The Vanishing

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Ten years ago, my home held the shape of me. Mismatched mugs collected from places I’d loved, books stacked in teetering towers, paintings leaned against walls, waiting for the right moment to be hung. There were hand-me-down chairs with stories in their worn arms, a chipped bowl from my grandmother’s kitchen, and a sense—however unkempt—that this space belonged to me, and I to it.

Now, I look around and see something curated, a place arranged for the gaze of others rather than the comfort of self. Smooth, neutral tones. Shelves styled just so. Objects chosen not for the weight of their history but for how well they align with an ever-shifting standard. The colours have drained, the oddities tucked away, and with them, something of my own texture has faded too.

It happened so gradually I barely noticed. A new throw pillow here, a swap of furniture there, a quiet clearing of the clutter—until one day, the soul of the space had slipped away, like a tide pulling back without my permission. I had followed the aesthetics, let the images of perfection seep into my bones, and in doing so, lost the imperfection that made it mine.

But homes, like selves, are not meant to be static. They are meant to be lived in, to shift and fray and gather pieces of the years we inhabit them. And so, I wonder—how do I reclaim that? Not in a grand undoing, but in the slow, deliberate act of filling my space again with memory, with warmth, with the odd and the beloved. A return, not just to a home that feels like me, but to the part of myself I allowed to slip away.

Overconsumption

The Quiet Rebellion of Deinfluencing

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There’s a quiet revolution stirring beneath the surface of our endlessly scrolling feeds. It doesn’t shout, and it isn’t loud enough to trend—but perhaps that’s the point. It’s a movement that begins with a sigh, a pause, a simple question: What if I don’t need this?

This is the rebellion of deinfluencing.

At first glance, it might sound like resistance—an anti-something, a refusal. But lean in a little closer, and you’ll see it’s more tender than that. Deinfluencing is not a hard stop; it’s a gentle redirection. A reawakening. It doesn’t say, Don’t buy anything, but instead asks, What fills me?

The Age of Influence

We live in a world where influence has become currency. Where a single post can nudge us to buy what we didn’t know we wanted, to add to cart, to keep chasing the next thing. It’s a world that whispers, You’re almost there.

But “there” is always somewhere else.

And so we pile up—clothes, gadgets, trends—all in pursuit of some elusive idea of enoughness. But when does it stop? The moment we catch up, the tide shifts, and we’re left wanting again.

What Deinfluencing Asks of Us

Deinfluencing doesn’t demand a drastic unravelling of our habits. It doesn’t shame or scold. Instead, it asks us to gently reconsider. To look at what we’ve already gathered, to let gratitude swell in the spaces we once filled with longing.

It’s the choice to buy less, but love more. To resist the fleeting thrill of the new and rediscover the beauty of the old. Deinfluencing asks us to slow down and listen to the murmur of enoughness.

The worn book on the shelf, with its dog-eared corners, waiting for another read.

The jacket passed down from a loved one, frayed but rich with stories.

The beauty of a quiet walk, without the need to document it.

These things don’t shout for our attention. They simply are.

Not Anti-Joy, But Pro-Gratitude

Deinfluencing doesn’t reject beauty, joy, or celebration—it just redefines it. Joy is not a new candle in the perfect scent; it’s lighting the one you already have. Beauty is not in the pristine; it’s in the way the chipped mug fits perfectly in your hands.

This quiet rebellion is about stepping off the endless conveyor belt of desire and finding stillness. It’s about nourishing what we already have and, more importantly, who we already are.

Joining the Rebellion

You don’t need a manifesto to join. Simply pause. When you feel the pull to consume, ask yourself:

Why do I want this?

What will it add to my life?

What do I already have that could meet this need?

In the stillness, you might find the answer is already with you.

Deinfluencing isn’t a movement that trends or shouts—it grows quietly in the hearts of those who choose enoughness.

And perhaps that’s the most radical thing of all.

A Question for the Quiet Rebels

What’s one thing you already own, one part of your life, that you could cherish more deeply today?

Let’s hold onto that, together.

My Kind Of Wintering

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Wintering comes for me like a heavy blanket I didn’t ask for, settling around my shoulders and demanding that I slow down, stop pretending, and pay attention. It arrives uninvited, often when I least expect it, and asks for patience I don’t think I have. I used to resist it, trying desperately to keep moving, to push through, to pretend that the rhythm of my life didn’t have to change. But I’m starting to learn that wintering isn’t something to be fought. It’s something to be surrendered to.

When the cold sets in and the days become shorter, I feel it in my bones, in my spirit. Life seems to contract, drawing me inward. It’s a season of retreat, one that feels stark and sometimes achingly quiet. There are moments when I look around and see how barren everything is, how the trees have stripped themselves down to their bare branches, how the world seems to hold its breath. I realize that I, too, am being called to simplify, to shed what no longer serves me and wait.

Wintering has a way of forcing me to admit the truth: that I’m tired, that I’m carrying grief or uncertainty, that I need a break from the constant rush to be everything for everyone. It’s humbling to admit I’m not as strong as I want to be, that I need rest. But I’m learning that there is wisdom in this season, a wisdom that tells me it’s okay to pause, to go dormant for a while, to let myself feel whatever I need to feel.

There’s a quiet beauty to it, too, even if it doesn’t come easily. I notice the details I might otherwise miss: the way frost crystals form delicate patterns on the windowpane, the muffled sound of snow falling, the way the morning light turns soft and blue. It’s a different kind of beauty, one that asks for a slower gaze, a more intentional presence. I find solace in small rituals—wrapping myself in a thick blanket, lighting a candle, sitting with a book in the fading light of the afternoon. These acts feel like small victories, tiny anchors of comfort in a season that can feel unrelentingly cold.

