Lately, I’ve been complaining that there’s never enough time to do the things I really want to do. But if I’m being honest, when I finally get a bit of free time, what do I do?
I reach for my phone.
A notification pings, a video starts, and before I know it, I’m watching paint swirl across a canvas in a hypnotic dance of colors. It’s peaceful, yes—but when it ends, I’m left with that small sting of regret. That wasn’t my painting. I didn’t create it, and it won’t be hanging on my wall. I just borrowed someone else’s moment and called it rest.
So today, I decided to try something different.
The sun was shining, and my autumn jacket—one that’s only useful for maybe five perfect days a year—was waiting by the door. I slipped it on, left my phone behind, and went outside with a single mission: touch some grass.
The air was crisp. The sidewalk was dotted with fallen leaves—golden yellows, warm oranges, and soft browns that whispered “slow down.” I passed a flower shop I’d never noticed before and wandered in. The scent hit me first—sweet, earthy, almost overwhelming. I walked among blooms I couldn’t name, just breathing in the beauty.
Outside again, a crooked old tree caught my eye. Most of its leaves were gone, but its limbs were strong and unapologetic. The few leaves that clung to its branches seemed to say, “I’m still here.”
Further along, laughter echoed from a playground. Parents tossed balls, kids raced down slides, and a few fearless toddlers raised their hands high like tiny daredevils greeting the wind. At the park’s edge, I finally knelt down and brushed my hand through the grass. Cool. Soft. Alive. It tickled my palm and grounded me in a way no screen ever could.
Nearby, couples strolled hand in hand. I wondered if they were as happy as they looked. Then I saw another pair walking with their child—both parents glued to their phones as the little one pedaled ahead unnoticed. That sight made me silently thankful for my empty hands.
On the way home, I noticed a person in a wheelchair struggling to enter a building. The button to open the door was placed awkwardly far away, forcing them to maneuver back and forth. I held the door for them, but as they rolled inside, I couldn’t help thinking—who’s there to help when no one else is watching?
When I finally returned to my building, a neighbor greeted me with, “Have a good walk?”
I smiled. “Yeah, I really did.”
Because it wasn’t just a walk. It was a reminder.
A reminder that life happens out there—not in the endless scroll, not in someone else’s video.
Sometimes, you just need to step outside, breathe, and touch grass.