Dear Beautiful Soul,

I've been quiet. And I need to tell you why.

I've been living in the StillPoint for months now. Not the peaceful, Instagram-worthy kind of stillness. The kind that comes when life cracks you open so completely that all you can do is stop.

This year has brought my family through things I can't even put into words yet. The kind of things that make you question everything you thought you knew about strength, about faith, about how much a heart can hold.

I've been living in that strange, sacred space where you're still enough to hear your own thoughts screaming… and somehow, mysteriously, still enough to feel the quiet truth of your soul underneath it all.

Some of you know this place.

It's where you go when the phone rings at 2 AM and changes everything. It's where you live when you're holding someone you love through something unbearable. It's where you find yourself when life stops asking what you want and starts showing you what you're made of.

I used to think the StillPoint was a choice.

A spiritual practice.

A gentle pause between breaths.

Now I know sometimes it's the only place left to go. Sometimes it's not a practice—it's survival.

Here's what I've learned in this involuntary stillness:

When everything external falls away—when you can't perform or produce or pretend—something essential remains. Something that doesn't need you to be okay. Something that can hold you while you're not.

I had planned to launch The StillPoint Sanctuary this summer. Had it all mapped out. The irony isn't lost on me—there I was, planning to teach about sacred pauses while life was forcing me into the deepest pause of my life.

So I stopped. Not out of wisdom, but out of necessity. Not from spiritual enlightenment, but from the simple truth that I had nothing left to force.

And in that stopping, something unexpected happened.

I remembered why I do this work. Not to have all the answers. Not to be the teacher who has it all together. But to be honest about the messy, brutal, beautiful truth of being human.

To say: Yes, life will bring you to your knees. And yes, there's something sacred waiting for you there.

So here's what I want to offer you:

Not the Sanctuary—not yet. I'm not ready, and I won't pretend to be.

Instead, I want to share what's been holding me together: The simple ritual of Sunday. One day a week when I write to you from wherever I really am. Not where I think I should be.

The Soulful Sunday Subscription has been my lifeline for over a year now. The one commitment I've been able to keep, even when keeping it meant writing through tears. Even when all I had to offer was my own questions.

When you join, you receive:

• A weekly love letter every Sunday—stories, reflections, and gentle practices to help you exhale and come back to yourself
• Instant access to the ENTIRE archive on Substack—over 60 past issues
• A year's worth of journal prompts, rituals, meditations, and soul-care practices
• Real stories from my real life, including the messy middle parts
• A consistent rhythm of remembering who you are beneath everything else

Think about it—that's over 60 weeks of soul companionship, waiting for you right now. Each issue following the SoulShift framework: recognize, reflect, release, rewrite, reclaim. It's like having a trusted friend who shows up every week, no matter what.

[Join me in the Soulful Sunday rhythm]

Just $11/month. Less than your coffee run, but maybe the very thing that helps you remember you're not alone in the deep waters.

But even if you don't join, I need you to know:

If you're reading this from your own involuntary StillPoint… If you're holding more than you ever thought you could… If you're still enough to hear the chaos and quiet all at once…

You're not broken. You're becoming. You're not failing. You're being forged. You're not alone. We're all out here, finding our way through.

Thank you for still being here after my silence. Thank you for being the kind of people who understand that sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is simply survive another day.

The Sanctuary will come when it's meant to. When I can build it from solid ground instead of shaking hands.

For now, let's just be real together. Let's stop pretending everything is fine. Let's find the sacred in simply showing up.

With raw honesty and so much love,

Charity 💜

P.S. If you're in your own impossible season, hit reply. You don't have to tell me the details. Just say "me too." Sometimes the most healing thing is knowing someone else is out there, awake at 3 AM, learning what it means to be still when stillness is all that's left.

P.P.S. Seriously, go check out the archive when you join. Some of my favorites are the ones I wrote in the middle of the night, when the only thing I could offer was the truth. Those might be exactly what you need right now.