Restpiration

The Art of Dish Washing

I once heard a story about a woman named Jayna, an immigrant working in one of the busiest cities you can imagine. She had a job at a bustling restaurant where dishes never seemed to stop coming. Plates clattered in, glasses stacked up, pots and pans formed small mountains at the sink. It was the kind of place where people ended their shifts exhausted, shoulders tense, minds overwhelmed.

But Jayna was different.

At the end of long, chaotic days, while her colleagues dragged themselves home drained and irritable, she appeared… refreshed. Not just surviving the day, but somehow renewed by it. Naturally, this puzzled everyone.

One day, a coworker asked her, “How do you do it? Don’t you get tired of all this?”

Jayna smiled and gave a strange reply: “All I ever do is wash one dish.”

The colleague frowned. “One dish? But they keep coming!”

Jayna simply repeated herself, “I only wash one dish.”

This answer lingered, almost frustrating in its simplicity, until one day the colleague decided to watch her closely. And then, it clicked.

Jayna wasn’t being metaphorical. She truly worked as if only one dish existed at any given moment. When a plate was in her hands, it had her full attention. She wasn’t thinking about the growing pile beside her or the endless stream still to come. She washed that one dish. When it was done, it was done. Then she moved to the next. And the next.

There was no rush in her mind, no mental burden of “too much.” Just one dish, fully attended to, again and again.

And then, something almost magical would happen. At some point, she would reach out for the next dish… and realize there were none left.

In that simple rhythm lies a profound truth about life.

We often overwhelm ourselves not because life is too much, but because we try to carry everything at once. We stare at the mountain ahead—the responsibilities, the expectations, the uncertainties—and feel defeated before we even begin. The weight we feel is not always from the work itself, but from the anticipation of all that remains undone.

Jayna’s wisdom offers another way.

Mountains are not conquered by staring at their peaks. They are climbed step by step, stone by stone. The secret is not in obsessing over the height, but in committing fully to the step beneath your feet.

When you focus on one task—fully, completely—you free yourself from the anxiety of the pile. When that task is done, you let it be done. Then you give yourself to the next, without dragging along what has already passed or what has not yet come.

This is not just about productivity. It is about presence.

There is a certain kind of peace that comes when your mind is not scattered across yesterday’s regrets and tomorrow’s worries. There is clarity when your energy is not divided but concentrated. And there is a quiet strength that builds when you realize that what once felt impossible begins to move, simply because you showed up for one small piece at a time.

Life, in many ways, is a sink full of dishes. Some days the pile looks endless. But perhaps the art is not in clearing the entire sink at once.

Perhaps the art is in washing one dish at a time.

To the Woman Who Loved Me First

Dear Momma,

Before I ever opened my eyes to this world, before I knew the color of the sky or the sound of rain against the roof, I already knew you. When I was but a little fetus, hidden away in the sacred darkness of your womb, I was already being carried by your love. A love that did not ask me to prove myself first. A love that did not wait for achievement, perfection, or worthiness. You loved me simply because I was yours.

Even before I breathed Earth’s first air, your body became my shelter and your heartbeat my first lullaby. I did not know fear then because your presence translated the world into safety. In ways words can never fully explain, I think every child first learns what grace feels like through a mother.

Momma, with tender devotion you bathed not only my skin, but my mind and spirit too. Through ordinary moments you taught lessons that no classroom could ever contain. You taught me gratitude without preaching it. You taught me contentment by the way you found joy in little things. You taught me peace by the way you carried burdens without allowing bitterness to harden your heart.

From the cradle, you were preparing me for storms I could not yet see. And many times, before danger even reached me, your wisdom redirected my steps. There are wounds I never suffered because your prayers stood guard over my life long before I understood the value of prayer. There are mistakes I survived because your love gave me a place to return to when life humbled me.

Momma, you are the keeper of dreams that are not even your own. Somehow, my hopes found a home inside your heart. You carried my ambitions like sacred things, turning them over in your thoughts, mentioning them in your prayers, whispering to Heaven, “Lord, let it be.” You desired my joy as though it were your own because, in your eyes, my life has always remained deeply connected to yours. My victories make you rejoice. My pain disturbs your sleep. My burdens become weights you quietly help me carry.

And what amazes me most is how naturally you make sacrifice appear. You give and give, often unnoticed, often uncelebrated. Through exhaustion, you still love. Through disappointment, you still hope. Through pain, you still smile. It is as though the ocean within a mother is deeper than suffering itself.

