Regulated

This morning began slowly.

I woke up, took my vitamins, had my usual black coffee and spent a few minutes on the rebounder in the living room. Afterwards I sat outside in the morning sunshine, doing a few simple exercises to release the tension I'd been holding in my jaw.

It's become a quiet ritual.

Not because I think routines make life perfect, but because they help me begin the day feeling like my body and mind are on the same side.

Since losing a close friend to breast cancer last year, I've thought differently about health.

Not fearfully.

More intentionally.

I've gradually removed unnecessary toxins from our home, learned more about my own genetics, adjusted the supplements I take, and tried to create a way of living that supports my body rather than constantly asking it to recover.

This morning, though, none of that was really on my mind.

I was in the hammock.

My youngest daughter climbed in beside me for a while before wandering off to play. One of the dogs decided there was just enough room for him too, curling himself into the space between us as though he'd been invited all along.

It was wonderfully uneventful.

Later today we'll collect a new pair of glasses, and this evening we'll celebrate my eldest daughter's latest jiu-jitsu grading. She's earned another belt, and there's nowhere we'd rather be.

It's also their old school's summer fair today.

For a moment we thought about going.

The girls would love to see some old friends again.

Then I caught myself thinking about parking.

About arriving early.

About sitting in traffic.

About trying to squeeze into roads never designed for hundreds of cars.

And something unexpected happened.

My body remembered.

Two years ago, that feeling was normal.

Every morning seemed to begin with rushing.

Breakfasts eaten too quickly.

Uniforms.

Shoes.

School bags.

Clock watching.

Traffic.

Trying to get everyone out of the house while staying patient enough to begin the day well.

I don't think we realised how much those mornings were asking of us until they stopped.

The strange thing about living in a constant state of hurry is that it becomes invisible.

You assume everyone feels like that.

You assume that's simply what mornings are.

Only afterwards do you notice how much noise your nervous system had been carrying.

Today looked very different.

There was no rush.

No countdown.

No raised voices.

Just sunshine.

A hammock.

A dog asking for cuddles.

A daughter beside me.

Time for tea.

Time to breathe.

We're incredibly fortunate to live this way now.

My husband leaves for work each morning after walking the dogs and training before the day begins. His routines make this life possible for us, and I never want to lose sight of that privilege.

Not every family can choose a slower rhythm.

We don't take that for granted.

But sitting there this morning, I realised something.

Health isn't only the vitamins we take.

Or the food we eat.

Or the exercise we fit into our week.

Sometimes health is simply the absence of unnecessary hurry.

It's giving your body fewer reasons to stay on high alert.

It's beginning the day without feeling under attack from the clock.

Perhaps that's why I find myself returning to the hammock so often.

Not because remarkable things happen there.

Quite the opposite.

Nothing much happens at all.

And sometimes, that's exactly what the nervous system has been hoping for.