The Unhurried Mama

You start something for yourself, and then you get pulled away. You think it means something about you.

Prove to yourself that you can return.

Take seven minutes, keep your eyes open. This works with the kids around and there’s no need to lie down.

Send this to the one mom in your life who needs to know stopping isn’t a character flaw.

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https://theunhurriedmama.substack.com/

My son pulls the dining table chair under the ceiling anchor to reach a ring he’s less than two inches short of. I resist the urge to get up and solve his problem. He figures it out himself—and then asks me to do the rest.

The last room of The Unhurried House: finishing isn’t the point; it’s a practice.

We talk about the three chapters I wrote in 116 days, the nine I wrote in 17, and the finished first draft I’m already afraid will never be good enough to publish. There is still no guarantee.

Send this to the one mom in your life who’s trying to perfect it instead of calling it done.

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https://theunhurriedmama.substack.com/

A fight breaks out between the kids and I’m jumping to verdicts before I’ve even heard the whole story. I swing back and forth between too much give and not enough, mostly with my daughter. But it’s what I do to myself, too.

The tender room of The Unhurried House: how I’m choosing to show up.

We talk about how I’m paying forward what I never received and why the verdict I hand my daughter is the perfection I demand of myself. I’m still working through it.

Send this to the one mom in your life who judges when she doesn’t mean to.

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https://theunhurriedmama.substack.com/

Do you do 3 things at once between bites of your meal?

You give all day and receive nothing in return.

A slow, unhurried meditation for you if you pour into others and sometimes forget to pour into you. With a hand on your heart, you can receive love and care. Your body has been caring for you your whole life without you doing a thing.

Send this to the one mom in your life who needs a reminder to receive.

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My mom’s been gone for 15 years, and when I look at a photo of her, I feel guilty that what comes up isn't grief; it's relief. Relief that I can stop reaching for a bond that was never built.

The deepest room of The Unhurried House: where I come from.

We talk about the four mothers who raised me and the grief I buried for the one who gave me the most. I’m finally sitting in it.

Send this to the one mom in your life who’s been too busy taking care of everyone to grieve.

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I once flew across the world to ask a Balinese shaman what to do with my life. He told me to trust—that it would come. I was too busy trying on everyone else’s life to hear him.

Room 5 of The Unhurried House: the borrowed self.

We talk about the strangers’ scripts I wore after my mom died, the book I couldn’t write until it was finally mine, and how the borrowing never really stopped—it just changed costumes when I became a mother.

Send this to the one mom in your life who’s ready to stop borrowing.

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You finally sit down, and your body's already halfway back up. A short meditation for the pull to keep doing and the itch to get up the second you stop.

We stay awake, sit with the urge, and let it pass like a wave. You'll leave with a practice you can use anywhere the pull finds you.

Send this to a mom who you know has a hard time sitting down.

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I jolted awake at 12:36 in the afternoon, under the blanket my daughter knitted me, laptop dark against my leg, heart pounding in my ears. I’d fallen asleep without meaning to—while researching why I was so tired.

For a year, I’d told myself the exhaustion was just how it is now. Then a walk-in doctor told me the same thing.

Room 4 of The Unhurried House: the body we override.

We talk about the symptoms I explained away for a year, the eight-minute appointment that let me off the hook, and why I finally went looking for the root.

Send this to the one mom in your life who needs the room you just walked through.

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I have a closet full of clothes I never wear. 70% of my wardrobe is hand-me-downs, and I reach past the nice clothes for a “future self.” What am I saving myself for?

Room 3 of The Unhurried House: the saving room.

We talk about the closet full of clothes I never let myself wear, the good reasons that always end with me last, and what it took to finally take my turn.

Send this to the one mom in your life who needs the room you just walked through.

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This is the pause before asking yourself who’s been waiting for you.

The first meditation of Season 2—a 10-minute reset to help you return to yourself and stand at the door to a room in your house of motherhood.

Which room are you walking past?

Send this to one mom who needs a gentle reset.

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https://theunhurriedmama.substack.com/