But wintering isn’t just about physical stillness. It’s a reckoning. I’m forced to look inward, to sit with what’s uncomfortable, to make peace with the parts of myself I’d rather ignore. It’s not always pleasant. There are days when I feel stuck, lost in a fog, longing for the warmth and ease of another season. Yet I’m beginning to understand that this struggle, this discomfort, is part of the process. It’s the work that happens beneath the surface, the kind that doesn’t show its results right away but transforms quietly, like seeds deep in frozen soil.

I remind myself that nature knows what it’s doing, that even the trees know when to let go and rest. Why should I be any different? Wintering is my time to let things be unfinished, unresolved, imperfect. It’s my time to gather strength in the stillness, to accept that healing and renewal take time. There’s no rushing through it, no skipping ahead to the good parts.

And so, I try to settle in, to wrap myself in whatever warmth I can find and trust the rhythm of this season. I wait and rest, knowing that beneath the surface, beneath even the hardest layers of ice, something is quietly beginning to stir. Spring will come, as it always does. But for now, I let myself winter, and that, I am learning, is more than enough.

My Journey to Simple, Slow Living

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I used to rush from one thing to the next, convinced that if I moved a little faster and squeezed in one more task, life would finally feel manageable. I kept trying every new app, gadget, or so-called time-saving tool, thinking, This is it. This will help me catch up.

Spoiler alert: It never worked.

Instead, I became more frantic. The to-dos piled up, the notifications increased, and the noise grew louder. I ran around so manically, I lost track of what I was racing toward. My life turned into an endless loop of trying to keep up with everything.

Then I began to wonder—why am I rushing? Why do I fill every moment with “productivity” and still feel unaccomplished and unfulfilled?

That’s when I started leaning into something different—something slower, simpler. I didn’t call it “slow living” at the time. I just realized my pace wasn’t working for me. To be honest, it felt uncomfortable at first. I had spent so long believing that slowing down meant doing less, and if I wasn’t busy, I wasn’t enough.

But here’s what I’ve learned: slowing down doesn’t mean you do less. It means you do things with more purpose and presence.

Why Was I in Such a Hurry?

Let’s be real—this world pushes a fast pace. Everywhere you look, the message is clear: do more, buy more, achieve more. If you’re not hustling, you’re falling behind, right?

But that mindset exhausted me. Every day turned into a frantic scramble to check off a never-ending to-do list. Yet, I still felt like I was missing out. The more I crammed into my day, the less I actually enjoyed any of it. I was just getting through it.

And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to spend my life just “getting through” things. I want to actually live it.

A Shift in Perspective

Change didn’t happen overnight, but I started making small shifts. I didn’t throw out my phone or go off the grid (though that does sound tempting sometimes). Instead, I changed how I approached my daily life. Instead of thinking, What’s next?, I focused on What’s now?

One of the first things I did was give myself permission to do less. That was a big shift for me. I had been so caught up in the idea that I needed to do it all, that it hadn’t even occurred to me that I could just… not.

I started focusing on what actually mattered to me, not what I felt I should be doing. I realized I didn’t need to cram ten things into my day to feel productive. Instead, I focused on fewer things, but with more intention.

Small Changes, Big Impact

Here are some changes that helped me along the way:

  1. Saying no more often – I used to say yes to everything. Now, I understand how freeing it feels to say no when something doesn’t align with what’s important to me. There’s no rush to please everyone.
  2. Slowing down meals – This might seem small, but it has made a huge difference. I used to rush through breakfast while scrolling through my phone, barely tasting anything. Now, I sit down, focus on the food, and enjoy it. It’s a simple, daily reminder to slow down.
  3. Unplugging – I still use my phone and laptop (I’m not that zen), but I’ve set boundaries. I give myself space from constant notifications and emails. The world hasn’t ended, and I feel way less frazzled.
  4. Appreciating the little things – This was a tough one for me. I used to focus so much on “big goals” that I missed the little moments happening every day. Now, I savor small things like sitting outside with coffee, listening to the birds, or having a conversation without distractions. These moments turn out to be the truly important ones.
  5. Learning to single-task – For years, I was proud of my multitasking skills. But honestly? It’s overrated. Now, I focus on doing one thing at a time, and I feel much more present. Whether I’m working, cooking, or relaxing, giving my full attention to one task has made a huge difference.

Why Slow Living?

For me, embracing a slower pace isn’t about rejecting modern life. It’s about choosing to live mindfully, rather than letting life rush past me in a blur.

The more I lean into this slower, simpler way of living, the more I realize that I wasn’t missing out by slowing down. In fact, I was missing out by constantly rushing.

We live in a world obsessed with speed—fast food, fast fashion, fast results. But life isn’t a race. When we slow down, we give ourselves a chance to live in the moment instead of constantly chasing the next one.

What’s the Rush?

So, what’s the rush?

Honestly, there isn’t one. At least not for me anymore. I’m still learning and figuring it out as I go, but this shift to simpler, slower living has been one of the best decisions I’ve made for myself. I feel more grounded, present, and less stressed. I’m not cramming my days full anymore, and you know what? I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

In fact, I feel like I’m finally living.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re constantly rushing but not sure why, maybe it’s time to slow down. Trust me, there’s no prize for crossing the finish line first.

The real reward? It’s in the moments you savor along the way.