This past week we spent three days in Florence. It is a gorgeous city steeped in art and history. The Medici, who ruled the city for 300 years, placed enormous value on art—particularly painting, architecture, and sculpture. They used their vast wealth to bring the greatest artists from around Italy to Florence, where they could create masterpieces and experiment with new techniques. It’s not an overstatement to say that the Medici were the founders—or perhaps the midwives—of the Renaissance.
Everything about Florence is big. The statue of David is 17 feet tall and weighs 12,000 pounds. The Duomo, Florence’s famed cathedral, can hold 30,000 people and is one of the largest in the world. Its dome, designed and built by Brunelleschi, remains the largest masonry dome ever constructed. And the crowds in Florence are enormous as well. We were there during the first week in April—not even high season—but the crowds were impressive.
I’d call this phenomenon “big crowds to see big things.” Everyone has heard about the great sights in Florence, and they come in droves to experience them. The line to get into the Duomo stretched halfway around the building (we took a pass). Crowds on the Ponte Vecchio were so dense it was hard to get across. We waited in line for 20–30 minutes to enter the Boboli Gardens. Despite the crowds, we thoroughly enjoyed and appreciated the beauty of this magnificent city—great works, great sights, great food, great city.
I’ve been reading about the life and teachings of St. Francis. Although I’m only at the beginning of what I hope will be an ongoing exploration, I’ve learned enough to know that he would not have thought much of these big, beautiful things. St. Francis found beauty in the small things and preached the importance of simplicity, nature, and faith through action. He didn’t like big churches, big titles, or showy deeds. He cautioned against the dangers of pursuing the “three P’s”: power, prestige, and persona.
I was thinking about him a few days ago while walking Koji first thing in the morning. In the past, I would have been in a bit of a rush. I always walked Koji early, right after getting up, which meant his walk was a chore to complete before breakfast, coffee, and getting to work. While I tried to use these walks to clear my mind and appreciate my surroundings, my thoughts were often elsewhere—focused on “big things” like an upcoming presentation, a meeting, or a deadline.
Big Sights & Scenes from Florence
My walks here in Italy have been different. There is no rush. There are few big things to worry about.
On this particular morning, Koji was very into sniffing. In the past this would have annoyed me. This time, I let him sniff to his heart’s content, which gave me time to appreciate the beautiful views from our hilltop property. This time of year there are wildflowers everywhere—yellow, orange, purple, and white. Whole fields are dotted with them, but they’re so small you miss them unless you stop and look closely.
Then, in the distance, I heard the faint tinkling of what sounded like cowbells. I would not have noticed them had I not paused in silence while Koji sniffed. As I searched for the source, I saw a flock of sheep grazing in the valley below. The bells were sheep bells, not cowbells. Mountains in the distance were snowcapped, and a layer of fog covered the valleys below. In the past, I would have missed this entire scene.
It was as much a masterpiece as any painting in a Florentine gallery. But unlike those in Florence, this one was mine to enjoy without the crowds. Its components were small, everyday things: flowers, fog, and sheep.
Scenes from Morning Walks with Koji
I loved Florence and will absolutely go back to see more. But there are two messages for me in these contrasting experiences. The first is that if we spend our time only seeking out the “big things”—great domes, statues, and famous paintings—we will miss the great works of art that exist everywhere in nature. They are not celebrated or recorded, but they are there for the taking if we only stop and look.
And therein lies the second message: these natural masterpieces are easily missed. We likely overlook hundreds of them every day when we are preoccupied with other things. Slowing down, even for a few moments, opens us up to appreciating the masterworks in our own backyard.
Last Sunday evening after dinner I was washing a pot. I was washing it very mindfully. I was noticing the feel of the warm, soapy water on my hands. I thought about how the pot was made and how I infused the homemade vegan chili in this large, heavy blue pot with love. Most importantly I was slowly and methodically removing the food that was stuck to the bottom of the pan. I thought back to a lesson I just cannot seem to always remember – “To go faster you must slow down”.
