Anchors in unsettling times
If you’re reading this, you’re probably all too familiar with how life can be deeply destabilizing. I don’t even need to list the ways that politics, relationships, work, suffering—the list goes on—can uproot and upend our sense of security and selfhood. Life is unpredictable. In fact, one of the few things we can count on is that things will shift, and sometimes they’ll shift hard.
So when the storms come, what gets us through?
What anchors us?
As some of you know, I’m a psychology nerd. I’ve spent years researching how our minds and bodies respond to life’s challenges and weaving that research into my understanding of spirituality and church life.
This past week, I got to wear my psychology hat while hosting an educational retreat for pastors alongside my colleagues—all of whom are clinical psychologists. A key focus of our work was embodying care through mindfulness practices. One theme we explored was “finding your anchors.”
Yep, that’s right. We invited participants to breathe deeply and recall three anchors:
A person who feels safe
A place that feels safe
A memory of safety
Then, we encouraged them to enrich and savor those feelings, soaking in the warmth and security that those anchors provide. While it’s fun to think about these anchors, we do so for a reason. When we recall safe and supportive experiences, our brain shifts gears, calming the part that sounds the alarm (the amygdala) and activating the part that helps us feel grounded and in control. Our nervous system settles, stress lowers, and we can breathe a little easier.
This is why anchoring ourselves in safety isn’t just comforting—it’s powerful. It helps us navigate tough situations without becoming totally overwhelmed.
Throughout the retreat, we encouraged participants to return to their anchors repeatedly. During one mindfulness practice, we asked folks to recall a relationship with someone they’d like to be closer to, but where there’s a wound—not the most traumatic memory, but still a memory of hurt. Gosh it was vulnerable work. To move through it, we “linked up” to our anchors, toggling between the pain and the safety of those grounding memories.
One participant, with tears in her eyes, shared: "I feel so belittled by that person, but then I saw my mom with open arms, smiling, and I ran to her. I felt safe again."
Most of us had tears in our eyes, too. We could feel it happening—the release of old wounds, the deep exhale that comes when our bodies remember they are safe. By the end of the practice, I could feel a longing in my body for more time with my anchor, more time in that place of safety.
Then, back home on Monday, I was chatting with someone who had no idea what we’d been working on, and in the middle of our conversation about life’s chaos, she said:
“I firmly believe we need to dwell in our anchors to get us through.”
Chills.
Yes.
To get through these deeply destabilizing times, we need to dwell in our anchors.
So here’s something simple and practical:
The next time you feel overwhelmed, take a deep breath and bring to mind your anchors.
A person who feels safe.
A place (real or imagined) that offers warmth and security.
A memory of deep care and comfort.
Maybe even right now, take a moment to write down three anchors. (If you ever need a reminder to anchor yourself, just remember the Harbor logo!)
These anchors ground us when the world feels unsteady. They expand our capacity to endure hardship. So while the chaos of life—the inevitable storms—may sway our ship, they won’t capsize us.
We may be moved, but we remain anchored. We remain steady.
