noticing the small things...
The morning light slanted through my window, painting golden lines across the wooden floor. I watched as the steam curled from my cup, twisting and vanishing into the quiet air. There was something about the way it moved—unrushed, unbothered—that made me pause. Was this what it meant to romanticize life?
I used to think the idea was silly, another curated aesthetic for people who had time to turn their routines into soft-focus dream sequences. But lately, I’ve been wondering if there was something more to it. Could I, just by shifting my gaze, turn the ordinary into something worth savoring? I once believed beauty had to be grand, that only the extraordinary deserved attention. But life is mostly made of small things, fleeting moments that pass unnoticed unless you choose to see them. There is a quiet poetry in the way rain streaks down a window or the rhythm of footsteps on an empty street. The smell of freshly laundered sheets, the way a familiar song wraps around you like an old friend, the soft hush of evening settling in—none of these things demand appreciation, but they offer it if you're willing to notice. I didn’t need to chase beauty. It was already there, waiting.
At first, I hesitated. Wasn’t this just pretending? Dressing up the mundane and calling it magic? But I realized it wasn’t about changing life—it was about being present for it. So I started small. I poured my tea into a ceramic cup instead of the chipped old mug. I took the longer walk home just to catch the last streaks of the sunset. I lit a candle while I read, not for anyone else, but for myself. It wasn’t about aesthetics—it was about intention. A way of telling myself: This moment matters.
But then came the question: Was I truly finding joy, or was I just crafting an illusion? Because let’s be honest—romanticizing life doesn’t mean every day turns into a scene from a movie. Some mornings are dull. Some nights are restless. Some moments feel painfully unremarkable. I caught myself wondering: Was I savoring the present, or was I using this mindset to avoid the difficult parts of life? There’s a risk of turning romanticization into a filter, one that smooths over the rough edges and hides the messiness. But life isn’t just soft lighting and poetic musings—it’s also frustration, uncertainty, and quiet loneliness. True appreciation comes not from creating an illusion, but from accepting all of it—the beauty and the chaos. Romanticizing life isn’t about escaping reality. It’s about learning to stand in the middle of it, in both the light and the shadow, and still find something worth holding onto.
So, do I think of my life as something romanticized? Not really. I wouldn’t call it that. But I have noticed that when I slow down, when I take a moment to be present, things feel a little fuller. A little more vivid. Maybe that’s all it is—paying attention. Not dressing things up, not chasing an illusion, but simply noticing. And maybe that’s enough. Have you ever stopped and realized—hmm, maybe there’s something here worth seeing after all?