy, anger and sadness. A line from an old diary reminds me: “Triggers show you where you are unfree.” Those uncomfortable reactions are mirrors, not verdicts. They reveal hidden beliefs and unmet needs, inviting us to heal rather than to blame.
The rhythm of expansion, contraction and pause
Spiritual growth moves in cycles. Inspiration flows in like a tide, then recedes so you can rest and integrate. Grief introduces a deeper rhythm – a pause that is neither expansion nor contraction but the space between breaths.
I often tell students to think of their journey like breathing. The in‑breath represents expansion – taking in new ideas, feeling connected. The out‑breath is contraction – letting go and integrating. Between them there is a pause. You cannot inhale indefinitely. So when you hit a lull, instead of panicking, ask yourself: “What am I integrating?” Often your system is digesting the insights from your last expansion. Pausing keeps you from pushing yourself into burnout and allows clarity to arise naturally. As a line in my journal reads: “Trust the pause between the exhale and the next inhale.” When you’re grieving, allow yourself to stay in that pause. There is wisdom in the stillness; forcing yourself to move too soon can fracture the healing process.
Navigating loss and remembering what matters
Losing someone you love, even if you never met them in person, breaks open your heart. When I heard about Trish’s passing, I realised how much of our friendship had been built on messages, comments and the occasional video call. I regret not sending that one voice note I thought of and putting off our last virtual coffee because of a deadline. These regrets aren’t meant to shame; they remind me to be more present. In a journal entry I wrote: “If today were my last day, what would I prioritise? Who would I reach out to? What would I let drop?”
Reflection in the face of loss doesn’t mean wallowing; it means using grief as a compass. Ask yourself: What relationships need tending? Are you postponing joy for some future milestone? What would it look like to live as if time were precious rather than infinite? None of us can control when our loved ones leave. But we can control how deeply we show up while they’re here. We can choose to send the voice note, schedule the call, write the letter and take the walk. When we do, we light up the dark corners of our lives with connection and presence.
Work as a spiritual path
People often think spirituality and money don’t mix, but I see business as a channel for blessing. Charging fairly for your gifts allows you to sustain and expand your impact, and giving generously keeps the energy moving. This is not about greed; it’s about balanced exchange and letting resources circulate so everyone benefits.
Gentle practices for reflection and integration
Insight only matters if it takes root in daily life. Here are a handful of simple practices I return to again and again. They are particularly helpful when navigating grief and rediscovering what matters.
Daily listening. Spend a few minutes each day sitting quietly. Ask your heart, “What truth is whispering to me today?” Let words or sensations emerge, and note them down.
Heart touch. When overwhelm strikes, place your hand over your heart and take three slow breaths. Silently affirm, “My sensitivity is my strength.”
Letter of gratitude. Once a week, write a short note or send a voice message to someone you appreciate. Acknowledge what you love about them. Don’t wait for a special occasion; let them know now.
Trigger journal. Keep a list of situations that evoke a strong reaction. For each, note what happened, how you felt and the underlying story. Approach yourself with curiosity.
Tidal check‑in. At the end of each week, ask whether you are in expansion, contraction, pause or grief. Align your activities accordingly: create during expansion, rest during contraction, trust the pause and allow grief to be without forcing it away.
Worthiness affirmation. Every morning, look in the mirror and say, “I am worthy of all that supports my growth.”
Closing thoughts
Awakening isn’t reserved for saints; it’s available in the mundane moments of life and in the achingly tender moments of loss. It’s not a badge to earn but a remembering of what you already are. Sensitivity, far from being a weakness, is the instrument that lets you sense truth. Triggers aren’t failures; they are invitations. The ebb and flow of your journey are not signs of regression but part of a larger rhythm. And your work, when aligned with your values, can become a spiritual practice in itself.
The news of Trish’s passing served as a mirror, reminding me that none of us are promised more time. At the beginning I wrote: “Sometimes the loudest truth is the one that arrives in a whisper.” My hope is that you make enough space in your days to hear those whispers before they become shouts. When they arrive, may you trust them even if they ask you to slow down, set a boundary, examine a belief or reach out to someone now rather than later. The more you listen and act on what you hear, the more you realise that the peace and connection you’ve been seeking have been whispering inside you all along.
Very eloquent and touching. Deep calls to deep. Thank you, Julian. May your grief pass quickly to wisdom. 🤗