Ever feel like you’ve done nothing, but it feels like you’ve been working all day? You’re trying to watch a show, but instead at the back of your mind you’re thinking about all the laundry you need to do. You go out with your friends, but instead you’re thinking about that email you haven’t answered. You finally have an afternoon with nothing scheduled, but instead of feeling free you feel a little guilty. You’re technically resting, but your brain is still keeping score.

There is a name for this feeling it’s called leisure guilt. Recent research describes it as the feeling of guilt or unease that comes from spending time leisurely instead of productively. Researchers found that people who experience more leisure guilt tend to get less enjoyment and fewer of the psychological benefits that leisure is supposed to provide.

It’s hard to relax when part of you is asking:

“Don’t you have things to do?”

There will always be something left on your to-do list. If your ability to feel joy and have fun depends on finishing everything else first, you’ll never get to that point because it doesn’t exist.

And eventually, you stop experiencing leisure as leisure. You experience it as procrastination. Research on recovery has repeatedly found that psychological detachment and relaxation during non-work time are important for well-being, motivation, and functioning.

We keep thinking:

“I’ll work, finish everything, and then I’ll relax.”

But a better rhythm might be:

“I’ll work, live, rest, play, and then work again.”

You need to live now, just as you are, with everything on your plate.

Here’s a journaling prompt to help you do some reflection on this topic if you’d like: What would I do differently if I believed I didn’t have to finish everything before I was allowed to enjoy my life?

Would love to hear your thoughts and reflections in the comments below if you’d like to share!

Recently, I was reminded of hygge by one of my new friends here on Substack, Joanna. She shared a photo about it, and it took me back to when I first learned about hygge years ago.

By definition hygge is “a mood of cozy, comfortable contentment and safety”. It involves enjoying the small, simple pleasures of life like warmth, friendship, and being in the present moment. Some examples include sitting by a fireplace with a warm blanket and a book, drinking tea or coffee with a friend on a rainy day, or eating a slow meal with a loved one.

I’ve always loved glamour and beauty. How nice it feels to get dressed up and all the pretty things involved. I’ve started to wonder how much of that was actually me and how much came from what I was surrounded by and taught to value.

Because when I think about what I’ve really been searching for all my life, hygge pretty much sums it up. My entire life I’ve been searching for warmth, comfort, relationships that feel like a warm hug, a home that makes you never want to leave it, and all the little rituals that make an ordinary day feel meaningful.

I wonder if that’s why hygge resonated with me since the moment I learned about it. A word and a way of living that described something I never had the words for. Noticing what makes life feel good while you’re actually living it.

I love getting into my pajamas and into my bed at the end of a long day to read or think back on my day, focusing on what went well so I can savor it and remind myself what I can keep doing to feel good going forward. Lighting a candle. Looking at the sunset every day and taking it in. Or spending time with people that make me feel like I can fully relax.

There are so many other ways to get this feeling and I’ve been trying to find more ways to intentionally incorporate this practice and way of living into my life. You might already be doing these things, but this practice allows you to notice them, be present, and savor them.

Does this all mean I’ll completely move away from loving glamour? Absolutely not. I do want most of my life and time to be focused on giving and receiving warmth as much as possible though and glamour can be sprinkled in.

I’d love to know what are some ways you’ve incorporated hygge into your life? Knowingly or unknowingly? Or what’s one little way you might try bringing more of it into your days?

Here’s a journaling prompt to help you reflect and incorporate this into your own life if you’d like: What does a life that feels warm, comforting, and meaningful look like to you?

I’d love to know below in the comments if you’d like to share!

There was a brief time in my life where I was obsessed with lampposts. I have no idea why. I remember noticing them everywhere and being strangely comforted by them. Then I stopped noticing them until the other day when I finally stopped to look at one.

I started wondering what drew me to them to begin with. I realize I think it was their steadiness.

A lamppost stays in the same place. It doesn’t beg for attention, doesn’t ask for appreciation, it doesn’t even care whether anyone notices how much work it’s doing. It just is useful, beautiful, and lights the way for whoever might be passing by.

