Creating depth in your days, adding life in your years.
Yesterday I met up with a friend and her family who just moved down to Florida from where I used to live. We met at the beach because her kids haven’t seen the ocean here yet. They wandered toward the sunset, dabbled in the sand with pure excitement, jumped in puddles of the sunken sandbar, threw shells into the water. And I found myself pausing to take it all in.
Because for a moment, I saw Zach and I in them.
It reminded me of back when we stuffed everything we owned in a storage container, wedged our houseplants and a few luggages in our cars and made the twenty-something hour drive down to the coast of Florida. It reminded of how electric that season felt. How it was filled with enthusiasm and curiosity, how blissfully naive, and a copious amounts of time to explore and wander.
We felt like this couldn’t be real.
The sunsets, the palm trees, the fresh ocean breeze, the salt in the air, the weather — there was so much beauty to love and take in. It felt like a vacation that forgot to end. Paradise. And this was home. We promised each other it would never get old. That we wouldn’t get comfortable enough to forget that we were living in paradise.
And as life does what life does—three housing remodels, two kids, and a whole new business later, some settling happened.
It wasn’t like settling was a bad thing. Actually, after moving so many times, settling was what we needed to feel safe, comfortable and secure. We craved being able to settle into the nooks and crannies of where we lived and eventually this happened. We have built an incredible community of people here who love on us and we get to love back. I can go to the grocery store and know the cashier and butchers by their first name. We have our go to mechanic and go to pediatricians. We have our go to places and go to favorite restaurants.
So no, I am not writing to paint the settling as a negative picture, because it’s what I prayed for.
But there’s something subtle that happens when we start to settle in ways where our days start to feel familiar. When life gets so full that it quietly has a way of shrinking itself.
We start saving the things we long for—presence, slowness, meaning, feeling— for later.
And if we’re not mindful, if we don’t catch ourselves and wake up while we’re living in these days… later never comes.
Morning routines turn into nap time routines, into meetings and work, into afternoon activities and bedtime routines, and then we do it all again the next day. If we’re not careful, our days become hallways we keep walking through. We show up where we’re supposed to be. We’re alive in every measurable way
But we’re not fully inhabiting the places we occupy.
One year passes. Then two. Then three. And suddenly we’re scrolling through photo memories, wondering where all the time went.
So for the sake of never losing the enthusiasm, I’ve been asking myself some questions lately:
How can I create more depth to my days?
How can I apply more presence to what I’m already doing?
How do I add more life to my years?
Chewing your food before you swallow it. Taking the longer, more scenic way home.
Walking slower on purpose.
Eating a meal without taking a picture of it.
Letting yourself actually be where you are.
I want a life with texture to it.
The kind you can feel, like a cool French linen duvet.
I want blank spaces on my calendar.
I want room to breathe. Room to notice. Room to remember why I love and am so grateful for this life.
And maybe this is it.
Maybe this is the invitation for all of us to stop waiting for the moment when things slow down, and instead learn how to meet ourselves right here, while the sun is still setting and our feet are still in the sand.
What are some small ways you can add more depth to your days? More presence? Start with something small and treat it like an experiment. Notice how it makes you feel. 🍵
Warmly,
