How ritualizing the mundane enabled me to curate magic in the in-betweens.
As an older millennial, my idea of wanderlust was primarily influenced by the imagery of turquoise waters, powdery white sandy beaches, and overpriced board shorts. Even when I was gifted nine years as a travel writer, chartered to resorts I couldn’t afford, remote provinces I couldn’t pinpoint on the map, and other destinations I would otherwise never have heard of, travel was a concept mainly enveloped in ideas of grandeur.
For my younger self, the most exciting itineraries had to do with some exotic place, a bucket list activity, or the latest trendy scene. Every travel assignment was a fairly singular, hedonistic pursuit. Complimentary flights were nothing but an hour to gather my senses for the party that lay ahead. Bus rides were nothing but an inconvenience until I reached the magazine-cover-worthy (or spread, at the very least) destination. I was a mindless fool with no appreciation of the in-betweens.
Because of that lack of presence, I had mistakenly thought that to make the most out of life, you had to have copious amounts of time for extensive pursuits of pleasure and leisure. It took a job that paid by the hour to teach me otherwise.
Burnout
We used a “productivity” app that monitored what you did on the clock, took random screenshots, and calculated “idle time,” among other features that incrementally chewed away at your sanity. To boost productivity, management defined “idle time” as any time you weren’t pressing the keyboard or moving the cursor. Your total time spent being “idle” must be under 11% of your total hours tracked.
The policy worked so well that, as a writer, I focused more on managing “idle time” than on what I was writing. The app worked so well that it made me want to do absolutely anything else other than the job. Within a month, all joy and zest for life I had woken up to for the better part of the past four years had dwindled to the dread of rising each day to punch a digital clock. I felt like a farm animal in a feedlot, a worker on an endless assembly line, churning out hours and words until I clocked out a shell of my former self.
Scarcity Mindset
After a while, I had self-diagnosed myself with a “scarcity mindset.” Everything—time, energy, and money—desperately felt in short supply. Because I was so focused on minimizing “idle time,” I often found myself starting to work at around nine in the morning, only to have less than three hours of timed work by mid-afternoon.
Because I was getting paid X amount for every excruciating hour, I could hardly justify any sort of expense. And because I felt like I always had to make up time for work, I lived like I had no time to enjoy anything. It was a mental cycle that drained my being. The more desperate I became to pile on hours, the less I wound up earning. Despite being fully aware of what was going on in my head, I stubbornly endured, quietly imploding.
Ikigai
According to the Japanese concept of ikigai (roughly translated as “reason for being” or “that which makes life worth living”), integrating movement throughout the day is essential for sustaining vitality, sharpening the mind, and nurturing joy. Moving intentionally reinforces the sense that life is meaningful in both small routines and larger pursuits.
I did not know about ikigai when I landed a new job. But I knew something had to change. Free from the shackles of digital timesheets and hourly rates, I overhauled my work ethic. I reframed sitting in front of a computer for 5 to 8 hours a day, five days a week, as part of the deal. Hunter-gatherers would spend days risking their lives for their next meal. I work from home, stitching words together. I had to relearn to appreciate what a blessing that was.
Microdosing
With a new lease on sanity, I focused on what was in front of me and made the most of the 24 hours in the day. Whether it was today’s deadlines, dishes, laundry, or bikes that needed washing, if it kept me from mindlessly staring at a screen, procrastinating, or wasting time in any form, it was worth doing and doing mindfully.
Before I realized it, I had made a habit out of microdosing my life. Every ritual and errand helped set the rhythm for the day. And any free time I stumbled upon would have its purpose. It didn’t matter if it was a five-minute play session with my cat, a two-hour bike ride, or an entire day riding around the mountains. Every micro-adventure serves as a necessary decompression, fuel for my sanity, or a reminder that life is worthwhile.
As one of my go-to meditation teachers, Eileen Rose Miles, beautifully puts it, “When you can access joy in the simplicity of life, everything becomes more magical.”
