Small Moments That Keep Me Human

Happy weekend, it's a rainy one for me here. It’s funny how the things that mean the most in my day don’t tend to be big, dramatic things. They’re small, quiet moments that prompt me to slow down and to be easy on myself. Especially in the rain, I’ve learned to cling to them like little lifelines.

Or sometimes it begins with the rain too. I’m reclined in bed holding my phone and I’m not exactly racing toward anything just casually swiping and responding to people or clicking on whatever link it is that I scroll past this rain tapping the roof. It doesn’t get anything done, but it’s peaceful. Rain has this effect on the sound of my thoughts, on the heart slowing down. It almost feels like permission to stop fighting the day so hard. For those minutes, I can put aside the pressure to be busy, and just be, safe underneath my blanket with nothing important needing my attention. It’s a small comfort that helps me settle into the day without feeling frazzled before the day even starts.

There are other mornings, when it clears, I take a quiet walk. Earbuds in, music or a podcast playing at low volume. It has nothing to do with exercise, or getting anywhere quickly; it’s just movement and sound. There’s something soothing about letting my feet fall into rhythm while someone else’s words or music accompanies me. And how I love the way my thoughts get loosed when I walk like that. I'm not trying to solve anything I am just there. It feels like it is telling me softly that one does not really have to bear all the problems all at once maybe. Sometimes just moving on is already enough. So just one step at a time

And then there’s the way I find one song and I play it for hours on end. It does not have to be new, or hip or even popular, just something that feels true to how I am feeling. Some might think that’s lame or obsessive as fuck but for me it’s grounding. There’s a safety in replaying that song over and over that allows my feelings to find somewhere to land. When I want to be all over the place in 10 different directions, it grounds me. It’s a modest-sized ritual that says: be here, feel this, don’t hurry toward the next thing just yet.

Not that every day is slow and easy, of course. Some days the weight of everything feels too heavy, too loud, too immediate. It’s a nap for me on those days. Even 10 or 15 minutes supine can change everything. I close my eyes, let my consciousness fade, drift into dream and awaken a little softer than I fell asleep. It’s not about sleep, finally, it’s about letting myself stop. To press pause. To remind me that resting is not a waste of time, but something I owe to myself.

None of these things are fancy. They don’t cost much. But they matter. They remind me that joy doesn’t always have to be loud or planned. That healing can be quiet. That rest is allowed. That it’s okay to need gentle spaces and small rituals to feel whole again.

They don’t change my whole life. But they change how I live it. They help me show up calmer, kinder, and less likely to burn out.

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