Tag: life lessons

5 intentional ways to cultivate yutori in your life

Instead of hurrying home after the school run I had another mission. At the top of my very long to-do list was a pilgrimage to visit the lilacs.

Withdean park houses the second largest collections of lilacs in the world with around 200 different varieties. Next to one of the main roads into Brighton & Hove, I had driven past the lilacs for years, never stopping. The park was largely empty except for dog walkers and me. The hum of the insects mingled with the distant sound of cars on the motorway. Spread in clusters at the edges of the cut grass lawn where lilac bushes. They had large cones of blooming petals in hues of white, violets, blues, magenta’s, pastel pinks, and even palest primrose. The smell was incredible: heady and syrupy sweet. 

The detour took a little over an hour and then I was back home working. Rather than taking anything away from my day I felt like I accomplished more. When I finished work, instead of feeling exhausted I felt replenished. This was one of my first attempts at consciously practicing the Japanese principle of yutori.

Yutori: the art of creating a spacious life

“Yutori (ゆとり) is a Japanese concept that translates to ‘spaciousness,’ ‘leeway,’ or ‘room to breathe’. It’s more than just physical space; it encompasses mental, emotional, and temporal room, encouraging a more balanced and less stressful way of living. Nihongo Master translates yutori as ‘elbowroom; leeway; room; reserve; margin; allowance; latitude; time’”

I am somebody who desperately needs more yutori in my life.

I do want to acknowledge that for some people yutori is easier to achieve than for others. I am aware that I have financial privilege and a relatively flexible schedule. There were times in my life: when I was working three jobs, when I had a newborn and a toddler, when my mother was seriously ill: where yutori would have been almost impossible. If this is the season you are currently in, extend yourself kindness. We do not all have the same 24 hours. Some of us are more able to make time available in our schedule than others.

Yutori: the antidote to toxic productivity

Yutori is a counterpoint to our culture of toxic productivity. This compulsion to be constantly achieving and busy does not stop at work but extends to our leisure time too. This can lead to shame around rest, an inability to switch off and in the end: burnout.

Oliver Burkeman’s amazing book Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals talks about this existential dilemma better than I ever can.

“Productivity is a trap. Becoming more efficient just makes you more rushed, and trying to clear the decks simply makes them fill up again faster. Nobody in the history of humanity has ever achieved “work-life balance,” whatever that might be, and you certainly won’t get there by copying the “six things successful people do before 7:00 a.m.” The day will never arrive when you finally have everything under control—when the flood of emails has been contained; when your to-do lists have stopped getting longer; when you’re meeting all your obligations at work and in your home life; when nobody’s angry with you for missing a deadline or dropping the ball; and when the fully optimized person you’ve become can turn, at long last, to the things life is really supposed to be about. Let’s start by admitting defeat: none of this is ever going to happen. But you know what? That’s excellent news.”
― Oliver Burkeman, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals

All of which was all too familiar to me, somebody who had always valued myself on what I do rather than who I am. I was constantly rushing through life rather than experiencing it. I had become a human doing rather than a human being. And in this process, I had lost sight of what truly mattered. I was getting stuff done but missing the things in life which give it colour and meaning.

Often rushing behaviour is learnt in childhood. In Transactional Analysis, different aspects of our personality are called drivers. Drivers are early personality adaptations that help us get our needs met as children. One of mine is the Hurry up driver. People who have a Hurry up driver are constantly rushing and find it extremely difficult to stop. When we are in our driver, we tell ourselves – ‘I am okay because I am getting lots of things done’. Rushing performs a function, it stops our ability to feel or think clearly. Stuff may get done but often it is rushed and sloppy because we jump from task to task. People with this driver feel tired and unable to relax. 

To counteract this we must recognise that we are not machines built merely to produce, we are animals. And animals need rest, fuel and space in between tasks. Our to do list will always multiply, there will always be more to do than we could ever accomplish. In Oliver Burkeman’s great book Meditations on Mortality, he talks about how obsessive productivity is a way to mitigate our anxiety about death and our finite lives. The answer, isn’t to double down and do more but to accept this. To incorporate more yutori into my daily life, I came up with a plan.

