There was a time when slower days made me uneasy.
I had built a life that moved quickly—and I wore that pace with pride. I was a mom of two, running a business, holding a marriage, renovating a house, planning outings, prepping meals, keeping all the things moving. The days were full by design. The calendar was tight. The momentum felt like proof that I was thriving.
I was good at chaos.
If the house was loud, if the to-do list was long, if every hour had a purpose, I felt capable. Useful. Needed. Slowness, by contrast, felt unproductive, lazy, and wasteful.
I didn’t see then that the busyness wasn’t neutral. It was something I was using to stay afloat.
When everything paused with the COVID lockdown—abruptly, and not by choice—the structure I relied on disappeared. The world stopped all at once, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. Without the constant motion, I felt exposed. Unanchored. Unsure of where I fit when I wasn’t actively managing something.
At first, the quiet felt loud.
But over time, something unexpected happened. My body softened. The urgency loosened its grip. I stopped trying to replicate the old pace and instead let the days settle into something simpler. Fewer plans. Familiar rhythms. I wasn’t doing less because I had to—I was doing less because it felt like relief.
That was the beginning of a shift.
I started noticing how calm felt in my body. How much energy I had been spending just keeping everything moving. How rarely I had let myself pause. The slower days were feeling grounding, in a way productivity never had.
Now, I say no more.
I say no to overpacking the week. No to plans that leave me depleted. No to the assumption that every open space needs to be filled. Each no protects the calm I didn’t know I needed back then. It creates room for predictable evenings, unhurried mornings, and days that don’t require recovery afterward. And in that allowance, I’ve found a way of living that finally feels sustainable.
I’ve learned that my nervous system needs rhythm. It needs consistency. It needs less.
That need has reshaped more than just our schedule—it’s changed our home as well. Owning less means fewer things to clean. Fewer things to organize. Fewer things asking for attention. There’s a quiet relief in not managing excess. I didn’t set out to become minimalist in a strict sense—I was simply tired of maintaining more than I needed.
Slowness has quietly reshaped me. I've learned that thriving doesn’t always look like holding everything together. Sometimes it looks like letting things be simpler. Quieter. Enough.
