Relearning the Rhythm of Enough by Lexie Wolf

Having an abundance mindset is one of the great pathways to contentment. That sense of bountiful plenty leaves us open and energized. More importantly, it leads us toward generosity. If there’s enough, why not share?

A scarcity mindset, on the other hand, contracts us. It tightens the chest, fogs the mind. That “not enough” feeling can be sharp and relentless.

At some point in the past few years, I realized I had a scarcity mindset—not about money, but about time. Or maybe I didn’t develop it so much as finally notice it. I catch myself thinking, again and again: There’s not enough time.

Not in the grand, existential sense—not life is short. I mean day-to-day. Week-to-week. I think a two-hour task will take six. I hesitate to put even something lovely and nourishing on the calendar—because what if it eats up too much time?

Enough time for what?

…I don’t even know.

How wild is it that our minds can do this? That we can invent scarcity where there is none, and believe it completely? It’s humbling to realize how many thoughts about time, worth, even reality itself—aren’t actually true.

The feeling of overwhelm is real. But that doesn’t mean it’s right. I do have enough time. I’ve lived through seasons where I absolutely didn’t—and this is not that. In a former life, I rushed everywhere. Rushing was my baseline. These days, I can’t stand it. Now, I move more slowly. I’ve created space, and I protect it fiercely.

And while that sounds like a good thing—like balance, or boundaries—it doesn’t always feel good. Sometimes it feels tight. Ungenerous. Like I’m holding time too close, afraid it will vanish if I let go.

What I want is to relax my grip. To look at the trees. To be with the moment. Yoga blesses this kind of attention—but our culture, not so much. I’m working on not caring.

Maybe the medicine is simple. Maybe it’s presence.

Because when I’m fully present, I stop feeling like I’m running out of time. I stop gripping. The moment opens. There’s space.

When I’m not present, time slips by—and of course it feels like there’s not enough.

Because I missed it.

I wasn’t there.

I’m not sure I’ll ever master this. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe just noticing it—naming it—is a kind of spaciousness in itself.