5 ways I intentionally practise yutori

  1. Slow down. Because rushing has become a habitual behaviour, I will often notice I am speeding up when there is no need. I use taking a drink of water as a yutori ritual and a waypoint throughout my day to slow down. Every time I drink water, which I must do 10-15 times a day. I try to pause and feel the texture of the cold glass underneath my fingertips. To sense the taste and temperature of the water as it slips down my throat. By going slowly I am soothing my nervous system telling it: I am safe now. I can take my time. There is no need to rush.
  2. Build a buffer. Because I hated ‘wasting time’ when I had appointments I would often try to arrive exactly on time. But there would be traffic or it would take more time to leave the house than I expected. And I would be late which I found immensely stressful. Now I deliberately build in some cushion time. If I bump into a friend, I have time to chat. If I want to look at something I find interesting, I have time to do so. If the journey takes longer than expected, I have time for that. I want a schedule that has room to breathe.  
  3. Under commit. I have a tendency to over commit and over estimate my capacity. I often try to do too much with the kids because I don’t want them to feel deprived. But it is too much for my nervous system to handle and then I turn into shouty mummy. (And nobody likes shouty mummy.) Even when a day is filled with enjoyable tasks, if they are all crammed together it becomes not enjoyable. So I am getting into the habit of giving myself time to think before making any commitments. I will often sanity check events with my husband as he is more realistic and able to see what is actually achievable. I want to accept that I am human and can only do so much.
  4. Schedule joy. Listen as a Virgo and a perimenopausal woman, I love a to do list. If I don’t write it down, I won’t remember it and it won’t get done. But I began to notice that I was fulfilling my external obligations to others but not my internal obligations to myself. I needed to start scheduling joy. I have started writing down: walks, breath exercises, tiny but enjoyable side quests. Because yes filing my tax return is important. But so is taking my nine year old sea glass hunting. Buying new toilet rolls is just as essential as watching the murmurations of the starlings. I want a life that holds space for both.
  5. Be childlike again. One of my children is sloth-like in his speed and does not like to be rushed. Watching him eat is a geological process. Repeatedly I have to regulate myself and remind myself that although there are times I need to rush him (hai external agony that is the school run). Often I don’t, what does it matter if we take 20 minutes to walk to the shops because he was looking at bugs instead of 5. Instead of fighting to hurry him up, it is often more enjoyable to allow myself to drop to his speed. He is a great reminder that I can afford to take my time. What am I rushing for anyway?

I want to build a spacious life. Where there is time to take the scenic route. To go on enjoyable little side quests. To lie in the grass watching the cloud’s shifting shapes above me. Like Tolkien said, ‘not all who wander are lost.’

Yes, there will be times when I am too busy to spend an hour wandering through the park looking at lilacs. But today, in this moment, I have the time and I will take it. A vase of lilacs sits on my kitchen counter filling the room with their heady fragrance. A visual reminder to gift myself with yutori.

If you are based in Brighton & Hove area and interested in taking your own pilgrimage to visit the lilacs, Withdean Park is located here. The Friends of Withdean Park helpfully have a map of the lilacs and a trail you can do.

Have you heard of yutori before? Is it allowing yourself spaciousness and room to breathe something you would like to try in your own life?

Embracing life’s seasons: a personal mantra

I love a helpful personal mantra. Recently another one occurred to me. This is not the season.

As every gardener knows, for everything there is a season. A season to sew. A season to harvest. And a season to let things be fallow.

Some context, my kids had to move school suddenly without warning. It’s been a huge amount of upheaval. A longer commute, a new environment and a lot of (understandable) big feelings at the change. I am close to my capacity in terms of what I can manage without tipping into overwhelm. For weeks, I have felt as if I am standing on my tiptoes, tilting my head back, the water lapping at my nostrils. I am just about keeping myself and my family afloat.

I went shopping this week. And I was reminded of a new pancake recipe I had wanted to make for my kids breakfast:

‘I really need to make those pancakes.’

And then a wise part of me spoke gently inside my head and said:

‘My love, this is not the season.’ And I felt myself exhale, let my shoulders drop and the relief wash over me.

So much unnecessary suffering would have been avoided in my life if I had just recognised this is not the season.

When you have a newborn, this is not the season to sign up for intense exercise classes. It is the season for rest and gently nurturing yourself.

When you are grieving, this is not the season for meeting new people. It is the season for hibernating and feeling your loss.

When you are in the depths of winter, this is not the season to embark on a new ambitious project. Yes, Julian calendar and new years resolutions I am looking at you! Far easier, to make changes when the days are lighter and warmer in spring.

