What Living Slowly Has Taught Me About Enough
There was a time — not so long ago, really — when I measured my days by how much I’d ticked off. How many things I’d made, how many emails I’d replied to, how clean the kitchen bench was, how many unread notifications were left to chase me into the night.
I thought that was living. Or at least, the only way to live well. Do more, be more. Want more, have more. Somewhere along the way, more quietly swallowed enough.
I didn’t notice at first. You rarely do. It starts as a quiet hum — the extra scroll before bed, the impulse buy to fill a hollow hour, the to-do list that breeds more to-dos the second your back is turned.
And then one day, your bones feel tired in a way that sleep can’t touch. You stand in your own home and wonder why it feels so loud inside your head.
These days, here at The Hyland Hills, my days still fill up — but not the same way. The garden never stops needing me. The dogs never stop wanting their paws wiped or their ears scratched. The clay in my hands still demands hours of my attention, my care, my patience.
But the hum is quieter now.
Living slowly didn’t come naturally to me. It felt, at first, like giving up. Like failure. Like telling the world I wasn’t ambitious enough. But the more I leaned into it — the more I trusted that life could be full without being busy — the more I found that quiet place in myself that knew what enough really is.
Enough is a warm cup of tea that doesn’t go cold on the bench. It’s muddy paw prints that remind me there’s life here — real, messy, good life. It’s bread that fails to rise, and seedlings that do, and the same mug on my lips every morning because it fits my hands just so.
Enough is choosing one thing and doing it with my whole self — even if that thing is folding the washing in silence while the dogs sleep at my feet.
But there’s something deeper I’ve learned from this slow living — something that’s as essential as the dirt on my hands and the sun on my skin. It’s the idea of wholehearted living.
Wholehearted living is about showing up fully in the present — without reservation, without distraction, without constantly rushing ahead to the next thing. It’s putting your whole self into the small things, even when no one is looking. It’s doing things because they matter to you, not because they’re expected.
For me, this means creating with intention — every piece of pottery made, every word written, every moment spent at the table with my family or tending the garden. I’m not just ticking off tasks anymore. I’m being present in each action, weaving my heart into it.
Living with purpose is carving out space for the things that make my soul feel at home. For me, that’s being here, in this space, where the pace of life allows me to feel each moment, not just race through it. It’s about learning to say “enough” and trusting that what’s here — right now — is all I truly need.
I won’t pretend I’ve mastered it. Some days I still catch myself craving more. More likes, more sales, more proof that I’m doing it right. The difference now is I notice it. I can pause. I can ask myself: What if I don’t chase it? What if this — this cup, this breath, this muddy floor — is enough for today?
Most days, it is.
And if you’ve found your way here, maybe you’re craving a bit of enough, too. Maybe you’re tired of the hum. Maybe you’re looking for proof that there’s another way — slower, softer, a little quieter.
If that’s you, I hope you know you’re not alone. Pour your tea. Let the garden grow wild for a week. Let the washing wait. Let your hands do something small and good and gentle.
And when you wonder if it’s enough — trust that it is.
Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.
