What is an annoying habit that’s hard to quit? Biting nails, cracking knuckles, popping gum, or bouncing a leg. Habits slip in so quietly that we barely notice them, until they irritate someone else or, worse, begin to wear on us.
Yet, some habits are not so harmless. I carry one that doesn’t soothe or comfort me. It does the opposite. It tightens my chest, heightens my anxiety, and leaves me chasing an impossible finish line. I fall into it when I least expect it, and even when I try to let it go, it lingers.
This Fall has been beautiful with unseasonably warm temperatures and trees dressed in every shade of autumn. When the leaves began to pile high, I joined my neighbors on a sunny Saturday in cleaning up the leaves.
As a child, raking leaves felt like hard work, but so worth it when it ended with the joy of jumping into the pile. As an adult, I prefer more convenient methods of cleaning up the leaves. The leaf blower, however, tests every ounce of my patience; swirling leaves seem harder to control than the proverbial herding cats. So, I settled for mowing and bagging.
That plan wasn’t perfect either. The mower blew leaves back into the areas that I had just cleaned. Once I adjusted the height of the mower, I found myself circling the same areas again and again to capture wayward leaves. With my eyes glued to the areas right in front of the mower, all I could see were the flaws. Frustration rose, and something inside me tightened.
Then, I looked up.
I finally saw what I hadn’t noticed: the yard looked better. The piles in the street proved the work was adding up. A loved one glanced over, rolled her eyes, and said, “It looks good” with that familiar tone that gently calls out my tendencies.
And that’s when it clicked.
I had slipped into my old habit mentioned earlier. The one that demands perfection from me when the task doesn’t require it. The one that turns leaf cleaning into a test I can’t pass.
Every stray leaf felt like a failure. Every small flaw erased the progress right in front of me. No wonder my shoulders were tight.
So I chose to pause, not the yard work, but the habit itself. The same way one stills a bouncing leg or fold hands to avoid cracking knuckles, I shifted my focus. Like spitting out the gum I was popping, I let go of the urge to “fix” every inch.
I stepped back, breathed, and watched one more leaf float gently to land at my feet. Instead of seeing it as proof I wasn’t done, I let it be what it was: a reminder that life is rarely perfect, yet still deeply good.