
The Practical Art of Composting
We’ve established that microhermitting can go two ways - you can rot or you can compost. We’ve talked about why we need it (performance fatigue is real) and how our ancestors did it (communally, seasonally, with honour).
But here’s the question I keep circling back to: how do you choose composting over rotting when your nervous system is already checked out? Like, what does that look like practically?
I’ve been trying to figure out the difference between the microhermitting that leaves me feeling worse and the kind that actually… helps.
If I Don’t Feel Rested, Was It Really Rest?
This is the question that started it all for me. Rotting can look like stillness, but not all stillness restores.
There’s a difference between numbing, nourishing, withdrawing and softening… and logging off and truly letting go. But how do you tell the difference when you’re already exhausted?
Intention, Not Avoidance
This one’s tricky because sometimes I don’t know why I’m retreating until I’m already deep in it. I’ve been trying to pause, even for a moment, and ask myself: am I running away from something or am I running toward rest?
Even if no one else knows the reason, I try to know. Sometimes I’ll say it silently: “I need a moment to come back to myself.” That small act of naming shifts my whole approach.
Intention doesn’t need to be announced. It just needs to be felt/
Ritual, Not Routine
I don’t have a seven-step wellness protocol or anything like that. But when I signal to myself that I’m stepping away, it feels purposeful.
There are a few different things I try, sometimes it's lighting incense, sometimes it’s just changing into the softest clothes I own and making a steaming mug of tea.
Our ancestors had these pauses - calls to prayer, the silence before ceremony. For those of us without those traditions, maybe we get to create our own small signals.
It doesn’t have to be ancient or borrowed. It just has to mean something to you.
And remember, even withdrawal can be witnessed. Even solitude can be held.
Rhythm, Not Isolation
This is where I think I was getting it wrong. I used to microhermit completely alone, but our ancestors knew: even when you step away, you’re still part of something.
Maybe your microhermitting doesn’t mean cutting yourself off completely. Maybe it just means you’re stepping out for a while then returning fuller.
I’ve been trying to let someone I trust know where I’ve gone. Not for permission, but for connection: “I’m composting for a bit. I’m okay. I’ll be back.” Sometimes it’s a text. Sometimes it’s switching my phone to sleep mode.
You can turn down the noise without disappearing completely. Let your rhythm shift, but stay tethered to those who hold you.
Compost, Don’t Rot
When I microhermit with intention - when I compost - I know this isn’t permanent. I know something is breaking down so something else can grow.
That might mean letting myself feel what’s been building up instead of pushing it down. It might mean actually resting instead of lying still while my mind races.
Compost transforms. Rot just… stinks.
What I’m Still Learning
Honestly, I don’t have this figured out. Some days I doom-scroll for hours and call it rest. Some days I microhermit and feel exactly the same afterwards.
But maybe the point isn’t to get it right every time. Maybe it’s simply to choose intention when you can.
Strike a match if you have one.
Put on that playlist that makes you feel like yourself.
Take a shower that’s longer than necessary and use the good soap.
Let the world wait for a bit.
Because this is composting. The kind that yields abundance, signals new beginnings and softens the earth.
Let it be messy.
Let it be imperfect.
Let it be yours.
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This completes the Microhermitting series. May your withdrawals be intentional, your solitude be sacred, and your returns be sweet.