Build Capacity Gently—It Isn’t a Luxury, It’s a Return
A quiet path at dawn: Capacity begins not in striving, but in return—to rhythm, to body, to the earth that remembers.
You’re not broken—you’re just full.
Some days, even breath feels like a demand. And then someone says, "build capacity," and your chest tightens—because you’re already holding so much.
Not just tasks, but expectations. Old stories. Unspoken grief.
Capacity sounds like a project. Like one more thing you’re supposed to master while everything inside you whispers, "I can’t."
But what if it isn’t that?
What if capacity is something quieter—not built like a skill, but remembered like a song your bones already know? Not another task, but the space that lets your life stop hurting quite so much?
That’s what we’ll explore here.
Not how to do more. But how to be held better. Not a strategy. A return.
“You’re not broken. You’re saturated”
I didn’t “build capacity”—I survived, lost it, and found it again.
When people talk about building capacity, I hear a phrase that barely grazes the surface.
Because for me, it wasn’t about learning to manage my energy or clear my calendar. It was about surviving visions no one believed. Migraines that started when I shut myself down at age eight. And a body that burned with hives when the soul came too fast, too strong.
Capacity was never a concept. It was life or death.
I didn’t “build” it. I lost it. Found pieces of it. Forgot. Remembered again.
There were times I could feel the dead, hear thoughts that weren’t mine, taste sorrow that didn’t belong to me—and had no ground to stand on when the world called it imagination.
There were times I had to leave countries, marriages, entire identities behind just to start breathing again.
(I explore these threshold moments and our sacred role in them in this piece.)
And when the bones in my hand realigned themselves overnight after a car crash that could have taken my life—capacity showed up as a vow: Follow your path, no matter what.
“Capacity isn’t something you master—it’s something you remember.”
But even that vow didn’t guarantee steadiness.
It wasn’t until I lost everything—again—after returning to the U.S., that I understood something deeper: Culture had been my ground. And when it disappeared, I collapsed.
So I did what I knew: I cleaned houses. I practiced my own medicine. I called my lost parts home.
And slowly, I remembered: capacity is grown in relationship. With body. With land. With the unseen.
All the trainings, all the miraculous healings, all the maps I inherited or made—none of them stuck until I had ground.
That’s why I speak of building capacity as a way home.
Not a luxury. Not a hack. But the slow composting of what doesn’t hold you anymore—so something true can take root.
Your body knows when enough is enough.
We’ve been taught to override. Push through. Smile when it hurts. Keep going no matter what.
But your nervous system? It doesn’t play pretend. It doesn’t perform.
It tells the truth.
It whispers enough when you’re about to cross a line. It trembles when something’s off, even if everyone else is smiling. It shuts down—not because you’re weak, but because life has asked too much, too fast.
(Read more about how spiritual awakening can feel like falling apart in this post.)
This is not dysfunction. This is wisdom.
What most people call “capacity” is often endurance. Survival mode in a prettier outfit.
But real capacity? That’s what allows you to stay with life—without leaving yourself.
And your nervous system knows exactly how to find that rhythm… if it’s safe enough.
This is why I don’t teach nervous system work as a technique. I teach it as a form of listening. As a way of being in right relationship with your body, your breath, and the ground beneath you.
Because when you learn to trust your nervous system, you learn to trust your life.
The world taught you to perform wellness. Your soul longs to rest.
We are surrounded by myths.
Not the sacred kind that root us in place and pattern. But the kind that make us question our worth when we can’t keep up.
The world says: Push harder. Sleep later. Optimize your mind. Biohack your morning.
But what it really means is: perform wellness while staying exhausted.
Even in the workplace, “resilience training” often teaches individuals to adapt to systems that should be transforming themselves. And biohacking culture—though seductive—can turn health into a tech-fueled obsession, reducing the body to a machine to tweak .
“Most of what we call resilience is just survival with better branding.”
Meanwhile, the hustle mindset remains glorified, even though the science shows: overwork leads to collapse, not success .
This isn’t resilience. It’s survival, wrapped in prettier language.
But your body knows better.
It remembers rhythm. It longs for relationship. It’s not asking for a hack. It’s asking for rest.
Real energy flows from reciprocity—with land, breath, body, time. Real resilience is relational, not rigid. This is where capacity begins. Not in performance. But in ground.
“Your nervous system doesn’t perform. It tells the truth.”
Three signs you’re ready to build capacity (even if it feels impossible)
You don’t have to hit a breaking point to begin.
But you might already be closer to it than you realize.
Here are three signs your body, your spirit, and your system are whispering—it’s time:
You feel overwhelmed by things that “shouldn’t” be hard. Sending an email. Making dinner. Answering a text. Tasks that once took minutes now feel like mountains. This isn’t laziness. It’s a signal. Your system is asking for more space. Not to perform better—but to feel safe enough to soften.
You shut down—or erupt—when life gets loud. Small things tip you over. Or take you under. You numb out. Or lash out. This is the nervous system saying: “I’ve had too much, too fast, for too long.”
You’re not broken. You’re saturated. And your body is begging for rhythm instead of reactivity.
You long for a slower way—but don’t know how to begin. There’s a quiet ache in you for something gentler. You catch yourself wondering: “What would it feel like to not be in survival mode?”
This longing is holy. It’s your soul remembering what’s possible. And that remembering… is the beginning of capacity.
We don’t grow by force—we grow by tending the soil.
You don’t build capacity the way you build a bookshelf. There’s no blueprint, no six-step plan, no perfect morning routine. Capacity grows like roots in loamy soil, like trust over time.
It doesn’t come from doing more. It comes from tending the ground beneath everything you already do. And that ground? It’s made of relationship—with your body, with the land you live on, with the people who hold you, and with the unseen ones who walk with you.
This is what Rewild Yourself is for. Not to add more to your plate, but to compost what’s not yours. To restore rhythm where urgency once ruled. To help you remember that presence is power.
Inside the course, we don’t rush. We attune. We feel for the pulse of what’s real and possible today. We begin by letting your body become a place you can stay.
Because strategy may give you steps. But soil gives you life.
Start where it aches. Stay where it softens.
Where in your life do you feel the most stretched—and what would it take to feel held there instead?
What sensations arise when you imagine a slower way of being? Can you let one of them stay for a breath or two?
What have you been taught to override in yourself—and what might shift if that pattern softened?
Who or what reminds you that you are not a machine?
If capacity were soil… what’s one thing you could compost today?
You don’t need a better plan. You need a softer place to land.
Building capacity isn’t about adding more. It’s about subtracting the strain. Softening the grip. Making space for breath where constriction used to live.
It’s the slow remembering that your body is not a machine. It’s a sensing, sacred instrument—tuned by relationship, steadied by ground.
We’ve named what capacity is not: not hustle, not optimization, not spiritual bypass wrapped in self-help gloss.
And we’ve named what it can be: a return. To rhythm. To relationship. To a self you can actually stay with.
This is the soil where healing holds. Not quick. Not flashy. But real.
“You don’t build capacity by doing more. You build it by doing it differently.”
And we’ve named what it can be: a return.
To rhythm. To relationship. To a self you can actually stay with.
This is the soil where healing holds. Not quick. Not flashy. But real.
If your body is whispering yes—if something in you knows it’s time to root deeper—I’d love to welcome you into Rewild Yourself.
It’s an 8-week path for spiritually sensitive beings who are ready to stop performing resilience and start growing capacity—through rhythm, rest, and reverence.
We’re open now.