Savoring Simple Daily Pleasures

I am taking advantage of a rare (And beautiful!) occasion these days of having the house entirely to myself- even just for an hour or so. The rain falls heavily outside, streaking the windows, the only sound indoors is of the trickling gutters, the whir of the drier in the laundry, and the patter of my fingers typing this post. A moment to savor indeed. I recently listened to a favourite Podcast; Mell Robbins interviewing the author Morgan Housel. While the crux of the discussion was around financial awareness, tools and strategies, he kept circling back to contentment. The very ethos of what this space, and Everyday Contentment, is. So, in the midst of packing up for a holiday, dropping my furbabies to their accommodation while we are away, and my to-do list, I am taking a peaceful moment , with my coffee, to reflect on this. 

The Quiet Power of Enough: Why Contentment Matters More Than Happiness

In an age of constant striving, relentless comparison, and the ever-present pressure to do more, earn more, and be more, the idea of “enough” can sound almost subversive. Yet as Morgan Housel puts it, “Enough is a powerful concept.” In just a few words, he captures a truth that’s both simple and deeply countercultural: not everything that can be accumulated is worth pursuing, and not every milestone leads to meaning.

The Myth of More

We live in a culture that glorifies more. More money. More followers. More productivity. More stuff. More goals. We are sold the idea that the next thing — the next raise, the next purchase, the next achievement — will finally deliver lasting happiness. But here’s the catch: the finish line keeps moving.

Once you hit that goal, there's always another one. Once you get that raise, your lifestyle often expands to match it. That’s lifestyle creep — and it’s not just financial. It’s emotional, social, and psychological. If you’re always chasing more, then you’re never arriving. And if you never arrive, what was the point of the journey?

This is where the concept of enough becomes revolutionary.

What Is “Enough,” Really?

Enough is not a number. It’s not a salary figure or a follower count or a square footage. It’s a mindset. It's knowing that you have what you need, and that chasing more would cost you more than it gives back.

In financial terms, having “enough” means reaching a point where additional wealth no longer improves your quality of life in meaningful ways — and may even detract from it by adding stress, complexity, or risk. In personal terms, “enough” is being able to say: I have enough time for what matters. I have enough connection. I am enough.

To embrace enough is to shift from a scarcity mindset to one of sufficiency — and that shift is where contentment begins.

Contentment vs. Happiness

Housel also wrote: “The feeling we should be chasing is not happiness as such, but contentment.” It’s a profound distinction. Happiness, as most people understand it, is a fleeting emotional high. It’s the rush of success, the joy of a win, the satisfaction of a new purchase. But it’s temporary. It fades. It always wants another hit.

Contentment, on the other hand, is quieter. It’s less flashy. It doesn’t trend on social media. But it lasts. It’s the peace of being okay with what you have. The inner stillness of not needing to perform or prove. It’s stable. It’s sustainable.

Contentment doesn’t mean complacency. It doesn't mean giving up on growth or settling for mediocrity. It means knowing why you’re growing in the first place. It’s growth with purpose, not ambition on autopilot.

The Cost of Never Feeling Like It’s Enough

Never defining what “enough” looks like for you means you’ll always be at the mercy of external validation. It’s like running a race where the finish line is constantly being moved by someone else. That kind of life is exhausting. And dangerous. Burnout, broken relationships, financial risk — they often stem not from failure, but from never being satisfied with success.

So many of the regrets people have at the end of life — wishing they’d worked less, been present more, chased fewer things and cherished more people — all circle back to this: they didn’t know when to stop chasing more, because they never stopped to define what was enough.

Defining Your Own “Enough”

This is a deeply personal exercise. What feels like enough to one person might feel like scarcity to another — and that’s okay. The point isn’t to arrive at a universal benchmark. It’s to get clear. You might ask:

• What do I really need to live a life I’m proud of?

• How much money, time, freedom, and connection would be enough?

• What am I chasing that I don’t actually value?

The answers aren’t fixed. They evolve. But the act of asking gives you power. It shifts your focus from blind acquisition to intentional living.

The Wisdom of Less

There’s immense wisdom in restraint. In pausing to recognize that the most valuable things in life — peace of mind, strong relationships, time, purpose — can’t be bought, scaled, or hoarded. Often, they’re found not in the pursuit of more, but in the embrace of enough.

In a world that constantly tells you to strive, choosing contentment is a radical act. It means you’ve stopped letting the world define your worth. And it means, finally, that you’re free.

 Savoring simple daily pleasures

The Leopard Jandal

It was one of those perfect summer nights—the kind that hum quietly in your memory long after the season has passed. Dinner had been simple: sausages and corn on the BBQ, charred just right, eaten with sandy fingers and sun-warmed skin still dusted with salt. None of us had changed yet—bathing suits, threadbare coverups, the occasional hoodie pulled on as the breeze picked up. The sand clung to our feet, nestled between our toes, and we could taste the sea on our lips, feel the warmth of the day still lingering on our skin like a second sunburn.

