I’ve spent a lot of my life waiting for something.

The weekend.

Summer.

The holiday.

The relationship.

The next opportunity.

The exciting plan on Saturday.

The moment when everything finally feels like it’s moving again.

And recently I’ve been thinking about how much of life happens in between all of that.

Not the big moments you photograph.

Not the milestones you tell everyone about.

Just the strangely ordinary Tuesday afternoon when you’re making lunch.

The drive home.

The ten minutes sitting in the sun.

Getting into clean sheets.

Walking somewhere without needing to get there quickly.

Making an iced matcha and drinking it without simultaneously answering an email.

I’ve always been pretty good at looking forward to things.

I’m learning how to be better at being here while nothing particularly exciting is happening.

And I think there’s a difference.

I Used to Think Quiet Meant Something Was Missing

I think we’re so accustomed to stimulation that ordinary life can start feeling almost uncomfortable.

If I’m waiting somewhere?

Phone.

Eating alone?

Phone.

Walking?

Podcast.

Cleaning?

Music.

Working?

Another tab open somewhere.

Even relaxing apparently requires a television series playing while I’m simultaneously scrolling through TikTok.

And when life itself becomes quiet, there’s this strange instinct to fill it.

Make plans.

Text someone.

Buy something.

Start something.

Find the next thing to be excited about.

I used to interpret those quieter periods as life being a little… boring.

Now I’m starting to wonder whether they were actually peaceful, and I just hadn’t learned how to recognise peace yet.

Not Everything Needs to Become a Moment

There’s also this weird pressure now to make everyday life feel cinematic.

Romanticise your life.

Create the perfect morning routine.

Buy the matching mug.

Make breakfast aesthetically pleasing.

Turn Sunday into an elaborate self-care ritual.

And I actually love romanticising life.

Give me the candle. Give me the playlist. Put the iced matcha in the cute glass.

But I’m also learning that a moment doesn’t have to be beautiful enough for Instagram to be worth enjoying.

Sometimes breakfast is just toast.

Sometimes your walk isn’t golden hour.

Sometimes you’re sitting on your couch in an old T-shirt eating something directly out of the container.

You don’t have to turn every ordinary moment into content before you’re allowed to appreciate it.

Sometimes it can just belong to you.

I’m Trying to Stop Rushing Through the Middle

I’ve realised how often I’ve mentally divided life into two categories:

The thing I’m currently doing.

And the thing I’m waiting for.

And the second one somehow always gets more attention.

Maybe I’m working Wednesday, but I’m already thinking about Friday.

Maybe it’s winter, but I’m mentally living in summer.

Maybe I’m having a perfectly nice day, but I’m thinking about the trip that’s happening next month.

There’s nothing wrong with anticipation. Having things to look forward to is one of life’s best feelings.

But I don’t want to spend my entire life mentally fast-forwarding.

Because eventually Friday becomes Monday.

Summer becomes autumn.

The holiday becomes something in your camera roll.

The thing you couldn’t wait for happens, and then there’s another thing.

There will always be another thing.

Meanwhile, the middle was your life too.

The Quiet Stuff Is Starting to Feel Really Good

Maybe I’m getting older.

Maybe my nervous system has simply had enough plot.

But the things I’m appreciating lately are almost embarrassingly simple.

Opening the windows in the morning.

Driving with good music on.

Going for a walk without checking how many steps I’ve done.

Making dinner.

A really good shower.

Sitting outside.

Reading instead of scrolling.

Going to yoga and coming home tired in the nice way.

Cleaning my apartment and then enjoying the fact that it’s clean.

An iced matcha when I have nowhere particularly important to be.

Going to bed early because I actually want to.

None of these things are going to make the yearly highlight reel.

But they’re becoming some of my favourite parts.

And I think that’s because I’m finally understanding that happiness isn’t always supposed to feel like excitement.

Sometimes happiness feels like contentment.

Sometimes it’s relief.

Sometimes it’s safety.

Sometimes it’s laughing at something stupid while you’re making dinner.

Sometimes it’s simply thinking:

This is nice.

And not immediately needing it to become anything more.

I’m Also Learning Not to Panic When Life Is Calm

This one has probably been the bigger lesson.

When you’ve spent enough time chasing things, goals, relationships, plans, progress, whatever comes next, stillness can initially feel suspicious.

Like:

Okay… what am I supposed to be doing?

Surely there’s something I should be improving.

Something I should be figuring out.

Some five-year plan I should be aggressively Canva-ing.

But I’m starting to realise that not every season needs to be transformational.

You don’t always need a dramatic before and after.

Sometimes you’re just living.

Working.

Cooking.

Seeing friends.

Taking care of yourself.

Figuring a few things out slowly.

Changing in ways you probably won’t notice until much later.

There is something really comforting about allowing that to be enough.

Maybe This Is the Good Part

We tend to imagine “the good part” of our lives as something ahead of us.

When I have more money.

When I meet someone.

When the business works.

When I travel more.

When I look different.

When I’ve finally figured everything out.

And of course I still want things.

I want to grow.

I want exciting experiences.

I want to have stories to tell.

I’m not suddenly becoming a monk because I enjoyed doing the dishes in silence once.

But I don’t want my happiness permanently attached to a future version of my life either.

Because there will probably never be a moment when everything is finished.

There’ll always be another goal.

Another problem.

Another thing you want.

Another uncertainty.

And somewhere amongst all of that will be thousands of tiny, ordinary moments that don’t look particularly important while they’re happening.

Morning light through the window.

Your favourite song coming on in the car.

Fresh sheets.

Someone making you laugh.

The first sip of something good.

Walking home.

Cooking dinner.

A quiet Sunday.

Nothing happening.

The in-between.

I’m learning not to rush through it anymore.

Because maybe life isn’t mostly made up of the big moments with ordinary bits separating them.

Maybe it’s the opposite.

The ordinary bits are the life.

And the big moments are just the punctuation.