Sycamore Starlight And The Scent Of Sunday Slowdowns

The afternoon sun is currently stretching long across my robin-egg-blue journal, the one Megan gave me that has become such a safe harbor for my thoughts. It is just before six, and the house is finally settling into that soft, Sunday evening hum. Mark is out back with Biscuit, throwing the ball one last time before his long week starts again at 5:30 tomorrow morning. I can hear Noah through the window making ‘roar’ sounds—apparently, his velociraptor pajamas are non-negotiable for dinner attire tonight—and Emma is hunched over the coffee table, likely adding horse illustrations to the margins of whatever she can find.

Today felt like one of those days where the world slows down just enough for you to catch your breath. My mom, Diane, called right on schedule this afternoon. We talked for forty minutes about everything and nothing—mostly about her garden and whether I’ve been getting enough iron. There is something about the sound of her voice that always reminds me that even though I’m thirty-four and running a household, I’m still someone’s daughter. It’s a grounded feeling, a reminder of where my roots are planted, even as I try to grow new branches here on Sycamore Street.

After the call, I spent a few hours in the garage working on 'Lucy’s Little Light.' I have a small backlog of Etsy orders to get through, and there is something incredibly therapeutic about the process. Measuring the wax, watching it melt into a clear, golden liquid, and whisking in the scents is my version of meditation. Today was a ‘Citrus and Cedar’ day. It’s a scent that reminds me of the hardware store when the sun hits the floorboards, and it makes me feel like I’m building something tangible. Seeing those finished jars lined up makes me feel proud of my little side hustle; it’s not just about the extra grocery money, it’s about proving to myself that I can create something from scratch.

Speaking of building things, I hit a personal milestone this morning. I managed to log four miles for my Harvest 5K training. Four miles, friends! When I started this journey back in June, I felt like my lungs were going to give out after ten minutes. Today, my legs felt heavy around the three-mile mark, but I kept my eyes on the pavement and just kept breathing. There is a specific kind of self-worth that comes from doing the hard thing when no one is watching. I’m not the fastest runner in Cedar Falls, and I’m certainly not the most graceful, but I am consistent. That has to count for something.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how our bodies change as we get older, and how we view ourselves in the mirror. After my shower, I caught a glimpse of myself and realized I didn’t immediately start listing my flaws. Instead, I noticed that my shoulders look stronger. I noticed that my skin looks clearer from all the water I’ve been drinking. I’m starting to feel desirable not because of a number on a scale, but because I feel capable. I feel like a woman who can handle her bills, her business, and a four-mile run before the kids are even dressed.

Mark came in while I was drying my hair and just leaned against the doorframe for a second. He didn't say much—he’s never been a man of many words after a long week of overseeing the construction crews—but the way he looked at me made me feel seen. We celebrated nine years together not too long ago, and sometimes the best part of marriage isn't the big anniversaries, but the quiet acknowledgment on a Sunday afternoon that we are still a team. He’s my rock, and I hope he knows I’m his, too.

Our neighbor Joanne popped over earlier, clad in her signature pink bathrobe, to drop off some extra petunias she’d thinned out from her beds. She stayed just long enough to tell me that Emma’s latest drawing on the driveway was 'a masterpiece' and to remind me to keep my core tight when I’m running. I love her for that. It takes a village, doesn't it? Whether it’s Megan challenging me on the pickleball court or Joanne giving me unsolicited gardening advice, these women make me feel like I belong here.

As I look at my little blue house and the life I’ve built inside it, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Growth isn't always a flourish or a grand gesture. Sometimes, it’s just the steady drip of wax into a jar, the turn of a page in a ledger at Miller’s, or the extra mile on a humid morning. It’s the quiet realization that you are exactly where you need to be, even if you’re still a work in progress. We are all works in progress, aren't we?

I’m going to close this now and go help Mark with dinner. We’re having something simple—probably grilled chicken and some of those blueberries I picked up—and then it's early to bed to prepare for the Monday morning rush. I want to be well-rested so I can tackle the week with the energy it deserves. I want to keep showing up for myself and for all of you. Every day is a new chance to get it right, or at least a little bit better than yesterday.

Thank you for being here with me, ladies. For listening to my ramblings about dinosaurs and candles and the middle-of-the-road joys of life in Iowa. It means the world to know I’m not alone in these small victories. May your Sunday be soft and your Monday be kind. I believe in us, and I’m so glad we’re in this together.

I love you. — Lucy