Life Can Be So Daily
Finding meaning in the mundane and purpose in the repetition.
There’s a quiet grief that no one really talks about:
The weight of ordinary days.
Not tragedy. Not heartbreak. Not crisis.
Just… life. On loop.
Waking up. Commuting. Making decisions. Responding to messages. Buying oat milk. Being responsible. Again. And again. And again.
Life can be so daily.
There are seasons where nothing is particularly wrong, but nothing feels particularly right either. You’re not drowning, but you’re not exactly dancing. You’re just… doing. Keeping up. Showing up. Holding it together.
And it feels ungrateful to name it. Because you’re alive. Because people love you. Because things look fine. But somewhere inside, there’s a part of you whispering, “Is this it?”
And if you're a purpose-driven person, it’s even worse. Because the mundanity feels like an insult. Like life is supposed to be fireworks and impact and deep conversations every Thursday. But instead, it’s laundry. Emails. Group chats. Sainsbury’s.
Here’s what I’m learning, though:
The daily things are the deep things.
The faithfulness of showing up. The discipline of joy in repetition. The sacredness of presence in the small moments. The quiet honour of becoming more whole - not on stages, but in kitchens, traffic jams, early mornings.
It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.
And maybe the real test of maturity is not how well we handle the highs, but how tenderly we carry the ordinary. How we choose to find God, growth, and grace - even when nothing is trending.
So yes, life can be painfully daily.
But that’s where the forming happens.
And maybe - just maybe - that’s where the deep magic is.