I couldn’t take it anymore, truly. And yes, forgive me for starting this post so abruptly, but if Hive and blogging serve any real purpose, it is precisely this one: release. Writing as a quiet, necessary form of catharsis. Today, this Friday, I decided to do the opposite of what I normally do. I broke the sequence. The routine of waking up, making my daughter’s breakfast, taking her to school, getting myself ready, going to work, coming back home, and closing the day just to repeat it all again tomorrow. Enough. Today I needed disconnection. I needed peace, pleasure, solitude, and a small dose of fascination. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just space.
When I left work, which is as dull and repetitive as any job can be when it exists only to justify survival, I stopped. I didn’t stay at the bus stop that usually takes me home. That pause, born out of fatigue and quiet saturation, didn’t mean I abandoned my role as a mother. Before anything else, I called my little girl. I asked if she was okay and if she had already eaten. I always leave her meals prepared, ready to heat and serve. She answered calmly, almost casually, “Yes, mommy, everything’s fine. I’m playing.” That sentence carried enough reassurance to let me choose differently. That was the moment the decision became real.
This small story begins there. With the exhaustion of repeating the same movements so many times that even the soul begins to feel mechanical. And if there are things that bring me uncomplicated pleasure, sweetness is one of them. Chocolate, coffee, warmth. Simple things that don’t ask questions. With the little money I had, I stayed several stops away from home and walked into a small café. I ordered two latte coffees, not one, and two large puff pastry cookies with cold chocolate on top. I took out my headphones, switched my phone to airplane mode, and played my favorite playlist. No notifications. No urgency. Just sound and stillness.
Time, when you’re genuinely at ease, has a strange way of disappearing. I arrived a little after six, around 6:35 p.m., and when I finally checked the time again, it was already eight at night. It felt excessive and perfect at the same time. I didn’t feel guilt. Not even a trace of it. I had not given myself this kind of attention in a long time. That deliberate care that doesn’t multitask. Being a mother, a partner, a daughter, and a coworker is demanding in ways that rarely get named. Everyone expects you to be available, responsive, functional. That constant demand, layered with personal struggles, slowly drains you.
What I realize now is that what I needed wasn’t rest alone, but serendipity. That quiet encounter with something unplanned that arrives without being chased. You might think this is an exaggeration, that it’s just coffee and cookies, but it wasn’t about consumption. It was about permission. I love my family deeply. I love my daughter with a devotion that doesn’t weaken. But loving others doesn’t erase the need to step away from the gray density of routine. That urge to disconnect comes from there. From the necessity to remember myself outside of obligation.
Taking time, minutes or hours, to experience pleasure without justification is an act of quiet rebellion. To sit with yourself. To do what you want, how you want, without explanation. No alert mode. No awareness of how you look, how you smell, or who might be watching. Just existing. That rare and valuable break from responsibility, from roles, from performance. So this is my confession. When you feel yourself nearing collapse, take a moment. Step off the route. Choose a different stop. Disconnect. It won’t fix everything, but it might return you to yourself. And sometimes, that is more than enough.
