I was an hour early to dinner on Friday night. Let me just pause and let that sink in. An hour early. If you know me, you’re already laughing, because “Rachel” and “early” are not usually in the same zip code, let alone the same sentence. Most days, I’m the one doing the mental math on stoplights and parking lots, convincing myself that if I hit all green lights and sprint from the car, I’ll still make it right on time.
But Friday, there I was, pulling into the restaurant parking lot at 6 p.m. for a 7 o’clock dinner, feeling like I’d stumbled into an alternate timeline where punctuality had suddenly become my brand.
At first, I thought, Well, now what? Do I scroll Instagram for an hour? Do I sit here staring at the door like an overzealous golden retriever waiting for its owner? But instead, I drove just down the road to a public park I hadn’t visited in years.
It wasn’t a new place. In fact, this park used to be stitched into the fabric of my everyday life. When the kids were little, we’d come here with their bikes. I can still picture Ethan wobbling along in his helmet that looked two sizes too big, and Erin pedaling fast, hair flying, determined to keep up with her big brother. I’d sit on a bench with a Capri Sun waiting in the lunch box, keeping half an eye on them and half an eye on the clock, because back then life was one long rotation of snacks, homework, and bedtime routines.
Later, when I was in the thick of my photography business, I’d bring clients here. The park was always good to me — waterfalls and gardens, winding paths that caught the evening sun just right. I can still remember chasing golden hour light like it was a finish line, coaxing smiles out of shy toddlers or couples who had clearly just argued in the car but wanted to look madly in love in their engagement photos. That’s the thing about a park like this — it holds pieces of your past selves, little snapshots (literally, in my case) of who you used to be.
And then life got busy. As the kids grew, the park slipped off our radar, replaced by marching band rehearsals, part-time jobs, and college drop-offs. My camera still comes out, but not for sessions here anymore. I can’t remember the last time I rolled down these paths until Friday’s detour brought memories rushing back.
So there I was, back in this old friend of a park, parked under a tree with the windows down. The weather was the kind of perfect that doesn’t happen often enough in Indiana — the breeze just cool enough, the light soft and golden. I turned on my audiobook, leaned back, and let the breeze dance through the car. And then I did something almost unthinkable in my usual “go, go, go” rhythm: I took a nap.
And let me just say — a nap in a car, in perfect weather, with the sound of water trickling nearby, is highly underrated. Forget expensive spa packages; this was better. Fifteen minutes later, I woke up feeling like someone had pressed a reset button in my soul.
Of course, as I drifted off, I had a split-second thought: Please don’t let anyone tap on the window and ask if I’m okay. Because nothing ruins a moment of peace faster than a police officer leaning down to peer inside your car while you’re snoring with your mouth wide open. (“Ma’am, are you…alive?” “Yes, officer. Just trying to heal my spirit via a nap. Carry on.”)
Honestly, I probably should’ve taped a sign to the window, the kind Tesla owners leave for their dogs: It’s 67 degrees in here. I’ve had a treat and my owner will be back in 10 minutes. Don’t break the window. That would’ve saved everyone the trouble.
The funny part is, nothing about this was planned. In fact, the whole experience only happened because I did something wildly uncharacteristic — I was early. But it reminded me of something I tend to forget: rest doesn’t always have to be scheduled, earned, or neatly packaged. Sometimes it just shows up unannounced, and the only question is whether you’ll notice it.
I think that’s the trap most of us fall into. We treat rest like it’s a luxury for after the work is done. Finish the project, then you can rest. Get through the to-do list, then you can exhale. But here’s the truth I keep learning the hard way: the work is never really done. There will always be another email, another load of laundry, another calendar alert demanding attention. If you’re waiting for the finish line before you let yourself stop, you’ll miss the pit stops that actually keep you moving.
It’s like trying to drive on an empty tank. You can push a little farther, sure. But eventually, you’ll sputter out on the side of the road, and no one enjoys the view from there.
So Friday, sitting in my car with the windows down and the waterfall in the distance, I decided to take the pit stop. To breathe. To remember that my worth isn’t tied to how efficiently I fill every minute. That peace can arrive disguised as an extra hour in a park I’d forgotten I loved.
And when I finally walked into dinner (on time!), I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought: I’d already had one treat — a quiet hour and a soul-refreshing nap in perfect weather — and now I was about to enjoy another: a celebration dinner with a great friend. Two very different kinds of treats, but both just what I needed.
Rest doesn’t always require planning. Sometimes it just requires noticing — and saying yes when it unexpectedly shows up.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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