It’s August.
And everything is loud.
The sun, the expectations, the should’s.
And I’ve been thinking about what it means to be in the thick of summer — when everyone seems to be off on adventures, out and about, making the most — and I’m... still here. Still lying down. Still trying to cool my body with frozen water bottles and quiet the internal hum of why can’t I?
I used to feel like summer was this test I was always failing.
Like if I wasn’t out under the sun, dressed in something flowing, walking barefoot through the grass or lounging on a beach somewhere, then I wasn’t “doing it right.”
But the truth?
Summer is often the hardest season for me.
The heat flares my symptoms.
My body bloats, aches, and rebels.
My joints swell. My fatigue deepens.
Everything that’s already difficult becomes a little more so.
And yet... everyone else seems to be moving in technicolour.
I used to grieve what I thought I was missing.
The BBQs. The festivals. The photos.
I used to spend hours doom-scrolling sun-drenched stories and wondering if I’d ever feel like summer was for me, too.
And then, one year, I stopped trying to keep up.
I let go of the should’s.
I stopped pushing myself into heatwaves and pretending I was okay.
I allowed my body to lead.
And summer softened.
Not because it got easier — but because I stopped resisting the slow lane.
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My summer now looks like this:
* Reading in bed while a fan hums gently nearby.
* Meditation in the early morning before the heat arrives.
* Frozen water bottles wrapped in towels tucked behind my knees or resting on my stomach.
* Lying on the floor, limbs outstretched, surrendering to gravity.
* Ice lollies melting slowly, the world finally quiet enough to taste them.
* Loose, light clothing that doesn’t demand I look cute for anyone but me.
* Films and familiar TV, because sometimes softness comes with already knowing what the next line will be.
* Journaling in darkness and light, not because I need answers, but because I want presence.
* Big jugs of ice water — one for sipping, one for spilling on my arms and feet to feel okay again.
And somewhere in there, I began to believe that this version of summer counted, too.
That I wasn’t missing out — I was opting in to my own way.
That stillness wasn’t failure — it was just another form of presence.
That August didn’t need to be bold to be beautiful.
If this summer has been hard, you’re not alone.
Maybe your energy’s been low.
Maybe you’ve been flaring for weeks.
Maybe you’re tired of feeling like your body is at odds with the season everyone else is romanticising.
I just want to remind you, softly:
You’re still here. You’re still in it. You’re still allowed to enjoy your version of summer.
Even if that version is vertical for 12 minutes a day and horizontal the rest.
Even if your most exciting outing is a doctor’s appointment or a short walk to your freezer.
Even if you’re grieving a version of summer you thought you’d have.
You’re still allowed joy.
You’re still allowed magic.
You’re still allowed to belong.
A few soft truths I’ve come to trust:
* Lying down with intention is an activity.
* Resting is not wasting — it’s witnessing.
* There is nothing to prove.
* You don’t owe anyone an “I’m fine.”
* Your slow season is still a sacred one.
A tiny journal prompt, if you’d like one:
What does my body need in August?
What’s one way I can honour this season — on my terms?
Write it. Voice note it. Think it quietly in bed.
Let it guide you gently toward your next tiny moment of self-trust.
A gentle wish for you:
May August wrap you in soft cotton.
May your ice melt slowly, not urgently.
May your body be allowed to be as she is.
May your version of summer count —
Because it always has.
Because it always will.
You’re not behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re not missing out.
You’re exactly where you need to be —
Lying down, living your tiny way.
August is allowed to be quiet.
And so are you.
With love,
Always,
Ally xo
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This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit continuouslybrave.substack.com
