Chapter 14: Storms Do Not Last All Day: Hard Seasons and Recovery

Waiting to Feel Like Herself Again

Fenna is forty-five and worked for many years as a project manager in a company that builds roads and bridges. She was known for her energy and her ability to handle enormous workloads. Last year, after a long period of overwork, she reached a point where she could not go on. She could not concentrate, could not sleep and felt completely drained. She found herself crying in the car park before work. Her doctor listened carefully, talked with her about what was happening and advised her to take time off work and to come back regularly so that they could follow how she was doing.

Fenna has now been off work for four months. She is slowly getting better. She sleeps more, and she has started to enjoy small things again: a walk by the river, a coffee with a friend, a good book. But she is frustrated with how slow her recovery is. Some days she feels almost normal. Other days she feels as tired as she did at the start. She keeps asking her doctor and her family when she will be herself again. Nobody can give her a date.

Fenna has always approached problems by working harder. Now she is trying to approach her recovery in the same way. She reads everything she can find about recovering from exhaustion. She makes detailed plans for each day. She judges herself harshly on the bad days, wondering what she has done wrong. She is, in a sense, trying too hard to stop trying too hard. And this, too, is exhausting.

One evening, Fenna's father, a retired farmer, sat with her on the porch as a summer storm passed over the fields. The rain was heavy, and the wind bent the trees. Fenna watched it anxiously. Her father said, "It will pass. Storms always do. You cannot make it pass faster by watching it." Then he added, "Your recovery is the same. It is a season. It will pass when it passes. Your job is to rest, and let it."

Fenna's father had, without knowing it, repeated one of the most comforting observations in the Daodejing. This chapter looks at hard seasons of life, times of exhaustion, loss and difficulty, and at what the old books say about enduring them and recovering from them.

Whirlwinds and Downpours

In chapter 23 of the Daodejing, there is a short passage about the weather. In my own words: a whirlwind does not last the whole morning. A sudden downpour does not last the whole day. What causes them? Heaven and earth. If even heaven and earth cannot make such things last long, how much less can human beings? (Daodejing, chapter 23).

The passage is very simple, and it is meant to be. Violent weather, however frightening, does not last. The strongest wind blows itself out. The heaviest rain stops. Even the great forces of nature cannot keep a storm going forever. This is not a promise that storms will not come. They will. It is an observation that they pass.

For people in a hard season, this simple observation can be a great comfort. When we are in the middle of exhaustion, grief or crisis, it often feels as if the storm will never end. We cannot imagine feeling well again. We lose the sense that things change. The Daodejing reminds us that storms, by their nature, are temporary. The very violence that makes them frightening also makes them short-lived, compared with the long, slow patterns of the seasons.

The passage also contains a second lesson, which is easy to miss. It begins, in some readings, with a line that suggests speaking little, or acting quietly, is natural. Storms are loud and violent, and they do not last. What lasts is quieter: the slow turning of the seasons, the steady flow of rivers, the gradual growth of trees. For a person recovering from exhaustion, this suggests that recovery is likely to be quiet and gradual, more like a season than like a storm. It will not come in a dramatic burst. It will come slowly, almost unnoticed, like spring.

Fenna wanted her recovery to be like a storm: sudden and complete. She wanted to wake up one morning and be herself again. But recovery, like the seasons, moves slowly. There are warm days and cold days in early spring, and the cold days do not mean that spring has failed. They are simply part of how spring arrives. Fenna's bad days were not signs of failure. They were the cold days of her spring.

Zhuangzi Drumming on a Pot

The Zhuangzi contains a story about a much harder season: the death of someone loved. In chapter 18, Zhuangzi's wife died. His friend Huizi came to offer comfort, and was shocked to find Zhuangzi sitting on the ground with his legs spread out, drumming on a pot and singing. Huizi said: you lived with her, she raised your children and grew old with you. Not weeping at her death would be bad enough. But drumming on a pot and singing, is that not too much? (Zhuangzi, chapter 18).

Zhuangzi answered, in my own words: you are wrong. When she first died, do you think I did not grieve? Of course I did. But then I thought back to her beginning. Before she was born, she had no life. Not only no life, but no body. Not only no body, but not even breath. In the midst of the great mystery, there was a change, and she had breath. Another change, and she had a body. Another change, and she was born. Now there has been another change, and she has died. It is like the passing of the four seasons, spring, summer, autumn and winter. She is now lying peacefully in the great house of the world. If I were to follow her with loud weeping, it would show that I did not understand how things are. So I stopped (Zhuangzi, chapter 18).

