Bookshop in the Rain: A Nervous System Reset
A gentle story to soothe your body, soften your breath, and return you to yourself
Some of my favorite times to read Substack are early in the morning or late at night—those in-between spaces when the world is quiet and my thoughts are tender.
But as much as I love the depth and honesty here, I’ve found that not every post pairs well with sleep or waking. Some pieces (including a few of mine—let’s be honest) can stir emotions we aren’t quite ready to hold at 10 PM or before the coffee has brewed.
So today, I want to offer something different. A pause. A gift.
If you’ve been with me a while, you might remember a post we did like this before—Reset Your Nervous System & Experience Joy, Authentically. It was one of my favorites posts to write, and many of you said it arrived at just the right time. I hope this beautiful and cozy post meets you the same way.
I’m coming off an emotionally intense weekend, facing some hard truths and sitting with some deep feelings. Maybe you are too. Maybe your nervous system is tired. Maybe you need a few quiet minutes to soften the edges.
This story is here to help you do just that—to exhale, unclench your jaw, and remember what calm feels like. One of the quietest kinds of magic, I think, is fiction. Fiction reminds us how to rest. How to belong. How to come home to ourselves.
Another reason I’ve enjoyed writing these Resets is to stretch my creative writing muscles, and dabble in the pleasant space of imagination. I mentioned in Why Fantasy Worlds (like Harry Potter) Captivate Us that I have written fiction before and last summer wrote a very special book—one of which I am currently serializing to release here on Substack soon. I look forward to this adventure with you.
So here’s your invitation to step into something slow, beautiful, and safe.
May stepping into this story bring you peace, presence, and a little joy.
A Nervous System Reset: A Cozy Bookshop on a Rainy Day
An immersive nervous system reset (voiceover + story)
The bell over the door chimed low—the soft metallic ring curling through the quiet like a lullaby as I stepped through the threshold. Out of the pattering rain and into the quiet, it felt like I was leaving more outside than the storm. The troubles of life, the anxieties—all the things I felt so worried about remained outside the worn, heavy oak door.
Closing my umbrella with a satisfying snap, the fabric heavy with rain, I shook off the remaining drops as if casting off any remaining stress. My shoulders softened, breath easing from my chest in a long exhale. Leaning the umbrella against the antique gold stand just inside the door, final droplets making small round wet marks on the worn floor, felt like discarding the last remnants of my troubles—every last drop.
Stepping further into the bookshop, I was immediately enveloped by warmth—not just the comforting heat from the old radiator humming in the corner, but the soul-deep warmth of arriving somewhere safe. Somewhere known. This was a place I’d come to many times when troubled—a refuge when life felt too heavy.
But today, I knew I needed it more than ever.
So I took in the bookstore slowly—mindfully. Every noticed detail felt like grounding, a reminder of the beauty and softness life can offer, in contrast to the storm raging just beyond the dusty windowpanes.
I noticed the scent first: timeworn paper, faint lavender, and the dusky sweetness of oiled wood. Beneath it all was was the rich scent of dark coffee—sharp at the edges, softened with something spiced. Cardamom, maybe. Or clove.
The light inside the bookshop was dim and golden, not dark but softened—like the inside of a honey jar. Lamps with tasseled shades cast glowing halos onto worn rugs, and rain trickled in rivulets down the windows as if the shop was floating just outside of time.
My footsteps echoed quietly over creaking boards, each one a small confession. The shop was narrow but deep, stretching far beyond what one might expect from the modest exterior. It was more labyrinth than layout—bookshelves rising high and close together, bending toward one another as if whispering secrets yet to discover. But I knew them; each secret nook and corner. Like old friends—places that had given me light and life: rest and comfort, escape and joy.
I passed the counter adorned by a curled-up cat stretching lazily on a pile of poetry. Her fur was mottled like the pages of an old folio, like her namesake. Her coloring: gray and cream with just a touch of copper. She watched me with half-lidded yellow eyes, then slowly, indulgently, returned to sleep. I ran a hand behind one ear—her fur so incredibly soft. A loud purr filled the small space, like the sound of a tiny engine.
The shopkeeper—a quirky older lady I’d become fond of—offered a small smile and a nod without words—like a sacred mother, honoring my energy, quietly welcoming me with understanding and warmth. There was no need to explain. I was here. And that was enough. Most of our conversations were just like this one: a twitch of the lips, a nod and then going about our own way, comfortable in the silence.
Further into the shop I stepped, leaving the cat named Folio purring behind me. She stretched and spilled over the countertop in a state of rest I found quietly aspirational.
