Peace in the In-Between

What brings you peace?

For me, peace lives in the in-between—the slow sip of coffee before the day remembers it’s supposed to be busy. The way my hydrangeas hold the morning light like they’re cupping it for safekeeping.

In spring and summer, I find it in my garden. The air is stitched with the hum of bees, the rustle of leaves, the gentle sigh of flowers opening themselves to the day. My hydrangeas swell into clouds of color, and I wander among them like a quiet guest in their world. The earth stains my hands, but in return it anchors me, teaching me the kind of patience only growing things can teach. Even the weeds—stubborn, insistent—become part of the rhythm.

When the cold months come and my garden rests, my peace moves indoors. I find it in the scent of fresh paint, the scrape of a putty knife, the sound of a drill fitting pieces into place. My winter projects aren’t just about making things—they’re about shaping my spaces so they feel more like home.

And then there’s tennis—my sanctuary after a day of back-to-back meetings and glowing screens. Indoors, beneath the bright hum of LED lights, I step onto the court and feel the tension begin to loosen. The outside world fades into the steady rhythm of the rally, the clean thwack of the ball, the small victories point by point. It’s my reset button—part workout, part meditation, and entirely mine.

Peace, for me, isn’t one single thing—it’s a thread that runs through many moments: a garden in bloom, a project taking shape, a rally under bright lights. It’s the small, steady rituals that stitch my days back together.

— The Wallflower