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The other day, I found a half-used planner from 2020 tucked away in a desk drawer. I smiled at the first couple of months, full of hopeful plans and scribbled appointments. And then, around March, the pages go quiet. Just blank squares, one after another. A whole season of life, unwritten. It felt like a lifetime ago, and also, somehow, like yesterday.
That quiet in the calendar was a strange kind of relief back then, a permission slip to slow down. But it was also a time of disruption, of letting go of the usual rhythms. We traded school runs for kitchen-table lessons and dentist appointments for… well, for nothing. We were all just trying to get through the day.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the quiet, invisible things that fell away during that time, the routines that keep our families and communities humming along safely. It’s not just about getting back to normal, but about gently checking in on the things we may have missed. School sent home a reminder note last week, a simple request to ensure all student records were up to date. It was such a small, normal thing, but it sent my mind tumbling back to that empty planner.
I sat down with that little blue-and-white health card, the one with my child’s whole history on it, and realized we’d missed a beat. In the fog of everything, the routine schedule of childhood immunizations had gotten a little off track. It wasn't a conscious choice, just a casualty of a world turned upside down. One postponed well-child visit blurred into the next, and suddenly a year had passed.
There’s no shame in it. We were all in survival mode, holding so much. But as we rebuild our routines, this feels like quiet, important work. It's the work of not just managing today, but of protecting all our tomorrows. It’s a small act of care, for our own children and for all the other children they share classrooms and playgrounds with. A quiet promise that we’re all in this together.
It’s funny how a simple planner can hold so much. It’s a reminder of a time we held our breath, and a gentle nudge to finally, fully exhale. The world is loud again, but this small act of catching up feels like the calmest thing of all. 🧸
What’s one gentle step you're taking to find your family’s rhythm again?
That quiet in the calendar was a strange kind of relief back then, a permission slip to slow down. But it was also a time of disruption, of letting go of the usual rhythms. We traded school runs for kitchen-table lessons and dentist appointments for… well, for nothing. We were all just trying to get through the day.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about the quiet, invisible things that fell away during that time, the routines that keep our families and communities humming along safely. It’s not just about getting back to normal, but about gently checking in on the things we may have missed. School sent home a reminder note last week, a simple request to ensure all student records were up to date. It was such a small, normal thing, but it sent my mind tumbling back to that empty planner.
I sat down with that little blue-and-white health card, the one with my child’s whole history on it, and realized we’d missed a beat. In the fog of everything, the routine schedule of childhood immunizations had gotten a little off track. It wasn't a conscious choice, just a casualty of a world turned upside down. One postponed well-child visit blurred into the next, and suddenly a year had passed.
There’s no shame in it. We were all in survival mode, holding so much. But as we rebuild our routines, this feels like quiet, important work. It's the work of not just managing today, but of protecting all our tomorrows. It’s a small act of care, for our own children and for all the other children they share classrooms and playgrounds with. A quiet promise that we’re all in this together.
It’s funny how a simple planner can hold so much. It’s a reminder of a time we held our breath, and a gentle nudge to finally, fully exhale. The world is loud again, but this small act of catching up feels like the calmest thing of all. 🧸
What’s one gentle step you're taking to find your family’s rhythm again?
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