the soft hours

“life isn’t always loud—most of it whispers. and if you slow down enough, you’ll hear how beautiful it’s always been.”

i wrote a post not too long ago about my mother—how i didn’t understand her reheated coffee until i became her in a way. how the cup would sit forgotten on the counter while the day pulled her in a dozen directions, none of them quiet. back then, i didn’t get it. now, i reheat mine too. more than once. sometimes not at all. sometimes it just sits, because there are kids and lists and tasks and brain fog and emotion and noise.

yesterday, i started a new blanket. i sat down with my yarn, counting chain stitches, trying to slow myself into the rhythm of it. and without even trying, my mind wandered back to that post. that moment. that version of me that was learning to see her through adult eyes. as i crocheted, the yarn knotted itself—naturally, as it always does when you need it not to. i sighed. tried to untangle it. didn’t say much, but my frustration was visible in the way my shoulders curled in, in the way my fingers hesitated. and what i didn’t notice, at least not right away, was my wife—watching quietly from across the room.

without a word, and even though i told her not to, she reached for the skeins. began rolling them into smooth, perfect yarn balls. not because she had to, but because she could see me. that’s her way. and we just sat together after that, in the soft comfort of shared space. we talked. about her childhood. about her grandmother’s hands, always moving with yarn and care. about how the past always finds its way into the present through love. we didn’t plan to talk for hours—but time fell open, and we fell into it.

later, i remembered another soft night. my wife, my girlfriend, and i—all three of us with fresh coffee late into the evening, cups warm in our hands while the air cooled around us. we stepped out onto the porch, sat beneath the wide hush of the sky, and just existed together. we talked. we laughed. we watched the stars rise as the sun slipped away. no hurry. no plans. just presence. just us. most people don’t think to make coffee at that hour. even fewer think to bring it outside, into the dark, just to watch the night stretch open. but we did. and it’s one of those moments i’ve tucked close to my chest, held safe in that soft little drawer of memory i return to when the world gets too loud.

i’ve been paying attention to the quiet things lately. the unremarkable, sacred hours that don’t make it to calendars but shape everything. yarn and coffee. porch light and laughter. hands that help without needing to be asked. stories that tumble out across a couch without ever needing permission.

these are the moments i want to remember. the ones no one asks about but that i carry like scripture. the ones that tell me i’m still here, still choosing to bloom inside the ordinary. life isn’t always loud. most of it whispers. and if you slow down just enough, if you let yourself listen—you’ll hear how beautiful it’s always been.

with ink + bloom,