It feels a little reassuring. You don’t have to be the brightest in the room to make a difference. You don’t even have to know who you’re helping.

It feels similar to what I feel like I’m trying to build here.

A small community that has slowly started forming around my inner thoughts. And I love it!

There is something so beautiful about knowing that someone somewhere might come across something I wrote on a day they might have needed it. I might never know what it meant to them. They might not even comment and let me know. The essay might just give them a few minutes of feeling understood before they continue on with their day. Just knowing that could be a possibility means everything.

Sometimes I find myself looking for warmth and reassurance outside of myself that I don’t always realize that I can create some of it too.

I think that’s what drew me to lampposts on a deeper level, being a steady presence in the background of someone’s life. Hopefully helping the dark be a little easier to walk through.

Getting to be that little light that someone might need right as they may need it is one of the greatest honors.

If my love went to me, would it even feel like it went anywhere?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.

I could spend hours thinking about what someone else needed, but struggled to answer the question of what I needed.

I realized that even when I desperately need love, my first instinct isn’t to give it to myself. It’s to pour it into someone else. It somehow feels more real. Like maybe if I love someone enough, some of it will find its way back to me.

I don’t think I was born believing that. I think it was something I learned. Growing up, I learned how to be the kind of person other people wanted. Be kind. Share. Help.

Work hard so your teachers are proud of you. Work hard so a company wants to hire you. Look pretty so someone will choose you. Be thoughtful. Be generous. Be easy to love.

I don’t remember self love being something people around me talked about. If they did, it usually came with a warning not to become selfish or self absorbed. Teaching that love was supposed to flow in one direction. Out. Not in.

After enough years of hearing that, loving yourself doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes it feels uncomfortable and you feel guilty. You buy something for yourself and immediately wonder if you should’ve spent that money on someone else. You rest, but it doesn’t feel like rest because a part of you thinks you should be doing something productive for someone else.

You celebrate yourself, but it feels embarrassing. Then there are times you choose yourself and spend the next hour wondering if that made you a bad person.

I’m realizing that I don’t actually struggle with giving love. I struggle with believing that I’m allowed to receive it from myself.

I guess that’s why self care can feel so empty sometimes. If you’ve spent your whole life believing that love only counts when it’s given away, then loving yourself almost doesn’t register. It can feel like your love disappeared instead of landed somewhere, but it didn’t disappear.

It landed with the one person who’s been waiting for it the longest.

You.

I’m still learning what choosing myself looks like. Not choosing myself instead of everyone else. Just choosing myself, too.

All of it makes me think that self love was never about loving yourself more than other people. It’s simply believing that your love doesn’t become less meaningful just because it stayed with you.

I’d love to know in the comments: Have you ever struggled with giving yourself the same love you give others?

I’ve realized how much time I spend on my phone. It’s great and helps me immensely: from keeping my life running to showing me pretty places in the world to helping me stay connected to helping me find new recipes to try or new podcasts to listen to.

My phone can’t do everything though. It can’t help me smell my matcha first thing in the morning. Or feel the warmth of my blanket. Or taste my favorite dairy free protein yogurt. It can’t replace being fully present in my own life.

I started asking myself these questions recently:

What are five things my senses loved today? Did I tend to all five of my senses in real life today and not on my phone?

Did I see something pretty? Did I hear or listen to something nice? Did I smell something that smelled good? Did I taste anything yummy? Did I touch anything that felt nice?

A lot of the times I encounter these things without even noticing them. I’m just focused on getting on with my day and what I need to get done.

I noticed I started checking in with myself this way on days when I felt a little off. Instead of labeling the entire day as bad, I’d ask myself those questions albeit a little differently each time, but the underlying essence always remains the same:

Did I notice anything beautiful today? Did I hear something that made me feel a little lighter? Did I smell something that brought me some comfort? Did I taste something that I’d love to eat again? Did I feel something that was nice and soft?

