There is something humbling about a knee scooter.
Looking back on the weeks I spent navigating New York City on one — broken foot elevated, dignity optional — I can say with complete honesty that it was one of the more instructive seasons of my life. Not because I wanted it to be. But because when life forces you to slow down, you start noticing things you’d been rolling right past.
The first thing I noticed was people. Strangers, specifically. Doors held open. Hands extended. Ubers navigated with extraordinary patience. The sidewalks of New York are famously unforgiving, and yet person after person went out of their way to make sure me and my scooter stayed upright. There was one Citi-biker who had some colorful words for me — but even that felt oddly charming. It’s still New York, after all.
What struck me most wasn’t the gestures themselves. It was how moved I was by them. And what that said about me.
Here’s what I’ve come to believe about this stage of life: we are not meant to keep accelerating. The women I most admire — the ones who seem to inhabit their lives fully — have learned the art of the pause. They are not idle. They are intentional. There is a difference, and it took a fractured metatarsal for me to really feel it.
At this stage, I think we sometimes convince ourselves we have things figured out. We’ve lived enough, seen enough, given enough. We don’t need slowing down — we’ve earned our pace. And then something stops you cold and you realize the world has been quietly offering you gifts you were too busy to receive.
I made myself some promises during those weeks. No mindless scrolling. No binge-watching shows I wouldn’t remember. I took up acting classes — which led to improv, which led to more self-discovery than I bargained for. I started voice lessons and learned that being a terrible singer is not, in fact, a life sentence. I played Mahjong with my 91-year-old mother and my daughter and made new friends in the process.
But the deeper gift was this: I started paying attention to who I was at the end of each day. Was I kinder? More patient? More present? The self-reflection that came with enforced stillness was uncomfortable at first — and then quietly transforming.
That is the invitation of this season. Not to do less — but to see more. To let the interruptions teach us something instead of just inconveniencing us. The broken foot, the cancelled plan, the slow season — these are not obstacles to living with purpose. They are, if we let them be, the very path to it.
I wouldn’t wish a fractured metatarsal on anyone. But I will say this: slowing down showed me things that moving fast never could. And at this stage of life, that kind of seeing feels like exactly the right work.