I have come to realize that motherhood is more than biology. It is a sacred way of being in the world. It is found in every woman whose warmth becomes refuge for another soul. In every woman who nurtures, comforts, protects, teaches, uplifts, and gives pieces of herself so that others may grow. The world is softer because of women like you. Kinder because of women like you. More human because of women like you.

So today, Momma, I celebrate you. And through you, I celebrate every woman whose love continues to hold together hearts, homes, dreams, and generations.

Thank you for being my first home.
Thank you for being love in its most believable form.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Beneath the Surface

Have you ever noticed how a calm lake responds when a stone is thrown into it? The ripples spread quickly across the surface. The water shakes, circles widen, and for a moment the whole lake appears disturbed. Yet beneath all that movement, the deeper parts remain undisturbed, holding the same stillness they had before the stone ever touched the water.

Human experience is often like that.

On the surface of our lives, there are waves of anxiety, disappointment, fear, confusion, excitement, anger, and sadness. Circumstances touch us and our minds react. A harsh comment unsettles us. A loss shakes us. An uncertain future creates worry. Sometimes the ripples become so intense that we begin to believe the disturbance is all there is to us.

But beneath the surface, there is another depth to our being. A steadier place. A place still anchored in hope, love, courage, and clarity.

And this is not true for a few fortunate people. It is true for all people.

I love the way Sydney Banks expressed it when he said, “Every person is sitting in the middle of mental health, they just don’t know it.” Beneath our temporary storms is a deeper stability that never completely leaves us, even when we lose sight of it.

Unfortunately, many of us have learned to see things upside down.

Without realizing it, we begin to believe that anxiety is who we are. Depression becomes an identity instead of an experience. Unhappiness feels like the final truth about our lives. We smile in public and try to keep ourselves together, yet privately believe that deep down we are broken.

Even imposter syndrome grows from this misunderstanding. A person may be competent, gifted, and deeply loved, yet still carry the feeling that they are a fraud waiting to be exposed. Why? Because they mistake passing feelings of insecurity for the truth of their identity.

It is like putting the cart before the horse.

The anxiety, fear, sadness, and insecurity we experience are often reactions to life touching the surface of our experience. They are waves, not foundations. Beneath them is an incredible wealth of resilience, love, joy, and courage. So much so that no disappointment, rejection, or failure can permanently rob us of them.

So what does this mean for us practically?

It means we can stop building our identity around temporary emotional weather.

A ship at sea may be battered by wind and tides, but once its anchor reaches deep enough, it is no longer completely at the mercy of the waves. In the same way, when our sense of identity sinks beneath the surface and anchors itself in something deeper, we become steadier amid life’s changing conditions.

We may still feel anxious sometimes. We may still grieve, struggle, or feel discouraged. But those experiences no longer define us. They become momentary waves passing across the surface instead of permanent verdicts about who we are.

This understanding also changes how we relate to ourselves and others.

We become less harsh with ourselves. We stop treating every flaw, mistake, or emotional struggle as evidence that something is fundamentally wrong with us. We begin to appreciate our humanity with greater honesty and compassion.

And when we see others struggling, we no longer reduce them to their worst moments either. We recognize that beneath their surface turmoil is the same depth of worth and humanity that exists within us.

In an earlier article, The Fault in Our Stars, I wrote that you are the star, not the fault in the star.

Perhaps that is what we all need to remember.

There is more to you than the ripple.

There is something deeper beneath the surface.

The Quiet Strength of the Middle Way

‎For some time now, I have been enjoying The Untethered Soul, a book by Michael Singer. Every now and then, a chapter stops me in my tracks—not because it sounds profound, but because it speaks directly to ordinary life in a deeply practical way. Chapter 18, The Secret of the Middle Way, was one of those chapters, and I would like to share a few insights from it.
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‎One of the central ideas of the chapter is simple: life naturally swings between extremes. We see this everywhere. One moment we are highly motivated, the next completely drained. We become overly attached to people, then suddenly distant. We spend carelessly during good times, then panic when things become tight. Much of human suffering comes from living at these emotional and psychological extremes.
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‎The author compares this to a pendulum. The farther it swings to one side, the harder it swings to the other. And perhaps that explains why some seasons of life feel emotionally exhausting. We keep moving between highs and lows without ever finding rest in the middle.
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‎But the “middle way” is not about becoming passive or emotionless. It is about balance. It is about learning not to feed every emotional reaction that arises within us.
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‎This is especially important in relationships.

