Con Calma 🕊️
Con calma - Spanish for “with calm.” A reminder to move slowly, intentionally—without getting worked up, no matter what’s unfolding. To trust that you’ve got what it takes to navigate this challenge and every challenge thereafter.
As someone who was once wired for anxiety,
addicted to the highs and lows of life,
who self-soothed with alcohol (and later with self-work) for most of her twenties,
who wholeheartedly welcomed relationships that felt like a big firework going off—only to watch them fizzle in a matter of weeks or months.
Life is much calmer now. Though sometimes, when I’m out surfing with my local Nica friend and a big, dramatic wave is rolling in, he’ll catch the panic written all over my face.
Con calma, he might yell, smiling slyly.
Cálmate, he’ll tease, after I finally manage to paddle through the washing machine back to the lineup.
Tranquila, he assures me, once I’ve recovered from a wipeout, salt water pouring out of every orifice.
These are just a few of the ways laid-back Nicaraguans gently remind agitated gringas like me to stop following the capitalist monkey-mind script and sink into presence. They seem to carry this steady calm in their bones—passed down through ocean tides, thick humid air, and the quiet knowing that most things worth doing aren’t worth rushing.
In the past few weeks, I published my book.
A dream I’d carried for years—quietly, sometimes desperately—wondering if I’d ever be able to make it real. Being a published author always felt just out of reach, like something reserved for more charismatic and outgoing people. And then suddenly…it was here.
The feedback I received from my real (and chosen) family cracked my heart wide open.
After hitting publish, I initially felt an outpouring of gratitude—for everyone who helped me unfold, who encouraged me to keep writing, to keep showing up, to keep walking authentically.
To celebrate, I had a spontaneous solo dance session, with songs from different stages of my life playing in my earbuds. In addition to tears of gratitude, I shed layers of past identities.
I felt, for a moment, what I imagine it must feel like to give birth.
But now?
Now it feels like… nothing.
Last weekend, I signed the papers for my land.
Something I’ve wanted for years—land to call my own, to tend and nurture. A space where I can build my dream casita, plant fruit trees, and follow permaculture principles. All within a warmhearted community, just a short barefoot walk from the beach.
But again… nothing.
At first, I was worried.
Was I dissociating?
Had I built a life so comfortable that I couldn't even feel excitement anymore?
Had my baseline become blah?
Then I remembered: this is what a healthy nervous system feels like.
I wasn’t numbing. I wasn’t deflecting.
I was here and now—sober and wide-eyed.
Tuned into how deeply at ease I felt.
This decision wasn’t a high.
There were no fireworks. No pomp and circumstance.
Just a gentle knowing that this was the next best step. After a few weeks of searching, I found myself at a beachside café, my lawyer across from me, the previous landowner beside me, and a glass of fresh passionfruit juice in hand.
Con calma.
In a world that profits off our anxiety and keeps us hooked on craving, guilt, and hustle, I’ve chosen another path.
Life is simpler here.
My free time is spent in the hammock, blending batidos, or catching waves.
But sometimes, an old voice creeps in: You’re wasting time. You should be doing something more productive.
With my newly rewired nervous system and the space to pause, I can meet those thoughts as they arise and gently remind myself: I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.
Being is enough.
It’s okay to move more slowly.
It’s okay to live con calma.
In my book, I say I’ll always be exiting the matrix—not with one big leap, but with a hundred quiet choices made every day.
Sometimes it looks like hand-washing my underwear in a bucket. Or watching the sunset light up the sky with radiant oranges and pinks. Or curling up and taking a sweet afternoon nap when my eyelids get heavy.
This, too, is the work.
The work of softening, of slowing down, of choosing con calma instead of with drama.
Con calma. Always con calma.