Wandering Through Routine

One day, chatting with a friend, we wandered to the topic of routine and how it’s getting silently boring.

She sighed and said, “You always fill your life with exciting things. How do you do it?”

That made me pause. It’s not like I never get bored. In fact, I get bored very easily. I’ve always struggled with routine and monotony. Administrative tasks drain me because repetition makes me restless. This is one of the reasons I never wanted to take up an admin job of any kind. When I’m bored for too long, it often leads to anxiety or sadness.

But when my friend asked that question, I realized something. Over time, without consciously planning it, I’ve built a little mechanism that keeps me grounded and joyful.

For some people, routines are comforting. They can live in the same place, work in the same job, and find peace in predictability. I actually envy them. They’ve mastered contentment in a way I haven’t.

But for me, boredom brings a kind of bone-crushing restlessness followed by anxiety. I feel trapped, I feel like running away. I try to escape by planning something new. It is exciting, which helps for a while. But eventually, I have to return to the routine.

So, me being a problem solver to the core, I found a solution. I’ve learned to train my mind to associate little joys with everyday tasks. It’s almost like gently teaching my brain. Every ordinary moment carries a small spark of delight if I choose to notice it.

For example, each morning when I open the blinds, it’s not just a mechanical act of letting light in. It’s a sensory ritual of welcoming the day. That first rush of daylight feels like an embrace. I never know what scene I’ll see. It might be a blue sky brushed with soft clouds. Or I could see the shimmer of rain. Perhaps, a winter wonderland after snow. Alternatively, the golden hues of fall leaves. Sometimes, it’s tiny surprises. A rabbit darts across the yard. Ducks glide by. A bird perches on a branch singing its morning tune. Nature paints me a new picture every day, and I stand there, coffee still brewing, just taking it in.

And speaking of coffee, that too has become more than just a drink. My first cup is a small, sacred ritual. Whether I’m sitting on the front step watching the rain, swinging in the hammock on a bright summer morning, or wrapped in a blanket watching snow fall, each moment feels new. Over time, I realized it’s not the coffee itself that brings joy, but the sensory world I’ve built around it.

When I hold the warm mug in my hands as snow drifts outside, my body feels comfort. When I listen to the rain tapping on the ground, my ears register calm. When sunlight filters through leaves and birds begin to chirp, my eyes and heart feel awake together.

I’ve trained my brain to connect the warmth, sound, light, and color of these moments with feelings of contentment. Each familiar scene becomes a reminder that happiness doesn’t always come from change, but from attention.

Stepping into my garden between meetings, going for a quick walk with a neighbor, or simply looking into my dog’s innocent eyes are my small wanderings. They may seem ordinary, but they keep my days fresh, alive, and full of movement.

Maybe that’s how I escape monotony. I do not run away from the routine. Instead, I wander through it, finding those small detours of joy hidden in the everyday.