Have you noticed how, in recent times, you are sort of expected to always live life at a complete stage? No one wants to be seen trying or to admit they put in effort to achieve their wins. It’s almost as if speed is the only thing that matters these days. A lingering feeling of an invisible finish line we are all racing towards, and you can’t even tell how far or close you are to the ribbon. You can only find out once you cross it. And once you do, they move it, a new race has begun. ​Only the shiny bits that make it to social media seem to package your life in a neat little box of, look, this is who I am.

The grind and sweat are hidden in the shadows because we all know making it isn’t pretty. Not for those without the right connections, shortcuts, timing or daddy’s anything to fall back on. The long hours, crippling doubt, all the parts no one claps for, those are the moments where life is still happening. ​Maybe life isn’t about rushing, maybe it’s about learning to fall in love with the part where you’re still becoming.

Admitting and accepting that you are who you are. And you are where you are.

But unfortunately, we live in a world where expectations come with an expiry date. Marriage, children, houses, cars, trips. And then, there you are, not even a bicycle to your name. Suddenly, you’ve been in this for far too long with nothing to show for it. A failure, by these measures. No one seems to care about the experiences you hold so dear. Showing up to support friends, and feeding yourself a decent meal at least 3 times a week. Talking to a therapist, trying to undo the damage by these very people damaging you further.

We grow up in systems designed to push out a blueprint, where we all have the same thoughts, like the same things, want the same futures, and even share the same fears. I guess this is how you keep people in check, huh? You keep on the hamster wheel, running and running until one day it starts to feel off. Not for all of us, just some. Not like a switch, but a heaviness you can’t explain, like trying to run with pockets full of stones. You keep pushing because you can’t be the one to complain when everyone around you talks about the stale weight of air in a room that hasn’t been opened in months. You can’t be the outlier. And yet, some nagging feeling is pushing you to break out of this designated path. Your curiosity keeps you awake. Something inside you starts to shift, a rebellion of the quiet exhaustion.

Then it sneaks up on you, one random moment when you hear the sound of your own laugh, and it feels familiar again. And it wasn’t even something major. Your cat miscalculates a jump, barely grazes the shelf, then lands, miraculously, on all fours. I guess they were built that way. And somehow, if that’s the only thing you get to witness today, it would be enough. You wouldn’t feel the need to ask the day for anything else.

Then you realise, you are not looking for extraordinary days, just enough days where you don’t feel as if every movement had the dull thud of a drum beaten underwater. ​Normal days. ​Simple days. ​Days you can enjoy the warmth of a blanket still holding the scent of the sun. Or those that offer you a moment to just sit and listen to the sound of rain spelling its own language on your roof. Or maybe on better days, you go outside and dance in it, feeling each droplet wash away what has been. If you stand there long enough, maybe, just maybe, that’s all the proof you’ll need, that the mundane can be enough.

But then again, this world wasn’t designed for that. It was built to make you so exhausted that you forgot your mother’s face. That feeding yourself becomes a chore, and you now only do it for sustenance. No one savours meals anymore. We eat while typing, scrolling, rushing — multitasking, they call it. And somehow we’ve learned to feel guilty for every moment we take for ourselves. ​Making meals has been reduced to 10-minute recipes, or ‘5 minutes in the microwave’ food packs. What happened to making meals as a family and leaving the kitchen messy for us to come clean it later, together? I didn’t do that either, but you kind of get the picture, right?

Constant comparisons on social media… are you really doing enough, you ask yourself on the 4th vacation photo you see from yet another travel influencer. A new scandal because attention is the new currency.

Yet all you want to do is watch cartoons and eat bananas with peanut butter. Yeah, it may sound disgusting until you try it. Dance to music only you can hear. Stare at the sky until the clouds start forming familiar faces. Because as far as you are concerned, peace isn’t found in the milestones, but in the small moments that remind you, you are still alive.

These moments can only exist if you make time for them. You have to be intentional about it. So that’s what I am going to do. Steal more time for myself without guilt or shame. Time to dream, time to do things just cause. To create, laugh, and go on adventures, even if it’s just within the neighbourhood. ​I would hate to think that I came on this earth to just work to pay for my own existence and then die.

I know I am here to live, and I would like to remember what that used to look and feel like. I want to be intentional about my days, having more life in them. ​I recently came across a quote that said,

‘You can’t add more days into your life, so add more life into your days. ’

This chapter of my life is about falling in love with the mundane, the incomplete projects waiting for a spark, the unfinished garden waiting for rain, the slow mornings where birds sing and sunlight lingers on my skin after a storm. Acceptance, that maybe my sink being full of dishes or my having to move my clothes from the bed, just to make enough room for me to slide under the duvet, doesn’t make me a failure.

It makes me a living being.

A being being.

I want to add more life to my days. Maybe a little childlike wonder, too. Walk barefoot. Collect flowers. Get excited when I see ladybugs or spot random birds, just because they look pretty. No, I’m not trying to turn into a birdwatcher; I just like pretty things. Pick out outfits instead of just throwing on whatever is convenient, mostly from the pile on my bed… (hey, that’s one less thing to fold).

I want to remember what air tastes like.

I want to remember what joy feels like.

And when I meet my own eyes in the mirror, I don’t mind that I don’t see a finished version of myself. I see someone still in motion, still trying, still here. And for once, that feels like enough.