One step at a time

In the spirit of practising what I preach, I’ve joined a local yoga class. Since entering my thirties, I’ve realised I may actually need to move my body further than the sofa.

Given my historically low levels of motivation, this is no small feat. I’ve accepted that I require external accountability - preferably someone shouting at me while I lie on the floor like a jellyfish.

But I’ve also learned something else: nothing meaningful happens without routine. Each time I promise myself this will be the week it all begins, my willpower dissolves somewhere between 7 a.m. and the gravitational pull of my winter duvet.

So this morning, I decided to begin - imperfectly, but still.

I fell out of bed, muttering curses, and left the flat by 7 a.m., mildly irritated that my usual bus route was on strike. Which meant I’d have to walk the full twenty minutes to class in the rain - an inconvenience only a Londoner can truly appreciate.

Barely awake, I trudged down Tooley Street. I looked up, then down. The sky, the pavement, the early-morning rush. Somewhere between the drizzle and the hum of traffic, I began to feel part of the city again.

Instead of resenting the delay, I noticed the rhythm of life around me. The soft collisions of strangers, the scent of coffee drifting through doorways, the slow pulse of a city just waking up.

By the time I reached class, I was already calmer. The session itself was productive enough - or at least as enthusiastic as I can currently manage. But the real moment came later, walking home.

The rain had cleared, leaving tiny lakes of water scattered across the pavements. In one, I caught the reflection of red-brick buildings and winter trees tangled in the glassy surface - a small, perfect accident of beauty.

Had I taken the bus, I’d have missed it.

It struck me how easy it is to overlook these quiet offerings when life moves too fast. I stood there for a moment, grateful - not in the performative way the internet prescribes, but with a steady, quiet awe.

I was forced out of my comfortable routine this morning by a bus strike, and yet it turned into an unexpected gift - a reminder that slowing down is not falling behind.

So yes, I might lose my way again. We all do. But I’ll keep this morning in my pocket, to take out whenever I forget how much there is to see when I simply stop rushing.