You know, I’ve been thinking lately about how most of my days are just… normal. Truly, unremarkably normal. I wake up, put the kettle on, stare at my inbox, and send a few messages. The day just sort of shuffles along, quietly, without any need to be the star of the show.
I’ll be honest, that used to make me so restless. I felt this pressure for every single day to matter, to have a story worth telling or a moment shiny enough to share. But life, it turns out, isn’t a highlight reel. It’s mostly the quiet hum in between.
These days, my world is filled with the small, simple magic of my eight month old daughter. She’s learning to clap her tiny hands and babble nonsense that sounds like the most important secret in the world. I sing her nursery rhymes, completely off-key, and she just grins up at me, and for a second, nothing else exists. It’s not grand, but my goodness, it fills me up.
Work is still work. Meetings, calls, the endless chase of deadlines. But now, it’s just part of the rhythm. And somehow, coming home from all that to her giggles makes both parts of my life feel more… whole.
Evenings follow the same comforting script. I’m chopping vegetables, listening to the hiss of the cooker, tidying up the day’s little messes. It’s not exciting, but there’s a peace in it. The familiar hum of the TV, the weight of the day lifting… it all just feels solid. It feels like my life.
Maybe I’m just getting older, or maybe I’m finally learning that not every day has to prove its worth. The quiet ones, the ones that begin and end without a story, have a gentle peace all their own.
Every now and then, that old voice whispers that I should be doing more, achieving more. But then I hear my daughter laugh, or I taste the meal I made, or I just sit for a quiet second and feel the calm settle over me.
And I realise, with a full heart, that this, all of this simple, ordinary stuff, is more than enough. It’s not just my life; it’s starting to feel like home.