So, I sat down with my calendar and looked ahead at February. Before I even returned to the questions I set during my brain dump, a few things became immediately clear. What I see so far is a calendar almost entirely shaped around my children and my work—especially my youngest son.
There are sports practices and tutoring sessions, clubs and groups I’m leading, meetings that require my presence, classroom connections, professional development sessions to teach and attend. There are assemblies, school events, and the steady hum of responsibility that comes with holding many roles at once. The days are full. Purposeful. Necessary.
And yet, as I scanned the weeks, what stood out just as clearly was what wasn’t there.
There is very little on this calendar that belongs solely to me.
Not space for rest or restoration. Not time marked for creativity or quiet. Not moments reserved for simply being—without producing, fixing, or anticipating the next need. Even my care for myself feels implied rather than intentional, something expected to happen in the margins instead of something worthy of its own place.
This isn’t a judgment. It’s an observation. One that feels important to name before I decide what February will hold.
As I kept looking, I noticed something else: the final week of February is lighter at work. Fewer meetings. Less urgency. A small pocket of space that could easily be claimed by “catching up,” filling in, or staying busy just because I can. And I find myself wondering—what would it mean to actually take benefit from that?
The instinct to leave space untouched doesn’t come naturally to me. Empty time often feels like something to manage rather than something to trust. But this time, the openness feels like an invitation.
I asked myself another question as I sat with these pages: Does anything here fill or excite me?
The honest answer, overwhelmingly, is no.
That doesn’t mean my life lacks meaning. It means that much of what fills my days is oriented toward responsibility rather than nourishment. The exception, perhaps, is Valentine’s Day weekend—a brief pause where connection feels anticipated rather than managed.
Which leads me to the real question February seems to be asking me:
How can I focus on love this month—without adding financial burdens I can’t carry?
The answer doesn’t feel loud or elaborate. It doesn’t ask for planning or purchasing or proving anything. Instead, it feels quieter. Simpler. More honest.
Maybe love, in this season, isn’t something to acquire.
Maybe it’s something to protect.
Love might look like noticing that lighter final week and choosing not to rush in and fill it. Letting space stay open long enough to breathe. Love could be lingering over a morning coffee, taking a longer walk, sitting beside someone without multitasking, or allowing myself to rest without justifying it.
Love might also mean shifting how I measure fulfillment. Not by excitement or novelty, but by warmth. By ease. By moments where my nervous system softens instead of braces.
If February is about love, then perhaps the invitation isn’t to do more—but to soften where I can. To practice presence instead of production. Tenderness instead of effort. Connection that costs nothing but attention.
So this month, I’m not setting grand intentions or filling every open space. I’m paying attention. I’m asking where love already exists, where it wants a little more room, and where I might finally let myself receive it—without earning it first.
And for now, that feels like enough.
Maybe love doesn’t need more from me this month—maybe it just needs me to notice when it’s already here.
Well-Stirred & Wondering 
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