When the soul wilts under too much weather
It was a late summer evening, the kind where the sky seems a little too tired to change color. I had returned to the farm after days of relentless humidity and heat, only to find the soil cracked, leaves drooping, and the usual rustle of birds oddly silent. The mango tree in the corner—usually so proud in its leafy abundance—stood still, its branches heavy, its green dulled by dust.
I stood for a while, watching the dryness settle over the earth like an old grief.
It wasn’t just the land. Something inside me mirrored the same stillness.
A quiet exhaustion. A slow disconnection.
No storms, no drama. Just a season stretched too long.
Later that night, I sat on the porch with a cup of water in hand and realized: this was not just climate fatigue—it was a metaphor for something deeper. My inner ecosystem had also been strained. Too many responsibilities without renewal. Too many conversations without silence. Too much giving without grounding.
An inner climate crisis.
We often talk about the external climate crisis—the planet overheating, the floods, the wildfires, the plastic in the oceans. But rarely do we talk about our internal weather systems—how emotional drought creeps in, how mental pollution accumulates, how our spiritual forests get cleared, one unchecked obligation at a time.
There is a quiet emergency unfolding inside many of us.
We feel it in the inability to rest.
In the smile that feels mechanical.
In the joy that doesn’t land.
In the mild but persistent sense that something is off.
And just like with the earth, the solution isn’t quick.
It requires pause.
And listening.
Where is your forest thinning?
Where are the floods of overcommitment eroding your presence?
Where is the heat of perfectionism drying out your playfulness?
To address our inner climate crisis, we must do what nature knows so well:
Withdraw. Hibernate. Nourish.
Let the rains come. Let the winds change.
Let the ecosystem of the soul recover in its own time.
You don’t have to bloom all the time.
You don’t have to carry everyone’s sun.
You don’t have to be productive through every season.
There’s a reason trees shed their leaves.
There’s wisdom in still waters.
There’s grace in lying fallow.
So if you feel worn thin, strangely distant from yourself, unsure why the old joys don’t land anymore—please know, it’s not failure.
It’s weather.
And weather changes.
You are allowed to retreat.
To rewild your inner world.
To let the soil rest.
Because healing isn’t always loud.
Sometimes, it’s just the quiet decision to breathe again—slowly, consciously, deeply—until the climate within begins to shift.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.