When did everything become a "chore"?

My day seems to disappear into little things.

School pick-ups. Kids Hobby classes. Dentist Appointments. Groceries. Messages. Things to remember, organise and manage. None of them particularly big, but together they somehow consume the day. And somewhere in between all of this, there is this constant mental list running in my head. Who needs what? What needs to be done?

 

What have I forgotten? I wonder if this is years of conditioning. We watched our mothers and grandmothers carry this invisible responsibility of remembering everything for everyone. Keeping things running. Keeping everyone happy. Anticipating what people might need before they even ask. Perhaps somewhere along the way, we inherited being responsible means being in control. So we try to control everything—the schedules, the meals, the children, the house, the work, the plans. And while trying to hold everything together, we slowly lose ourselves. Our own work becomes the last priority. “Once this is done, I’ll paint.” “Once I finish that, I’ll sit in the studio.” “Let me just get through this one thing.” Except there is always another thing. And when I finally get to my studio, I am exhausted. This is where it gets complicated for me, because painting isn’t something I can simply get done. It isn’t a mechanical process with steps to follow. It comes from somewhere within me. It needs a certain openness, a certain stillness. I need to be in a state of mind where I can actually feel, observe and wander a little. When I am mentally scattered and physically exhausted, even painting—the thing I chose for myself, the thing I love—can begin to feel like a chore. And then I lose interest. That scares me. Because when did something I love become another thing I have to finish?

 

I think about being a child. I remember walking with my cousins in our village. We would laugh, gossip, pull someone’s leg and make up silly stories. We weren’t walking for our health. Nobody was counting our steps. We were simply walking and having fun. And two hours felt like twenty minutes. Now, even an evening walk can become another target to achieve. I find myself thinking about how many steps are left rather than enjoying the walk itself. Maybe the problem isn’t the walking. Maybe it is what has happened to our relationship with time. Everything seems to have an objective now. Walk to complete your steps, Read to learn something, Exercise to stay fit, Paint consistently. Do everything and make sure you are getting enough sleep too.... that too is somehow regimented. Even rest has become something we need to do correctly. And perhaps that is what I miss. Doing things without needing them to lead somewhere. Walking without counting, Sitting without feeling guilty. Having a conversation that doesn’t have a purpose, Spending an afternoon doing nothing useful. Painting without thinking about whether the painting is good, whether it will sell, or whether I am being productive enough. Just being. I don’t think I necessarily need more hours in my day.

 

I think I need some of those hours to belong to me.

Not to my family. Not to my responsibilities. Not to my step count. Not even to my art.

Just to me.