A Candle, a Walk, and the Fight Against Burnout.
I’ve started romanticizing my life—not because it’s perfect, but because I’ve needed something to hold onto when everything feels heavy and loud. It’s not about pretending I’m the star of a perfectly edited movie montage. It’s about anchoring myself to what’s real—the tiny, fleeting moments of peace and beauty that are easy to miss when I’m moving too fast or feeling too much.
This shift didn’t come from a place of lightness. It came after a stretch of burnout that I didn’t see coming. I was doing all the “right” things—being productive, staying organized, checking in on everyone, showing up—and still, I felt hollow. I was waking up already tired, going through the motions like a ghost in my own life.
One morning, in the thick of it, I remember standing at the kitchen sink crying into a pile of dishes. Not over anything big, just the accumulation of everything. The noise, the pressure, the mess, the emails, the everything. And then, for whatever reason, I stopped. I dried my hands. I made myself a piece of toast, the kind with butter and cinnamon sugar, like my mom used to make when I was little. I sat down at the table, just me and the toast. I lit a candle—not because anyone was coming over, not because it was Instagram-worthy, but because I wanted to.
And in that small, completely ordinary moment, I felt like I could breathe again.
That’s where this started.
Romanticizing life, for me, has become a small act of rebellion against burnout and autopilot. It’s my way of saying: I’m still here. I still get to choose how I move through the day, even if I don’t get to choose everything in it.
Now, when I light a candle before answering emails, or step outside barefoot with my coffee, I’m reminding myself I’m a human being—not just a machine checking boxes. I’m not waiting for big milestones to feel something good. I’m letting the little, ordinary moments count.
Here’s what that looks like for me:
• Taking five extra minutes in the morning to drink my coffee in silence—or with a song I love—before the world needs me
• Going for walks not to burn calories or hit a step goal, but just to move and breathe and feel the ground beneath me
• Cleaning one corner of the room and lighting a candle, even if the rest of the house looks like a tornado came through
• Letting music fill the kitchen while I cook, turning a chore into something that feels like therapy
• Celebrating the tiny wins—like setting a boundary, choosing rest, or simply showing up—because those things are victories
Romanticizing your life doesn’t mean you’re in denial about what’s hard. It doesn’t mean you’re ignoring reality. It just means you’re choosing to notice what’s still good. You’re giving your nervous system a break. You’re telling your brain: it’s okay to feel joy here, too.
And if your life feels heavy right now, I promise—this doesn’t have to be big or expensive or aesthetic. Sometimes it’s cinnamon toast. Sometimes it’s clean socks or a good hug or sunlight hitting the wall just right.
Sometimes, it’s simply remembering: you’re allowed to enjoy being alive, even when things aren’t perfect.
Love, Ollie
