Reading · The Journey Home

woman lying on bathtube — Photo by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash

There’s an Anne Taintor card I love: a woman in a silk nightgown, propped against satin sheets, gazing up at nothing in particular.

The caption reads, “I love not camping.”

It makes me laugh every time — and then it makes me groan. Because how often do we let ourselves feel that? Remorseless. Unhurried. Doing something purely for our own pleasure, without the quiet tug that says we should be doing something more useful.

We put ourselves last so automatically we barely notice:

We answer the phone on vacation.
We stay late because it “just can’t wait.”
We tend everyone in the house before ourselves.

And on the rare afternoon we do reach for a little ease — a nap, a guilty pleasure on TV, a door gently closed — the monkey mind pipes right up. It’s not that simple. If you knew what my life was like. I’ve tried slowing down; it never lasts.

It’s also just a stressed-out mind talking — not the real me.

Self-care isn’t the reward waiting at the end of the list. It’s the balm — the thing we reach for when the aching starts, that calms the whole system down and whispers we’re safe.

Which makes me wonder about the small mercies we keep deferring:

The nap we talk ourselves out of.
The quiet we keep putting off.

What if none of it is optional?

If so, come sit with it this week. Notice where the shoulds live in your body — and what softens when you set even one of them down.

What might open if caring for yourself were as necessary as breathing?

Ahhh 🛁