Quietly Enough

The other night, I sat alone in the kitchen, reheating leftover rice and eggs, the kind of meal that tastes like nothing but fills you anyway. The silence wasn’t heavy — just there, like an old friend who doesn’t need to speak. I didn’t do anything extraordinary that day. No breakthrough, no milestone, not even a witty reply to a text. Just dishes, emails, socks that don’t match, and a sky that forgot to impress.

But there, in that unremarkable moment, something settled in me. A quiet knowing. That I might never write a masterpiece. Might never be remembered by strangers or quoted in someone’s wedding vows. And maybe — maybe that’s okay.

We spend so much time trying to matter loudly. As if worth needs a witness. As if love only counts when it’s performed. But some days are just meant to be lived, not captured. Some joys come in lukewarm cups of coffee and inboxes with no emergencies. And maybe that’s the rebellion — choosing softness over spectacle.

There’s a kind of courage in waking up to the same life every day and not needing it to impress you. A kind of grace in folding laundry like it’s an act of worship. I used to think mediocrity was failure dressed in beige. Now I see it as sanctuary — a place where the soul can finally take off its shoes.

The world worships those who shine, but some stars are made to glow low, just enough to light a single room. Not every life needs to be dazzling to be meaningful. Some are poems written in lowercase, without rhyme or rhythm — and still, somehow, they move you.

And as I sat there, scraping egg from the pan, I thought: maybe being ordinary is its own kind of art.
And I let myself be just that — a quiet masterpiece no one claps for.