We all go through thriving times when things are simpler. If life was a video game we would be playing it in easy mode. We have extra energy and motivation to get things done.

 But when we are in survival mode, we need to moderate our expectations of what it is possible to achieve. We need to move goalposts to make life easier for ourselves. As a recovering perfectionist this is so hard for me and so necessary.

I have kept myself in dysregulation in the past by asking too much of myself. I have not adapted my expectations to the context in which I find myself.

The reality is that I am in the verge of overwhelm season in my life. I don’t have a lot of spoons left. Yes, I would love to batch cook some healthy pancakes that I could freeze for my kids breakfasts. They would love that, I would love that. Yet, that would take energy away from doing other things that are important to me. I have limited energy reserves so I need to prioritise accordingly.

My kids get five nutritional meals at school. I have the energy at the moment to batch cook one meal. So I am expending it batch cooking a nutritional meal for me so I don’t survive on what I can forage from the service station. Trying to get myself to meal prep pancakes for their breakfast is like expecting dahlias to bloom in winter. This is not the season.

Part of the mantra that really helps me is the recognition that seasons change. Maybe in another couple of months, things may have shifted. I may have more energy

This is not the season contains an acceptance of where I am. It is a kindness to meet ourselves and others where we are now. Rather than where we desperately want to be. I would love to be in the season where I pre-make healthy nutritional snacks for my kids. 

But that is not the season of life I am in right now and that’s okay.

What season of life are you in? Are you adapting your expectations for yourself accordingly? Let me know in the comments, if this resonates.

Prioritise joy: how to find happiness in the everyday

Sometimes life slaps me in the face with the reminder I need to prioritise joy.

Twice a year, Brighton is blessed with ultra low tides. At the edge of our shingle beach, for a couple of hours, a stretch of sand is revealed like a magic trick.

It’s my favourite time of year when I can walk to the swim buoys. 

I missed the first day of the low tides. There was a bitter wind and I was exhausted from ferrying my kids between school and swimming. There was so much nagging at my attention, it was easy to convince myself not to bother. 

The next morning I crept out of the house, while everyone was sleeping. My only company as I walked to the beach, the full moon drifting down the street after me. 

When I reached the promenade another world opened up: dog walkers, runners, fellow water lovers all crowded onto the newly revealed sand. People were smiling at each other, chatting to strangers in the collective joy at this unusually low tide.

These unusually low tides only last a couple of days. They happen twice a year in the autumn and the spring. This year, the combination of the equinox and the position of the moon has meant these are lowest tides we will see for ten years or more. 

Do I love these low tides because they are so rare? Would I appreciate them less if they were a monthly occurrence? Is that why I feel moved to tears when I realise this will be the last time I walk on this sand (anyone walks on this sand) for eight months?

Within minutes it will be hidden under the surf for another half a year.

For an hour, I am perfectly suspended in this moment. My feet blanching pink in the cold as I splash through the surf.

Treasures I rarely see are revealed. Hermit crabs scuttling along the sand. A starfish in the grooves of the wave-worn sand. An abundance of shells: cowrie, razors, screw, mussels, triton and scallops. And less romantically the rotten carcass of a fish the seagulls are pecking at.

I stole away before breakfast, and when I returned I was filled up by that experience. For four days, I went down with the kids, by myself, with neighbours – and I felt restored.

It is easy to let my life nibble away at me. To fulfil my obligations to others, to let the days pass in a blur. To stop seeking out experiences that pause time, that make me feel alive and fully in this moment. Here and now.

It was a caregiving summer. (It has been a caregiving heavy decade.)

My eldest sister stuck in hospital with a broken hip. My mother fading away in a care home. My youngest child acting up, needing more attention that I can give him. My eldest needing extra support with his additional learning needs. A friend’s child dealing with a serious medical condition. 

And me, not centred in my own life. Existing for what I do for others, a human support system. And not as independent person in my own right.

My nervous system was set like a clock in early childhood. I see danger everywhere, orienting myself to what is terrible in this world. It can stun me into a functional freeze, living my life as if I am in a constant state of emergency. Neglecting the tiny joys that make life worth living.

It takes such an effort for me to turn towards the sun. So I need to prescribe myself the antidote. I need to prioritise joy and schedule it in as if they are vital and essential. Because they are.

