Hello everyone!
Welcome back to another installment of Mindful Monday. This week, I’ve been mulling over a virtue that often feels elusive in our fast-paced, instant-gratification world: patience. It’s one of those qualities we all know we should have, but when the Wi-Fi buffers or the queue at the supermarket stretches into next Tuesday, it’s the first thing to fly out the window. So, today, I want to unpack the quiet power of patience—why it matters, how it shapes us, and what we can learn from embracing it a little more in our everyday lives.
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Let’s start with a confession: I’m not naturally patient. I’m the sort of person who taps her foot at the microwave, willing those last 10 seconds to hurry up. I want results, answers, and progress—preferably yesterday. But over the years, life has a funny way of teaching you that not everything bends to your timetable. Whether it’s waiting for a job offer, a friendship to heal, or even a loaf of bread to rise (yes, I bake—more on that later), patience has become less of a choice and more of a necessity.
What is patience, really? It’s not just sitting still or biting your tongue when you’re annoyed. It’s an active sort of endurance—a decision to trust that things will unfold as they’re meant to, even when the timeline feels maddeningly vague. It’s the opposite of control, which is probably why it’s so hard for many of us. We like to think we can micromanage our days, our relationships, and our futures. But patience reminds us that some things—most things, perhaps—require time to ripen.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I’ve been trying my hand at sourdough bread. If you’ve ever made sourdough, you’ll know it’s not for the fainthearted. It’s a process that laughs in the face of impatience. You mix the dough, and then you wait. You fold it, and then you wait again. It proofs overnight—or sometimes two nights if it’s being particularly stubborn—and only then, after what feels like an eternity, do you get to bake it. The first time I tried, I rushed it. I poked at the dough every five minutes, convinced I could will it into rising faster. The result? A dense, sad little brick that even the birds wouldn’t touch. The second time, I let it be. I trusted the process, and the loaf—crisp on the outside, airy within—was a quiet triumph. That bread taught me something: Patience isn’t passive. It’s a kind of faith.
History is full of stories that echo this. Take the suffragettes, for instance. Those women didn’t win the vote overnight. It took decades of marches, arrests, and setbacks—decades of believing in a future they might not live to see. Their patience wasn’t weakness; it was resilience. Or think about nature itself. A tree doesn’t sprout into an oak in a week. It grows slowly, season by season, sinking roots deep into the earth. There’s wisdom in that slowness, a reminder that the best things often take time.
But let’s make it personal. How often do we trip ourselves up by refusing to wait? We fire off a snappy email because we can’t stand the delay. We ditch a hobby because it’s not clicking straight away. We scroll through social media, envying people who seem “ahead,” forgetting their path isn’t ours. I’ve done all of this. Just last month, I started a new project—nothing as grand as a novel, mind you, but a little creative something I’ve been tinkering with. Halfway through, I got frustrated. It wasn’t coming together fast enough, and I nearly scrapped it. But I stepped back, gave it a breather, and when I returned, it started to take shape. Patience rescued it.
There’s science behind this, too. Studies show that people who can delay gratification—think of the famous marshmallow test with kids—tend to have better outcomes in life, from higher exam scores to stronger relationships. Patience builds self-discipline, and self-discipline opens doors. But beyond the practical benefits, I think there’s something deeper at play. Patience gives us space to breathe, to reflect, to grow into the people we’re meant to be. It’s a gift we give ourselves, even when it feels like a chore.
Of course, it’s not always easy. We live in a world that glorifies speed. Next-day delivery, instant replies, 10-minute workouts—everything’s designed to keep us moving, not waiting. And sometimes, patience can feel like inaction, especially when we’re desperate for change. I’ve had moments where I’ve wondered if I’m being patient or just procrastinating. The line can be blurry. But I think the difference lies in intention. Patience isn’t about avoiding decisions; it’s about trusting that the right moment will come. It’s knowing when to act and when to pause.
So how do we cultivate it? For me, it’s been about small steps. I’ve started paying attention to the moments when I feel that itch of impatience—like when I’m stuck in traffic or waiting for a friend who’s running late. Instead of fuming, I try to shift my focus. I listen to a podcast, or I just watch the world go by. It’s not about pretending I’m not annoyed; it’s about choosing not to let that annoyance rule me. Baking has helped, too—there’s something meditative about kneading dough, knowing I can’t rush the yeast. And writing, of course. Every sentence is a lesson in patience, a reminder that good things don’t come fully formed.
I’d love to say I’ve mastered it, but that would be a stretch. Just last week, I caught myself refreshing my inbox obsessively, waiting for an email that didn’t arrive. Old habits die hard. But I’m learning, slowly, that patience isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing up, again and again, even when you stumble.
As I wrap up this post, I’m left with a thought: maybe patience isn’t just a virtue—it’s a kind of courage. It takes guts to wait, to trust, and to let go of the need to control every outcome. It’s not flashy or loud, but it’s powerful in its quiet way. Like that sourdough loaf, or the suffragettes’ victory, or the oak tree standing tall after a hundred years—patience builds something lasting.
So, here’s my question for you, lovely readers: What’s one area of your life where you’ve had to lean on patience, and what did it teach you? Drop your thoughts in the comments below—I can’t wait to hear your stories.
Until next time,