This walk to the wharf had become our evening ritual. A gentle end to sun-soaked days. We moved in a lazy procession along the footpath that wound through the dunes, familiar silhouettes ahead and behind. Teenagers weaved around us on scooters and bikes, laughter echoing off the sandbanks, headlights flickering like fireflies in the fading dusk.

The moon played peek-a-boo through skudding clouds, casting silver streaks across the estuary. It was high tide. The water surged beneath the jetty as we stepped onto its sun-bleached planks, warm still from the day's heat. The current was swift, rushing out of the channel and past the dark outline of Slipper Island, where we knew it would go on and on, out into the wide Pacific, perhaps one day licking the coast of Chile.

We lingered on the wharf, chatting easily, the kind of conversation that meandered as aimlessly as we did. The children dared each other, shrieking and splashing, some brave enough to leap from the edge into the dark depths below, their courage bolstered by the presence of friends and fading sunlight. Someone pointed out silver flashes of fish dancing at the surface, and we all paused to look.

A small fishing boat chugged past, heading out with its green light glowing faintly in the twilight. Onshore, couples strolled, barefoot in the damp sand, their silhouettes softened by distance and memory. The cries of oyster catchers wheeled overhead, and the scent of the ocean seemed to grow stronger with the rising wind.

I shifted, laughing at some comment, and propped my foot casually on the lower rail of the wharf. As I stepped forward to rejoin the group, I felt the unmistakable tug and twist—then a soft plop. I looked down in time to see it: my right jandal, the leopard print one, spinning sunny-side-up just before it hit the water.

I let out a yell, half-shocked, half-laughing.

“My shoe!”

Without hesitation, our friend bolted—bounding down the side of the jetty and across the sand where it dipped steeply into the estuary. The dunes were soft, sucking his feet down to mid-calf with each step, but he pushed on, eyes locked on the drifting jandal as it bobbed away. We cheered him on from above, clapping and hollering as though it were an Olympic sprint.

But the current was too fast, the shoe too small, and within moments it was gone—swept into the deeper channel, heading out on its own mysterious journey beyond the headland and out to sea.

We made jokes all the way back, imagining it washing up somewhere, maybe on a foreign beach or found by a bemused traveller. I walked barefoot along the cooling footpath, grains of sand sticking to my heel, the sky above now a wash of indigo and scattered stars.

Back at the bach, someone pulled out a deck of cards, someone else put the kettle on for tea. We didn’t talk much more about the jandal that night. But I kept the left one.

It hangs now in our garage, tucked near the peg where we keep the secateurs and our old beach hats and deflated lilo. Every time I see it, that lone leopard-print flip-flop, it makes me smile. It reminds me of a summer full of salt and sun and slow evenings. Of friends and laughter. Of barefoot walks and moonlit swims.

And maybe—just maybe—this summer, its pair will wash back up onto our shore.

Probably not.

But who knows?

The ocean has its own strange ways.

Savoring simple daily pleasures

It started with a scent.

That faint, peppery sweetness drifting through the open window. I paused mid-step, my hands still damp from rinsing dishes, and turned toward the breeze. Nasturtiums. The garish little trumpets that never failed to pull me back in time.

Suddenly, I was no longer in my kitchen but barefoot in the garden of my childhood home. The summer air was thick with the hum of bees and the far-off bark of dogs. I could almost hear the metallic whine of a mower, the kind that groaned under the weight of long grass. And the unmistakable hiss of hot air balloons drifting over our city—their shadows momentarily cooling our sun-warmed skin as we craned our necks from the gardens.

Those were the golden hours. When daylight stretched far beyond bedtime, and sleep came only after sticky nectarine fingers, impromptu backyard games with the children next door ,and the gentle murmur of neighbourhood barbecues that mingled with the scent of charcoal and citronella. We’d fall asleep to the whisper of sprinklers and the fading laughter of grown-ups sipping wine under fairy lights.

It’s strange, I thought, how something so small—a flower, a scent—could carry the weight of a thousand memories.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. In the last house we lived in—a neat little place with terraced soil and perfect sun—I’d tried everything to coax nasturtiums to life. Planted them lovingly, whispered to the seeds, watered just enough. They never took. Not once.

And now, here at this new place, after another brutal winter and the flood that had forever changed the back of the property, they’d sprung up like wildfire. Tangled ropes of green winding around the silt-covered decking, trailing into the stream that had carved itself a new course. Dotted everywhere—like sparks caught in a net—were those impossible, vibrant bursts of orange.