Everyday joys

For me, joy is found near the water: swimming, sea-glass hunting, snorkelling. It is writing in my journal, in blogs like these, in poetry hidden away on my harddrive. It’s travelling to places I’ve never been before, seeing new sights and soaking in new sounds. It’s quality time spent with the people I love. It’s living a life which has enough spaciousness to it that I can notice the world around me.

Let me be clear. This is not toxic positivity, gas-lighting myself or false consolation. This is holding awareness of both sides of life, the brutal and beautiful. Because of how my nervous system is finely attenuated to danger, I need to stack the deck with everyday moments of joy, peace and attend to what feels good.

I want to overdose on joy. Make myself replete with wonder. Overwhelm my awe circuits.

Because yes, sometimes this world is shocking, terrible and cruel. But equally it is also surprising, beautiful and full of grace – let me turn myself towards that.

What ways are you prioritising joy amongst the hustle and bustle of life? Share any ideas in the comments below.

The Promise


One night I dreamt I visited Santorini. I didn’t know what it was called then – just that it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. Closer to the sky, it seemed god-touched. The azure blue domes made the bright white walls shine even higher. The town tumbled down the hill vertiginously. Below the wine-dark sea sparkled stretching to infinity.

In my dream, I was old my hands wrinkled and covered in sunspots. HWSNBN was stooped, his hands gnarled and weathered as mine. We walked haltingly down the cobbled paths curving between the cave buildings until we reached the sea. We sat in the comfortable silence watching the children play it on the docks. 

The strangest part of this dream was how I knew two things: we had never been able to have children. And I was happy.

When I woke up I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could I be happy and not have children? This dream came to me when infertility was killing me slowly. If it hasn’t happened to you that may seem hyperbolic – but it has you will know exactly what I mean. I wasn’t sure how many more months I could stay on this cycle of hope and despair. How many more times I could be torn apart and slowly piece myself back together?

Then I dreamt of Santorini and I knew, the way I knew my own face, that whatever happened I would find a way to be OK. Maybe that longing to be a mother would never fade, would twinge like an old wound when I thought back on my life. Maybe life wouldn’t look anything like I envisaged. But somehow, in some way it was possible to build a life among the wreckage. A good life with joy as well as sorrow.

If I was reading this I was struggling to have a baby I’d think ‘Fuck her’ of course she’d say that now. How can she know that? She got her happy ending.

And I did. I am so unbelievably lucky to have Nibs.

But I know that because this year when struggling with a different tragedy there was only one place I wanted to visit. Last month we went to Santorini: He Who Shall Not be Named, the toddler and me. And it was even more beautiful than in my dream. But more important than its beauty was the promise Santorini held – that healing was possible.

My visit to Santorini was very different than how I had pictured. I wasn’t visiting to heal a heart broken by infertility but by trauma. It wasn’t a couples trip, but one with the family  I wasn’t sure I would ever have. Instead of spending evenings staring lovingly into each other eyes, we spent our time tackling our toddler as he tried to repeatedly throw himself into the caldera. We swam in the sea, we sat and watched the sunset, we marvelled at how beautiful it all was.

The details had changed but the promise remained the same. That one day, somehow I would find my way back to OK.

The one thing that I know is true is that life is both beautiful and brutal. Sometimes even at the same time. I remember sitting next to my sister in intensive care laughing more than I could ever remember I had. I also remember weeping in a corner of a garden centre so much that I didn’t have any tears left. Beautiful. Brutal. Brutiful

What happened to my sister’s is always going to hurt. Just how losing Lianne will always kill me. It will always be the wound that never completely heals. The ‘what if’ that haunts my life. There are things that hurt us so badly the only thing we can do is figure out how to live with them.

Some days distracted by the joy of watching Nibs the pain fades into the background. Still, present like a background ache but not at the forefront of my mind. Some days the pain is so excruciating  – it’s all I can do is to breathe through it. Still, I have days when it fells me anew. Both my sisters I think, both of them?

‘No, no, no life?
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life,
And thou no breath at all?’

A holiday couldn’t cure that. How could anything? But it did remind me that I had felt like this before: lost, broken and hopeless. And before that and again before that many times. And yet I am still here. I have survived 100% of my worst days so far.

Out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness and with a lot of work I know now that I can find my way back to OK. I am not there yet. I may never be entirely there. But slowly piece by piece I am putting myself back together. The promise of Santorini showed me that no matter what life throws at me and those I love there will always be a path back to OK if we search hard enough. There has to be.