“I’m here. I know. It’s too much.”

A story I remembered this week while recording The One Who Blesses audio

Before we begin . . .
It’s Easter weekend, so we’re taking a week off from workshopping.
Whether you’re celebrating or not, we all need a break right now—because whew... this world.

Module Two of The One Who Blesses is available now.
It’s about the Field of Grace—the spacious, sacred field inside of which all of us are held. It includes a 47-minute audio recording: me talking with you, unpacking the work more personally and deeply. During the session, I remembered a story about how emotion can overwhelm us—and what to do about it. (I expand on that story just below.)

Next Sunday, April 27 at 1:00 PM ET, I’ll be hosting a gentle Zoom gathering for paid subscribers. It’s part of The Reflection Work—a series of sacred pauses.

Already subscribed? You’ll get the link in your inbox.
Want to join us? Become a paid subscriber.
Need more info? Just reply to this post or send me a note.

One last thing:
If you want to join but can’t manage the $8/month fee right now—tell me.
If this work is calling to you, you belong in the circle.
Email me at [amy@amyoscar.com](mailto:amy@amyoscar.com) and I’ll comp you in. No questions asked.

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Okay, let’s jump in.

This week, while I was recording Module Two, I remembered something that happened when my daughter was a little girl. She’s 34 now, but that day—when she was three or four—is etched into my memory.

She had reached her limit.
Overstimulated, exhausted, overwhelmed by life, she laid herself face-down on the floor and began pounding her tiny fists against the linoleum tile.

Not to protest. Not to punish. Just… because it was all too much.

At first, I wasn’t sure what to do—this was the first tantrum one of my children had ever had. I remember a moment of panic… and then, crystal clarity.

I knew what she needed.
Or rather—I remembered.

Because when I was her age, my feelings were often too big for my small body, too. Only I didn’t lay on the floor—I raged. I screamed. I wailed. I slammed doors. I spun a tornado of emotion around myself.

I didn’t just do this when I was little—I did it for years.

And I knew how to help my daughter because I knew what I had longed for in those moments.

I needed support.
I needed attention.
I needed presence—gentle, steady presence.
I needed to know I hadn’t broken anything important.

So I sat beside her on the floor and spoke gently.
Not trying to fix it. Not trying to cheer her up.
Just being there, saying:
“I’m here. I know. It’s too much.”

As she cried, I touched her hand with one finger—a point of contact to let her know:
I’m here beside you. And you’re not doing anything wrong.

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That sacred, ordinary moment came rushing back as I read this week’s reflection aloud.

And I realized: This is the work that matters to me.

This is the blessing.
Just being with each other as we sit with what’s real.

Because despite what we’ve been told (and sold) we are not here to become rugged individualists, doing everything on our own. We are here to accompany one another through all of it. The hard things. The good things. And everything in between.

We are here to be here for each other.
And to live this way, we must learn to be here for ourselves.

We must learn the skills—and cultivate the willingness—to say:
I am here with you.
And I am willing to be with myself
no matter what happens.
I am willing to stay.

Out of this, I am offering my first Zoom gathering in a very long time.

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Photo by Rod Long on Unsplash

A Soft Gathering

Sunday, April 27 at 1:00 PM ET

We’ll meet on Zoom.
I’ll read a poem.
We’ll write.
We’ll be together in quiet—knowing someone else is out there, holding this, too.

This will be my first live Zoom call since my stroke last June.

While I want to reassure you that I look the same, sound the same, and feel like myself—I also want to tell you: I am changed.

The stroke didn’t take my voice, but it left it more easily tired. By the end of the day, I sound a little croaky.

But the stroke didn’t just take from me - it gave me so much. It left me softer.
It stripped away the need to be polished or perfect. I’m more honest now.
More direct. Less afraid.

I no longer care what people think—not in a careless way, but in the way that comes when you realize the preciousness of time and the absurdity of pretense. But also, in the way that comes when you witness the profound grace of being with yourself through something really hard that is also really, truly beautiful.

I wrote a lot about that during my recovery.
You can read about it here.

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So this is your invitation:

Come as you are.
Lay down the effort.
Be seen in the too-muchness.
Bless it all by simply being together.

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The next full module will arrive after Easter.

But for now, let this be your reflection:

Where do I pound the floor?
Where am I asking—without words—for someone to sit beside me and say:
“I know. I know. It’s too much.”
And where might I offer that presence to myself?

With love,
Amy

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PS: If you’re feeling behind—please don’t.

There’s no need to keep up. No need to add stress to a stressful time.
Simply come to the work that calls to you.

Do—or don’t do—the exercises.
Leave a comment when something moves you.
Or just come say hello in my Notes section.
I’ll be there.

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Some (relatively) recent posts to circle back to during the pause:

• A free (and thoughtful and surprising) re-reading of my book about angels,
  one chapter at a time. Join me here: Sea of Miracles: Chapter Index

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And also . . .