‎Sometimes we react too quickly to misunderstandings. A delayed reply suddenly becomes evidence that someone no longer cares. One difficult conversation becomes the beginning of emotional withdrawal. We move from attachment to resentment in a matter of hours. But balance teaches us to pause before reacting. Not every feeling deserves immediate action. Not every uncomfortable moment is a disaster. Many relationships would survive if people learned to return to center before speaking or deciding.
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‎The same applies to career and ambition.
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‎There is a culture today that glorifies burnout. We are taught that success means constantly pushing, constantly grinding, constantly proving ourselves. But extremes often produce exhaustion rather than fulfillment. A balanced life understands the importance of effort, but also rest. It values ambition, but not at the cost of peace of mind, health, or meaningful relationships.
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‎Ironically, some of the most productive people are not those living in emotional overdrive, but those who have learned steadiness. They are less distracted by panic, comparison, or the pressure to constantly outperform others. They conserve their energy and focus on what truly matters.
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‎The lesson becomes even more practical when it comes to finances.
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‎Many financial problems are rooted in emotional extremes. We overspend when excited. We make fearful decisions during uncertainty. Sometimes we chase status instead of stability. But balance creates room for wisdom. It teaches moderation, patience, and long-term thinking. Financial peace is often less about how much money we have and more about how wisely and calmly we relate to money itself.
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‎Perhaps the most beautiful insight from the chapter is this: balance does not come from controlling life perfectly. It comes from not being thrown around by every inner storm.
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‎Life will still have disappointments, uncertainty, delays, and unexpected changes. But there is great power in learning to return to center quickly. To not stay angry for too long. To not panic over every setback. To not let temporary emotions make permanent decisions.
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‎Maybe maturity is not becoming someone who never feels deeply, but someone who no longer gets lost in every emotional swing.
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‎And perhaps peace is found there—in the quiet strength of the middle way.

Reverse Living

Imagine this, not as fear, but as clarity: you somehow know, with absolute certainty, that the universe has one week left. Seven days, and then everything—every plan, every possession, every unfinished thought—dissolves into nothing.

What changes?

You might notice how quickly the noise fades. The urgency to impress, to compete, to prove something to people who barely see you—it begins to feel misplaced. Deadlines lose their grip. Petty frustrations loosen. You start to see, almost immediately, what actually deserves your attention.

You return to yourself.

Not the version shaped by expectation or comparison, but the one beneath all that. The one who knows what matters without needing permission to admit it.

Then imagine something else. You are present at your own funeral. You hear the stories, the laughter, the pauses heavy with meaning. You listen as people try to compress your entire existence into a few words, a few memories, a few defining moments.

What would you listen for?

Not the titles, surely. Not how busy you were, or how efficiently you answered emails. Not even how much you accumulated. What would reach you are the moments where you were fully there. The times you showed up for someone when it mattered. The love you gave without calculation. The courage you displayed when it would have been easier to withdraw.

You would listen for truth.

And somewhere in that reflection, a question forms: Is that how I am living now?

This is why questions like these matter. They strip life down to its essence. They don’t add pressure; they remove illusion. They create space—space to see clearly, to choose deliberately.

Because it is easy to drift.

We live in a time where “making it” has been turned into a moving target. Social media amplifies it, feeds it, stretches it beyond reason. You scroll and suddenly your life feels behind, incomplete, lacking something you didn’t even know you were supposed to want.

So you chase. You adjust. You postpone.

You tell yourself you will rest later, love later, be present later—once things align, once you arrive.

But reverse living interrupts that pattern.

It asks you to begin from the end.

To stand, even briefly, at the edge of your own life and look backward. To ask: What would have mattered? What would I wish I had done more of? What would I regret not saying, not becoming, not giving?

And then, instead of waiting, you step forward and live from that awareness now.

Not perfectly. Not dramatically. Just honestly.

It might mean reaching out to someone you’ve been meaning to call. It might mean choosing depth over distraction, presence over performance. It might mean redefining success in a way that feels true to you, even if it doesn’t impress anyone else.

It is not about abandoning ambition or responsibility. It is about aligning them with what actually gives your life weight and meaning.

Because at some point, whether we acknowledge it or not, we are all writing our story.

Not in grand gestures alone, but in daily decisions. In what we prioritize. In what we tolerate. In what we return to, again and again.

Reverse living simply asks you to choose that story consciously.

To live in such a way that if everything ended sooner than expected, you wouldn’t feel like you missed your own life.

That even in the face of an ending, there would be a sense of completion—not because everything was done, but because what mattered was lived.

And that doesn’t require a week left in the universe.

It only requires a moment of clarity—and the willingness to make a little space for what truly matters.