This story must be read gently. It is not saying that grief is wrong, or that people should sing at funerals. Zhuangzi himself says clearly that he grieved when his wife died. What he describes is a change that came after the first grief: a way of seeing her life and death as part of the great turning of the seasons, rather than as something unnatural or against the Way. This view did not remove his loss. But it gave him a kind of peace within it.

Different people and different traditions understand death and grief in many different ways, and nobody should feel that they must see their own losses as Zhuangzi saw his. Grief has its own timing, and it should not be hurried. But Zhuangzi's image of the seasons may offer some comfort to those in hard times of any kind. Life moves through seasons: growth and decline, abundance and loss, storm and calm. Each season has its place. And no season lasts forever.

For people who try too hard, there is a further lesson in the story. Zhuangzi stopped fighting the season. He did not keep weeping loudly, as if he could change what had happened by the force of his grief. He let the season be what it was. People who try too hard often try to fight their hard seasons: to force themselves through exhaustion, to push past grief, to hurry recovery. Zhuangzi suggests another way: to feel what needs to be felt, and then to stop fighting the natural turning of things.

Fenna's Slow Spring

After the evening on the porch, Fenna began to think of her recovery as a season rather than a problem to be solved. She stopped reading everything she could find about recovery. She stopped making detailed plans for each day. Instead, she followed a few simple guidelines that her doctor had suggested: regular sleep, gentle daily walks, time with people she liked, small enjoyable activities and rest when she was tired.

She also changed how she thought about the bad days. Instead of seeing them as failures, she began to see them as the cold days of early spring. On a bad day, she would say to herself, "This is a cold day. Spring is still coming." She would rest more, be gentle with herself and wait. And the bad days did pass, as storms pass.

Fenna began to keep a simple record, not of her progress, which she had been anxious to measure, but of small good things each day: a bird she saw on her walk, a conversation that made her laugh, a meal she enjoyed. When she looked back at the record after two months, she noticed that the good things had become more frequent. She had not noticed this from day to day, because the change was so gradual. But looking back, she could see that spring was arriving.

After six months, Fenna returned to work, part time at first, in a role with a lighter workload that she and her manager had agreed on together. She still has occasional tired days. But she is much better, and she has learned something that she believes will protect her in future. "I used to think I could push through anything," she says. "Now I know that some things are seasons. You cannot push through winter. You can only wait for spring, and look after yourself while you wait."

It is important to say that recovering from serious exhaustion is a medical matter as well as a personal one, and that Fenna's recovery was guided by her doctor throughout. If you are experiencing exhaustion that does not improve with rest, please talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. They can help you understand what is happening and what kind of support you need.

Sabelo After the Business Closed

Sabelo is thirty-eight. For six years, he ran a small café that he had built from nothing, working long hours and putting all his savings into it. Last year, after a long period of difficulties, rising costs, fewer customers and a broken freezer that he could not afford to replace, he had to close it. He lost his savings and his business, and he felt that he had lost his identity.

For several months after the café closed, Sabelo felt as if he were in a storm that would never end. He could not stop thinking about what he could have done differently. He felt ashamed when he met people who had known the café. He applied for jobs but felt that he had no energy for anything. Every morning, he woke up with a heavy feeling in his chest.

Sabelo's older brother, who had been through his own hard times, came to visit. He did not try to cheer Sabelo up or tell him that everything would be fine. He simply listened. Then he said, "This is a storm. You have to let it blow. But you are not the storm. The storm is passing over you, and you are still here." He suggested that Sabelo stop trying to fix everything at once, and focus on getting through each day: eating, sleeping, walking and seeing people who cared about him.

Slowly, the storm began to pass. Sabelo took a job in a large restaurant kitchen, which was hard work but gave him a routine and some income. He started to cook for friends again, which reminded him of why he had loved running the café. After a year, he began to think about the future again, not with the old urgency, but with a quieter, more patient hope. He started saving a little each month and taking evening classes in business management, so that if he ever opened another café, he would be better prepared.

