Uninvited Guests and Unexpected Gifts

Savoring simple daily pleasures

 Series: Love for Imperfect Things – Entry #2

"Emotions are like uninvited guests. They come whenever they want to, and leave once you acknowledge their presence. Although emotions are born inside you, don't assume they belong to you. That is why they rarely listen to you."

— Haemin Sunim

Today, I’m writing from my sofa rather than my desk, wrapped in a blanket with the quiet hum of a kettle in the background and the aftertaste of ginger tea still lingering. A common virus has made its way into my body, gently forcing me into a rare and necessary state of stillness.

Normally, I’m an active relaxer—the kind of person who thinks rest means ticking off domestic tasks or reorganizing cupboards between cups of tea. Even when I’m unwell, I tend to push through, convincing myself that productivity is a form of self-care. But not today. Today, I have done nothing but rest, sleep, hydrate, nourish, and listen—to both my body and the weather outside.

After a morning of torrential rain, the sun has now emerged cautiously from behind the clouds. The wind, still strong, is drying the laundry I managed to hang out earlier—a quiet triumph. I’m about to take a short walk by the beach, a slow wander for some fresh air before returning home to curl up again with a book. There’s no pressure to do more. No guilt creeping in. Just presence.

And it’s in this space that I’ve been reflecting on Sunim’s words. Emotions are like uninvited guests. They show up unexpectedly—fatigue, irritation, worry, restlessness—especially when we’re forced to stop. In the past, I’ve tried to ignore them, override them, or fix them with productivity. But like any guest, they don’t leave until they’ve been acknowledged.

Today, instead of shooing them away, I’ve opened the door and let them in. I’ve offered them tea, asked what they need, and in doing so, they’ve softened. Some have already left. Others are still here, lingering in quiet corners. And that’s okay. The point isn’t to control them. It’s to witness them. To understand that although they arise within me, they don’t define me. They don’t need to be wrestled into silence or judged for showing up.

As I sit with this insight, I can’t help but notice a gentle joy beginning to rise. Not because I’m well again—not yet—but because I’m aligned. Aligned with what my body needs, with what my spirit is asking for, and with what this moment is offering: rest, release, and reflection.

There’s something oddly liberating about letting go of the need to do. In illness, we’re given a chance to listen more deeply—to slow down not out of luxury, but necessity. And in that slowness, something beautiful often emerges. A kind of clarity. A reconnection with what is essential.

So if emotions are uninvited guests, perhaps rest is the home they’ve been looking for. Not to stay forever, but to be seen, heard, and gently released.

And for now, that is enough.