There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a long time now—something quiet, something personal. Not a big leap or a loud declaration, just a gentle pause. A way to come back to myself. And after months of racing through tasks, navigating grief, chasing deadlines, and pretending I wasn’t too tired to feel—I’ve finally started.

Sunday Slow Diary

This is the beginning of a new ritual I’m calling Sunday Slow Diary. A space where I can meet myself where I really am, not where I’m expected to be. No pressure to be profound. No need to be polished. Just a place to breathe out the week, gather its pieces, and notice the small sacred things I might have otherwise missed. Because life moves fast, and I no longer want to be someone who forgets to notice.

A space where I can meet myself where I really am, not where I’m expected to be

This week didn’t unfold the way I hoped it would. There were days I woke up already carrying the weight of the world—tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix, a bit numb from trying too hard, too long. There were moments when I wanted to speak, but couldn’t find the right words—or the right silence. And yet, in the midst of that quiet struggle, little gifts revealed themselves.

A patient told me I reminded them of someone they once loved. It wasn’t said with fanfare, just a soft comment in passing, but it stayed with me. My mother, back home now, popped up in my memory again—this time as I recalled the way she used to hum while watering the plants. That kind of peace, unbothered and grounded, is something I hope to carry forward. Then there was the note left on my desk by a colleague: “Thank you for always showing up.” Just that. No signature. No expectations. But it felt like a balm.

I’m learning that being seen—even quietly—is something we all crave. Not the spotlight, not the applause. Just gentle acknowledgment. The kind that says, “I notice your effort. I see your heart.”

This week, I’m grateful for warm showers after night shifts that seem to take more from me than I realize. I’m grateful for Millie, my cat, who brought me her favorite toy as if to say, “You look like you need this more than I do.” I’m grateful for coffee that reminds me of long mornings back home, for prayers whispered at stoplights, and for the way grief eases—just a little—when I finally let it land on paper.

I’m hoping next week offers more gentleness. Gentleness in how I speak to myself, especially when I feel behind. Gentleness in my work, when the world gets too clinical and I start to feel like a machine instead of a human. Gentleness in my friendships, where silence doesn’t mean distance, and where presence means more than perfect replies. I’m hoping I’ll have the courage to take longer walks without my phone, to say “no” without guilt, and to leave space in my day—not just for work, but for wonder.

This week taught me that resilience is not just about pushing through. It’s also about softening. About knowing when to pause, when to ask for help, and when to admit, “I’m not okay, but I’m still trying.” It reminded me that showing up, even when it’s hard, is a form of love—toward ourselves and others.

I’m still reading “Forgiving What You Can’t Forget”, and even though I’m just on Chapter 3, it already feels like sitting beside someone who understands the language of loss. I watched “When Life Gives You Tangerines”—slow, tender, unexpectedly healing—and it felt like a lullaby to my overworked spirit. The song on loop this week is “Don’t Forget About Me” by Simple Minds. It reminds me of Hans, of memories stitched into melodies, of voices that echo even when the room is silent.

There’s a quote I’ve kept returning to:

“Some things will only make sense when you’re gentler with yourself.”

And isn’t that the truth? So often we demand clarity, closure, and answers—when all we need is compassion.

So, to you—yes, you—reading this right now: I hope you know it’s okay not to be okay. It’s okay to be somewhere in the middle, neither here nor there. To feel a little lost, a little tired, a little tender. You don’t need to bloom every week. Some seasons are just about holding steady. About keeping your heart open when it wants to close. About continuing, even if the only thing you’ve done today is breathe.

Here’s to a new week. Not a perfect one—but a real one. With soft hope, unspoken prayers, and quiet courage.

Let’s try again together next Sunday.

With love,
Anj 💛