☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
The Words That Steady You in the Dark
It is two in the morning, the kind of hour when silence feels sharper than sound. The house rests in a soft darkness, only the digital clock across the room gives off a pale glow. The hum of a small fan cuts through the stillness, steady yet strangely hollow. The coolness of the sheet brushes against her ankle, reminding her how awake she is. The blanket feels heavier than it did at bedtime. Her eyes are open, her mind restless, and her body refuses to sink into rest.
Thoughts circle quickly, catching on every worry they can find. A conversation from earlier in the week plays again, only this time the pauses feel more awkward and the words more clumsy. A small mistake from work returns in oversized form. A list of tasks rearranges itself without settling. Each thought lands with more weight than the quiet in the room can hold.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
In the dark, the loudest thing is not the clock or the fan. It is the voice inside her mind that will not let go. It does not shout. It does not need to. It speaks in a familiar tone she has known for years. You should have handled that better. You always do this. What if you never get it right. The words arrive as statements, not questions, as if they are presenting proof rather than opinion.
Her body shows the cost first. Her chest tightens with each new thought. Her jaw holds without her noticing. Her shoulders creep upward even while she lies still, as if she is bracing for impact inside her own bed. Her stomach feels unsettled, not from anything she ate, but from the constant pull of unfinished stories. The blanket that once felt comforting now feels like another layer of pressure.
She knows this voice. Most people do. It arrives at the most fragile times. It repeats old scenes as if they are happening now. It warns of outcomes that may never come. It collects every small misstep and displays them as evidence that she is not enough. The longer she listens, the more convincing it sounds. The room stays dark and quiet, yet inside her, a trial continues without rest.
For a long stretch of minutes, she tries to fight it the way she always has. She argues with it. She tells herself to stop thinking about it. She turns her head on the pillow and pulls the blanket up, then pushes it down. The fan keeps humming. The clock keeps glowing. The voice keeps speaking. Each attempt to push it away seems to give it more strength. Her breath grows shorter. Her heart feels louder.
She notices how tired she is, not just in her body, but in her spirit. Tired of apologizing to herself for being human. Tired of waking in the night and finding an old judge waiting at the edge of her thoughts. Tired of letting one harsh inner tone decide how she feels about her whole life. A quiet understanding rises beneath the noise. This is not helping. This is not care. This is not the truth of who I am.
As that realization lands, her throat softens in a way she did not expect. It is a small feeling, almost nothing, yet it catches her attention more clearly than the thoughts have. Her hand presses lightly against her ribs, as if her body is checking in with itself. The contact steadies her, reminding her that she is here in this room, not inside the stories her mind keeps insisting she relive.
She rolls onto her back and lets her hands rest on her ribs. Her fingers feel the subtle rise and fall beneath her palms. The breath is shallow at first. She does not try to force it to change. She only watches. In that watching, a space opens. A small gap between the voice in her head and the body that lies here in this dark room, alive and present.
A memory surfaces of something she once read about self-talk, how the words spoken in the quietest hours become the ones the body remembers. At the time it sounded gentle but distant. Now, with her heart beating fast in the dark, it feels immediate. She realizes she has been listening to one kind of inner voice for so long that it has become automatic. She has never truly practiced another one with the same devotion.
She takes a breath in through her nose, letting it move a little deeper into her chest. Then she exhales slowly. At the end of that breath, she chooses a single phrase. I am safe in this moment. The words feel small in the room. They feel unfamiliar on her tongue. Yet they land in her body with a softness she has been missing.
The other voice reacts quickly. Safe. Really. Look at everything you have not done. Look at everything that could go wrong. It tries to pull her back into the storm. She does not argue this time. She answers with the same phrase, slower now. I am safe in this moment. The fan hums. The blanket presses against her legs. The mattress holds her weight. The only thing that has changed is the sound of the words she has chosen.
Her breath responds before her thoughts do. Inhale, and her ribs widen a little more. Exhale, and her shoulders sink a fraction deeper into the bed. The tightness in her jaw eases. Her hands feel warmer against her own skin. The thoughts still come, but their urgency fades. They pass like voices from another room rather than commands beside her ear.
She repeats the phrase again, and this time she adds another. I am safe in this moment. I can meet what comes, when it comes. The second sentence forms a boundary between her and the future she has been trying to solve in the dark. It does not promise anything. It simply names her capacity. The unkind voice grows quieter, not because it has been defeated, but because it no longer stands alone.
