We often assume there’s a specific way to do things. A proper way to be. And when we can’t meet that imagined version of the “right” way, we let the whole idea go.
The other day, I saw a story on Instagram. A yoga teacher I follow had written, “Lately, I’ve found grounding through decorating my home.” That one sentence quietly rearranged something in me.
Until then, grounding (for me) was tied to very particular images: stepping barefoot on the earth, practicing yoga on grass, sitting in meditation. All beautiful in their own way, but also effortful. Like something I had to carve out time and energy for. And because of that, they sometimes felt distant, like something I should be doing, but wasn’t quite getting to.
But decorating your home? That’s not a grand ritual. It’s just… life. And yet it made so much sense. Choosing where things go. Rearranging what surrounds you until it feels like you. It’s grounding in the most literal and personal way.
Since then, I’ve been paying attention. Noticing the ordinary things that, without me realizing it, help me feel rooted:
Reading. Tidying a drawer. Wiping down my desk. Cooking something. Refilling the toilet paper.
Taking out the trash.
Even that last one. Because taking out the trash means I’ve lived somewhere long enough to collect it. That I belong here. That this place, this little corner of the world, is mine to tend to.
I didn’t used to notice these things. But they’ve always been there, quietly anchoring me. This is what people mean, I think, when they talk about living on autopilot. The difference isn’t in what you do—it’s in how you notice it.
And it’s funny, because I’m someone who talks about mindfulness a lot. I try to live by it. But the more I chase the “right” way of doing something, the more life hands me quiet alternatives that work even better. If I’m paying attention, I catch them.
A similar thing happened earlier today, this time around the idea of release. I was watching a YouTube video that randomly popped up on my homepage, nothing fancy, just a short film about a father and son biking across the world together. They were travelling through countries where they didn’t speak the language, yet somehow managed to connect with people. Their bond, their rhythm, it got to me. I didn’t even realize why, but I cried for a good ten minutes. That full-body kind of crying that makes everything inside feel a bit softer afterward.
I think I needed it. Maybe I’d been holding in tension again. And maybe that video just gave me an excuse to let something go. My body knew, even if I didn’t.
In the end, I guess this is what I’m trying to say: nothing needs to look a certain way. Especially when we’re talking about things like healing, presence, or feeling more like yourself. These things don’t follow one set of instructions. They shape-shift.
So before we tell someone (or ourselves) how something should be done, it’s worth asking: What if it’s already happening—in a much quieter form?
“A self that goes on changing is a self that goes on living.” — Virginia Woolf
Sometimes grounding looks like folding laundry.
Sometimes release looks like crying over a video about bicycles.
And all of it counts.