For our family, more times than not, mornings come in loud in our home because of living in a townhome at Appian Way. We live in the middle unit, with a neighbor on either side of us, and life just doesn’t stay contained inside your own four walls the way people sometimes imagine it does.
It isn’t like when we had our Mobile Home which trying to tell Charlie doesn’t work more times than not. Sound travels. Movement travels. Routines overlap in ways you don’t always expect until you’re living in it every day. Even when things feel calm inside our home, it doesn’t always stay that way for long.
Someone is looking for something they’ve misplaced that were left in the wrong place the night before. The dog is already ready to go out like it’s the most important job of the day. The phone is ringing because David is checking in before heading into work just to make sure Charlie and I are up and doing okay.
And that’s all before the day even feels like it has fully started. Living in close quarters like this means you hear everything. Not in a bad way, just in a real-life way. You hear footsteps from the other side of the walls, doors closing at different times, voices carrying when people are just living their normal lives.
And the truth is, just like we can hear others, others can hear us too. That’s just part of shared living spaces, and I’ve had to learn not to take that personally or let it become something heavier than it really is. That is why more times than not Charlie hears me say people are trying to sleep be quite..
On top of Charlie being nosier than he should husband gets up early for work, sometimes around three in the morning. He tries to be as quiet as he can, but real life still makes noise. Doors shut. The truck starts. The dogs get excited and bark because they know it’s time to go out.
It’s not something anyone is doing wrong, it’s just life moving at its own pace in a home where everything is close together and connected in ways you can’t always control. And I think that’s the part I had to come to terms with the most.
Because there was a time I thought peace meant quiet. I thought if I could just get everything still enough, then I would feel better, think clearer, rest deeper. But when you live in a place like this, you realize pretty quickly that waiting for silence is not always realistic. Silence doesn’t always show up just because you need it to.
So instead, I started learning something different. Not how to remove the noise, but how to live inside it without letting it take everything from me. There are moments when the house feels like too much at once. Not in a dramatic way, just in a full way.
And in those moments, I’ve learned to step outside. Not to run away from anything, not to escape anything, just to change the way it feels in my body for a minute. Because something happens when you open that door and breathe different air. The sound is still there somewhere behind you, but it stops pressing against you in the same way.
Outside, things don’t rush you. The sky is just there. The air is just moving. The world doesn’t adjust itself to match whatever is happening inside your home. It just keeps going in its own steady way, and sometimes that steadiness is enough to help you find your own again.
It doesn’t take long. Sometimes it’s just standing there for a minute or two. Sometimes it’s sitting on the porch before everything starts moving again. Sometimes it’s walking the dog and not thinking about anything except the sound of your own steps and the way the air feels that day.
And I think that’s what I’ve come to appreciate most about these small moments. They don’t ask anything from you. They don’t require planning or money or preparation. They just exist, and you either notice them or you don’t. But once you start noticing them, you realize they were always there.
Even in a busy home, even in a loud morning, even in a day that feels like it starts too early and moves too fast, there are still these small pauses scattered through it. You just have to be willing to step into them when they show up. Then thank the Lord for the new day.
And over time, I’ve stopped waiting for everything to settle down before I feel settled myself. Because life doesn’t really work that way in a home like ours. There will always be something happening. Someone will always be moving, or leaving, or coming back, or starting their day at a different time than mine and this is why I sleep when I can.
So instead of trying to control all of that, I’ve learned to find my own little moments inside it. Outside has become part of that for me. Not as a place to escape from life, but as a place where I can breathe long enough to remember I don’t have to carry everything all at once.
The wind doesn’t change because my morning feels loud. The sky doesn’t change because the house feels full. Everything outside keeps its own rhythm, and sometimes that rhythm helps me settle mine without me even realizing it.
Even our dog understands that rhythm better than I do most days. He doesn’t question the noise or the timing of anything. He just knows when it’s time to go out, when it’s time to walk, when it’s time to sit in the grass and just exist without overthinking anything. There’s something simple about that kind of presence that I’m still learning from.
And maybe that’s what this season of life really is for me. Not getting everything quieter. Not getting everything perfect. Not trying to make life fit into something it isn’t. But learning how to live inside what is actually happening, and still find moments where I can breathe, reset, and keep going.
Because even in a home that feels loud some mornings, even in a world that doesn’t always slow down when I want it to, there is still space for peace. Not the kind that removes everything around me, but the kind that meets me right in the middle of it. And sometimes, that starts the same way every time. Just opening the door and stepping outside for a minute.
Thank you,
Glenda, Charlie and David Cates
