The world feels loud and fast at the moment, and it's easy to spend every day chasing the next thing. But life isn't the next thing. It's this: the perfect cup of tea, the bath-time giggles, the ordinary days we hardly notice while we're living them. Here's how I'm trying to notice them more.
The joy is already here (we just don't always see it)
Some weeks it feels as though the world changes every time I check the news. Add school runs, work, washing that breeds overnight and a to-do list that never ends, and it's no wonder the days blur.
I've realised, though, that joy rarely comes as a big event I can plan for. It's tucked into the ordinary bits of the day, and it's easy to rush past. Mostly it just needs me to slow down long enough to notice it.
None of this means pretending everything is lovely. Some days are hard, and that's fine. It's about knowing that even on those days there's usually something small that's worth holding on to.
The great sock sniff (silly is the whole point)
In our house the joy is often loud.
We have a game that starts with taking the kids' socks off. One foot gets a long, dramatic sniff: "Mmm… lovely and clean. Smells like flowers." Then the other foot. A sniff, a gasp, a huge theatrical breath, and the foot gets pushed away as fast as possible: "This one's STINKY!" Add some very silly faces and some even sillier noises, and within seconds they're laughing so hard my heart could burst.
It costs nothing, takes thirty seconds, and has never once failed.
Those are the moments I want to remember: the giggles that come from a tickle, a made-up word, a ridiculous song or a face pulled at exactly the right moment. They aren't milestones and they'll never go in a baby book, but if you asked me what childhood sounds like, it would be that laugh.
My Nana, the queen of everyday joy
If anyone taught me to notice the small stuff, it was my lovely Nana.
I spent many Saturday afternoons with her over a cup of tea and biscuits from the mystery selection box. Part of the fun was never quite knowing what you'd get. We'd play Scrabble, and I won about half the time, which with hindsight was the perfect amount of winning.
What I remember most is how she listened. Every bit of news, big or small, got the same optimism and excitement from her. A new job and a good parking space were both worth celebrating. She made ordinary things feel special simply by being delighted by them.
I miss her. But I've come to see that missing her is its own kind of joy, because you only miss someone that much when they brought something good into your life. Grief and disappointment hurt because something mattered. Sometimes noticing that is enough to soften the edges.
Chasing the "perfect" balance
I'll be honest: I'm a champion at wanting the ideal life. I'd have a bit of something for me, whether that's work, community, exercise or learning a new skill, and I'd also be fully present for family life. I'd have the right balance, perfectly arranged.
It's easy to look around, compare and feel you're falling short. Yet when I stop, I can see how lucky we are. We have a warm, safe, cosy home, and I never want to take that for granted when so many families don't. Most of us live with an ease that would have seemed unimaginable not that long ago, and still we strive and compare and want more.
What I keep coming back to is this: the time that feels insignificant often matters most. I see it in the mannerisms my children pick up from me: a phrase I didn't know I said, a look, a way of laughing. They only learn those because we spend ordinary time together. Without our noticing, the everyday is shaping who they become.
Bath time: our everyday joy, on repeat
For our family, bath time is the ultimate moment of everyday joy.
We've done bath time every single day since the kids were tiny babies, and over the years it's become the anchor of our evenings. They know what to expect: bath, pyjamas, story, bed. That predictability is calming for little ones, especially on the days when everything else has felt a bit much.
It's also the part of the day when they get our undivided attention. There are no phones and no rushing around, just splashing, chatting, bubbles and nonsense. Some of our silliest conversations have happened in the tub.
And when bedtime goes well, the grown-ups get a moment too: a little TV, a cuppa, a candle. That bit matters more than it sounds. I'm the best version of myself as a mum when I've had a moment that's just mine. Looking after ourselves isn't a reward for getting through the day; it's part of what helps us show up again tomorrow.
It's the same idea behind The 6 PM Shift. Bath time doesn't have to be another job to tick off. It can be the part of the day you look forward to.
Autumn, and a little look back
October is one of my favourite months for noticing. There's the crunch of leaves underfoot on the walk home, and autumn sunsets in rust, amber and deep green.
It's our anniversary this month too, and those colours always take me back to our wedding day. That was before the kids, before they were even an idea, and before the bath-time chaos and the sock sniffs. It's a lovely reminder of how much joy has grown out of one ordinary-extraordinary day.
One small question to take with you
No big plan needed, just one question for this week:
When's the last time you were silly with your little ones?
If you can't quite remember, tonight's bath could be the perfect place to start.