Regulating Practice: Creating A Simple Ritual To Bring Us Back To Ourselves

Introducing our nervous system to a sense of safety

and the present moment while experiencing hyper-vigilance

Wherever you may be in the world, the seasons are shifting. I’m in the Northeast, and I’ve been watching Spring arrive slowly—the air is warming, daffodils are pushing up through last fall’s leaves, patches of color returning before the grass has fully turned green. The birds that were gone all winter are starting to come back to the feeders.

There is rebirth and new growth all around. We hear how uplifting this season can be, yet at the same time, these reminders of renewal don’t always land that way for everyone. Sometimes they can bring up something else entirely—a quiet grief, a sense of distance, or the feeling that the world is moving forward while something in us is still catching up.

We live in a world that can acknowledge hardship but rarely slows down for it. That can leave us feeling separate from the lightness that seems to come more easily to others. It’s easy to feel alone in that. Yet healing from trauma and chronic stress is far more common than we often realize. It just isn’t always visible.

So the question becomes—what do we do with feeling disconnected from what’s happening around us and from ourselves? I found myself thinking about this recently in the context of hyper-vigilance—how do we experience a moment when part of us still feels guarded within it? There’s a common idea that we have to “feel it to heal.” While there’s truth in that, it can also feel like a lot—especially when what we’re feeling is already heavy.

The answer that came back was simple: we begin by giving our attention to the moment itself. Not perfectly. Just intentionally. It isn’t always easy, but it is something that can gently take shape over time—especially when we keep it simple enough to meet ourselves where we actually are.

That’s where this practice begins. Not with long periods of stillness or formal meditation, but with something already built into our day. A small, familiar moment where for at least that time, we know we are safe. Maybe it’s making a morning cup of coffee or tea, brushing our teeth, or feeding a pet. We are looking for something we already return to regularly, if not daily.

Instead of adding something new, we bring a different kind of attention to what’s already there. If we take the example of making coffee (but you choose whatever event you do regularly that appeals to you) —what are all the steps involved in getting that warm mug into our hands? Without rushing through them, and without judging how you do it, what do you notice?

The warmth of the water.
The smell of the beans.
The sound of it brewing.

Even by studying something as simple as holding the mug, you might begin to notice small points of gratitude—not because they’re extraordinary, but because they’re there.

For a moment, your attention is with the experience itself. Not with what’s waiting on the to-do list on the counter, or what the rest of the day might hold.

For just that moment, explore:

What you see.
What you smell.
What you hear.
What you taste.
What you feel.

This is where something begins to shift. Not all at once, but quietly.

You’re creating a small structure—a place your attention can return to. A kind of rhythm or ritual. And over time, those moments can start to feel a little more available and steady. Not because everything has changed, but because your relationship to the moment has. You are creating a pocket of solace that belongs to you.

You don’t have to do it perfectly. You don’t have to do it for long.

Just begin somewhere, and let that be enough.