Emptying Out as a Sacred Practice

Someone asked me recently what I meant when I say empty out—a phrase I return to often. 

It’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. But what I’ve become good at is recognising just how many ways I plug into the world—how I fill myself up with noise, energy, commitments, shoulds, expectations. The doing of life. 

And over time, I’ve slowly and intentionally unplugged from nearly all of it. I’ve released the errands, the hustle, the constant scheduling. Emilia and I live simply. No extracurriculars. No full calendar. Just space. 
I don’t listen to the radio in the car. I don’t watch or read the news. I’m not active on social media, and we don’t have a TV. 
It’s not about avoidance—it’s about creating space. 
Space to hear myself again. Space to feel what’s mine. Space to breathe. 

I’ve created a life that’s... empty. At least, from the outside. And that’s on purpose. 

Because most of us are full to overflowing. We pack our minds, our bodies, our spirits with so much external input that we lose sight of the vessel itself. We forget the quiet beauty of who we are beneath it all. 

I imagine it like an ice cream sundae. The vessel—the glass—is elegant, with soft texture and a beautiful shape. It’s complete, even empty. But then we pile it high with scoop after scoop, toppings and trimmings, until it melts and overflows. Until it’s unrecognisable. The vessel disappears under the mess of it. 

We do that to ourselves. 

We gorge on stimulation—on content, opinions, noise, other people’s energy—until we’re bloated with things that don’t belong to us. Until the very things we use to fill ourselves make us sick. 

And over time, I’ve come to realise: I’m no longer satiated by more. What nourishes me now is less. The stillness. The breath. The quiet. The emptiness. 

For me, the signals are physical. I feel tension in my head. A queasiness in my belly. A sense of being “fried”—too much input, too many voices, too much noise. I have a Valleys environment in Human Design, which among other things, means my body has a low threshold for external stimuli. There is a limit to how much I can take in before my nervous system starts to shut down. 

And so, I empty out. 

It’s not a metaphor—it’s a practice. 

Often, I will go to the river, lay my blanket on the earth, close my eyes, because even my vision has limits, and I listen to nothing but the water, the wind, the trees. I let the ground hold me. I breathe. I release. I return. 

Sometimes, I’m so overstimulated that I physically can’t open my eyes. I have to close them—there’s simply no capacity left. But after the stillness, after the quiet, I rise. And I can see again. Feel again. Receive again. 

This is how I come back to myself. 

It’s why Mondays are my empty-out days. Ruled by the moon, they carry emotion and reflection. After a full weekend with Emilia, I arrive home from drop off, sit with my tea, breathe, and release everything I’ve taken in. I anchor back into my own rhythm. I listen for what’s real. I reconnect with my intention, my voice, my truth. 

It’s become sacred. 

Even my mornings have changed. I now rise before the sun—not by alarm, but by instinct. I write, I journal, I meet myself on the page before the world arrives. And when Emilia wakes and joins me, I’m already anchored in myself. I can receive her from fullness, not depletion. 

People often comment on my boundaries—how protective I am of my energy. It’s true. I’ve become unapologetic about honouring my limits, because I know what misalignment costs me. I can feel it in my body now, when something is off—whether slightly or wildly. I’ve practiced the art of emptying out so much that my system is sensitive to the smallest misalignment. 

There was a time I couldn’t be alone. I craved connection constantly—always looking for someone to co-regulate with, to tether myself to. That was my attachment wound. And over time, through stillness and solitude, I’ve learned to be with myself. I’ve built capacity for silence. For quiet. For my own company. 

Now, I crave it. I prefer it. 

As a Human Design Manifestor, a non-sacral being, I need this solitude. My energy is not endless. I have to discharge what isn’t mine, or it builds up in my body and becomes unsustainable. I’ve come to realise I’m a homebody, and I cherish my time alone while Emilia is at kindergarten. It anchors me. It grounds me. It makes me whole. 

This is how I nourish myself now—not by filling, but by emptying. Not by adding more, but by returning to less. 

In a world that glorifies more, I’m learning to choose less—to honour my body’s wisdom, to tend to my energy like a sacred flame, and to trust that everything I need rises in the quiet. 
This practice of emptying out isn’t just something I do. It’s how I come home to myself. 

Rhian xx