Memories of earlier mistakes still appear. Times she spoke too quickly. Times she stayed quiet when she needed to speak. Times she took on more than she should have. Instead of letting those pictures turn into judgment, she lets them be what they are. Moments in a long life of learning. She answers each one with the same gentle language. I see that. I am still safe in this moment. I can make different choices when the light returns.
The room does not change. The clock still glows. The fan still hums. The night remains what it is. Yet everything inside her begins to shift. Her chest feels less tight. Her shoulders fall to a natural place. The blanket that felt heavy now feels like support. She is not forcing herself to sleep. She is allowing herself to be kinder while she remains awake.
After a while, the need to repeat the phrases grows softer. They stay nearby, resting just behind her breath, ready if she needs them again. Her body continues to respond. Muscles loosen. The back of her neck releases into the pillow. The same mind that once felt sharp now begins to feel like a place where gentleness can live.
She understands something new about this voice inside her. It is not the only one she has. It is simply the one she has practiced the most. Tonight she has given herself another option. A pattern of steady words to meet the fragile hours. Not perfection. Not silence. Only a softer way to be with herself when the dark feels loud.
Sleep may come soon or it may arrive later. She no longer treats that as the measure of success. The success has already happened. She did not abandon herself. She did not let the loudest inner voice be the only one she heard. She chose words that steady rather than scatter her. Words that speak from the part of her that remembers her own strength.
She closes her eyes. Her breath moves in a slower rhythm now. Inhale, presence. Exhale, release. She does not need to rewrite anything. She only needs to stay with herself. The phrase remains available, a quiet anchor waiting in the dark. I am safe in this moment. I can meet what comes, when it comes.
The Truth Beneath
The words spoken in the quietest hours do more than fill silence. They shape the body that breathes beneath them. The unkind voice arrives easily because it has been practiced for years. The steady voice must be chosen on purpose. A simple phrase can become the bridge between fear and presence. It slows the spin of worry. It loosens the weight around the heart. It teaches the nervous system that it is allowed to rest, even when the mind is unsure.
The dark will still be dark. The fan will still hum. The clock will still glow. But the language you choose becomes the path back to yourself. Over time, gentle words grow louder than fear. And fear grows smaller in the presence of care.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
The Words That Steady You in the Dark
It is two in the morning, the kind of hour when silence feels sharper than sound. The house rests in a soft darkness, only the digital clock across the room gives off a pale glow. The hum of a small fan cuts through the stillness, steady yet strangely hollow. The coolness of the sheet brushes against her ankle, reminding her how awake she is. The blanket feels heavier than it did at bedtime. Her eyes are open, her mind restless, and her body refuses to sink into rest.
Thoughts circle quickly, catching on every worry they can find. A conversation from earlier in the week plays again, only this time the pauses feel more awkward and the words more clumsy. A small mistake from work returns in oversized form. A list of tasks rearranges itself without settling. Each thought lands with more weight than the quiet in the room can hold.
If today isn’t the day, remember us when your moment opens.
Buy Me a Coffee
In the dark, the loudest thing is not the clock or the fan. It is the voice inside her mind that will not let go. It does not shout. It does not need to. It speaks in a familiar tone she has known for years. You should have handled that better. You always do this. What if you never get it right. The words arrive as statements, not questions, as if they are presenting proof rather than opinion.
Her body shows the cost first. Her chest tightens with each new thought. Her jaw holds without her noticing. Her shoulders creep upward even while she lies still, as if she is bracing for impact inside her own bed. Her stomach feels unsettled, not from anything she ate, but from the constant pull of unfinished stories. The blanket that once felt comforting now feels like another layer of pressure.
She knows this voice. Most people do. It arrives at the most fragile times. It repeats old scenes as if they are happening now. It warns of outcomes that may never come. It collects every small misstep and displays them as evidence that she is not enough. The longer she listens, the more convincing it sounds. The room stays dark and quiet, yet inside her, a trial continues without rest.
For a long stretch of minutes, she tries to fight it the way she always has. She argues with it. She tells herself to stop thinking about it. She turns her head on the pillow and pulls the blanket up, then pushes it down. The fan keeps humming. The clock keeps glowing. The voice keeps speaking. Each attempt to push it away seems to give it more strength. Her breath grows shorter. Her heart feels louder.
She notices how tired she is, not just in her body, but in her spirit. Tired of apologizing to herself for being human. Tired of waking in the night and finding an old judge waiting at the edge of her thoughts. Tired of letting one harsh inner tone decide how she feels about her whole life. A quiet understanding rises beneath the noise. This is not helping. This is not care. This is not the truth of who I am.
