Mornings are a blur. The alarm rings, and the house slowly stirs to life. The kid is getting ready for school, asking where the socks are. I’m in the kitchen, pouring tea, packing tiffins. My husband and I exchange a few words between chores: something about milk running out or the day ahead. There’s no time for anything more.

Once the kid is out the door, we rush through our own routines; checking emails already, planning the commute, grabbing a quick bite. And just like that, the workday begins.

Meetings, calls, emails, presentations: one after the other, without pause. Between numbers and decisions, strategy and follow-ups, the hours disappear. The mind stays busy. The heart? Not always.

Evenings are no quieter. Homework time, dinner prep, cleaning up, checking in on parents, packing bags for tomorrow. A few yawns. A few scrolls on the phone. Then sleep. And repeat.

Everything is moving as it should, and yet….something’s missing.

It’s not sadness.
It’s not burnout.
It’s just a quiet space that lingers, like a question I forgot to answer.

Sometimes it shows up in the pause between two chores.
Sometimes in the silence after the kid goes to sleep.
Sometimes in the smile I wear without really feeling it.

I try to reason with it.

Maybe I’m longing for more stillness.
Maybe I miss the version of myself who wasn’t always scheduled, always ‘on’.
Maybe I just need to feel something that isn’t planned.

I don’t know.

But I’ve stopped fighting it.

Because maybe this season of not knowing is also part of living.
Maybe we don’t need to name every emptiness.
Some we just sit with—quietly, kindly.

And if you’ve felt this too, this strange ache in the middle of a full life,
you’re not alone.
You’re just listening to your own heart whispering beneath the noise.

And that, in itself, is something.