On rushing
What I find hardest is the speed. I understand, now, why my mum rushes all the time. She had three children in four years, of course she rushes. Rushing is now buried so deep, that to not do so would feel like standing still.
Slowness, deliberateness, signals to my nervous system that everything is okay. Now, I find myself at speed. In quickened step with the other mums. Pushing buggies, iPhones clasped in hands.
Must shop for bread, more milk, baby needs feeding, cat is being sick again (do I need to call the vet?), baby needs a nap, how do I put her to sleep? Feed her? Again? She's got a stuffy nose, doesn't want milk, she's crying, she needs a nap, I'm so thirsty. When did I last drink water? I had a coffee this morning. Shop for more bread, carbs are life, the dishwasher, the baby needs holding, what can I do one handed? Need to apply to nurseries, we're not going to get a place. Should have applied when I was pregnant. When I didn't know her name. The baby is content, watching dancing fruit on YouTube, should I puree some vegetables? My god, my inbox.
When we rush, our nervous system reads it as threat. The sympathetic nervous system — the branch responsible for fight-or-flight — takes over. Heart rate increases. Breathing becomes shallow. Attention narrows. This system evolved to keep us alive, it doesn’t distinguish between danger and urgency.
When this happens repeatedly, it becomes a baseline. Cortisol and adrenaline linger. The parasympathetic nervous system — responsible for rest, digestion, and recovery — struggles to come back online. The body learns that someone else’s needs take priority, that time is scarce, that stillness is a risk. Even when nothing is technically wrong, the system stays partially activated, scanning, braced. This is why rushing stops feeling like a choice. Slowing down isn’t neutral — it can feel unsafe.
There is a paradox here though, because then bedtime rolls around. Suddenly, the haste of the day melts away. The very thing that required speed now requires the opposite.
The new aim is slowness, quiet, because rest is imminent. M needs me to feed her to sleep, she hasn't yet learned to do it herself (we haven't taught her, I suppose). We both lie on the bed, she is wearing a sleeveless sleeping bag, quilted and duvet-like. Sometimes she's crying, restless, and other times she is excited, not yet ready for the day to be over. But we lie there together. The room warm because we put the radiator on half an hour ago in preparation. I have my earphones in, listening to an audiobook or some news podcast about climate change or Starmer or Trump. I close my eyes, feel her squirming body getting quiet, relaxing. Before long her breathing becomes rhythmic. I lie there for a little while longer even after I know she's asleep. She's such a light sleeper, stirs and opens her eyes slightly whenever I inch away. I could go to sleep myself. I feel my nervous system quiet as I breathe, feel the extreme, exquisite calm and safety of home.