You know, after my husband died four years ago, I found myself doing the strangest thing – rushing around this empty house like I was late for something important. Racing to check emails that didn't matter, hurrying through meals I ate alone, speed-walking through grocery stores to get back to… what exactly? An empty colonial that felt too big and too quiet all at once. Made no sense whatsoever, but there I was, caught up in this frantic pace that seemed to define how everyone my age was supposed to live.
Then one Tuesday morning – I remember it was Tuesday because that's when I usually tackled my weekly errands – I found myself sitting in my car outside CVS, engine running, mentally calculating how fast I could grab my prescriptions, hit the bank, and get home to watch my usual lineup of afternoon shows. And suddenly it hit me: what the hell was I rushing for? Where exactly did I need to be so urgently?
That moment started what I guess you'd call my journey into slow living, though I didn't know it had a fancy name back then. I just knew something had to change because this constant hurrying was making me feel more anxious and disconnected than ever, especially living alone for the first time in forty-six years.
Growing up in Worcester in the sixties, we didn't rush through everything like maniacs. My mother would spend entire afternoons hanging laundry, chatting with neighbors over the fence, taking her time with simple tasks. Sundays meant long family dinners that stretched for hours, nobody checking watches or making excuses to leave. We had one car, one phone attached to the kitchen wall, one television that we actually sat down to watch together instead of having it buzzing in the background constantly.
Somewhere along the way – probably when I started working full-time and raising kids – I bought into this idea that being busy meant being important, that rushing around proved you had a productive, meaningful life. Total nonsense, but it took being alone in this house to realize how empty that kind of living actually feels.
The first thing I changed was my morning routine. Used to wake up and immediately grab my phone, scrolling through news and Facebook before my feet even hit the floor. Talk about starting the day with anxiety! Now I make my coffee first – really make it, not just press a button on some fancy machine – and sit at my kitchen table looking out at the birds in my backyard. Sounds simple, but it took weeks to break that habit of immediately reaching for digital stimulation.
Started taking actual walks instead of power-walking like I was training for the Olympics. My neighborhood has all these details I'd never noticed during forty years of living here because I was always rushing past them. The Hendersons have this gorgeous rose garden that must have taken decades to establish. The old oak tree on Maple Street has initials carved into it from what looks like the 1950s. These little discoveries became the highlights of my day instead of whatever drama was playing out on my phone.
Had to laugh at myself when I realized I'd been speed-eating for years. Wolfing down meals while reading emails or watching TV, barely tasting anything. Started eating breakfast at my dining room table – haven't used that room properly since the kids left home – and actually paying attention to what I was putting in my mouth. Made me realize how much money I'd been wasting on food I barely noticed consuming.
The hardest part was learning to say no to this cultural pressure to stay constantly busy. Other women my age are always comparing schedules, bragging about being booked solid with appointments and activities and volunteer commitments. There's this weird competition about who's the most in-demand, like we're still trying to prove our worth through productivity. I started turning down invitations that felt more like obligations and being honest when people asked how I was: "Oh, I'm taking things slowly these days" instead of pretending to be frantically busy.
My daughter was concerned at first. She'd call and I'd tell her I spent the afternoon reading on my back porch or organizing one drawer in my dresser – really organizing it, not just shuffling things around – and she'd worry I was getting depressed. Had to explain that there's a difference between being idle because you're depressed and choosing to move through your day at a more intentional pace.
Started cooking again, really cooking, not just heating up prepared foods or ordering takeout because it was faster. Spent a whole Saturday making homemade soup, something I hadn't done in probably twenty years. The process of chopping vegetables, simmering stock, adjusting seasonings – it was meditative in a way I'd forgotten food preparation could be. Plus I had soup for the week and my house smelled amazing.
Even changed how I shop. Used to race through stores with lists, grabbing things as quickly as possible like shopping was some kind of athletic event. Now I take my time, talk to the butcher about what's fresh, read labels instead of just grabbing familiar brands, notice seasonal changes in produce. The grocery store workers probably think I'm lonely – which maybe I am a little – but these small interactions make errands feel less like chores and more like connections to my community.
Most popular
Technology was the biggest challenge. My phone had become like an extra limb, constantly buzzing with notifications that made me feel important and connected but actually just fragmented my attention. Started putting it in another room during meals, turning off notifications for everything except actual phone calls, designating certain hours as phone-free time. The withdrawal was real – I kept reaching for it automatically – but after a few weeks I stopped feeling phantom vibrations and started noticing how much more present I felt.
Rediscovered the library, something I'd abandoned when Amazon made it so easy to buy books instantly. But there's something wonderful about browsing shelves, discovering books you weren't looking for, sitting in those comfortable chairs they have by the windows. Plus the librarians are lovely people who actually know about books instead of just algorithms suggesting what I might like based on previous purchases.
Started gardening more seriously instead of just maintaining my yard. Spent time learning about soil conditions, which plants work well together, how to extend the growing season. Got my hands dirty in a way that felt grounding after decades of office work. There's something satisfying about working with natural cycles instead of fighting against them or trying to rush them along.
Sleep got better too, probably because I wasn't overstimulating myself right up until bedtime. Started reading actual books in the evening instead of scrolling through my phone or watching intense TV shows. Took baths again – when did I stop taking baths? – and developed this routine of herbal tea and gentle stretching before bed. Sounds boring, but I sleep through the night now instead of waking up at 3 AM with my mind racing about nothing important.
The hardest pushback came from friends who interpreted my slower pace as judgment of their choices. When I'd decline invitations because they involved rushing from one activity to another, or when I'd suggest we sit and actually talk instead of walking and talking while browsing stores, some people took it personally. Had to learn how to explain that this wasn't about them, just about what felt right for me at this stage of life.
My granddaughter gets it though. When she visits, she puts her phone away without being asked and we spend hours just talking or working on puzzles or cooking together. She says I'm less stressed than I used to be, which made me realize how my constant hurrying must have affected everyone around me, not just myself.
Financial benefits surprised me. When you're not rushing through purchases, you make better decisions. When you're not eating out because cooking feels too time-consuming, you save money and eat better. When you're not buying things to fill time or cheer yourself up, you realize how much unnecessary spending was just distraction from feeling unsettled or anxious.
This isn't about becoming a hermit or dropping out of modern life. I still have responsibilities, appointments, social commitments. But I approach them differently now, building in buffer time, arriving early and people-watching instead of rushing in at the last minute feeling frazzled. I still use technology, but more intentionally, not as a constant background hum.
Some days I slip back into old patterns – rushing through tasks, feeling that artificial urgency about things that don't actually matter. But now I notice it happening and can usually pause, take a breath, remember that very few things in my life actually require immediate action. Most of what feels urgent is just habit or anxiety, not real emergency.
The biggest change is how much more I actually enjoy ordinary moments instead of just getting through them. Drinking morning coffee, folding laundry, walking to the mailbox – these aren't just tasks to complete anymore, they're small pleasures that make up the actual texture of daily life. Took me sixty-eight years to figure out that happiness isn't something you achieve by rushing toward it, but something you notice when you slow down enough to pay attention to what's already here.
Donna’s retired but not slowing down. She spends her days gardening, reusing, and finding peace in simpler living. Her writing blends reflection with realism—gentle reminders that sustainability starts at home, in daily habits and quiet choices.