I led a fast-paced adult life until about 2 years ago. So fast that I hardly had time to think. Washing a pot with food stuck to the bottom has always reminded me of this paradox; thanks to a visit from my mother a few years before she passed away. When my children were young and I was first married, we had little money, but I kept a really good home. I felt very on top of things. But I was rushed back then too. I was so rushed that I never really had time to deal with pots that ended up with years’ worth of stains on them. In late 2001 my mother came to visit with her new husband Boris. I had only just met him, and I know he made my mother very happy. He was from Venezuela. My mom talked so much about how laid back he was and how he got her to slow down, grow out her hair, and stop fussing so much with makeup and keeping up the house. I made a big dinner when they came to visit, and afterward there were many pots and pans that needed cleaning. My mother and Boris came into the kitchen to help and stationed themselves at the sink; she on dish duty, he on drying duty. What seemed like only moments later, while I was putting the leftover food into containers, I noticed Boris drying off one of the pots. What caught my eye about a particular pot that usually had brown and black soot on the bottom was that it was so shiny and clean. Years’ worth of food and cooking buildup was gone! I asked my mother how she did that and so fast… she only smiled with a glint in her eye and said “Boris showed me how”. She never told me with words, but with her eyes she told me to slow down and go easy. The next time I had to clean a pot, and ever since, I’ve taken my time, used far less pressure than I ever would have, and they have always come clean. Working in a rush and with too much pressure used more time and never yielded the same results. I never understood how; it’s just the way it works. I learned this 17 years ago, but I still don’t always remember or practice this principle. Two years ago I slowed down immensely, truly savoring the small, day-to-day moments, and oddly enough I found myself to be happier, more at peace, and with more time than I ever had. It’s not only time, but also about “less”. Doing less, trying less, having less… all equal less stress and more joy. Last week I had the luxury of traveling with my husband and a group of amazing individuals from my yoga studio to a jungle sanctuary in Costa Rica. Getting to this sanctuary required two commercial flights, a puddle jumper plane, a 45-minute car ride, and then a 20-minute hike crossing a river four times. It was hot and humid; the type of humidity where you never dry off, even after a shower. The only way on and off the sanctuary is a 20-minute-plus hike. On the last full day of the trip, my husband Daren and I ventured off the property to the sanctuary’s closest neighbor, Nena, in pursuit of pure organic extra virgin coconut oil. It was a short walk over a bridge that overlooks the ocean to Nena’s house. For the previous two days, Daren & I opted to take some excursions off the property with our group. Both days were a little hectic and obscenely hot at times. I felt ambivalent all morning about whether or not we should take the walk down the hill to get this coconut oil, mainly because it was hot. For some reason I said I’d like to go, but I wanted to walk slowly. So off we went to Nena’s house for coconut oil.
Daren and I really took our time. We stopped and looked at monkeys. We watched little birds. We passed our friend, the white cow. When we left the property and crossed the street, we stopped on the bridge. Actually, Daren stopped on the bridge and called out to me, “Babe, look at this view!”. Slightly annoyed, I stopped to look. I was initially feeling rushed, looked at my watch, and started calculating how much time it would take to get to Nena’s, buy this coconut oil, trek back, “relax” at the pool, and then dash off to the next yoga class. However, when I turned my head to the left and saw the scene, my heart rate actually slowed down a bit. I couldn’t believe I was about to just walk by and miss this scene! I took it in. While standing there, I couldn’t help but notice this insane, harried American thought pattern, and I pushed it completely away. When I stopped and didn’t worry about the time, I was able to remember that I was here in this beautiful place, at this beautiful moment, with my beautiful husband and a group of beautiful, well-lit individuals. I stopped my physical, then mental body from the rush of insanity and fleeting thoughts to appreciate the view and the view of my husband appreciating the view.
We stood there a while in silence. I took a few pictures and resisted the urge to snap more. More is not better. More pictures, more talk, more activity… more, more, more… No, no, no… I know this, but I live in a world that tells me the opposite, so it’s easy to forget.
It was I who broke the silence after a long while. I had the profound realization that because we walked slowly, we weren’t as hot as we were the rest of the trip. I intellectually knew that before we walked and even made that suggestion, but it was even more profound to experience that it worked. It dawned on me that every time I go anywhere where the weather is warm all the time, the locals move slowly. I heard other Americans and Canadians joking about how the natives live on “Costa Rican time”. I’ve heard the same joke in other places. All these Americans and Europeans thinking it’s so funny to crack jokes about how slow everyone moves, when really the joke is on us. What is wrong with us? We are the dummies sweating in the sun because we are rushing around like lunatics. It’s our culture that is uptight, wound up, and stressed. What are we in a rush to do anyway? At that moment on the bridge, I decided to put my watch in my pocket and let the day pass as it may. Strangely, there seemed to be just the right amount of time for everything once I stopped worrying at all about it.
