Being Here – Day 37
Being Here – Poem Day 37
Poem – When my worth feels tied to how much I do
Today we move into a new complex: Effort–value.
This poem works with a familiar pattern —
the sense that care, usefulness, or worth must be proven through effort, giving, or staying busy.
For many people, this pattern grows out of care rather than ego.
It carries responsibility, attentiveness, and a wish to be of value.
The poem doesn’t ask you to stop caring.
It doesn’t ask you to do less.
Instead, it quietly offers the nervous system a different possibility:
that worth can remain intact even when effort pauses —
that care does not disappear when doing settles.
There’s nothing to understand while listening.
The poem works through receptive presence alone.
Nothing else is required.
Listening is enough.
Warmly,
Per
Poem – When I give more than I have
There is space here to rest without losing your value.
Nothing important is withdrawn when effort pauses.
The body is already supported,
held without needing to hold everything else,
allowed to lean back into itself.
Awareness settles where you are,
not scanning for what still needs doing,
not measuring what remains undone.
Muscles release their constant offering,
not dropping responsibility,
just setting it down for a moment.
Breath moves freely again,
no longer shaped around output,
no longer carrying quiet urgency.
Warmth stays present,
not pouring outward,
not dimming,
steady in its own place.
The chest softens without emptying.
Care doesn’t disappear —
it simply stops being spent all at once.
The urge to give is allowed to rest without being judged.
The wish to be useful remains,
but it no longer has to prove itself.
The body recognises that effort and worth are not the same thing.
There is a sense of being enough without producing,
without sustaining everything around you.
This moment does not ask you to stop caring.
It does not ask you to withdraw.
You remain here,
inside a body that can give and pause,
care and receive,
without losing its place.
For now, that is enough.