A soft exhale escaped my lips as I made my way toward my favorite corner of the shop. There, beneath a round-paned window traced with rain, waited an old leather chair—worn smooth by decades of dreamers and the hush of a thousand quiet afternoons. Its arms, polished by time and touch, held the memory of those who had come before, seeking not only story, like me, but solace. I sank into its embrace, the leather releasing a whispered sigh beneath me, as if recognizing my need for rest.
Outside, the rain deepened, a gentle thrumming against the glass that seemed to echo the steady rhythm of my breath. A small stack of favorite books rested within reach, their spines familiar, comforting. I wrapped my hands around the warm mug the shopkeeper had quietly left beside me—no need to ask what I’d wanted. The scent of cinnamon and bergamot rose with the steam, curling into the quiet air like incense, anchoring me in the safety of that sacred, unhurried moment.
Time slowed. The shop breathed with me. I was safe—beyond all harm and troubles of the world.
I ran my fingers along the spines beside me—navy and oxblood, linen-bound and gilded in gold. One called to me, quiet and certain. I opened it without hesitation, trusting. Knowing. The book unfolded like a prayer, a hush in the noise. Words rose from the crisp pages, not loudly, but like snow—soft, weightless, inevitable. They settled into me, sinking past skin and bone, all the way to something deeper. And I smiled at the quiet recognition, the kind that need not be spoken.
Somewhere deep within the shop, a record began to play. The cello—low and lilting—wrapped itself around me. It was a song with no urgency, a melody that asked nothing of me, but gave beauty and pause.
Right now, this moment was just for me. Beyond these walls, I gave so much. But here, now, all I had to do was receive.
Here in this bookshop—half-shadow and half-sanctuary—I remember the self I left behind in the chaos. But this part of me still believes in wonder. In quiet. In belonging.
I am not lost. I am simply in between chapters. And I am not alone just like the heroine in my book. My own heroin’s journey had just begun.
And here, in the hush of paper and rain, I found my way home. To myself. To the peace I always had, but never could access.
I never thought I would find her again. But here she was and I knew with a smile, that she was here to stay this time. Through anything I would face outside of this bookshop in the rain.
I had found my way back to myself.
And I could rest knowing that from now on, she would always be here with me.
Conclusion
You can stay here a little longer if you need to—tucked away between the quiet stacks, wrapped in the soft hush of rain on the windows. Let the peace linger. Let your breath stay slow. Let this stillness root you back into your body, into this moment, into the truth that you are safe now.
Sometimes healing doesn’t look like progress or productivity. Sometimes it looks like giving yourself permission to pause. To feel warm and held. To delight in something small and beautiful—like a cup of tea, a favorite story, or the way the rain sounds when it falls just right.
Thank you for stepping into this soft corner of the world with me today. I hope you leave feeling just a little lighter.
Wildflower Roots
A behind-the-scenes look at what’s next—and connection as we walk this healing journey together, through sunshine and storms.
📝Wildflowers Grow publication days are weekly—Tuesdays: paid and Thursdays: free.
💛 What’s next:
Tuesday, June 17th (paid post): In week 3 of our Grounded & Wild summer series, we’ll explore A Somatic Recalibration for Summer Overwhelm—a gentle invitation to come back to your body in the midst of chaos. I’ll share what shifted for me during our time in the mountains, and how we can carry moments of peace with us—even through camps, road trips, obligations, and overstimulation. If your nervous system has felt stretched thin lately, this one’s for you.
Thursday, June 19th (free post): Women Were Born Creatives, Even If You Don’t Think So—In next week’s free post, we’ll explore something tender, powerful, and often quietly buried beneath layers of conditioning: your innate feminine creativity. This is a personal story about being underestimated — by others and by ourselves — and the small, defiant ways we begin to remember who we really are. If you’ve ever feared to create, this post will gently invite you back to the wild, unshaped place inside you that is still so ready to bloom.
📝Updates:
Yesterday was our second post in the 8-week summer series Grounded & Wild, a nervous system recalibration for the overwhelm and craziness of summer. These posts offer a space to come and exhale all the stress, to connect with other readers and to unburden yourself. Running every Tuesday for eight weeks, you are so welcome to come and join anytime with whatever you have to bring to the table. Click here to join and jump in at anytime.
💬 Join the conversation: When you feel at the end of yourself with low energy, what helps ground you and fills your cup? Do you have a favorite bookshop, a spot in your house that feels safe and warm or a movie you love to watch (etc.)?
This reminds me of when I was working as a middle school librarian and I created a nice sanctuary for teachers and students, myself included, I remember just reading a few lines of my favorite book could bring me back to myself. Libraries and book stores alike, it's where the readers are 🧘🏽♀️🙏🏽💙📚 in the stacks.
You are such a good writer! I felt really pulled into your description of the bookshop. Bookshops- especially old ones- are so grounding, aren't they? I'm glad you have that safe space.
P.S. Have you ever published a fiction novel?