Daren with our friend the pretty white cow who was often on the path onto and off the sanctuary.
The view I nearly just didn’t notice
When we move too quickly, we often miss things that are right in front of us. This applies to work, our lives with our families and friends, and even how we move toward our goals. It’s not just about what we need to see, but what actually enriches our daily experience.
In the midst of this jungle last week, we were surrounded by wildlife. It was beautiful, simple, exotic, intoxicating, and natural. This was a yoga group at a yogic sanctuary. Yogis might be more aware than most about the beauty of being conscious, but are no less human and subject to falling prey to being unconscious in a world that keeps dangling shiny temptations all around. One of my teachers deliberately did not go on one of the daily excursions on a day that every other single person in the group did. She said she did not want to feel rushed, and she sat watching monkeys for several hours that day instead. The message she took away is that the monkeys were there all along, providing the same level of awe and entertainment, but had one not taken the time to stop and observe, it would have been missed.
The evening we returned to Connecticut from Costa Rica, Daren and I found ourselves in line at a McDonald’s drive-through on the way home from the airport at 11:45 at night. By that point in the day, we had been up and en route home since 5:15am. We had only one real meal. We were tired, dirty, and stressed. Hurry up and wait. We almost missed a connecting flight because Passport Control was a hot mess when we got back into the U.S. We were waiting in a very long car line at 11:45pm for an absolutely nutritionally poor meal (well, Daren was waiting, I was looking forward to some soup at home). We were stressed. Daren was tapping at the wheel. I was mentally trying hard not to fall into the trap of ordering something greasy or feeling upset over the slow-moving line, all while trying to stay cheerful so my husband could stay positive too. In my mind, I was doing math again about the number of things I needed to do the next day to get ready for the week, wondering how I could fit them in. How much mail was there? Who is taking the dog to the vet Thursday? What should I pull out for dinner tomorrow? Should I go shopping? I needed to inventory the food situation at home first, right? With every thought, I felt my blood pressure rising. And every time I noticed my breath becoming rapid and shallow or my heart racing, I made the conscious decision to breathe deeply and live in the moment. That only lasts a few moments out here in the “real world” until the thoughts and heart start to race again. How could you explain this feeling to someone in the third world?
We may have been in the middle of the jungle, but the concrete jungle creates artificial stressors that make living life to the fullest nearly impossible. It’s impossible because living life to the fullest was taught to me as fitting in as much “fun”, work, and activity as possible. This means learning as much as you can, moving quickly, multitasking, making lots of money to do these amazing things (because they aren’t free), and providing these experiences to our children. Making money means more rushing and more stress. For most, it means long commutes and doing work you rarely feel connected to. Then rushing home to activities and often hurried, unhealthy meals—if you are lucky, with loved ones. Weekends are spent putting your living space back together, cleaning, doing laundry, shopping, shuffling people around, and squeezing in “quality” time. Somewhere in between, you are supposed to exercise, meditate, perform self-care, attend appointments, cook healthy meals, and sleep enough—just so you don’t get stressed or exhausted. You know… so you can be happy and experience life to the fullest. It sounds insane when you really look at it.
I’ve also noticed that when we take the time to do things more carefully instead of rushing through them, we tend to get better results and feel less stressed in the process.
Physics teaches us that time is relative. Slowing down seems to expand our experience of time. I can’t explain why; it just is. Another interesting paradox is that it allows us to appreciate more. Life becomes less expensive, less material, and far less stressful.
The overall message for me is that slowing down equals living life more fully. I keep forgetting, but the time between which I do is growing larger and larger. I hope that others who haven’t given it a whirl do. There’s nothing to lose but old, tired ideas of what it means to live our lives to the fullest.
Sunrise one morning from the Tower at the SanctuarySunset one evening on the beach of Santa Theresa Costa Rica
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It’s Friday, December 30, 2016. I just walked 4 miles from my house to Cheshire Coffee. I’m sitting alone with a cup of green tea with honey and lemon. I’ve never been more content in my life.
I did a lot of thinking on the way up here and wanted to capture it. I don’t know if I’ll finish this or even blog it. For now, I’m just writing from my heart.
2016 was the best year of my life (so far).
I keep seeing posts about how terrible this year was and how people can’t wait for it to end. I don’t relate to that anymore. I might have in the past—but I’m a different person now.
