Playing in the Void: What putting a sheet over my head taught me

I want to share about my experience this week—restlessly wandering in the void, the unknown, the dark.

This past week, I’ve felt disoriented, restless, and unmotivated—like I’ve begun a brand-new chapter but somehow got stuck at the starting line.

One way I think about the metaphorical dark is as void energy.
But here’s the question: How do we play in those void moments when we don’t know what to do or where to go?

In times like this, I go through the motions. I’ll take the walk, cook the nourishing meal, read the good book. All the while waiting… waiting for inspiration, waiting for the nudge of guidance. And the longer I wait, the more restless I become. Restlessness turns to contraction. Then resentment. Then distraction. And soon enough, I’m slipping toward those sneaky addictive patterns that try to fill the void for me.

A dear friend reminded me that these moments are potent for growth. And while I know this to be true (I’ve experienced it many times before), I still want to roll my eyes and stick out my tongue in protest.

Giving Voice to the Whiny Child

Sometimes in the void, I hear the voice of my inner child loud and clear:
“Ughhh, why aren’t we there yet? This is boring. I don’t want to wait anymore!”

Turning up the whiny little girl voice and letting her speak from the heart can actually bring relief. Instead of stuffing down the impatience, I exaggerate it—give it a stage, let it wail and complain. It feels silly and cathartic, and it reminds me that this part of me just wants to feel seen and held.

What I Learned by Putting a Sheet Over My Head

One of the hardest parts of the void, for me, is how it blocks access to presence, gratitude, and joy.

Just the other night, I was walking by a gorgeous lake at sunset—usually my favorite kind of scene—and I felt nothing. The beauty was there, but my body couldn’t receive it.

So… how did I play with that?

It always starts with presence and love. Without those, play feels impossible. From there, I ask myself: Okay, how can I play with this?

Here’s what I did:
I tuned into the “muted” feeling in my body—as if the color had been drained out of life—and realized it kind of felt like having a sheet over me. Hard to see where to go. Hard to experience the fullness of expression around me.

So I decided to play with it. I threw a sheet over my head and walked slowly around my house (yes, like a ghost). It turned the internal experience into something I could actually see, experience, and move with. I noticed how I was searching for bits of light to guide me. How cautious and hesitant I was with each step. How afraid I was of bumping into something.

And of course, Lucy (my dog) joined in on the game—stepping on the sheet and pulling me backward every time I tried to move forward. The resistance was hilariously on point.

What I felt afterward was… satisfaction. Like: Yes. That’s it. That’s exactly how this moment feels.

It reminded me to go gently. To notice even the tiniest glimmers of light. And to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all. It also helped me find the pleasure and amusement in the experience—rather than searching for a way out.

And, surprisingly, soon after that, the experience shifted. I began to see little steps forward that I was ready to take.

So, how do you play in your void moments? Do you run away—or turn toward?