Finding Rhythm in Disruption: How We Naturally Create Meaningful Rituals

This isn’t to romanticize crisis. The circumstances were painful and remain so. But there was also a clarity about what actually matters when our world shrinks to the size of a single moment.

Life can turn inside out in an instant. One minute I was at a podcast taping in Manhattan, the next I was rushing from New York to London to be with Leon's father after he received a terminal cancer diagnosis.

When our circumstances change suddenly, the ground beneath our feet shifts. Everything feels uncertain and unsteady.

The morning after receiving the call from Leon’s dad, sharing that he may only have days to live, we found ourselves at JFK by 5am, exhausted and emotional. Everything felt urgent, chaotic. Previously scheduled plans were canceled, and the days ahead were entirely unknown.

Yet within this disruption, I noticed something interesting: how naturally we humans create patterns and practices that help us be with uncertainty. Not because we consciously set out to create structure, but because rhythm and ritual are what we instinctively seek when everything else feels unpredictable.

You never really know how you’ll handle situations like this until you’re in them. But I do believe our bodies carry an inherent wisdom that guides us toward what we need—often before our minds can make sense of it.

As we grappled with Pop’s diagnosis, Leon and I tried to settle into a temporary new normal in London. Although each day was uncertain—from timelines to return flights—we found a few daily rituals that naturally worked their way into our lives.

Simplicity as Sanctuary

Movement was essential. Neither of us can comfortably sit for hours these days, and we love our daily walks, so continuing them became a priority. Some days it was a couple of miles, often times much further. We were simply doing what felt good, not measuring or punishing ourselves.

Moving our bodies offered both physical relief from hospital chairs and much needed mental space to process everything unfolding around us.

Perhaps the most noticeable shift was our return to simplicity. We ate breakfast in Pop’s kitchen every day since we were staying at his flat. Carefully measured protein shakes were out; the Fruit and Fibre cereal in Pop’s cupboard was in.

Where possible, slow mornings became a kind of sanctuary. Sometimes we had to attend the hospital early to meet with doctors or the palliative care team, but wherever we could, we left our mornings unscheduled.

Sometimes there were tears over breakfast. Sometimes silence. Sometimes unexpected laughter. What mattered wasn't the nutritional profile of the meal, but that we fueled ourselves. In all the ways. Together.

Protecting Our Reserves

One of the most important patterns that emerged was our clear communication of boundaries. There was much we didn’t know, but we knew we needed to protect our reserves.

We were honest with family and friends about what we could manage. We communicated openly about our limits. Nobody had the chance to pile more on us, because we set this tone early on and stuck to it.

Our evenings took on their own quiet rhythm. With hospital visits typically lasting until 8:30pm—we were often the last to leave, stretching past the official end of visiting hours—we had no capacity for social plans (not much change there!). Apart from one meaningful dinner with a friend, our evenings became a retreat into stillness.

The Coexistence of Everything

What struck me most during these weeks was the remarkable coexistence of seemingly contradictory experiences. Woven through the sadness were moments of laughter, the joyful gift of unexpected time with Pop, reconnections with friends, and during breaks from the hospital, revisiting our old stomping grounds.

It still amazes me how grief and gratitude can sit side by side, neither cancelling the other.

This simultaneous holding of opposites is something I’ve noticed repeatedly in midlife. The ability to contain both deep sorrow and genuine joy, anxiety and peace, uncertainty and clarity—all within the same day, sometimes within the same hour.

This isn’t emotional instability. It’s the fluidity of emotional capacity. It’s what happens when we allow ourselves to experience life in its full complexity, rather than trying to categorize each moment as either good or bad.

The Relief of Abandoning Perfection

One unexpected gift from this difficult time was the immediate release from the myth of perfection. All the small ways we try to perfect our days fell away instantly.

Our mealtime schedules were off. We had no yoga mats to stretch on. There was no audio recording or writing for me, no job searching for Leon. Instead, there was presence. Paying attention to what was actually needed in each moment. Eating when hungry. Walking when restless. Resting when tired. Speaking when necessary. Being silent when words failed.

This isn’t to romanticize crisis. The circumstances were painful and remain so. And more than once, I fixated on truly inconsequential things. But there was also a clarity about what actually matters when our world shrinks to the size of a single moment.

Pop was discharged from the hospital last week as per his wishes. Having already extended our stay, we have since returned home, knowing he is being lovingly looked after by other family members and carers. Still, it wasn’t easy to leave.

Settling back into life in our woodland home hasn’t been easy either. Jet lag and anticipatory grief blend with responsibility and commitments that are part and parcel of any life. Everything feels slightly surreal. Especially as we know we’ll need to return to London soon.

If you’re in a season of disruption too, know that I see you and you have my empathy. I hope you can find and trust your own quiet rhythms.

What I’ve discovered is that our bodies and spirits naturally know how to create sustaining patterns, even when everything else feels unpredictable.

The Wisdom Already Within

This experience reminded me how much wisdom already lives within us. Sometimes we just need to pay attention to what we’re already instinctively drawn to: Food as fuel. Movement as medicine. Boundaries as self-care. Quietness as restoration.

These simple patterns don’t emerge because we plan for them. They appear because this is how humans have always navigated life and change. They are how we create islands of stability in seas of uncertainty. How we make meaning. How we honor what matters.

Life continues to unfold in unexpected ways. In the unpredictability, I find more than a crumb of comfort in knowing I can act as my own anchor, receive and give support, and return to the inner knowing of what grounds me, over and over again.

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I’ve had the loveliest messages from many of you — thank you for thinking of us during this time. I’ve replied to Substack comments here (which my brain finds much easier to track), but email replies have been a bit more hit-and-miss. If I’ve missed you, please know it’s not intentional. I’m truly grateful for every kind word and thought sent our way. Skylar xo