Lately, I’ve been thinking less about productivity, and more about rhythm.
Not routines in the rigid sense... not optimisation, not efficiency, not squeezing more out of the day... but the quieter question of how my days actually want to move.
For a long time, my life felt reactive. Responding. Adjusting. Adapting. Working around other people’s schedules, other people’s needs, other people’s noise.
There was movement, but very little cadence. Activity, but not much flow.
Recently, that’s begun to change.
Not because I’ve cracked some perfect system, but because I’ve started listening more closely to my energy... to when my mind opens, when my body softens, when creativity wants to arrive, and when it very clearly does not.
I’ve noticed how much my nervous system responds to simple rituals. Walking Willow in the morning, before the world asks anything of me. Making tea before sitting down to work. Closing the day gently, instead of dragging myself across the finish line.
None of it is revolutionary. But it’s been surprisingly grounding.
What I’m learning is that rhythm isn’t about control. It’s about relationship. A relationship with time. With energy. With attention. With the part of me that makes things... songs, worlds, visuals, ideas... and the part that needs rest in order to do that honestly.
Some weeks, the rhythm is strong and clear. Focused mornings. Deep work. Creative evenings that feel alive.
Other weeks, it loosens. The routine drifts. And I’m slowly learning that this isn’t failure... it’s recovery. Integration. A different tempo.
I used to treat those slower weeks as something to fix. Now I’m trying to treat them as part of the music. Because rhythm isn’t constant. It swells. Recedes. Pauses. It makes space for silence as well as sound.
There’s something tender about letting your life find its own beat again, especially after years of pushing against yourself, trying to be consistent in ways that never quite fit.
I’m still experimenting. Still listening. Still adjusting.
But for the first time in a while, my days feel less like something to conquer and more like something I’m inhabiting.
And that feels like the beginning of a new kind of steadiness. Not rigid. Not loud. Just... in time.