Learning to Slow Down

If you had told me ten years ago that one day I would be lovingly feeding a jar of bubbly flour and water like a pet, I might have laughed. Life then was a blur of shifts, beeping machines, and barely enough sleep. As a nurse, especially during the most intense moments of the pandemic, slowing down felt like a luxury. But over time, I learned the hard way that if I did not create moments of calm, life would never offer them freely.

That realization didn’t arrive with fireworks or a dramatic turning point. It came quietly, in the silence of early mornings, when I finally started giving myself permission to breathe. The rituals that came from that shift—baking sourdough bread, tending to my small garden, curling up with a book—are now the things that hold me together.

The Magic of Sourdough

Sourdough is not just bread. It is time, care, patience, and presence all mixed into one. There is something deeply satisfying about creating something from just flour, water, and salt. Watching it grow, feeding it daily, feeling the dough come to life under your hands—these things bring me a sense of peace that I never expected.

It started as a pandemic hobby, like it did for many people. I was looking for a way to stay connected to something steady when the world felt like it was spinning too fast. What I found was a ritual that grounded me. The rhythm of mixing, folding, proofing, baking—it slowed me down. It reminded me to pay attention.

In a world filled with screens and noise, sourdough is quiet. It does not shout for your attention, but it needs it. You cannot rush it. And maybe that is the most valuable lesson it has taught me.

Dirt Under My Nails

My little garden is another source of joy. I do not have acres of land or a greenhouse. Just a few raised beds, some pots, and a love for watching things grow. Tomatoes, herbs, greens—they’re not just food. They are proof that life goes on, that seasons change, and that small efforts can lead to beautiful things.

Some mornings I’ll walk out with a cup of coffee and just stand there, listening to the birds and breathing in the scent of soil and leaves. It is a small act, but it fills me up in a way that no productivity app or self-help book ever could.

Gardening teaches me to trust in process, to let go of control. Some things will bloom. Some things will not. But you plant anyway. You try again. It is a lot like nursing. It is a lot like life.

The Comfort of a Good Book

I have always been a reader. As a child, I would disappear into stories for hours. Somewhere along the line, as work and life got busier, I lost that habit. I told myself I was too tired or too distracted. But when I started reclaiming small rituals, I returned to books with open arms.

Now, reading is part of my wind-down routine. Just a few pages before bed, or a chapter on the weekend with a cup of tea. Fiction, nonfiction, memoirs—it doesn’t matter. What matters is the escape, the quiet, and the reminder that there is always more to learn, more to feel, more to imagine.

Books keep me curious. They keep me empathetic. They remind me that the world is big and full of stories, and that mine is only one of them.

The Power of Small Things

These days, I think a lot about balance. Not the kind that comes with perfect schedules or color-coded calendars, but the kind that comes from honoring what matters most. For me, that’s being present. It’s recognizing when I need to rest, when I need to create, and when I need to simply be.

Sourdough, gardening, reading—these things are not grand. They are not expensive or complicated. But they are rituals that keep me grounded. They bring me back to myself when the world pulls me in a thousand directions.

And maybe most importantly, they remind me that joy does not have to be big to be real. It can be the smell of bread baking in the oven. It can be the first ripe tomato of the season. It can be the quiet turning of a page.

A Note to Others

If you are reading this and feeling like life is too full, too fast, or too loud—know that you are not alone. I have been there more times than I can count. And I will probably be there again. But I have learned that even in the busiest seasons, there is space for stillness. You just have to make room for it.

Start small. Water a plant. Bake something from scratch. Read a poem. Breathe deeply. Let go of the idea that self care has to be an event. Sometimes it is just a moment. A moment that you choose, again and again.

For me, that moment is often found with my hands in dough, the sun on my face, or a book in my lap. And that is more than enough.