Flow with, Not Against Yourself

“Everything and everyone at their own pace. Flow with, not against yourself.”
— Akiroq Brost

When I first read that quote, it felt beautiful — and unrealistic.

There was a time in my life when going at my own pace simply wasn’t available. Money was tight. I was in school, raising children, working full time. My days were built around responsibility — deadlines, bills, expectations, service, commitments. People depended on me. I depended on myself.

There wasn’t space to flow. There was only keep going.

I wasn’t trying to override myself. I was trying to build stability. To be dependable. To make it all work. Over twenty years ago I wrote in a blog, half joking and half desperate, that I needed six more hours in the day — one to work and five to play. Even then I could feel the strain of wanting to live fully while barely keeping up.

My body remembers that season clearly. The tight chest. The shallow breath. The jaw clenched even at night. I lived in a constant forward lean, scanning for what still needed to be done. I had always known anxiety, but during those years it felt amplified. Guilt whispered that I could do more. Shame quietly asked whether I was enough. My motto became “fake it till you make it,” and I often wondered if I would ever actually make it.

Pace wasn’t something I chose. It was dictated by circumstance. And I have compassion for that version of me now. She wasn’t striving because she was flawed. She was striving because she cared. Because she loved fiercely. Because slowing down didn’t feel safe. Survival sometimes requires forward motion.

Years later, during a quiet morning meditation painting before work, I painted a dragonfly hovering over a woman’s face after reading that quote again. I didn’t fully understand why it moved me, but something in my body softened as I painted.

A dragonfly spends most of its life underwater, growing in darkness and pressure, adapting to currents it does not control. It does not rush the sky. It forms slowly. It survives. That was my life for a long time — underwater, building strength and capacity. There is no shame in survival.

But survival leaves an imprint.

Even when circumstances change — when money steadies, children grow, responsibilities shift — the nervous system can remain braced. The rush becomes internal. The body still anticipates the next demand.

Intuition Painting® became a mirror for me. Standing at the canvas, I could feel the urgency in my brush. The need to get it right. The impulse to control the outcome. Even in art, I was rushing. Because the practice holds no critique and no performance, I could finally see how hard I was still pushing. Slowly, my breath began to deepen. My shoulders dropped. The brushstrokes softened. Painting became a rehearsal for living differently.

The dragonfly cannot rush its emergence. When it climbs from the water and unfolds its wings, it must rest. If it forces the process, it will not survive. There is wisdom in that pause.

Now, going at my own pace feels less like rebellion and more like recalibration. It is teaching my body that we are safe enough to soften. Self-compassion sounds like this: You did what you needed to do. You carried what you had to carry. You don’t have to keep bracing.

The dragonfly, once airborne, does not thrash through the air. It hovers. It glides. It moves with the current instead of against it. It has become a symbol in my paintings — transformation, adaptability, new beginnings. A reminder that life unfolds in seasons.

Everything and everyone at their own pace.

That includes the woman who had to run. And it includes the woman who is learning to hover.

That realization led me to create another song in collaboration with Suno called At My Own Pace — giving that lesson a voice. Listen here: At My Own Pace

Maybe what looked like force was formation. Maybe what felt like pressure was preparation. Maybe I wasn’t behind — I was underwater, growing wings.

Now that I’m in a new season of retirement, going at my own pace isn’t laziness — it’s integration. It’s wisdom earned from years of endurance, and a quiet trust that I can move through life without fighting myself to be enough.

Where are you still moving at a survival pace, even though your circumstances have changed?

What would it feel like to let your body set the rhythm now?

Flow with, not against yourself.

From my soul journey to yours,
Maria