Holding On When No One’s Reaching Back

Author: Bianca Moeschinger

June 2025

Some mornings I wake up and the question lands hard: What if no one wants what I’m offering? What if the thing I’ve poured my heart and soul into—the course, the writing, the therapy—isn’t wanted, needed, or seen? What if the light at the end of the tunnel is just another illusion, and getting up one more time just feels too heavy?

What if the version of me I keep striving for is always just slightly out of reach?

The giving up feels inviting. Smiling feels like the biggest ask. Working, parenting, functioning—it can all feel like a job with only brief flickers of joy. So what then? What’s the point? What’s the answer?

I have my rituals. Music, movement, food, a walk, a real conversation, a stretch of fresh air. They help. They always help. But some mornings, even after all that, the weight is still there. The ache. The aging. The silvering of hair. The tiredness that seeps beyond muscle and into soul. I don’t even feel the urge to fight anymore. Or run. Or even speak. Surrender becomes my only real move.

And I wonder: Is there even something better? Or is the whole game—every shiny tool, every affirmation, every message to "choose joy"—just another product I’m being sold? What if we all feel this way, and what we’re all really doing is quietly managing it while presenting our highlights?

I think back to childhood, when I was held. Fed. Provided for. My parents carried the weight of life. Then I grew up. Took the reins. Became the provider, the anchor. For myself, for others. For those I love. Life became visible in a way I hadn’t expected. Responsibility pulled everything into sharp relief. The innocence dissolved into the weight of bills, emotions, and expectations.

These days I scroll through a feed and it’s the same rhythm—someone’s heartache, followed by their success, followed by a product. Then war, tragedy, destruction. And there I am, with my comparatively small worries. Do I even have the right to feel what I feel?

I’ve spent over 14 years doing this work—hands-on, heart-open. Walking with people through their trauma, their numbness, their loss. I’ve held bodies while they trembled back to life. I’ve written courses so others can find their own way home. I’ve tried to make this work accessible and alive.

But some days I sit here wondering: What if the only people who want this are the ones who take it for free? Is that still meaningful? Is that service? Or am I just giving myself away, quietly suffering under the weight of a gift no one asked for?

And then I ask a deeper question:

What is the point of finding out who you really are?

Is that even a thing? Or just another glossy concept we’ve absorbed—this idea that there’s a final version of ourselves we’re supposed to uncover. And when we do, we’ll be grateful. We’ll be whole. We’ll finally arrive.

But is that true?

Because I’ve had moments. Clear, defining, unshakable moments of this is who I am. Moments where my essence is loud, present, undeniable. And yet—I still struggle. I still question. I still fall. That essence doesn't shield me from the human mess. It simply walks with me through it.

When bliss does arrive, it’s not through chasing. It’s through practice. Sacred, embodied practice. And through the environments that hold and feed me. Spaces filled with common ground, shared philosophy, intention. Sacred places on earth. Where no matter who walks in, they find their centre too.

But how do we create those spaces in everyday life?

How do we find holiness in suburbia? In traffic? In the places where tech and noise drown out the sacred hum? Among people with clashing beliefs, rituals, and needs?

This is where it gets murky. Where we start guarding what we’ve found, defending it as truth, making it sacred in a way that separates us. We become the protectors of the holy grail. The keepers of the rules. And again—we slip into the very thing we were trying to free ourselves from.

Because it’s hard. It’s really hard not to fall back into the ways that shrink us or build walls around others. Especially when we’ve touched something pure, something holy, something deeply real.

And sometimes, we confuse holding that sacredness with holding superiority. And then we forget. We forget that at the centre of all our striving, our tools, our truths—is just a human heart trying to find peace.

And this too—we forget what happens when we become too dense. When we carry too much, for too long. We become immovable. Light can no longer penetrate. Life can’t reach us. We get stuck—not just emotionally, but physiologically. Our bodies tighten, our breath shortens, our energy stagnates. We no longer digest the experience of life—we just hold it. And in holding everything, we end up holding nothing at all.

But there is a way through.

Food, music, conversation, movement—they all make space. They move us. They bring diversity back into the system. The simple act of speaking your truth, writing your real thoughts, letting your unfiltered feelings rise to the surface—this too creates space. And with space comes light. And with light comes hope. And when there is hope, faith begins to flicker again.

And if we can find even the smallest thread of faith—we are okay again.

Life moves. It is always moving. My goal is no longer to fight life, or to bend it to my will. My goal is to listen and respond. To meet life, not with expectation, but with awareness. Because life is only ever responding to me.

This isn’t a post with an answer. It’s a post that sits in the mess. That lets the silence speak. That names the quiet exhaustion that can come with showing up again and again to something that might never be fully seen or understood.

But maybe it doesn’t need to be.

Maybe it just needs to be real.

Even if no one wants what you’re offering. Even if you don’t feel okay today. Even if all you did was wake up, breathe, and stay.

That is enough.

You are enough.

To listen to the podcast, go to 'Under The Silence'

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