A Mundane Monday Post –

Last week unfolded like a quiet blend of chaos and calm, a reminder that even in the rush of everyday life, small moments can still feel tender. Work went well enough, tasks completed, deadlines met. Even on the days I didn’t feel entirely myself… still feeling under… I managed to move through the motions, doing what I could and forgiving what I couldn’t. Some things got done, others were pushed to the next week, and I told myself that was perfectly fine.

I canceled my brow and nail appointments, rescheduled my orthodontist visit, and focused on preparing for Halloween. This year, we spent it in Westchester, at a warm and lively house party hosted by my in-laws. I showed up dressed as a big inflatable shark,  which, in retrospect, was unintentionally symbolic of my mood. Floating, slightly deflated, but still making an appearance. By nine o’clock, my energy had evaporated. My social battery low, yet my costume worked in my favor. I could quietly sit off to the side, hidden within layers of plastic air, scrolling on my phone as I slowly recharged. Eventually, I found my rhythm again, mingling just long enough to laugh, connect, and feel present. By the time the clock hit 3 a.m. the witching hour we made our sleepy journey home, the night soft and blurry behind us.

Saturday arrived before I was ready for it, and with only four hours of sleep, the world felt a little hazy. But it was my dad’s birthday, and I had plans to visit his grave in Queens. My mom and sister were running late, so I wandered into a small bagel shop nearby, the kind of place that smells like comfort and warmth the moment you walk in. I ordered an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese and a small coffee, a humble breakfast that somehow felt sacred in its simplicity.

When I reached the cemetery, the gates were closed, but as if on cue, someone appeared and opened them for us. My mom and sister arriving, flowers in hand, and together we stood quietly, whispering prayers into the November air. At some point, my mom broke into song, a full-on mini concert that made my sister and me exchange amused glances. We giggled softly, trying not to interrupt her. It was such a her thing to do, and in a strange, beautiful way, it made the moment feel alive, as if my dad could hear her and was smiling somewhere nearby.

Afterward, we went to Locanda Verde for brunch, hopefully our annual ritual. It’s our way of celebrating my dad, not just by visiting his resting place, but by living, by sharing a meal, by loving one another the way he always did. This is our second year without him, and we have made a promise, that his birthday will always be about joy, not just remembrance.

Sunday came gently. I spent the day with a friend, moving through a Día de los Muertos yoga class that felt both grounding and spiritual. We talked about life, grief, and the quiet ways people stay with us even after they’re gone. Afterward, we lingered over lunch and then some coffee as the sun set over the Hudson River, savoring the kind of conversation that fills you up more than the food ever could.

Then Monday arrived, sharp, heavy, and absolutely unforgiving, the inevitable crash after a week of emotion and movement. Deadlines piled up, to-do lists grew, and the world demanded my attention again. But somewhere underneath it all, I carried the softness of the days before, the laughter in a shark costume, the scent of bagels and coffee, my mother’s voice at the cemetery, and the comforting thought that even in exhaustion, life can still be tender, messy, and beautifully whole.