They told me to drink a full bottle of water an hour before my session.

“We need your bladder full,” the nurse said gently, as if that were a normal thing to ask someone first thing in the morning with the room’s fluorescent lights still feeling too harsh for my sleepy eyes.

And so, there I was—sitting in a beige-on-beige waiting room, legs crossed like a tightly folded napkin, bladder at capacity, trying to look composed while internally negotiating with every pelvic muscle.

It was my first day of radiotherapy. I had my neatly printed schedule, I followed instructions, I drank the water. But what no one told me was this: hospital time runs on a different dimension. They say, “Just ten more minutes,” but what they mean is, “Please begin praying to your pelvic floor now.”

In my previous life, I’d be spending this time in a Monday morning meeting, my jaw tight as I reviewed a weekly volume spreadsheet 50 columns wide or tweaking deck slides until my eyes blurred. Now, my target was not peeing myself in public. Progress takes many forms.

What struck me most in that waiting room—aside from the increasingly urgent need for a bathroom—was the stillness. The air hung heavy with the scent of antiseptic and quiet anxiety, a stark contrast to the treadmill nature of my former reality.

 I’d spent decades on the move. Career. Travel. Bucket Lists. Always doing, planning, solving. I wore my full calendar with back-to-back meetings like a badge of honor. Stillness was for people who had given up. Or worse, people with nothing to do.

But life, as it tends to do, had other plans. (If you want God to laugh, tell Him about yours.)

That morning, as I sat there full of water and questions, I realized: the pause isn’t a punishment. It’s a portal. Much like the full bladder necessary for a clear scan, sometimes life fills us uncomfortably to our limits—not to torture us, but to create the clarity needed for what comes next.

In a world obsessed with movement, sometimes the bravest act is to still – even when every instinct tells you to run (in my case, to the nearest bathroom). 

We don’t give enough credit to the pause. In our world, action gets the spotlight. Hustle is glorified. Busy is a status symbol. But there’s wisdom in waiting—if we let it speak.

So here’s what I learned during those uncomfortable, humbling hours:

Stillness isn’t weakness. It’s preparation.  It’s perspective.  It’s power… even if you’re about to pee your pants.  This insight became my companion through the treatments.  When I felt impatient, anxious or even bored, I’d remind myself:  “I’m not waiting, I’m preparing.”  I would stop focusing on the clock and instead breathe to bring me back to this moment – the only one that truly required my attention.

If you’re in a waiting room of your own right now—not necessarily in a hospital, but in life, in transition, in a ‘holding period’ —know that this stillness isn’t empty.  It’s pregnant with possibility.  You’re not stuck. You are instead being recalibrated and readied.  Your story isn’t paused: this is part of it.  And though it may not feel like it now, this in-between chapter has wisdom to offer that the busy ones never could – waiting patiently for you to notice it. 

But if you can and if you’re allowed to, do go to the bathroom first.