When the Cold Wind Blows.

It used to happen often. Something small, the kind of thing that, to anyone watching, would have registered as nothing, and then the cold would arrive. Like a weather system that had been waiting just outside the door, and someone had left it open a crack.

For a long time this was simply part of the texture of life. Then, slowly and without announcement, it stopped. Months passed, and then longer, and I had almost forgotten the particular quality of that feeling, its cold specificity, the way it moved through the body like something with intention.

And then one day there it was again.

Something small had happened. The kind of thing that once would have undone me for days. But this time, as the feeling arrived, I noticed something different beneath the familiar ache like a strange sense of readiness. As though my system had spent all this time quietly preparing, and had finally decided that now, here, the roots of this were ready to be held with reverence.

So I let it come. And I paid attention.

It began as it always had, that familiar feeling rising in the pit of my stomach. A cold, lowering sensation. Tightness in the chest. Sorrow. A mild panic that some essential connection had been lost. Rejection finding its cold way through my veins. The dimming of hope. Within minutes I had moved from a cosy place to somewhere that felt as though hope itself was a thing of the past.

I started to breathe. I ran a bath, added minerals, lit a candle. I sat with the feelings and breathed with them. I said out loud: I feel this rejection because I felt rejected. Then gently I asked myself the next question and what does that mean about you?

The answers came up fast. That I’m alone. That I’m not safe. That I might die. I paused there. Needing another person’s gaze to give me a reason to live is, I reflected, a big ask. It’s what a baby needs, but not me, not anymore.

I followed the thread. To need someone’s attention to feel okay. To only exist when I am in good relational standing. I noticed how I had placed my centre inside someone else’s. Gently, I invited it back to my own core.

And what does all of this mean? The answer came quietly: I am in charge of my own energy.

I thought, yes, it is sad when connection doesn’t land the way you hoped. That sadness is valid. It is okay to feel disappointed. But feeling sad is different from feeling as though I no longer exist.

I was staring at the candle. It stood there, a pole sending out light, moving slightly with the breeze of the room, but staying upright. Constant. I thought: I would like to be like the candle.

Other people have their own weather. Sometimes, from their own constriction, they can be cold or distant. There is a deep beauty in being a constant friend regardless.

To be so anchored that their weather does not affect my own light. If someone’s behaviour means I need some time away, that doesn’t negate the value of showing up when it is healthy to do so, present, not caught in their storm, not making them responsible for keeping my flame alive.

It feels more respectful, actually. To tend to my own light. To connect when I am genuinely called to. To be in presence with my own energy and to nourish from here.

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Note: Rejection sensitive dysphoria (RSD) is an intense emotional response to perceived or real rejection. It is commonly associated with ADHD and trauma. The self-inquiry practice described here is one personal approach and not a clinical recommendation.