As that realization lands, her throat softens in a way she did not expect. It is a small feeling, almost nothing, yet it catches her attention more clearly than the thoughts have. Her hand presses lightly against her ribs, as if her body is checking in with itself. The contact steadies her, reminding her that she is here in this room, not inside the stories her mind keeps insisting she relive.
She rolls onto her back and lets her hands rest on her ribs. Her fingers feel the subtle rise and fall beneath her palms. The breath is shallow at first. She does not try to force it to change. She only watches. In that watching, a space opens. A small gap between the voice in her head and the body that lies here in this dark room, alive and present.
A memory surfaces of something she once read about self-talk, how the words spoken in the quietest hours become the ones the body remembers. At the time it sounded gentle but distant. Now, with her heart beating fast in the dark, it feels immediate. She realizes she has been listening to one kind of inner voice for so long that it has become automatic. She has never truly practiced another one with the same devotion.
She takes a breath in through her nose, letting it move a little deeper into her chest. Then she exhales slowly. At the end of that breath, she chooses a single phrase. I am safe in this moment. The words feel small in the room. They feel unfamiliar on her tongue. Yet they land in her body with a softness she has been missing.
The other voice reacts quickly. Safe. Really. Look at everything you have not done. Look at everything that could go wrong. It tries to pull her back into the storm. She does not argue this time. She answers with the same phrase, slower now. I am safe in this moment. The fan hums. The blanket presses against her legs. The mattress holds her weight. The only thing that has changed is the sound of the words she has chosen.
Her breath responds before her thoughts do. Inhale, and her ribs widen a little more. Exhale, and her shoulders sink a fraction deeper into the bed. The tightness in her jaw eases. Her hands feel warmer against her own skin. The thoughts still come, but their urgency fades. They pass like voices from another room rather than commands beside her ear.
She repeats the phrase again, and this time she adds another. I am safe in this moment. I can meet what comes, when it comes. The second sentence forms a boundary between her and the future she has been trying to solve in the dark. It does not promise anything. It simply names her capacity. The unkind voice grows quieter, not because it has been defeated, but because it no longer stands alone.
Memories of earlier mistakes still appear. Times she spoke too quickly. Times she stayed quiet when she needed to speak. Times she took on more than she should have. Instead of letting those pictures turn into judgment, she lets them be what they are. Moments in a long life of learning. She answers each one with the same gentle language. I see that. I am still safe in this moment. I can make different choices when the light returns.
The room does not change. The clock still glows. The fan still hums. The night remains what it is. Yet everything inside her begins to shift. Her chest feels less tight. Her shoulders fall to a natural place. The blanket that felt heavy now feels like support. She is not forcing herself to sleep. She is allowing herself to be kinder while she remains awake.
After a while, the need to repeat the phrases grows softer. They stay nearby, resting just behind her breath, ready if she needs them again. Her body continues to respond. Muscles loosen. The back of her neck releases into the pillow. The same mind that once felt sharp now begins to feel like a place where gentleness can live.
She understands something new about this voice inside her. It is not the only one she has. It is simply the one she has practiced the most. Tonight she has given herself another option. A pattern of steady words to meet the fragile hours. Not perfection. Not silence. Only a softer way to be with herself when the dark feels loud.
Sleep may come soon or it may arrive later. She no longer treats that as the measure of success. The success has already happened. She did not abandon herself. She did not let the loudest inner voice be the only one she heard. She chose words that steady rather than scatter her. Words that speak from the part of her that remembers her own strength.
She closes her eyes. Her breath moves in a slower rhythm now. Inhale, presence. Exhale, release. She does not need to rewrite anything. She only needs to stay with herself. The phrase remains available, a quiet anchor waiting in the dark. I am safe in this moment. I can meet what comes, when it comes.
The Truth Beneath
The words spoken in the quietest hours do more than fill silence. They shape the body that breathes beneath them. The unkind voice arrives easily because it has been practiced for years. The steady voice must be chosen on purpose. A simple phrase can become the bridge between fear and presence. It slows the spin of worry. It loosens the weight around the heart. It teaches the nervous system that it is allowed to rest, even when the mind is unsure.
The dark will still be dark. The fan will still hum. The clock will still glow. But the language you choose becomes the path back to yourself. Over time, gentle words grow louder than fear. And fear grows smaller in the presence of care.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath” Links to add to the bottom of stories
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