A few weeks ago, Daren and I were driving up to Portland to see Thomas at college. We got caught in traffic, rerouted through a chaotic neighborhood—construction noise, bright sun in our eyes, the dog restless in the backseat, music playing, Siri interrupting with directions.
We were still trying to talk through it all when I suddenly realized—I couldn’t anymore.
I felt anxious. Overstimulated. Instead of pushing through or getting irritated like I would have before, I simply said we should pause the conversation and pick it up later. I turned off the music. We drove in silence.
And I thought about how new that was for me.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have recognized what was happening in my body. I would have just felt irritated and probably complained. This time, I noticed it—and adjusted.
That shift felt big.
Later, Daren asked what I was thinking about. I told him I was reflecting on how different I am from a year ago.
He said something that stuck with me—he hadn’t really noticed a difference.
And he’s probably right.
These changes are subtle. Internal. The kind you don’t see day to day—like a child growing. You only notice when you look back.
So how do I explain it?
I’m becoming a “less is more” person.
Before speaking, I now run things through a filter: Is it true? Is it necessary? Is it kind?
I suddenly have a lot less to say—and I listen more.
Yoga taught me that. Sitting in circles, listening to others without responding. At first, it felt unnatural. But I started to carry that into my life.
I listen more deeply now—to people, to my body, to the world around me.
I’ve become more aware of my body, especially through anxiety. I didn’t even realize how much of it I carried all the time. Medication helped quiet the noise enough for me to actually hear what was going on inside.
With that awareness came acceptance. Of myself. Of my experiences. Of where I am.
I’ve learned what affects me—what fuels me and what drains me. Running long distances, too much coffee, certain foods. Things I never would have noticed before.
I have a better sense now of when to push and when to let go. I used to fight everything. Now I understand balance a little more. Not everything is worth the energy.
I move slower. When I catch myself rushing, I stop and ask why. There’s usually no good reason.
I became especially aware of this after knee surgery, when I had no choice but to slow down. It felt uncomfortable at first—like I was wasting time. But I realized… I wasn’t.
I was just present.
Yoga taught me how to breathe. Really breathe. The kind of breathing that changes how your body feels. I started practicing different techniques and using breath to move through my day more intentionally.
That awareness extended to my thoughts.
“Don’t water the weeds.”
I catch myself now when I’m feeding thoughts that don’t serve me. I used to beat myself up over it. Now I just begin again.
And I begin again more quickly.
The background noise in my mind has changed too. It used to be random songs or looping conversations. Now I’m more intentional about what I take in—music, messages, thoughts. I use mantra. I redirect.
I’ve even become more aware of what I consume physically—food, products, everything. I’ve simplified. Less makeup, less fuss. More natural. More ease.
I feel more like myself than I ever have.
And interestingly, I’ve become more aware of others too.
Not long ago, I saw a woman at work crying. I barely knew her, but I walked over and hugged her. I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t hold back. I just showed up.
I didn’t used to do things like that.
I tell people I love them more. I listen more. I’m present more often.
And I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.
That might be one of the biggest shifts.
I used to hate being alone. Now I need it. I value it. It’s where I hear myself.
Daren was right—these changes aren’t obvious from the outside.
But inside, everything feels different.
The world constantly tells us who we should be. It’s hard to know who you are underneath all of that.
Yoga didn’t change me overnight. It worked quietly, over time. Along with other experiences that led me there.
I feel incredibly lucky to have had the space to explore this part of myself. Not everyone does.
I’m far from perfect. I still fall off my path.
But I get back on.
And I fall less often now.
2016 was the year that shifted everything for me.
I only hope to keep going—and maybe help others find their own path along the way.
If you’re still reading—thank you. Truly.
Peace. 2016—out.
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We did chat about it that day in a coffee shop, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. One of the reasons rituals are so meaningful is because they trace something back to its roots and honor it in its entirety. But nothing really exists alone in its entirety. Anyone who is Facebook friends with me (and paying attention) has probably seen the quote I’ve had on my profile for years:
“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” — John Muir
I love that quote. I’ve used it in conversations and presentations in many forms. We can trace almost everything—including ourselves—back to the stars. We and everything around us are made of star stuff (thank you, Carl Sagan, for that one). If we really sit with that idea, it can feel like either nothing at all or complete chaos. But when we narrow our focus too much—when we isolate one piece—we lose sight of the beauty of how it all ties together. And we feel alone.
