$pent Millennial

Dear Reader,

I would have missed it.

If I had hit snooze for thirty more minutes — like I really, really wanted to.

If I had skipped my walk because the morning was wet and gray after a night of rain.

If I had convinced myself that this new schedule simply no longer allowed for slow mornings, podcasts, trails, or walks before work.

I would have missed it.

Over the past year, I — like many people — have navigated a lot of change. Career pivots. New routines. New expectations. New rhythms.

And historically? Change has always been easy for me.

Not easy in the sense that it was never difficult or stressful. But easy in the sense that I genuinely liked it. I thrived in it.

New adventure? Exciting.

New challenge? Let’s go.

New state? Would love to meet it. 

New opportunity? Sign me up.

When people talked about how hard change was, I understood it intellectually, but somewhere in the back of my mind I think I quietly assumed that was mostly true for other people.

Because I liked movement. I liked reinvention. I liked building a new version of life and figuring it out as I went.

But lately, I have noticed something shifting.

Maybe it is age. Maybe it is accumulated responsibility. Maybe it is simply that uncertainty weighs differently now than it once did.

But these days, change feels heavier than it used to.

The disruption to routine lingers longer. The uncertainty hums louder. The transition period feels more exhausting than exciting.

And I have especially noticed this during my most recent career shift.

One of the things I value most — deeply, deeply value — is autonomy.

In many of my previous roles, I had built a lot of it into my life. Flexibility. Ownership. Freedom over my time and structure. Space to organize my days in ways that worked best for me.

And then suddenly, this season of transition changed some of that.

Ironically, I actually have more non-work time now than I did before. I am working fewer hours overall. My evenings are more my own.

But the adjustment still felt difficult because what changed was not just my schedule.

It was my sense of autonomy.

Recently, I listened to an episode of the The Mel Robbins Podcast where they discussed different emotional needs connected to confidence and self-doubt. One of them was autonomy — how much control and ownership people feel over their lives and choices.

That part hit me immediately.

I recognized myself in it.

The episode discussed how people who feel low in autonomy often become more reactive. More frustrated. More prone to complaining, blaming, or feeling trapped by circumstances.

And if I am being honest, I have historically found that mindset difficult to relate to. I think because I have typically operated from a place of high autonomy. I have always believed there was something I could do. Some adjustment to make. Some path forward.

But during this transition, as my routines and work structure shifted, I felt that sense of autonomy being threatened.

And almost immediately, I noticed changes in myself.

More complaining.

More frustration.

More “poor me.”

More self-doubt.

I felt less grounded. Less confident. Less like myself.

I didn’t like her. I didn’t like me. Which reinforced the negative feelings of frustration and self-doubt. 

What I eventually realized is that autonomy — when it is one of your deepest values — can also become the solution.

Because while I could not control every change happening around me, I could control how I responded to it.

And that was enough. 

Enough to plant hope. 

So I started rebuilding my routines instead of mourning the old ones.

I will not bore you with every detail, but essentially, it meant committing to waking up earlier and becoming more intentional with the flow of my mornings instead of resisting the reality of them.

And slowly, something surprising happened.

I found space again.

Ten minutes of yoga each morning. Quiet stretching that my increasingly thirty-two-year-old body has been begging for.

Leaving home thirty minutes earlier than necessary so I can avoid traffic and spend twenty or thirty minutes walking a nearby trail before work while listening to podcasts.

The very type of morning walk I thought this new season of life had “taken away” from me.

And because my day now starts earlier, I am also leaving work earlier.

Which means there is time afterward to volunteer. Time for longer workouts. Time to create. Time to build things intentionally instead of collapsing into survival mode every evening.

What is interesting about autonomy is that it changes the lens.

Because there are two ways I could look at this shift.

I could say:

“My schedule sucks now.”

“I never have time anymore.”

“I cannot do morning walks because of work.”

“This is everyone else’s fault.”

And believe me — I went there for a while.

But eventually I realized I did not have to stay there.

I still had choices.

Not unlimited choices. Not magical choices. But meaningful ones.

I could either spend my energy grieving what no longer fit exactly the way it once did, or I could ask:

What does fit now?

What is possible now?

What can I build with the life currently in front of me?

And honestly? There are things in this version of life that I missed before.

Afternoons with daylight still left in them.

Time to volunteer after work.

The ability to close my laptop and actually step away from the day.

It is funny too, because when I had slower mornings before, people would often tell me how lucky I was to have time for long runs, coffee, mindfulness, and slow starts to the day.

And they were right. I was lucky. I loved those mornings. I would absolutely trade for them again in a heartbeat.

But now, many of those same people would probably look at my life and say I am lucky to have time for yoga, trail walks, volunteering, creative projects, and afternoons that feel more open.

And again — they would be right.

I am fortunate.

I recognize that not everyone has the flexibility, resources, or circumstances to structure their life the way I currently can. I understand that privilege plays a role in that.

But I also think it is true that sometimes people have more agency than they allow themselves to believe.

Not always. Not completely. But sometimes.

Because yes, I am fortunate.

But I also wake up at 4:00 or 4:30 in the morning to make these things possible.

I make myself go on the walk.

I make myself volunteer.

I make myself create before turning on the television.

And trust me — there are many nights when all I want to do is collapse onto the couch and disappear into YouTube or TV after a long day.

Even writing this, there is still dinner to make and a carpet that needs vacuuming.

Life is still life.

But this past Tuesday morning reminded me why the effort matters.

It had rained all night. The sky was dark and heavy. It looked like it might storm again.

A huge part of me wanted to stay in bed. Or sit under a blanket scrolling YouTube for another thirty minutes before rushing out the door.

But if I had done that, I would have missed it.

Because overnight, new flowers had bloomed along the trail.

Tiny bursts of color that had not been there the morning before.

And standing there, looking at them before work, I realized something:

So much of life can be missed while we are busy mourning the version we thought we wanted.

I could sleep later, rush out the door stressed and irritated, slam coffee while sitting in traffic, and spend the morning resentful that life no longer looks the way it once did.

I could come home at 4:30, collapse in front of a screen, and convince myself I am “reclaiming” my time while quietly disappearing from some of the best hours of my day.

Or I could stay awake for it.

I could participate in it.

I could notice the flowers.

Because if I don’t. 

I might miss it. 

I might miss all of it.

Until next week — take care, and try not to miss it.

Everett