Not Too Tight, Not Too Loose

He is sitting beneath a tree.

His body is almost gone.

What remains is bone and breath, the sharp outline of ribs beneath skin, the faint hollow at the base of his throat moving with each inhale, each exhale, the slow, uneven rhythm of something that has been pushed too far for too long. He has been living this way for months, perhaps longer, reducing himself piece by piece, certain that if he strips enough away, if he denies the body completely, something essential will be revealed.

But now there is weakness.

A kind of trembling that does not stop.

Even sitting upright requires effort. The ground feels uncertain beneath him, though nothing is moving. The body that was meant to carry him toward awakening has become something he can barely inhabit, something he must hold together with attention alone.

He is not yet the Buddha.

There is quiet.

Not the quiet of peace, but the silence that comes when there is nothing left to give.

And into that quiet, a sound.

At first, it barely registers. A string being plucked somewhere nearby. Then again. A small adjustment, the turning of a peg, the subtle shift in tone. The musician is not performing. He is listening. Adjusting. Listening again.

The string is pulled.

The note sharpens.

Pulled further.

A moment of tension.

Then released, just slightly.

Another note.

Clearer now.

There is a rhythm to it, a searching for something that can hold tension without breaking, something that can carry sound.

He listens.

And something enters him quietly, unmistakably.

The body knows before the mind does.

There is a way in which the string can be held.

There is a way in which it cannot.

And something in him, something that has been straining toward awakening through effort alone, begins, for the first time, to soften.

The Quiet Crisis Beneath Burnout

Something about that story has stayed with me. It returns at different times, in different ways, often when I find myself moving too quickly, holding too much, or watching others do the same. It returns when I sit with people whose work places them, day after day, in the presence of suffering, people who care deeply, who show up fully, who do not turn away, and who, over time, begin to carry more than the body and mind can easily hold.

We call it burnout, because we need a word, but the word itself does not quite hold the full experience of what is happening.

Beneath it, there is something more layered, more physiological, more relational, as the nervous system adapts to repeated exposure to stress and to the stories, images, and emotional realities of other people’s pain. This has been described as secondary traumatic stress, a form of strain that can mirror trauma itself, shaping how one feels, thinks, relates, and moves through the world (Figley, 1995; Bride, 2007; Stamm, 2010).

And as this unfolds, it does not remain contained within the individual. It ripples outward, affecting the quality of care, the sustainability of the work, the stability of organizations, and the well-being of the communities that depend on it (Shanafelt et al., 2017; Hall et al., 2016; Panagioti et al., 2018).

And still, most of the solutions offered ask people to continue living and working within the same conditions, to add practices and strategies around the edges of already full lives, to regulate between demands, to recover in the margins, to learn how to hold more without breaking.

The string remains pulled tight.

What Happens When We Change the Conditions

Over time, a different question began to take shape.

What happens when the conditions themselves change?

At Indraloka, we began to explore this not as a theory, but as a lived experience, bringing together, within a single environment, elements that are typically studied in isolation: immersion in natural surroundings; time away from roles and evaluation; opportunities for embodied regulation through practices like meditation and movement; and the presence of animals who live as autonomous beings, engaging (or not engaging), entirely on their own terms.

We did not know, at first, what would happen when these elements came together in this way.

But it did not take long to begin to notice that something was already shifting.

People walked more slowly.

They spoke more softly.

They paused without being asked.

Before any formal teaching had begun, the nervous system was already responding The sanctuary began to shape the work itself.

A Box of Straw and Eight Resting Pigs

And then, sometimes, there were moments that made this visible in a way that could not be explained.

One day during a retreat, it was bitterly cold outside, the kind of cold that makes the air feel almost brittle, that quiets everything, that draws you inward. We have something at the sanctuary that we call box beds, large insulated wooden structures filled with straw, designed so that animals can gather inside and share body heat. When you step into one, the air changes. The temperature rises. The quality of the space shifts from exposed to held.

On that day, seven participants and I climbed into one of those beds with eight large pigs, each of them weighing somewhere between eight hundred and a thousand pounds.

Their bodies were already settled.

Their breathing was slow.

There was no urgency in them.

We entered carefully at first, aware of their size, their presence, the unfamiliarity of placing our bodies among theirs. But gradually, something softened. We adjusted. We settled. We found places where we could rest without disrupting them.

And then we stayed.

There was the sound of breathing, deep and rhythmic. The occasional snore. The quiet shifting of weight. The faint rustle of straw beneath us. The warmth of their bodies seeping into ours.

Hands moved slowly, almost instinctively, resting against broad sides, tracing the curve of a belly, feeling the rise and fall of breath.

Conversation came and went.

Silence stayed longer.

No one was trying to relax.

No one was trying to regulate.

And yet, something in all of us was settling.

What we were witnessing, though we did not name it in that moment, was co-regulation, the nervous system responding to cues of safety in the environment and in the presence of others, including non-human animals (Beetz et al., 2012; Pendry & Vandagriff, 2019).

The pigs were not doing anything for us.

They were simply being.

And in proximity to that, something in us began to remember how.

There was something in that that stayed with me.

What We Began to See

Out of this ongoing exploration, the Resilient Professionals Mastery Series began to take form as a multi-modal, trauma-informed experience that brings together psycho-education, contemplative practices, nature immersion, creative expression, movement, and structured self-care.

