The Lull: When You Love Your Life and Still Feel Restless

When Your Partner Travels and the House Feels Different

Jarrod left for Japan yesterday.

When he travels, his absence feels big. He works from home. I stay home with the kids. Most days, we’re all in the house together. No one is gone for long. Esme just slips out for her half-day of kindergarten and comes back by lunchtime.

When he leaves, the rhythm changes.

I miss him. The girls miss him. The house feels different.

And alongside the missing, there’s something else.

A quiet exhale.

Not because he manages me or tells me what to do. But because when another adult is home, there’s a shared awareness. A hum of accountability. A witness to the day.

When he leaves, that hum softens.

We eat when we’re hungry.
The house loosens a little.
The girls don’t have to tiptoe because Daddy is on a call downstairs.

I would rather he be here.

And I enjoy the softness when he’s gone.

Both can be true.

Waking Up Early as a Mom — And Wanting to Do Nothing

I wake up at 5am most mornings so I can get two hours of focused work before the girls wake up.

Usually, I optimize it.

Deep work. Writing. Design. Concentration.

But this morning, as I opened my laptop, I thought:

I just want to be.

I want to drink my coffee slowly.
Listen to the rain.
Sit in silence.
Write what comes to mind.

Not extract productivity from every quiet minute.

Just exist in it.

And maybe that’s because I’ve been in a lull.

The Productivity Cycle No One Talks About

For almost two weeks now, I’ve felt the drift.

You know the pattern:

A few strong weeks.
You’re exercising.
Eating well.
Focused. Clear. On top of things.

Then slowly…

Scrolling creeps in.
Sugar creeps in.
Movement fades.
Energy flattens.

Yesterday I did an unhealthy amount of Instagram scrolling. And sugar.

I am very much an all-or-nothing person. I don’t do “a little bit.” I dip my toe back in, and suddenly I’m waist-deep.

I’ve proven to myself more than once that I cannot keep social media on my phone “just for work.” I post from my computer — and then I’m done. If it’s on my phone, I scroll.

Same with sugar.

In Atomic Habits, James Clear writes about setting up your environment so you don’t rely on willpower. So when I feel myself sliding, I don’t try to be stronger.

I remove access.

No app on the phone.
No sugar in the pantry (at least not the kind I like).

Just honest about how I’m wired.

Dreaming of Other Lives Doesn’t Make You Ungrateful

For months now, I’ve been obsessed with the idea of getting a dog.

Obsessed.

Scrolling adoption pages. Visiting shelters. Researching breeds like the right answer is hidden somewhere online.

And I’ve started to realize — it’s not just about a dog.

That obsession gets louder when I’m in a lull.

When my energy dips.
When I’m scrolling too much.
When I feel slightly restless.

The dog starts to feel like forward motion.

The dog feels symbolic.

In my younger years, I dreamed of a simple life — just me and a dog. A cabin somewhere. Or a van on the road. Minimal. Mobile. Free.

The dog feels like a quiet nod to that version of me.

Not because I want to leave my life. I don’t.

I love my life. This is a life I once dreamed of. I have a beautiful partner and three incredible girls. I feel deeply grateful for the season I’m in.

And somewhere inside me still lives the woman who once wanted fewer walls and more sky.

Yesterday, while scrolling, I found a woman online. She’s 50. She left corporate life. Now she travels Europe alone in a van — with her dog.

And I watched her with an open heart.

Because in another world, I am her.

The dog.
The van.
The open road.

It isn’t envy.

It’s recognition.

Imagining those other versions of myself doesn’t diminish my gratitude.

It deepens it.

Maybe the Lull Is Part of the Rhythm

Maybe the lull isn’t a problem to fix.

Maybe it’s part of the rhythm.

The inhale.
The exhale.
The building.
The softening.

Maybe restlessness isn’t dissatisfaction.

Maybe it’s the quiet reminder that the wandering girl still lives inside the steady woman.

I have lived enough seasons now to know the tide will turn.

The energy will return.
The clarity will sharpen.
The scrolling will lose its pull.

And until it does, I can sit in the rain.

I can miss my husband.
I can love my life.
I can feel restless.
I can imagine other versions of myself and still choose this one.

All of it belongs.