The Day Nothing Happened—and Everything Did

What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?

It’s easy to believe that life’s worth is tallied in big milestones—the graduations, the weddings, the first steps into a dream job. For a long time, I thought that too.

But the older I get, the more I realize that those moments are like bold brushstrokes on a canvas—beautiful, yes, but surrounded by the quieter, gentler strokes that give the picture its depth.

I work from home, so my office is just downstairs. My husband has to go into the office, which means he’s up early to get ready. Every morning, right before he leaves, he sets a cup of coffee on my nightstand and kisses me goodbye. It’s a small, quiet ritual—easily overlooked, yet one of the brightest threads in the fabric of my days.

After dropping the girls at school, I went into my office, glanced at my calendar, and saw that one of my meetings had been cancelled. I decided to treat it like a gift—an opening to slow down, reflect, and do a little soul-recharging. I’d already had my coffee and didn’t need another round of caffeine strong enough to make my heart try to sprint away from me, so I brewed a cup of tea instead.

I carried it to the front stoop, where the day was doing what days do: squirrels and chipmunks racing through the yard, dogs barking somewhere down the block, cars rolling past, the garbage truck clattering its way through the neighborhood. Birds stitched bits of song into the background. And in the living room window, my cat Cashmere sat like a small empress, watching me—probably wishing she could be outside chasing squirrels instead of merely glaring at them.

Nothing remarkable happened. And yet, the moment felt whole.

This is the change I’d like my blog to make: to remind people that life isn’t measured only in its grand, glossy peaks, but in the small, steady moments we often overlook. These understated threads may not seem vivid at first glance, but together they weave the tapestry of our lives. And if we can learn to notice them, we might see just how rich we already are.

— The Wallflower