🌱 Seedlings No. 2: A Practice in Expansion and Contraction

Uma Mishra

14 Sep 2025 — 5 min read

It has taken me two full days to recover from being in a space with at least 200 people for a few days. Some of whom I knew, many of whom I did not.

My day-to-day life is intentionally quiet. As a single parent, my energies go into my work, providing, parenting, worrying, soothing, being present for, and creating in small, consistent ways. I don't really go out - I tried it a while ago. Not for me. Candles, books, my thick robe and wool socks are where I find my peace.

For us introverts, after an intense conference space such as the one this past week that I attended, it can take days to feel fully ready to face the world again—sometimes even longer. But I was glad to go, because I needed to be in a space again to remind myself that I can take up space. If there were a theme to these past few months, for me it would be: letting the vibration of my voice, brainwaves, and physical movement inhabit every cell of my body—being embodied through it all.

So for this Seedlings practice, my short list is around how we gather ourselves so we can move through these spaces of expansion and contraction, how we can be in the flow, without sinking into the stuckness that sometimes appears when you feel wiped out (which has its purpose too).

🌱 Schedule a call a few days into your introverted contraction with a friend who you can put in your headphones for, and who will keep you company until you manage to peel yourself off the couch. I had a conversation with a dear friend yesterday for a few hours. I finally got off the sofa thirty minutes in and walked around my apartment tidying up and chatting. It was so needed, and I was grateful not to be alone the whole time.

🌱 Freeze your leftovers. When that introverted contraction hits hard, you have a whole meal you can reheat without needing to cook.

🌱 Move—even just a little. Wiggle your fingers, wiggle your toes. Rub your hands together and place your palms on your face. Feel the heat seep through your skin and relax your shoulders as you let the warmth settle. Wear woolly socks and all the layers—listen, I do not care if I look like a snowball indoors. There is something freeing about dancing around in your apartment with a bathrobe, sweatpants, and socks.

🌱 Hum or sing. For those of us who live alone—or with our kids, pets, or plants—our voices do not come out as much. If you do not want to hear your voice, hum your favorite song. Play it and sing along. Releasing your vocal cords, even a little bit, does wonders for your nervous system. Screaming is welcome too, because this world is too much and sometimes our bodies need us to let it out.

What is helping you move through the stuckness and find your flow?

With love,

Uma

A few other seeds to listen, read, or move through in the weeks ahead:

🌱 Live for You - Thee Sacred Souls

Stunning, always.

🌱 ...How do I tell the truth while I'm Alive? - Alexander Chee

This from Alexander Chee...because this is our work - how do I tell the truth while I'm Alive...and then do it over, and over, and over again.

So maybe one answer to how to write now is to teach yourself what you might need to be relentless. To ask yourself how do I tell the truth while I’m alive, and how do I keep telling the truth after I die? How do I keep showing up for what I believe in in ways that cannot be stopped? How can I keep making people feel possible? And so I try every day to live there until the day my books carry on without me.

🌱 36 Lessons from Joy - Alex Elle

Joy doesn’t need a perfect moment to arrive—it finds me in the mess and invites me to breathe anyway.
My softness is not up for debate—it is my rebellion, my strength, my home.
Choosing myself is a joyful practice, even when it disappoints others.
Peace is not passive—it’s a boundary I protect fiercely.
Laughter that rises from my belly, unplanned and unstoppable, reminds me I’m still alive.
Allowing myself to feel good without guilt is part of the healing process.
I don’t have to shrink my joy to fit into other people’s comfort zones.
Rest is not a reward for productivity—it’s a prerequisite for clarity.
I’m allowed to redefine what feels good, even if it used to be someone else’s dream.
Being seen in my wholeness—grief, grit, grace—is one of the most joyful experiences I’ve known.
Slowness is where I meet myself again.
When I stop micromanaging my healing, joy finds its way in.
The more honest I am, the more alive I feel.
I don’t need an audience to feel full—my own presence is enough.
My joy doesn’t make me fragile—it makes me brave.
Joy taught me to notice the sunlight on my skin like it was a blessing.
I am not too much for the people meant to love me.
Boundaries are a form of joy insurance.
I can grieve what was and still dance in what is.
Some days joy is loud; other days, it’s a whisper I have to get quiet enough to hear.
My joy doesn’t cancel out my pain—it carries me through it.
Pleasure isn’t a luxury—it’s a legacy.
Not everything tender has to be turned into content—some things are just for me.
Laughing with my children has healed parts of me that therapy couldn’t touch.
Protecting my peace has cost me people—and I’d still do it again.
I no longer confuse being needed with being loved.
Emotional safety is where joy settles in and stays for a while.
I can be soft and discerning at the same time.
I’ve learned to trust stillness as deeply as I trust momentum.
Sometimes joy shows up as clarity—knowing when to leave, when to stay, when to say nothing at all.
I don’t have to earn ease.
Joy is sacred—and I am worthy of sacred things.
I am allowed to evolve beyond the stories others have told about me.
Reclaiming my joy is a way of telling my inner child, 'We made it.'
I am not a burden for needing more.
My joy is mine—and I will not apologize for it anymore.