There are moments when it feels like Mercury is in retrograde in the most disastrous of ways—even when Mercury isn’t actually in retrograde.

In these times, we—who are drawn to self-improvement, who practice the work—tend to question what we’re doing wrong, how we can be better, and what we should be doing more or less of in hopes of stopping the negativity we feel around us.

Our sense of security rests in understanding the world, and so much of what we understand is a result of our relationship to cause and effect, action and consequence.

Maybe, we think, if we meditate longer, affirm more, or behave better, we can avoid the effects of living under the laws of a dualistic planet. We think there must be a way to outsmart the ebb and hop right back into the flow—and that way usually starts with us “doing” or “being” something different.

We wonder what is so out of alignment with us that we can’t just get back into the flow when clearly, we see that it exists. We watch our friends float by on cushy inner tubes, with martinis in their hands, and manicured fingers that motion for us to come along, but we’re so stuck in the ebb, that it often feels easier to hate our friends for motioning to us from a distance than it would be to just swim out to where they’re at. It can feel impossible.

In these times, it feels like nothing makes sense. We fear this is the beginning of the end, and that we may plummet into a different reality than the one we want for ourselves and end up stuck there. We fear that the shadow we’re living under will become an ever-present umbrella of sh*ttyness, forevermore.

We think there must be something we can do to stop the train that feels like it’s primed for a wreck, to fix our lives when it feels like a Mercury Retrograde has hijacked them.

When it feels like we’ve done everything right, but we still end up somewhere that feels wrong, all we can do is stay the course—even when the terrain isn’t ideal for hiking and it’s deathly hot outside.

We need to trust that our highest source (whatever that is for each of us), has our best interest in mind, always. We may very well be attracting all of these “problems” into our lives—and let’s not downplay how terrifying they are when we’re in them—but when we get through them, we just might understand why they appeared in the first place, and that they have been of benefit to our growth.

If we can’t control what feels like Mercury Retrograde, we can control our inner universe. And the best way to do that is so simple, it’s annoying: presence.

It takes a lot of awareness to be present to the fact that when our lives feel like the carpet is being ripped out from under our feet, when we feel like we’ve fallen, we’re still standing, and that is the miracle.

Maybe, we don’t need to change anything. Maybe, this is just about exploring the ebb before we try to jump feet first into the flow. And maybe, once we do that, we’ll soon be the ones motioning to our friends to join us.

Being present requires us to not want to change anything, because it ensures that nothing needs changing. Just on the other side of what feels like darkness is our own fantastical ability to unfold toward the light. But the most important thing to remember is that sometimes, even in the flow, we get pummeled.

I flipped a kayak on white water once, and that flow gloriously kicked my ass. Maybe, just maybe, all of these “problems” don’t actually mean we’re out of the flow, but totally and completely in it.

Maybe it means the universe knows how to get us closer to our desires in the quickest way possible, on a path of least resistance, and that this seeming bullsh*t we are dealing with is somehow a part of that. Maybe we don’t need to “be” or “do” anything at all, except surrender and trust that the sooner we do so, the sooner we’ll return to calmer waters again.

Our highest selves know what to do. And when we find a way to get present with what is, trust becomes inevitable.

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Author: Stacy Hoch
Image: Atikh Bana/Unsplash
Editor: Nicole Cameron
Copy Editor: Catherine Monkman
Social Editor: Leah Sugerman