"When it was happening, I thought my life was over," Sabelo says. "Now I see that it was one season. A hard one, but one season. I am still a cook. I still have ideas. And I know more than I did." If, like Sabelo in the first months, you feel a heavy weight every morning for a long time, and it does not lift, please talk to someone you trust, and consider speaking with a doctor or another qualified professional. Hard times after a loss of this kind are very common, and support can make a real difference.

Graciela's Winter

Graciela is sixty. Her husband, Héctor, died eight months ago after a long illness. They had been married for thirty-five years. For the first months, Graciela was in deep grief. She could not imagine life without him. The house was too quiet. She found herself setting two places at the table and reaching for his hand in the night.

Graciela's grief has not disappeared, and she does not expect it to. But recently, a friend lent her a book of stories from the Zhuangzi, and she read the story of Zhuangzi drumming on a pot after his wife's death. At first, she was shocked, as Huizi was. How could anyone sing after such a loss? But when she read Zhuangzi's explanation, that he had grieved first and then come to see his wife's life and death as part of the turning of the seasons, something in it touched her.

Graciela thought about Héctor's life. She remembered him as a young man, when they first met. She remembered their years raising their children, their quarrels and reconciliations, their travels, his slow decline and his last days. She saw his life as a long journey through seasons: a spring of youth, a summer of strength, an autumn of slowing down and finally a winter. It did not take away her grief. But it gave her a way of holding it that felt less like a wound and more like a story.

Graciela does not drum on pots. But she has started to do something she thinks Héctor would have liked. On his birthday, she cooks his favourite meal and invites their children and grandchildren. They tell stories about him and laugh, as well as cry. "I will always miss him," she says. "But I am learning that his death was part of his life, like winter is part of the year. I do not have to fight it. I can let it be what it is, and remember him with love."

Grief is one of the hardest seasons of all, and everyone moves through it in their own way and at their own pace. If you are grieving, please be gentle with yourself and let others support you. If, after some time, you find that you cannot manage daily life, that you cannot sleep or eat for long periods or that you feel there is no point in going on, please talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. And if you ever feel that you might hurt yourself, contact a helpline or a medical facility right away, and in immediate danger call your local emergency number.

Tamsin and the Sleepless Months

Tamsin is thirty-one and the mother of twins, now eight months old. Since they were born, she has not slept for more than three hours at a time. The twins wake at different times, need feeding at different times and seem to take turns crying through the night. Her partner helps as much as he can, but he works long hours. Tamsin's mother visits twice a week, which helps. But Tamsin is exhausted in a way she never imagined possible.

What makes it hardest, Tamsin says, is the feeling that it will never end. When she is awake at three in the morning, rocking one baby while the other cries, she cannot imagine a time when she will sleep through the night again, or have a day to herself, or feel like a person rather than a machine for feeding and changing. The exhaustion makes everything feel permanent.

An older neighbour, who had raised five children, stopped Tamsin in the street one day and asked how she was. When Tamsin told her, the neighbour smiled kindly and said, "It feels like forever, does it not? It is not. It is a season. A hard one. But one day, very soon, you will realize that you slept all night, and you will not even remember when it started." She also told Tamsin to accept every offer of help, to sleep whenever the babies slept and not to worry about the house.

Tamsin held on to the neighbour's words. On the hardest nights, she reminded herself: "This is a season. It will pass." She accepted more help from her mother and from friends. She let the house be messy. She asked her doctor, at a routine appointment, about her exhaustion and her mood, and was reassured that she was doing well under very hard circumstances, and given some suggestions for getting more rest.

Four months later, the twins began to sleep for longer stretches. One morning, Tamsin woke up and realized that she had slept for six hours. She cried with relief. The season had begun to change, just as the neighbour had said. "Nobody could make it pass faster," Tamsin says. "But knowing it would pass made it bearable." If a new parent feels persistently low, hopeless or unable to cope, it is very important to talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. These feelings are common, and help is available.

Practical Steps: Living Through a Hard Season

The first step is to name the season. When you are going through a hard time, it can help to say to yourself: "This is a hard season." Naming it as a season, rather than as a permanent state, reminds you that it is temporary, even if you cannot yet see its end.

The second step is to stop fighting the weather. You cannot make a storm pass faster by watching it anxiously or by pushing against it. Instead of trying to force your way through a hard season, focus on getting through each day: eating, sleeping, resting, moving gently and being with people who care about you.

