Why one small thing, and not a list of ten
I used to keep lists. Not the to-do kind, those I could never seem to escape, but the other kind: the ten ways to feel calmer, the twelve habits of women who have their life together, saved to a note on my phone or printed out and folded into a book I never opened again. I would read through all ten, feel a small flicker of hope, and then do none of them, because ten of anything stops being a small thing. It turns into a project, and on the days I needed it most, I did not have a project left in me.
So this isn't that. This is one page and one thing, chosen because it's the one I've gone back to more than any other, on the mornings when even running a bath felt like one more task with my name on it.
Ten Minutes, On Your Side
This comes from something I read a while ago, from a woman named Kristin Neff, and it's stayed with me since: most of us would never say to a friend what we quietly say to ourselves on a hard day.
- Set a timer for ten minutes. Find a chair, the edge of the bed, a step outside. You don't need anything else, not a special notebook, not the right pen.
- Think of one thing. Not the whole week, not everything that's gone sideways lately. One thing that's been sitting heavy, today or this week. Let it be small if it wants to be small.
- Picture your closest friend telling you that exact thing, word for word, the way you'd hear it if she called you tonight. What would you actually say back to her?
- Write it down, addressed to yourself. A few sentences is enough. Start with your own name if that helps: "Dear ___, I know this week has been..." Say the thing you'd say to her.
- Read it back once, out loud if you're somewhere you can. Then keep it, tucked in a book, on your phone, wherever you'll actually see it again on the next hard morning.
That's it. Not the whole rest of your week fixed, and I don't know how to promise you that, honestly, I don't think anyone can. Just one small thing, on your side, for ten minutes.
I'm not a therapist or a licensed counselor, and this page isn't therapy or treatment. It's one small practice that has felt meaningful to me. If what you're carrying feels like more than a quiet ten minutes can hold, please find a professional who can sit with you properly. You deserve that kind of care, and a page, however well meant, can't give it to you.
If one sentence in that letter to yourself felt true, that's the whole point. Not a fix, not a before-and-after. Just one small thing, and you're allowed to stop there today.
With warmth from the hill, Carol