Finding Steady Ground After the Storm
How do you measure mental health when life has just delivered its heaviest blows? After my wife of twenty years departed for America last year and a close friend passed away, I found myself going through the motions, questioning what “healthy” even looks like in the aftermath.
Work provided structure—teaching English a couple of days a week, working the farm soil on others—a schedule to anchor myself when everything else felt adrift.
In those early days, the smallest accomplishments in my now-empty Japanese apartment became unexpected victories—cleaning the kitchen, repairing my bicycle, folding laundry for the next day.
These mundane tasks I’d done for years as part of our shared life suddenly carried new weight when performed just for me. They felt hollow yet somehow triumphant. Is that recovery—or merely survival with a different name?
The Racing Mind Behind a Calm Exterior
As months pass, the acute grief subsides if you’re fortunate. My routines stabilized—better eating habits, more walking, staying purposefully occupied. Saturdays bring a forty-minute journey to work, the rhythm of footsteps and fresh air becoming its own form of therapy.
This morning, I slept reasonably well, rose early, studied Japanese briefly, and prepared for work as usual. Two pairs of clean jeans hung side by side in my closet—I grabbed the worn pair by mistake, only noticing when already waiting for my first student.
A decade ago, such an oversight wouldn’t have occurred. A simple error—similar clothing hanging together—or something deeper? The mind still racing beneath an outwardly composed surface?
When thoughts refuse to quiet—memories replaying, alternative scenarios unfolding—how do we gauge our stability? Physical health improves with proper nutrition and movement, but when your thoughts continue churning beneath the surface, what measures your mental equilibrium?
The Elusive Measure of Mental Wellness
Does a definitive test exist for mental health? A checklist that confirms, “Yes, you’re mentally sound”? Physical health comes with clear metrics—blood pressure readings, cholesterol levels—but the mind resists such straightforward evaluation.
Lately, I’ve found myself returning to a line from Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God.” There’s profound simplicity in those words—perhaps true calm emerges from connecting to something greater than ourselves. I make no claims as a spiritual authority, but this verse resonates when my thoughts grow overwhelming.
Mental health professionals might assess specific indicators—sleep patterns, concentration ability, emotional regulation—but human experience defies such clinical categorization.
I can exchange pleasantries with strangers, engage in conversation as I always have, while simultaneously feeling the persistent hum of unrest behind my eyes. Does presenting well to the world indicate wellness, or merely masking?
Transformed or Diminished by Hardship?
When significant loss or stress fractures your foundation, does the repair process leave you stronger or permanently altered?
After my personal upheaval, I maintained my responsibilities—continued teaching, kept farming—interacting with the same people in seemingly unchanged ways.
Am I still the same person at my core—genuine, friendly, generous? I believe so—still offering coffee to colleagues, listening attentively to their concerns—but subtle shifts have emerged. My patience wanes more quickly some evenings; I find myself mentally drifting during conversations more frequently than before.
Life’s difficulties have certainly shaped me, but have they diminished something essential? You reassure yourself that healing has occurred—work performance remains steady, mistaking which jeans to wear hardly constitutes a crisis—but are your interactions with others truly unchanged?
Are you still authentically yourself, or a carefully reconstructed approximation?
Charting a Course Forward
How do you reorient toward the future? Surviving day-by-day suffices temporarily—I’ve lived that way, methodically completing necessary tasks. But eventually, a longer vision becomes necessary.
Some respond to profound change by completely reinventing their lives—selling possessions, relocating, starting fresh.
I made such a transition years ago, moving from the United States to Japan in pursuit of love and family—only to discover that memories travel with you, merely changing their backdrop. Now, with established roots in tractors and classrooms, dramatic upheaval holds less appeal.
What approach maintains sanity during transition? Setting ambitious goals, creating detailed plans—or simply continuing forward until clarity naturally returns? At fifty-six, I’m still seeking that answer. What path has worked for you?
The Disconnect Between Inside and Outside
Perhaps the most challenging aspect is maintaining outward composure while internally processing turmoil.
At work, I smile genuinely at students, inquire about their weekends with authentic interest—yet simultaneously, my mind replays my wife’s departing fist bump at the train station, or my mother’s vacant expression in her care facility.
How do we recognize mental health when external stability masks internal turbulence?
Perhaps wellness isn’t about eliminating the internal storm completely—perhaps it’s about functioning alongside it, acknowledging its presence without surrendering to it. Or maybe that’s precisely the definition of resilience—when life’s difficulties fail to completely submerge you, you remain afloat.
Finding Peace Amid Uncertainty
Quieting an overactive mind offers no quick solutions—exercise helps, nutrition matters, routines provide structure, but none fully silence the internal dialogue.
That Biblical instruction to “be still” continues to resonate, not as a spiritual prescription but as a reminder of quietude’s value. I’ve found myself returning to scripture more frequently, not seeking definitive answers but moments of steadiness.
A decade ago, I would have been troubled by grabbing the wrong jeans—today, I recognize it as a minor oversight rather than evidence of decline. My work remains fulfilling, regular walks clear mental cobwebs, and small positive actions accumulate meaning over time.
This isn’t a Pity Party
This reflection isn’t about seeking sympathy—practicing gratitude fundamentally shifts perspective, grounding you when uncertainty threatens stability.
Perhaps mental health isn’t about achieving perfection or complete inner peace—perhaps it’s simply recognizing the storm’s presence while continuing to stand firm within it.
What practices calm your thoughts when they spiral? What anchors you during life’s tumultuous moments? Share your experience below—I’m genuinely curious, without expectation or judgment.