Our brains need to draw lines to make sense of things. But those lines also need to stop somewhere manageable so we can understand what we’re looking at. What I think is happening now is that the lines we draw are becoming smaller and smaller.
Take a shoemaker 150 years ago. He had a small shop in the center of town. People came to him for their shoes. He knew his customers. Everyone in that town had a role, and they supported one another through trade, barter, or money. There was a sense of connection—of being part of something whole.
That shoemaker made each pair from start to finish. He knew where the materials came from and how they came together. Every stitch, every sole—his hands touched all of it. When he walked through town, he saw his work on people’s feet. There was pride, connection, and meaning. Making shoes was a ritual. The lines were drawn around the whole process, and that process was tied to community and to people.
Then machines came. Assembly lines broke the process apart—not just for shoes, but for nearly everything. The lines became smaller. Instead of making a shoe, someone made a sole. Or hammered the same piece over and over. The ritual was lost. The connection to the final product faded.
Supply chains expanded. We no longer see what we make or who it serves. Many people leave their towns, commute long distances, and spend their days doing work they feel little connection to. Ironically, as the world becomes more connected, we become more disconnected—from what we do, from where things come from, and from each other.
I love Daren’s example of the record player. Playing music used to be a ritual. There was anticipation in setting it up, in placing the needle, in waiting. That effort made the experience richer. Now, with every song available instantly, I don’t enjoy music the same way.
The same goes for coffee. There was something meaningful in grinding beans and making it by hand. The waiting was part of the enjoyment. Now we grab coffee from a drive-through or a machine, often without even thinking—sometimes multiple times a day. And somehow, it feels like less.
Our on-the-go lifestyle has started to strip the pleasure out of everyday life. We’re less connected to what we do, to what we consume, and to the people around us. We start to see ourselves as separate instead of part of a whole.
Unless you own your own business, many of us feel little connection to the mission of our work. We become parts in a machine, disconnected from the outcome—and sometimes from our own humanness.
I see it in myself. I walk through the VA facility where I work, passing patients in the hallway, and sometimes I experience them as obstacles—something in the way of where I need to go next. Already late. Moving quickly. It’s only when something interrupts my routine—like having to go to another floor—that I notice the waiting rooms, the check-ins, the people. It’s only then that I remember I work in a hospital.
That feels like a symptom of something that’s gone wrong.
I wasn’t around in the days of the shoemaker, but I’ve experienced enough of the “in-between” to feel the shift—record players, cassettes, CDs… even watching my mom grind coffee beans at the store and then make coffee at home. There was more presence in it. More enjoyment.
Now everything is faster, smaller, more efficient. But to what end?
We’re doing more and more, faster and faster. But are we actually enjoying it more? Are we happier?
I’m not.
And maybe I’m not alone.
I don’t think this means rejecting the world we live in—but maybe it means choosing, in small ways, to step out of the rush. To slow down where we can. To reconnect with process, with ritual, with the bigger picture.
I find myself wanting that more and more.
Less speed. More meaning. More connection.
A return—not backwards—but inward.
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I have a deeper appreciation for life and moving through my day than I’ve ever had before. Two things happened in the past few months that helped me come to this realization: I started taking an SSRI, and I had outpatient knee surgery. Two very different things for completely different reasons—but in all honesty, both were the result of moving through life too quickly and absentmindedly. Both have completely slowed me down (and fattened me up just a little!), and it’s not all a bad thing.
Back in March, I quite literally lost my marbles and, thankfully, became fully aware that fooling myself into sleeping more, doing more yoga, or meditating more often was not going to be my cure. Truthfully, I was no longer able to do any of those things in a way that felt meaningful. Yoga still felt good physically, but it didn’t slow my thoughts or help me “just be” like it used to. Meditation was a joke. I sat there diligently, but I couldn’t stop the racing in my head.
I did everything I could to keep up with my life. I was (and still am) one of the most organized people I know. Everything was as efficient as possible. No time management tip was going to help—I would read them and think I could write a better article myself. I was stretched thin. There was no room for error. One small miscommunication between family members and the entire chain of well-planned events and pickups would fall apart. No way to live.
A few days before the marble-losing, I went to a routine Thursday morning report-out for senior leadership. As usual, I prepared at the last minute—rushed, but still pulled together something polished and well-coordinated. I walked into the conference room, my employee pulled up the presentation, and I slid my chair under the large dark wooden table.