None of these things were life changing on their own, but together they reminded me that joy can compound through the little things. And most importantly, this practice helped bring me back into my body.

Life makes it so easy for us to live inside our thoughts, but our senses always allow us the opportunity to come back to the present.

This practice has also helped me manage my relationship with my phone. It’s amazing that we have the internet and can stay connected to our loved ones and the world, but a screen can only give us part of the experience. It can show us a photo of a beautiful beach, but it can’t give us the experience of feeling the sand between our toes.

Being present doesn’t mean we need to completely change our lives, we can simply notice the beautiful things that are already there.

So today, try asking yourself:

What are the five things my senses loved today?

You might be surprised to find all the little moments that were waiting for you to notice them.

Before you close out this article, I’d love to know, what are your five things from today? I’d love to read them in the comments.

There will be times, like when interviewing for a job or dating or meeting a new friend, where you find yourself needing to explain who you are and how you got here, but you can’t be apologetic about it. Whoever that person is: rich, poor, good looking or not. They aren’t you and they haven’t lived your life. So handing them your life on a platter and hoping they’ll choose you if you explain just enough is doing you and your story a disservice. That doesn’t mean you can’t share, it means you share because it’s part of who you are, not because you’re hoping they’ll approve of you or choose you. No one or no thing is worth losing your dignity over.

There is a difference between being vulnerable and seeking approval. One says, “This is me and the experiences that shaped me,” and the other is saying, “Please understand me and tell me I’m enough.” They may sound similar, but the intention behind both of them is completely different.

Your story deserves more. You deserve more. You and your story deserve to be treated with dignity. Your difficult chapters don’t make you less worthy of love, respect, or belonging.

Every person doesn’t need access to all your life’s chapters. You don’t need to divulge the details of your entire life story before you’re allowed to belong. The ones who deserve to know you won’t require access to every page.

Remember that you are here. This is your life. And you don’t need to apologize for existing. Your life isn’t a courtroom, and you’re not on trial.

Your story is yours before anyone else’s.

Every July, something strange happens. Even though I’m an adult with deadlines, responsibilities, and an endless list of things I should probably be doing, summer feels different. My body seems to remember something my calendar doesn’t. I subconsciously relax. My shoulders drop a little. My expectations for myself soften.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet voice says:

It’s summer. Stop taking life so seriously.

I’ve noticed this happens every year, almost without my permission. Maybe that’s why summer feels different as an adult. I don’t consciously decide to become gentler with myself. My expectations just soften. I become more patient with unfinished work. I don’t feel quite as guilty for spending an afternoon outside or watching the sun stay out a little longer. Even my mistakes feel less catastrophic.

It’s such a subtle shift that I almost miss it every year. And every time it happens, I wonder the same thing:

Why does it take a season to remind me that life doesn’t always have to be lived on hard mode?

As kids, summer wasn’t just a season. It was a way of living. There were still things to do, but they rarely felt urgent. We woke up without immediately thinking about what we had to accomplish before the day was over. Entire afternoons could disappear because we were outside, reading a book, riding bikes, watching movies, or doing absolutely nothing. No one called it “rest.” It was just life. Somehow, as adults, we learned to distrust that feeling. We started believing that if we weren’t making progress, we were falling behind. If we weren’t improving ourselves, we were wasting time. If we relaxed too much, we’d become lazy.

Without realizing it, we began treating every month like it was finals week. Every week became a race against an invisible clock. Even our downtime became another task to optimize. Instead of asking, What would make today enjoyable? we started asking, What can I get done today?

The strange thing is that none of those rules disappear when summer arrives. My responsibilities don’t magically vanish in July. My inbox doesn’t suddenly empty itself. The world keeps moving exactly as it did in February. The only thing that changes is me. For a few months, my nervous system seems to remember a pace that my adult mind has forgotten. It reminds me that not every day has to be squeezed for maximum productivity. That some evenings are allowed to exist simply because they’re warm. That a walk after dinner doesn’t need to become a fitness goal. That reading a novel isn’t a reward I have to earn.

