The Difference Between Being Stuck and Being Incubated
In clinic there's been this theme of "being stuck". Feeling behind or perpetually late. As if something essential has stalled.
So much so that I’ve begun to wonder whether what we call “being stuck” is actually something else entirely.
Often, when I listen more closely, what’s present doesn’t feel like stagnation at all. What I encounter instead is a kind of stillness that’s often mistaken for stagnation.
It doesn’t feel frantic or sharp. It doesn’t carry panic or urgency. Instead, it feels quiet. Heavy. Inward. A drawing down rather than a pushing forward. And more often than not, this kind of stillness isn’t a problem to solve.
It’s actually a process unfolding beneath the surface.
I liken it to the wetlands close to where I grew up. The water seemed to have no obvious source. It wasn’t flowing in any particular direction, and yet it wasn’t stagnant. It was a brilliant ecosystem that dozens, if not hundreds, of species called home.
So, how do we discern if what we're experiencing is actually being stuck or if perhaps we're merely incubating?
Stuck, usually has a texture to it. There's friction. Repetition. A sense of forcing the same thoughts around the same corners without relief. The body feels tense, the mind loops, and there’s a pressure to figure it out. Stuck demands effort, even when nothing moves.
Incubation on the other hand feels different. There may be uncertainty, but there's also a strange absence of urgency. The body slows. Attention turns inward. Old desires resurface without explanation. Energy gathers quietly, without clear direction.
From the outside, it can look like nothing is happening. From the inside, something is rearranging itself.
The trouble is, we live in a culture that doesn’t trust this phase.
We’re taught that rest must be productive, that clarity should arrive quickly, and that momentum is proof of worth. Even in spaces meant for healing or growth, there is often an unspoken expectation to move through things efficiently.
But incubation doesn’t work on that timeline.
Seeds don't announce themselves while they’re underground. Gestation is invisible by design. Winter soil doesn't justify itself. And yet, these are not wasted seasons. They're essential ones.
Life requires periods of darkness and compression in order to reorganize itself into something viable.
When we interrupt incubation, by forcing decisions too early, by demanding answers before they’ve ripened. We fracture our own trust. Action taken too soon can feel hollow or misaligned, not because we chose wrong, but because the choice wasn’t ready to be made.
Many of the most meaningful shifts in our lives don’t begin with clarity. They begin with a quiet sense of not yet. Not yet ready. Not yet named. Not yet visible. And that “not yet” is not a failure.
It’s information.
Learning to tell the difference between being stuck and being incubated is a practice of listening, not thinking.
The body often knows before the mind does. One state feels contracted and agitated. The other feels still, even if it’s uncomfortable. One asks to be solved. The other asks to be trusted.
Perhaps the question isn’t How do I get unstuck? Perhaps the question is What might be forming if I let this be what it is?
Sometimes nothing is wrong. Sometimes life is simply gathering itself.
Writing Prompt:
What does it feel like in my body when I'm forcing something into being?
What does it feel like in my body when I trust my timing?
Name moments from my past where I trusted incubation and what opened because of it?
XO
Ashley