SLAM.
I hit my right knee hard on one of the table legs.
There were the usual reactions—“Oof,” “I heard that,” “You didn’t need that knee anyway!”—and I shrugged it off and kept going. About 24 hours later, during a meeting with my small team, I noticed my knee hurt. I wondered why as I pushed through the agenda, then remembered hitting it the day before and briefly questioned why it took so long to register. That night at dinner with friends, it hurt more.
The next day, Daren and I went into the city. We were so busy and stressed that I didn’t think about my knee at all. The following morning, seemingly out of nowhere, I had my first long-overdue panic attack. I cried the entire way home. I noticed my knee hurt, but it wasn’t until late the next night—around 9 p.m.—that I realized how swollen and red it had become.
Daren was at hockey practice. I wanted him to look at it, but I fell asleep before he got home.
Long story short, the next few weeks were filled with panic attacks and knee aspirations. The panic worsened quickly. I realized I had to start medication—I had nowhere left to cut back. And have you ever tried to “relax” while in a nonstop adrenaline rush? It doesn’t work.
Once I started the SSRI, I began to notice how often my body was in fight-or-flight, even as my mind started to calm. It was eye-opening. I had been living like this all the time.
I first went to urgent care five days after the injury and was told to rest and monitor it. It stopped hurting—but it didn’t stop swelling. So I ignored the advice. I ran on it, did yoga on it, and didn’t call an orthopedist for three weeks. Who has time for this?
Eventually, I was getting it drained every couple of weeks… then every week… then it started swelling again almost immediately after each visit. At one point, the doctor tried to drain it and nothing came out. A wall had formed. Surgery or live with it.
It’s funny—my knee felt like a physical version of what had been happening mentally for years. Rushing. Ignoring warning signs. Doing the bare minimum to manage something that was clearly deteriorating. Until I hit a wall—mentally first, then physically.
It wasn’t until I had no choice but to deal with it that I realized how much my lifestyle was harming me. My body is all I have—why wasn’t I taking care of it?
After medication adjustments and a few rough weeks, the panic attacks lessened. And then I had surgery.
I’m not claiming I’m a changed woman, but I’ve had some of the most relaxing weeks of my life.
Since March, I’ve rediscovered the library. I’ve been reading a book a week—fiction. Nothing intellectual. Nothing self-improvement related. Just stories.
I’ve started getting bi-weekly massages. Daren and I have been spending more time at home—making the outside of our house beautiful, sipping cocktails, watching fun TV (not documentaries—actual fun TV). I’ve been coloring mandalas. Visiting local shops. Sitting in coffee shops with a matcha latte and a book. Writing for fun.
I’ve even started going back to sleep in the mornings when I don’t have to rush.
That, in itself, feels like a revolution.
My whole life, I woke up ready to go. Even when I was exhausted. There was always something to do. Something waiting. Something urgent. My dad used to bang on our doors and tell us we were “sleeping our lives off.”
Now… I listen to my body. And sometimes it tells me to rest. And I do.
After surgery, I slowed down even more. I slept. I sat outside with my leg up and a book. I noticed things. I wasn’t rushing anywhere.
One morning, I walked slowly down my own street and realized I barely knew it. The houses, the details, the quiet beauty of it all. It had always been there—I just hadn’t.
Later, on the ferry, I looked at my legs—one swollen, one not—and felt grateful just to have them. In the shower, I noticed their strength, their design, how they carry me through life.
I ate breakfast and actually tasted it. I thought about how each raspberry grew—slowly, over time—until it was ready.
I want that.
Slow growth. Presence. Awareness.
We spent the day outside. I modified yoga to meet my body where it was. The trees were alive with spring. Food tasted better. Life felt softer.
Healing—mentally and physically—is happening in small increments. Just like those raspberries.
This morning, I woke up early when Daren left to drive Kieran to work. I started writing this… then stopped.
I opened the blinds. Listened to the birds. Laid back down. Let myself rest.
I want to live like this more.
I’ve already asked to cut back hours at work—and thankfully, the answer was yes.
I don’t want to need medication or injury to slow down. I want to choose it.
We all need to live a little more and “do” a little less. Be present more and absent less.
Every single moment matters.
And I’m finally ready to live in them.
Namaste.
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