Maybe what we call summer nostalgia isn't really about wanting to be a kid again. Maybe it's our minds remembering a healthier pace of life. I don’t miss the stress of tests. I don’t miss curfews or asking permission. What I miss is the ease. The belief that life wasn’t something to constantly conquer. That there was room for spontaneity. For boredom. For conversations that weren’t squeezed between meetings. For afternoons that didn’t need to justify themselves.

Maybe the nostalgia isn’t asking us to go backward. Maybe it’s inviting us to bring one part of that younger version of ourselves forward. The part that knew how to enjoy a Tuesday without turning it into a performance. The part that didn’t measure every day by how productive it was. The part that understood that some seasons are meant to be lived more slowly. Because maybe summer has never just been about longer days or warmer weather. Maybe it’s an annual reminder that we don’t have to grip our lives so tightly all the time. That even adults are allowed to loosen their expectations. To leave a little white space in the calendar. To laugh more than usual. To sit outside after sunset simply because the air feels nice.

Maybe we don’t need summer’s permission to live that way. Maybe we’ve just forgotten that it was always ours.

If you enjoyed this essay, you might also like my piece about how an old charger changed the way I think about timing.

Years ago, I accidentally bought the wrong charger.

At the time, it felt like a small mistake, something useless I had wasted money on and would never need. I remember being annoyed because I couldn’t return it. It wasn’t useful to me, so I tossed it into a drawer and forgot about it.

I didn’t realize that years later, this forgotten charger would remind me that not everything in life reveals its purpose right away. Every now and then I’d come across it while cleaning and think the same thing:

“Why do I still have this?”

It felt like clutter. A mistake. Something that served no purpose. Today, while cleaning my room, I found it again. This time, I laughed. I had recently gotten new AirPods and thought, “If this charger fits, I’m going to lose it.”

It fit perfectly.

For a moment, I just stood there smiling at a charger. Not because of the charger itself, but because of what it reminded me of. Sometimes life gives us things that make no sense in the moment. A skill we don’t use. A friendship that doesn’t become what we hoped. A degree that doesn’t lead where we expected. A delay we didn’t ask for. A wrong charger.

We immediately try to decide whether something is useful or useless, a success or a mistake, a blessing or a disappointment. But life rarely reveals the purpose of something when we first receive it. Sometimes the meaning arrives years later. Sometimes what looked like clutter becomes exactly what you need. Sometimes the thing you were trying to get rid of quietly waits for the right moment.

I’ve spent a lot of my life wanting answers immediately. Wanting every chapter to make sense while I was still living it. But maybe life doesn’t work that way. Maybe some things aren’t meant to make sense all at once. Maybe the purpose isn’t missing. Maybe it’s just early.

And if a random charger can sit in a drawer for years before finding its purpose, maybe some parts of my life deserve the same patience.

I didn’t realize how much my nervous system depended on “first-contact stability” until I started paying attention to what I reached for when I woke up. I used to think I needed more motivation. Looking back, I think I needed stability first. Not goals. Not motivation. Not even people. Something simpler. Something that was still there.

When life has felt inconsistent, people becoming unavailable, routines breaking, responsibilities changing without warning, my brain started scanning for whatever was predictable. Healing didn’t begin with trying harder. It began with finding small moments of consistency and emotional safety. Something I could see, something that responded, something that didn’t leave.

Sometimes it was my phone. Sometimes it was small objects in my room. Sometimes it was just a heater quietly running in the background. I used to judge that instinct. I thought it meant I was distracted or avoiding my life. But I think I understand it differently now. It wasn’t avoidance. It was regulation.

There’s a specific kind of mental noise that happens when you wake up and there’s nothing steady to land on. Your thoughts become louder than your environment. Your mind starts trying to solve everything at once before your body has even caught up. And when that happens often enough, you start building your own forms of stability wherever you can find them. Not because they’re perfect. Because they’re consistent.

