Find Your Footing (On and Off the Page)
You can’t know where you’re going until you know where you are.
Just yesterday, Senator Cory Booker stood on the Senate floor for over 25 hours—sharing his voice, his values, and standing his ground. He reminded us that presence—steadfast, rooted, unwavering—is a powerful form of protest. A form of clarity and leadership. A form of care.
Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is simply stay standing.
Most of us won’t find ourselves on the Senate floor, but we can still choose to stand—in our lives, in our values, in quiet and powerful ways that are true to who we are.
Which brings me to the feet.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about feet.
They’re often overlooked. And yet—for most of us—they’re how we get places. They are our connection to the earth, the literal imprint of where we’ve been. They carry us forward, hold us upright, and bear the weight of our days without asking for much in return.
Still, most of us barely pay attention to them. We cram them into shoes, move too fast, and live up in our heads. We lose touch—literally—with the ground beneath us.
In Narrative Healing, I wrote about how our feet are the most willing part of the body, and also the most neglected. They’re our root system, our quiet companions. And when we reconnect to them, we reconnect to now. We land. We begin to feel again.
Many wisdom traditions—Ayurveda, Chinese medicine, African diasporic and Indigenous lineages—believe that the lower body stores memory. The legs, hips, and feet hold what hasn’t been spoken. Generational grief. Old stories. Emotional weight. It makes sense that the parts of us closest to the ground would hold the deepest roots.
Sometimes the world moves so quickly that it’s easy to forget we have a body at all, let alone one that’s in constant relationship with the ground. But the ground is always there—steady, unchanging, waiting for us to notice it. And our feet—those often-overlooked messengers—are the first to respond. When we slow down enough to feel them, even briefly, we begin to reorient. We remember where we are. We locate ourselves—not just physically, but emotionally, creatively, spiritually. In a fast-changing world, this quiet act of presence can be a form of resistance, of return, of beginning again.
When we bring attention to our feet, we activate the nervous system in ways that calm and center us. We begin to exit survival mode. We begin to arrive.
And this is often where writing starts—not from an idea, but from the body. From what’s real. From a steadier place.
You don’t need to have it all figured out. You don’t need to be ready. You just need to show up—to the page, to the body, to your life—as you are.
When we ground ourselves in this way, we often find our voice softens. Something real begins to rise.
And from there, we write differently. We connect more deeply. We listen better—to ourselves and to each other.
So here’s a gentle invitation:
Can you get curious about your feet today?
Not to change anything. Just to notice. To meet yourself right where you are. To come home—not to an idea of presence, but the physical experience of it.
👣 A Gentle Invitation
So here’s a simple practice and a writing prompt, if you’d like to try:
🌀 A Practice (from page 21 of Narrative Healing)
Place a tennis ball, small stone, or rolled-up towel on the floor.
Step onto it gently. Let your breath slow down.
Feel the object under your foot.
Let your weight settle.
Move the object beneath different parts of your foot.
Breathe. Notice. Switch feet.
This is a small practice—but a meaningful one.
It’s a way to let the body guide you back to the present moment.
Writing Prompt: Reflect on any sensations or stories that arise. Try telling these stories from the perspective of your feet.
Come Practice With Us
This Friday at noon ET, we’ll be practicing this together in our Narrative Healing Lab.
We’ll start with this grounding practice and move into writing from that place of presence. You don’t have to prepare anything. Just come as you are—with your notebook, your breath, and your feet.
Whether you’re feeling scattered, creatively blocked, or just in need of a reset, I’d love to welcome you.
If you’re looking for a space to return to again and again, our community is always open. Weekly gatherings, writing support, and the quiet reminder that you’re not alone in this work. Learn more about joining Narrative Healing .
Let’s return to ourselves—together.
With heart,
Lisa