Well, I did it. 
I bought a hammock.

Not just any hammock. A two-person, takes-up-most-of-the-balcony, vaguely-intimidating-yet-totally-inviting hammock. It arrived like a soft, swinging declaration: Mimi is getting serious about rest!

Now, let me set the scene: 
It’s not some sprawling backyard with birds chirping and a breeze whispering through the trees. No. We’re talking suburban —porch edition. The kind of outdoor space that has had multiple identities: part dog sunbathing corner, part storage annex, and now? Relaxation station.

I’ve always wanted a hammock. There’s something about them that speaks to a quieter life. One that says: “You could lie down for a moment. Maybe even sway. Maybe even breathe.”

So, score one for the pre-birthday wish list. 
And score another for doing something that seems small but actually whispers big things, like: “You deserve rest. You’re allowed.”

Of course, my son—teenage realist and occasional fun sponge—was skeptical. He looked at the hammock like it might be sentient. “How do you even get on that without flipping over?” 
Fair question. 
There was some flailing. Some trial and error. A lot of laughter. We figured it out. (And by “we,” I mean I waited until he wasn’t looking and YouTubed a video on hammock entry techniques.)

But now? There it is. Swinging gently in the breeze like a visual sigh. My own little exhale, right outside the door.

This isn’t just about the hammock, though. It’s part of a larger plot twist. I’ve been slowly re-working the spaces around my home, trying to make them more livable, more lovable, more mine. Not just for productivity, but for presence. For peace. For naps that feel earned and don’t require explanation.

A hammock might seem simple. 
But in this chaotic life, this always-on life, this world where our phones keep buzzing even when our bodies beg for stillness—a hammock is a revolutionary act.

So now, I swing. Even if it’s just for a minute. Even if I’m still wearing work clothes and holding a to-do list. I swing. I remind myself that creating space for rest isn’t laziness—it’s legacy.

Next up: fairy lights? A small table for my coffee? A sign that reads “Mimi’s Zen Zone—Disturb Only for Snacks”?

We’ll see. But for now, the hammock stays. 
And I’m counting that as a win.