I think what I was actually looking for wasn’t comfort in the emotional sense. It was predictability.

Something that says, quietly:

“I’m still here. Nothing is required of you right now. You can orient yourself before you react to the world.”

Eventually I realized something else too. I don’t just need stability. I also need novelty. But those two things don’t have to compete. They just need order. Stability first. Especially in the morning, especially in transitions. Then novelty. Then decisions. Then meaning-making.

Not everything at once. Not immediately upon waking. Just enough structure to stop the spiral before it starts. Now I think of it like this: some parts of life are meant to be predictable so my nervous system can settle. And some parts are meant to be new so my life can still move forward.

The problem wasn’t that I needed better discipline or stronger motivation. The problem was that I was trying to do everything: think, decide, feel, plan before I had anything steady to stand on.

And sometimes what you need isn’t a breakthrough. It’s just something that stays long enough for you to begin.

A lyric has been stuck in my head lately:

“I will find my way from you like flowers from a tomb.”

The first time I heard it, I thought it was about a person. Now I think it might be about endings. I’ve spent much of my life treating endings like evidence that something went wrong. Graduation. Friendships fading. People moving away. Dreams changing. Versions of myself disappearing. Every milestone felt strangely heavy.

While other people seemed excited for what came next, I often felt like I was standing at a funeral. Not because I wanted life to end. Because I thought a part of my life already had. For years, I kept trying to preserve old versions of myself. The girl who graduated from college at 20. The friend group that no longer exists. The connections that never became what I hoped. The dream I thought I would have achieved by now. I treated them like relics from a life I wasn’t supposed to leave behind.

But flowers don’t grow from a tomb because the tomb disappeared. They grow because life continues around it. The tomb remains. The history remains. The loss remains. But something living emerges anyway.

That’s the part I never understood. I thought healing meant proving an ending didn’t matter. Maybe healing is admitting that it did. And then allowing something else to grow. Not instead of it. Not in denial of it. Because of it.

When I look back at my life, there have been so many moments that felt final. So many moments where I thought:

“This is it.”

“This chapter is over.”

“I’ll never recover from this.”

And every single time, life kept going. Not always beautifully. Not always quickly. But eventually, something new appeared. A new friendship. A new interest. A new perspective. A new version of myself.

The flowers didn’t erase the tomb. They just proved it wasn’t the whole landscape. Maybe that’s what growth really is. Not forgetting what ended. Not dragging it everywhere forever. Just learning that life can continue in places we once associated only with loss. Maybe every ending leaves behind a tomb. And maybe every future version of us is a flower growing nearby.

I found myself dreading a large Amazon return as one does. I dragged my feet to Whole Foods and found the return itself to be painless, it was simply my mindset around the task that made it worse.

I noticed they moved the Amazon returns counter to the center of the Whole Foods instead of having it to the side of the store like before which makes sense because if you actually enter the store you’re more likely to buy something. I know this is tactic works because it worked on me that day, but I found a new favorite vegan caesar salad and tried a new Olipop flavor so it was worth it.

As I was walking to pay for my items I noticed the flower section. Now, I’m not the kind of person that buys flowers regularly so normally if I saw flowers I’d just look at them from afar and keep it moving, but something in me pulled me to the flowers that day. Partly it’s beauty, partly some heavy worries I was carrying in my heart, partly an effort to keep my promise to myself to try to be more present. I started at the orchids, made my way to the sunflowers, and then got to the red roses. I picked them up to smell them, and then once I realized what I had done I laughed to myself, “I literally stopped to smell the roses”. I guess this is what they meant, making a small effort to make something mundane or something you’re dreading easier by finding a little glimmer of beauty, hope, aliveness, joy, happiness or simply something less dreadful to pair it with.

Stop to smell the roses enough that it becomes second nature and things start to feel less dreadful over time because you always find a way to make things easier to carry. Even slowly. Especially slowly. A little at a time. You deserve the ease.