As we began measuring outcomes using the Professional Quality of Life Scale (Stamm, 2010), patterns emerged across cohorts. Burnout decreased. Compassion satisfaction increased. Secondary traumatic stress shifted.

In our most recent cohort, these changes were particularly pronounced:

Burnout decreased by nearly half.

Secondary traumatic stress decreased by close to one-third.

Compassion satisfaction increased by approximately twenty percent.

And yet, even with those results, what continues to feel most significant are the moments that cannot be captured in numbers. The slowing down. The softening. The recognition that something has been held too tightly for too long.

A Practice: The Sanctuary Pause

If the string has been pulled too tight for too long, the question becomes how to begin to retune it. Not once and for all, and not in some ideal setting where nothing is being asked of you, but here, in the middle of a full life.

One place to begin is with a simple practice we call the Sanctuary Pause. It is brief. It is accessible. It is something you can return to throughout the day, especially in the moments when you feel yourself tightening, bracing, or moving too quickly to notice what is happening inside you.

At its core, it is a way of interrupting momentum just long enough to come back into relationship with your body, your breath, and the present moment.

1. Notice
Pause and take stock of what is present in you right now.
Not what you wish were present. Not what you think should be there.
Simply notice.

• Is there tension in your body

• A sense of urgency or pressure

• Numbness, fatigue, or overwhelm

• Irritation, grief, or restlessness

Sometimes the first act of self-care is telling the truth about the state you are in.

2. Soften
Gently invite the body to release, even slightly.

• Let your shoulders drop

• Unclench your jaw

• Soften your hands

• Take one fuller breath, and then another

You are not trying to force relaxation. You are creating the conditions for it to begin.

3. Orient
Bring your attention to what is actually here, right now.

• Look around and notice colors, shapes, light

• Feel your feet on the ground or your body in the chair

• Listen for nearby sounds

Let your nervous system register that this moment is this moment, not the last one and not the next one.

4. Connect
Bring your awareness to something living.

• Your breath

• Your body

• Another person

• An animal

• The natural world

Connection helps the nervous system settle. We do not regulate well alone.

5. Choose
From this slightly more settled place, ask what is needed next. Not everything, just the next step:

• A glass of water

• A boundary

• A few minutes of quiet

• One small, clear action

Often, what emerges here is different from what urgency would have chosen.

This pause may take less than a minute. Or it may take longer. Sometimes it reveals that what you need is not just a pause, but rest, nourishment, support, or a change in the conditions themselves.

That, too, is part of the practice.

Over time, these small moments of returning can begin to shift how you move through your day, not by asking more of you, but by allowing you to hear, more clearly, what your body has been saying all along.

Where We Go From Here

What is becoming increasingly clear, both through research and lived experience, is that the conditions in which we ask people to sustain care matter. If we continue to ask people to live with the string pulled too tight, no amount of technique will be enough. But if we begin to create spaces where the body can soften, where connection can re-emerge, and where nothing is being demanded or performed, something else becomes possible.

If you are feeling the strain of what you carry, you are not alone.

And you are not meant to carry it without support.

The next cohort of the Resilient Professionals Mastery Series is now forming. You can use the code RESILIENCE for an additional 10% off the sliding scale rate until April 10, 2026.

And whether you come or not, I hope you find your way into spaces where your nervous system can rest, your breath can deepen, and the weight you carry can be set down, if only for a little while.

Sometimes, that is where everything begins again.

References (APA Style)

Beetz, A., Uvnäs-Moberg, K., Julius, H., & Kotrschal, K. (2012). Psychosocial and psychophysiological effects of human–animal interactions: The possible role of oxytocin. Frontiers in Psychology, 3, 234. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyg.2012.00234

Bride, B. E. (2007). Prevalence of secondary traumatic stress among social workers. Social Work, 52(1), 63–70. https://doi.org/10.1093/sw/52.1.63

Figley, C. R. (1995). Compassion fatigue: Coping with secondary traumatic stress disorder in those who treat the traumatized. Brunner/Mazel.

Hall, L. H., Johnson, J., Watt, I., Tsipa, A., & O’Connor, D. B. (2016). Healthcare staff wellbeing, burnout, and patient safety: A systematic review. BMJ Open, 6(7), e011563. https://doi.org/10.1136/bmjopen-2016-011563

Hartig, T., Mitchell, R., de Vries, S., & Frumkin, H. (2014). Nature and health. Annual Review of Public Health, 35, 207–228. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-publhealth-032013-182443

Markevych, I., Schoierer, J., Hartig, T., et al. (2017). Exploring pathways linking greenspace to health: Theoretical and methodological guidance. Environmental Health Perspectives, 125(9), 096001. https://doi.org/10.1289/EHP2371

Panagioti, M., Geraghty, K., Johnson, J., et al. (2018). Association between physician burnout and patient safety, professionalism, and patient satisfaction. JAMA Internal Medicine, 178(10), 1317–1330. https://doi.org/10.1001/jamainternmed.2018.3713

Pendry, P., & Vandagriff, J. L. (2019). Animal visitation program (AVP) reduces cortisol levels of university students: A randomized controlled trial. AERA Open, 5(2). https://doi.org/10.1177/2332858419852592

Shanafelt, T. D., Noseworthy, J. H., & West, C. P. (2017). Executive leadership and physician well-being. Mayo Clinic Proceedings, 92(1), 129–146. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.mayocp.2016.10.004

Stamm, B. H. (2010). The concise ProQOL manual (2nd ed.). ProQOL.org