This Means Home

There is so much conversation about routines. Morning routines that promise calm. Evening routines meant to reset the day. Carefully stacked habits that are supposed to carry us gently through motherhood and life.

I’ve tried them. I’ve written them out in notebooks, saved them in my phone, promised myself this would be the week I finally followed through. And almost every time, they fell apart as quietly as they began.

Not because I didn’t want the peace they promised, but because my life doesn’t move in neat lines. Motherhood — especially in these early years — is fluid and unpredictable. Sleep changes. Energy shifts. Needs rise suddenly and without warning. Some days feel full and rich, others feel thin and heavy, and no routine has ever held all of that with grace.

For a long time, I thought that meant I was doing something wrong.

What I see now is that I don’t have a routine because I don’t live a routine-shaped life. What I have instead are moments. Small pauses scattered throughout the day that hold me together in ways structure never has.

In the afternoons, when the day stretches long and my body starts to feel tired in that quiet, bone-deep way, I stop fighting it. I sit down on the couch and my two-year-old climbs up beside me, curling into the space she knows is hers. A cartoon plays softly, more background than focus. Her weight leans into me, steady and warm. For half an hour, nothing else matters.

I am not accomplishing anything. I am not catching up. I am simply resting, together with her, letting the world slow down enough for us both to breathe. These moments don’t look productive from the outside, but they are deeply restorative. They remind me that rest doesn’t need to be earned — sometimes it just needs to be allowed.

When the house finally goes quiet and the littles are tucked into their beds, I move through the rooms with care. I don’t aim for spotless or perfect. I rinse a few dishes, wipe the counter, gather the toys that were loved hard that day and return them to their places. It’s a small act, but it matters to me.

There is something grounding about closing the day this way, about tending to the space that held us. It’s my way of saying thank you to the day we just lived, even if it was messy or loud or exhausting.

Later, when the lights are low and the noise of the day has settled, I light a candle. Some nights I watch a show, letting my mind soften. Other nights I read a few pages of a book, the kind that doesn’t demand too much of me. And sometimes I open my journal, drawing or writing without a plan, letting my thoughts spill out wherever they want to land.

This moment belongs only to me. It doesn’t need to be shared or optimized or turned into anything useful. It’s simply a reminder that I exist beyond my roles — that I am still allowed to take up space in quiet, unmeasured ways.

There is also the first sip of coffee in the morning, before the house fully wakes. The mug is warm in my hands. The light is soft and unsure of itself. No one needs me yet. I don’t scroll or plan or prepare. I just stand there, present, letting the day approach me slowly.

And on days when I remember, I step outside. Sometimes it’s only for a minute or two, sometimes longer if the moment allows. I notice the air, the way the season is shifting, the small changes that prove nothing stays the same for long. It reminds me that life is cyclical, not linear, and that there is room to ebb and flow.

These moments don’t happen at the same time every day. They aren’t consistent or reliable or neatly packaged. But they are real. They are what ground me when everything else feels loud or demanding or out of reach.

Routines assume control. Moments ask for attention.

Routines can feel like another standard to meet, another thing to fail at when life refuses to cooperate. Moments meet us exactly where we are — tired, stretched, hopeful, human. They don’t ask for discipline. They ask us to notice.

This is how I am learning to remember my life. Not through perfect systems or carefully followed plans, but through the small, ordinary pauses that keep showing up, day after day.

If you don’t have a routine either, I hope you know you’re not behind. You’re not doing it wrong. You may just be living in moments too — moments of rest, of noticing, of quiet care woven gently into ordinary days.

And that, I’m learning, is more than enough.