The Gentle Sources of Strength We Forget

Sep 21, 2025

Daily writing prompt

What things give you energy?

We live in a world that constantly asks us to move faster, produce more, and push harder. Energy, in this culture, is often measured by how much we can accomplish in a day, how many hours we can stay awake, how much caffeine we can consume before collapsing. But I have learned, through nights of exhaustion and days of quiet reflection, that real energy is rarely found in these measurements. It is not something poured into a cup or scheduled on a calendar. Real energy hides in the ordinary. It waits for us in places we often pass by without noticing.

After long night shifts, when fatigue presses not only on my body but on my spirit, I sometimes walk by the canal or through the winding lanes of Burntwood. At first, it feels indulgent to spend time in silence, but then I remember: silence is not empty. The trees do not rush, the water does not compete, and the air does not demand anything of me. Stillness has its own kind of pulse. And in that stillness, I find restoration. It is proof that energy is not always about acceleration—it is about remembering how to breathe.

Stillness, I have discovered, is not the absence of life. It is life lived deeply enough to restore itself.

Connection gives another kind of energy, the sort that no cup of coffee can provide. I have felt it around a dinner table cluttered with dishes, where laughter spills louder than words. I have felt it in the quiet presence of someone sitting beside me, speaking nothing but offering everything. To be seen and understood, even for a moment, is a powerful charge. When we say “I am tired,” and someone answers, “I know”—that is energy. That is strength.

Energy, I have learned, flows best where love is felt.

Writing is also a source of energy, though many see it only as an act of output. For me, it is transformation. A tangled thought becomes untangled when it touches the page. A heavy feeling turns lighter when it finds words. Expression does not drain me—it restores me. Even when I write poorly, even when I cross out more than I keep, the simple act of putting pen to paper gives me back the clarity that fatigue often steals.

Energy is not only found in grand gestures. It hides in the smallest, most fragile details: the comfort of hot chocolate on a cold morning, the unexpected joy of hearing a familiar song at just the right moment, the scent of food that pulls me back to the warmth of home, the kindness of a stranger who has nothing to gain. These moments will not change the shape of a lifetime, but they will change the texture of a day. And sometimes, the strength to face another day is all we need.

Small joys are not luxuries. They are the lifeblood of resilience.

The more years I carry, the clearer this becomes: energy is not about having the strength to do everything. It is about the courage to do the next thing. It is not about being tireless, but about refusing to remain empty. We confuse energy with endless motion, but real energy is often the opposite—it steadies us when the world is frantic, it roots us when life feels uncertain, it whispers, “Stand again,” when all we want to do is collapse.

True energy is not manufactured. It is remembered.

Perhaps that is the deepest lesson: the sources of strength we chase were never hidden. They have always been here, waiting in the ordinary—the walk, the laughter, the page, the song. They don’t announce themselves with fireworks. They arrive gently, like a familiar hand reaching for ours in the dark, like a voice reminding us that the world is not as empty as we fear.

Life does not need to be extraordinary to sustain us. The smallest rituals—the morning coffee, the evening prayer, the story shared with a friend—are enough to carry us when the big milestones feel too far away. And if you ever wonder why you still have strength to rise after all the weight of living, look around: it was never the extraordinary moments that kept you alive. It was the ordinary ones.