When Slow Living Becomes Another Thing to Get Right

Mondays are dedicated to writing about slower living - how we might consume less, notice more, and incorporate simple moments of rest and intention into our ordinary lives.

I had an entire post written for this week. I hated it.

So I rewrote it. I hated that version, too.

Eventually, I realized I had turned writing about slowing down into something else I had to accomplish. The work had started to feel exactly like the thing I was supposedly trying to escape: measuring everything by productivity.

Was I keeping my publishing schedule? Had I made the topic useful enough? Would the reader leave thinking about something, realigning something, or doing something? Were the Pinterest graphics good? Did they fit the brand?

When I felt the tension running through my spine and the familiar clawing sensation in my belly, I knew I had turned something I love into a transaction.

Dahlias grown from seed or a tuber, make for gorgeous bouquets.

So I closed my laptop and went outside.

I’m currently staying at a family member's farm, caring for the animals while they enjoy a holiday abroad. It was raining, but I didn’t care. I walked down to the barn and out toward the corral, where the horses were quietly munching hay. The chickens pecked around the garden while the dogs chased one another through the barn, jumped onto hay bales, and barked at absolutely nothing. I wandered over to the flower garden, admired the prolific blooms, and noticed how large the pumpkins had grown.

Then I didn’t open my laptop for the rest of the day.

Or the next one.

Instead, I collected moments along with the eggs the hens were laying. I picked tomatoes. I made chili using a dupe recipe for Trader Joe’s turkey chili, an absolute staple in my life. I lit a candle and caught up with some of my favorite YouTube creators.

The farm is stunningly beautiful. It is mostly quiet, with an incredible view down the valley and very little ambient light pollution. It should have been the ideal setting for a nervous system reset.

Except my brain didn’t get the memo.

Hot air balloon sunrise show over the valley - one of those moments I would have missed if I hadn’t looked up.

Instead of settling into where I was, I began worrying that I was letting my life fall apart while I was away from home. September is one of my favorite reset times of the year - that liminal space between summer and autumn - and I had made plans for how I wanted to use it.

I knew this farm stay would mostly take me out of the routine I had been creating. I’ve kept some parts intact: four gym visits each week, mindful hydration, and protein-forward meals. But the small projects waiting for me at home are not getting done because, rather inconveniently, I am not at home.

My brain interpreted that as failure.

If I wasn’t following the reset exactly as I had imagined it, I must already be behind. If the projects weren’t getting finished, I must be losing momentum. If I wasn’t writing according to schedule, perhaps I wasn’t committed enough to the creative work I said mattered to me.

But the reset hasn’t failed. It has simply changed shape.

 Hondo, my constant companion and enthusiastic supervisor of absolutely everything.

I am still building routines. They happen to include tending animals twice a day.

I am still caring for my future self by going to the gym, drinking water and making meals that support me.

The tomatoes need to be picked and roasted so they can become soups and sauces later in the season.

The flowers need to be cut so they can bloom again - and so I can fill the house with pretty vases while I’m here.

This may not be the version of September I planned at home, but it is still a life being tended.

Before arriving, I also made a deal with myself that I wouldn’t leave the farm on days when I didn’t have a gym visit scheduled. The idea was practical. The drive is long, and staying here would save gas while helping me settle into the experience instead of constantly reaching back toward my ordinary life.

It was a reasonable plan.

It is also a plan I am allowed to revisit.

Going out for an iced coffee would not mean I had failed at being present. Wandering through the little downtown area, visiting the cute shops or spending an hour in the bookstore would not destroy my commitment to a slower, simpler stay.

The ladies are working overtime! Farm fresh eggs every day!

Those might be some of the very experiences that make this time feel spacious and memorable.

Sometimes a plan supports the life we want.

Sometimes we follow it for a while and discover it has quietly become another rule we use to judge ourselves.

Revisiting it does not erase the original intention. It gives us a chance to remember what the intention actually was.

The point of my September reset was never to complete a perfect series of tasks in the correct order. It was to pay closer attention to my life, strengthen the routines that support me and decide where I want my energy to go as we move into a new season.

I am still doing that.

I’m simply doing it here, among the horses, tomatoes, rain, and freshly collected eggs.

Maybe this is part of slowing down, too: allowing a plan to change before it becomes another thing we have to get right.

This little vintage cutie is an absolute beast when it comes to motoring around the farm.