Meaning in Routine


Routine seems to loom like a dark cloud over my Sunday evenings. A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach reminds me that Monday is coming. My anxieties start to bubble up along with my self-doubt. Will I be able to handle everything that Monday throws at me? Where will the energy to face Monday's challenges come from? And the voices in my head curse routine and its monotony. Its bland and mundane gray existence. "What does it mean?" the voices scream out, "All this trudging around day in and day out."

In the panic, I forget that routine is my friend. That with each passing week, as my Mondays become more and more routine, they also require less and less energy. Less and less thought. Less and less panic. They become second nature. A tool in my toolbox, routine empowers me to glide through tasks that I once stumbled over. I can rest in routine. Suddenly, routine is no longer the cause of my Sunday freak-out, but the antidote to my Sunday self-doubt.

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