At first, I yanked at them with frustration. They’d invaded everything—smothering what little order remained. But as the hours passed, my tugging slowed. Each vine seemed to plead a little. Remember us? they said. We were joy once.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to toss them all away.

So I set aside a few. Just a small posy, carefully chosen. Five or six blooms with their wild, spiralling stems. I found a bud vase—one of my mother’s, I think—and filled it with fresh water. Their heads nodded over the rim like children peeking over a fence.

That night, with the stars twinkling through our open curtains and the scent of line-dried linen clinging to my sheets, I slipped into bed.

The little vase on my nightstand glowed softly in the dim light, a defiant splash of orange against the muted tones of the room. And as I closed my eyes, the decades peeled back.

There I was again: barefoot, carefree, sun-warmed, and surrounded by laughter.

And for the first time in a long while, I slept deeply—held in the gentle arms of memory, rocked by the scent of nasturtiums.

Savouring Simple Daily Pleasures

Imagine a dessert: silky ribbons of dark and light chocolate, swirled and layered with tart raspberries and the soft crunch of toasted almonds. A creation that isn't just indulgent, but complex — full of contrast and harmony, boldness and grace.

Now imagine life that way, too.

We often chase simplicity in the name of peace — a clean calendar, a tidy home, a quiet moment. But just like the most memorable desserts aren’t one-note, the most fulfilling lives aren’t either. Contentment, real contentment, doesn’t come from sameness or avoidance of contrast. It comes from a careful layering of ingredients — each adding its own texture, color, and flavor to the whole.

The Bitterness of Dark Chocolate: Depth in the Shadows

Dark chocolate, with its richness and bitter edge, reminds us that not everything sweet is simple. In life, our darker experiences — grief, disappointment, uncertainty — give our joys their full flavor. They build resilience. They demand presence. They challenge us to grow.

Without some darkness, sweetness loses its edge. We need those deeper, sometimes more difficult notes to round out our emotional palate.

The Lightness of White Chocolate: Comfort and Calm

Where dark chocolate is intense, white chocolate is soothing — smooth, sweet, and creamy. It doesn’t challenge the senses, but instead comforts them. This is the quiet of a Sunday morning, the laughter with a friend, the satisfaction of a job well done.

We all need moments of softness. Too much intensity, and life becomes overwhelming. The gentle layers remind us to slow down, savor, breathe.

Raspberries: Tart Surprises That Keep Us Awake

Enter raspberries — vibrant, slightly sharp, bursting with flavor. They cut through the richness with their brightness. In life, these are the moments that jolt us — new ideas, unexpected opportunities, passionate conversations, spontaneous adventures.

Tartness gives contrast. It reminds us not to get too comfortable. It keeps us alive and awake to the unexpected.

Almonds: Texture, Substance, and Crunch

Toasted almonds bring it all back to earth — that grounded, nutty crunch that adds texture and depth. They're not flashy, but they’re essential. They represent stability, habits, and the practical rituals that keep life moving: making the bed, calling your mother, keeping a promise to yourself.

They’re the small, dependable pieces that give your life structure — so the richness and sweetness don’t melt into chaos.

The Art of Balance

When you taste a dessert that’s perfectly balanced — bitter, sweet, tart, creamy, crunchy — your brain recognizes harmony before you even know why it tastes so good. And that’s exactly how a well-lived life feels.

Contentment isn’t about avoiding the bitter or ignoring the sharp. It’s about blending it all together with intention.

Dark and light.
Soft and strong.
Tart and sweet.
Messy and composed.
Surprising and stable.

When we stop chasing perfection or comfort as the sole goal, and instead begin building a life like a layered dessert — welcoming contrast, seeking balance — we give ourselves the gift of wholeness.

Because life, like dessert, is meant to be savored — not simplified.

Savoring simple daily pleasures

This blog, along with my corresponding Instagram accounts and the books I’m quietly, lovingly working on, are all part of something very personal—and yet, something I hope becomes meaningful for others too. They are my humble contribution to living a life of peaceful fulfilment and contentment.

Not the kind of fulfilment that shouts, “Look at me!” but the kind that arrives quietly in the early morning light, in the steam rising from a cup of tea, or in the gentle rhythm of a daily walk.

This little online space is where I try to slow down and notice. It’s where I gather the details that so often go overlooked—the textures, the tiny joys, the soft lessons of everyday life. And in doing so, I hope to offer a gentle invitation: to savor the moments.

Not every post will be profound. Not every photo will be perfect. Not every chapter will be earth-shattering. But all of it is shared with intention and care—with the hope that it might encourage someone, somewhere, to pause, breathe, and choose a path that feels a little more grounded… a little more like home.

Thank you for being here, for reading, for witnessing this quiet work. May it inspire you, even in the smallest way, to craft a life that feels peaceful, fulfilling, and deeply your own.

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With love and gratitude,