I stood in the garden with wet hands and no one called me

Dear Delyara, I had just hung the washing up. My hands were still cold and damp from the pegs, and usually I would have gone straight back inside to the next thing. Instead I stayed there for a minute. Just air. A fence. A bit of sky. No one needing me immediately. That should not feel rare. It did. And because it felt rare, it felt precious. Like a tiny interruption in the usual pattern where every pause already belongs to the next demand before I’ve even noticed it exists. One quiet minute in the garden did more for me than most sensible self-care advice. That’s how tired I am, and maybe also how simple relief can be when it finally arrives cleanly.