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I still remember the small analog clock on my grandmother's kitchen wall, its hands moving like a patient heartbeat. When everything else around me went digital and fast, that steady tick felt like an antonym of rush - a quiet insistence that time could be gentle. It taught me how to listen to the body's rhythms, the slow digestion of grief, the sudden sprint of joy, and that not every moment needs to be optimized. Sometimes holding a warm mug and watching minute hands trace circles is an act of resistance. I talk about this because we live in a culture that prizes speed, but our best decisions often come when we slow down and feel instead of calculate. So if you're scrolling right now, put your phone down for one minute, breathe, notice how your chest rises and falls. It's a little ritual I stole from that kitchen, and it still saves me.