The Things I No Longer Measure

There was a time I measured everything.

Steps taken.
Messages received.
How many tasks I could complete before noon.
How often I was invited, how quickly I was replied to, how full my calendar looked when I needed to feel wanted.

Even at home, I counted.
How many dishes in the sink.
How many books I’d read that month.
How many minutes I spent “doing nothing” before guilt came knocking.

I mistook movement for meaning.
I thought enough proof might finally make me feel enough.

But slowly—quietly—that need to tally softened. Not all at once, but like snow melting beneath bare feet. I began to understand that not everything important can be tallied, and not everything tally-worthy is important.

Now, I no longer count how many people check in.
I notice who lingers. Who listens. Who sees.

I no longer track how much I’ve achieved in a day.
I ask instead: Did I touch beauty? Did I move with care? Did I speak gently to myself when no one else could hear me?

I do not count steps. I walk slowly.
I do not count pages. I read what holds me.
I do not count moments. I live them.

There is so much that matters now that cannot be stacked or charted or shown.
The light through the kitchen window while I wash a single cup.
The way my son reaches for me without needing a reason.
The scent of something simmering slowly, with no clock keeping watch.

Stillness has its own math.
It does not ask for totals. It asks for presence.

I am not less disciplined than I once was.
I am simply no longer in pursuit of proof.

Some days I do very little, and it is enough.
Some weeks pass like breath, and still—I am here, and whole, and loved.

And that, I think, is worth not measuring.

—L.B.

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