Slow Summer

On surrender, resistance, and learning to move with the heat instead of against it

Some days, the air in West Palm Beach is so thick you can't think straight. It wraps around you—suffocating and strong. You step outside for a second and instantly melt. It's too much. You want out.

But there's something honest about that kind of heat. It doesn't ask. It doesn't wait. It demands surrender. There's no pushing through it. There's only yielding.

And that's what this chapter feels like.

The things I've been calling in—ease, pleasure, depth, devotion—they're here. Not arriving. Not becoming. Already here.

I feel them like humidity—dense, inescapable, surrounding me on all sides. A tangible vibration of love and possibility pressing against my skin.

And I watch the rise of resistance.

I can't. I don't want to.

Grabbing for a branch on the shore of a fast-moving river. Anything to not be swept away.

This resistance isn't new. There's nothing I've struggled with more—I'm like the bird who won't leave the cage even when the door's wide open.

But resistance is futile. We all know that.

So I'm trying something else. Something more confrontational. More intentional. Slowing down—just enough—to see the patterns clearly.

It's not a choice, really. It's a response. To the heat. To the pressure. To the fact that everything I've asked for is already in the room.

I'm calling this my slow summer.

Maybe the first one, ever. Not because I wanted it—because the heat makes everything else impossible.

It started with a few empty hours on the calendar—scary and overwhelming at first. Then it was an impulse to meditate before getting out of bed, or to stand on the porch for half an hour in the morning. Then it was the desire to just eat, move, and sleep one day—like my cat, who has no qualms about laziness.

Saying yes only to things that felt good. Like the idea of going to Tampa this past weekend to celebrate my sister's birthday.

We hardly touched our phones. We wandered through vintage shops, watched the sunset, made meals, teased each other, and laughed a lot.

At the Florida Aquarium, we stared at the fish, the frogs, the gators—creatures simply inhabiting their world. Breathing underwater.

I was reminded: I can do this. I have to do this. It's not a question. It's an assignment.

I'm actually surprised by how well I've been adapting to slow summer. The benefits have been profound:

Physical and Mental Regulation: I don't crash as hard when I'm moving in the wrong direction because I'm not moving as fast. The slowness allows me to tap the brakes before I hit the wall. My nervous system feels more regulated—less panic and anxiety, fewer racing thoughts and rapid heartbeats.

Aligned Living: Slow summer allows me to replace busyness with aligned activities and inspired impulses. I check in with myself regularly about whether my time is well spent and aligned with my values and goals.

Deeper Connections: Slowing down means really getting to know the people around me—not just superficially, but truly seeing them, hearing them, understanding them at a deeper level.

Increased Awareness: I notice things that feel bad and don't endure them for days, weeks, or months before making a change. This applies to everything—food, work, people, whatever needs shifting.

Presence and Wonder: Slow summer means stopping to smell the flowers—literally. When I was walking with my nieces, we picked honeysuckle flowers and sucked the nectar from them, inhaling the fragrance of life itself.

Grounding Others: I've become a grounding, healing energy for others, helping people get back into their bodies. I've experienced this at my writing ceremony events and in one-on-one meetups with friends.

Pure Creation: Slow summer means writing this blog post just because I felt like it—no ulterior motives to sell anything or convert anybody, just for the pure pleasure of indulging in writing.

The humidity hasn't lifted. If anything, it's gotten thicker as we move deeper into summer. But I'm not fighting it anymore.

The heat is here, pressing against my skin, demanding I slow down. It's teaching me what I couldn't learn any other way.

Maybe your summer doesn't look like mine. Maybe your version of surrender comes through different weather, different circumstances. But if you're feeling that thick, inescapable pressure of life asking you to yield—to something, to anything—maybe that's not the problem.

Maybe that's the invitation.

Gabrielle Pelicci, PhD, is an author, writing coach, and professor. She helps people tell honest stories that heal, connect, and transform.