The third step is to expect cold days in spring. Recovery from exhaustion, grief or crisis is rarely a straight line. There will be better days and worse days. A worse day does not mean that recovery has failed. It is part of how recovery happens. On cold days, rest more and be especially gentle with yourself.

The fourth step is to notice small signs of change. Like Fenna, keep a simple record of small good things each day. Over weeks and months, look back at the record. You may see changes that are invisible from day to day, the slow arrival of a new season.

The fifth step is to accept help. Hard seasons are not meant to be endured alone. Like Tamsin, accept offers of help. Like Sabelo, let people listen. Like Fenna and Graciela, talk with doctors and other qualified professionals when you need to. Receiving support is not weakness. It is one of the ways we survive the storm.

The sixth step is to remember that you are not the storm. Sabelo's brother said this, and it is worth repeating. The storm passes over you. It is not who you are. When it has passed, you will still be here, perhaps changed, perhaps wiser, but still yourself.

Some Storms Need Shelter

The observation that storms do not last all day is comforting, but it must not become a reason to wait alone through difficulties that need help. Some hard seasons pass naturally, with rest and time. Others, such as serious low mood, long-lasting exhaustion, the effects of trauma or overwhelming grief, may need professional care to pass well. Waiting for them to pass without help can make them longer and harder.

If you have been in a hard season for a long time, and it is not easing, or if it is getting worse, please talk to a doctor or another qualified professional. Seeking help is not a failure to accept the season. It is finding shelter during the storm, which is exactly what a wise person does. Fenna, Sabelo, Graciela and Tamsin all, in different ways, sought support. Their recoveries were not only a matter of waiting.

It is also important not to rush others through their hard seasons. If someone you love is grieving, recovering or struggling, telling them that "it will pass" can feel dismissive if it is said too soon or too lightly. Sometimes, the kindest thing is simply to sit with them in the storm, as Sabelo's brother did, listening and staying close, until they are ready to hear that seasons change.

A Short Exercise: A Map of Seasons

This exercise helps you see your life as a series of seasons, and your present difficulty as one season among many. It takes about twenty minutes. If you are in a very painful season right now, you may prefer to try it later, or with someone you trust.

Take a page and draw a long line across it, from left to right, representing your life so far. Along the line, mark some of the main seasons you have lived through: times of growth, times of difficulty, times of calm, times of change. Label each one briefly. "Childhood." "Starting work." "Illness." "New baby." "Moving house." "Hard year at work."

Look at the difficult seasons you have marked. For each one, write a few words about how it ended or changed. "It passed when I found a new job." "It eased after a year." "My friends helped me through." Notice that each of these seasons, however hard, did not last forever.

Now mark the season you are in now. Write a few words about it. Then, next to it, write one sentence that you would like to say to yourself on the hardest days of this season. It might be your own version of the Daodejing's words: "Storms do not last all day." Or something from your own experience: "I have come through hard seasons before."

Finally, write one small thing you can do to look after yourself during this season, and one person you could ask for help or company. Fenna did this exercise during her recovery. Her line had seven seasons on it. Next to her current season, she wrote, "Slow spring." Her sentence was her father's: "It will pass when it passes. Rest, and let it." The person she wrote down was her father. She called him that evening, and they talked about the weather.

Chapter Summary

The Daodejing observes that a whirlwind does not last the whole morning and a sudden downpour does not last the whole day; if even heaven and earth cannot make such storms last, how much less can human beings (chapter 23). In chapter 18 of the Zhuangzi, Zhuangzi, after first grieving for his wife, comes to see her life and death as part of the turning of the seasons, and stops weeping loudly; the story should be read gently, as one way of holding grief, not a rule for anyone.

Fenna recovering from exhaustion, Sabelo after his café closed, Graciela in her grief and Tamsin through the sleepless months with her twins all found comfort in seeing their hard times as seasons that would pass, and in stopping the exhausting fight against them while caring for themselves and accepting help. Some storms need shelter: long or worsening difficulties deserve the care of a doctor or another qualified professional, and others' hard seasons should not be rushed.

In the final chapter, we will meet a butterfly, a fish trap and two friends on a bridge, and think about how to carry the art of not forcing lightly into the rest of our lives.