If no one could see your biggest strength, would you keep working at it?
Published about 13 hours ago • 5 min read
Say No With Love Letters
If no one could see your biggest strength, would you keep working at it?
Just me (2 summers ago), side-planking in the corn field, nothing to see here! haha
During last weekend's "get unstuck" clarity sessions with my writers, I felt a part of myself heal. Now, if you know me, you know "heal, healing, healed" aren't words I use lightly ( I think I used them all together in one line of a stanza, in the middle of a poem I wrote and published 10 years ago lol). But in this context, waking up the next day without an ache I carried for 20 plus years, made it feel appropriate.
You've likely heard the phrase (or read the book?) The Body Keeps the Score. I haven't read it myself, but I do understand that when something in your life goes unattended, it manifests in the body. It shows up. It's sneaky too, it may even disguise itself so you don't immediately push it away. The body taps you on the shoulder in various ways, at different volumes, varying intensities.
In my youth, I was into track & field. Just typing that feels foreign now, as it's been decades since I've thought about it. Chelene into sports? What? But it wasn't just the sport itself that captivated me; it was the speed, the quickness—the idea that I could swiftly reach a destination and look back to see how far I'd come. I was in competition with myself, but everyone watching could see my speed as strength. My strength witnessed, validated.
This weekend
Any time a spasm pulsed up and down my leg or a muscle tensed, I pushed through. "Push through the pain, just a few more meters," I'd tell myself. For the last twenty years, I sprinted through pain until my body stopped tapping me—I didn't feel it anymore. Not going to lie, this scared the heck outta me. Resilience is not always a good thing, but more on that later.
In the beautiful "get unstuck" session, we explored many topics, but one thing I shared was the strength of my core. I joked with the group that I could challenge any of them to a plank-off! I start my mornings with planks—I even take it outside and do nature planks. I remember challenging my brother to a plank-off years back and someone in the room shouted out to him "I hope you know she can hold those for a long time!" We all laughed.
You wouldn't know by looking at me, but I could hold a plank for three minutes without flinching. Over the years it's become an invisible strength that quietly builds, for the most part completely unseen by others.
If you possessed a strength, whether literal or metaphorical, would it matter if no one recognized it right away?
Reflecting on this, I realize in this strength, I find stillness. I'm not sprinting forward as fast as I can anymore. I can't turn around and see my footprints. But holding this position requires every single muscle in my body to show up, to work together. With this core strength, which supports every other muscle I want to build, everything else feels within reach. Everything else is possible. Whether the "everything else" happens or not, nothing is fixed in place.
In the session I also shared how, alongside my strong core, there's a forever ache in my knee that makes even the simplest movements difficult. Daily life feels harder. When I get out of my office chair I wince. When I get up out of chair during a panel, I hope no one notices it takes me a few minutes to stand up straight. When I drop something and have to bend to pick it up I grieve. It's small in comparison to big trauma-centred work I've done, but it's there. And it's often the small bits we ignore for too long. What are the small bit connected to?
We all have something we want to work on, but we rarely consider what it's connected to. What needs to happen first? No one, not even the publishing industry, gets to dictate where we start.
Over the years, I transitioned from a track runner to a cross-country endurance runner. I do the work I choose to do, listening to my body and caring for it differently each season. But most importantly I put myself in spaces where I can share my strengths and acknowledge my aches.
When you allow yourself to embrace slow stillness and release the ingrained need to rush, you may wake up with less of that bone-deep ache you've carried for over twenty years. It may be fleeting, but you'll notice it—the subtle relief that comes with a cracked-open window, where the breeze begins to seep in.
The body listens. The body speaks. Lately, I've been saying yes to myself—often. And yes, that also means I've said no, repeatedly. But we must learn to connect this practice to our heart work, our writing, our creativity. There is no one way to do this. Let me say that again for the folks in the back: There is no ONE way to write. Whether you are writing to publish, or simply using writing as a tool, if you skip looking at yourself in all your kaleidoscope glory, what will it keep you from doing next?
Signing books and yeah, my knees were hurting just sitting here lol
If you haven't yet read my book Let It Go: Free Yourself from Old Beliefs and Find a New Path to Joy, published by HarperCollins Canada in 2024, I’m currently developing a workshop series that will help creatives move through this self-work in seasons. Letting go isn’t quick work—it’s an individual process. If you haven’t read the book, I encourage you to pick up a copy. And if you’ve already read it and are interested in the upcoming workshop series for 2026, let me know—I’m in collection mode and preparing to show up loud next year. My core work has prepared me, y'all!
Inspired by the seasonal framework of Let It Go, this workshop invites you on a reflective, heart-centered journey of unlearning, self-trust, and joyful reimagining. Built around the book’s four seasonal pillars—planting seeds (spring), releasing what no longer serves (summer), establishing non-negotiables (fall), and building your dream life (winter)—this series offers a space to connect with yourself and others in a grounded, restorative way.
As I mentioned in my last letter, I am letting go of something that has quietly followed me around for more than 20 years, an ache so much bigger than anything that can hide inside a knee. So when I say slow, deep ache, I'm not kidding!
This Week's Reflection Question: What invisible strength are you building that’s ready to be seen? How will you use it?
After answering the reflection question, revisit what you wrote. Is there a single line—just one—that surprised you? Maybe it stirred something. Maybe it made you pause. Copy that line out. Sit with it. If you feel called, I’d love to see it. Hit reply and share it with me.
See you next week!
with love, Chelene
Founder, Breathing Space Creative
Want to explore more of my work? I offer bespoke writing mentorships, creative support calls, and free creative resources through my studio. But for now, just take what you need. I’ll be here.
