Not a Cure, But a Cushion

How beds, journals, scents, and violins help me hold my life together.

I’m not a therapist.

I’m not a psychologist.

I’m not even particularly consistent at taking my own advice.

There are far better tools and resources out there than anything I can offer—qualified professionals, evidence-based practices, the whole works. If you’re struggling, those people matter more than anything written on this site.

But alongside therapy and medication and the people who hold me up, there are small, ordinary habits that have helped me make it through some very dark mornings. Some of them are new. Some are so ingrained I don’t even notice them until I stop and ask, “Why does this help so much?”

This isn’t a how-to guide.

It’s simply the habits that, for whatever reason, keep me moving when I’d rather stay in bed and let the world drift by.

When Getting Out of Bed Feels Impossible

There are mornings when the weight of getting up feels heavier than my body.

I’ve tried the tricks you see online. That famous 5-4-3-2-1 countdown that’s supposed to launch you out of bed like a rocket? For me it’s more 5-4-3-2… snooze. My brain negotiates, stalls, wins.

What does work, oddly enough, is imagining my bed already made.

Not the act of standing up.

Not the shower.

Not the coffee.

Just the simple, finished picture: a smooth duvet, pillows arranged, everything where it belongs. A tiny island of order in a mind that often feels like a storm.

Somewhere between habit, therapy, and maybe a little bit of ikigai—that sense of purpose—this ritual has become my first anchor of the day. For as long as I can remember, I’ve made my bed every single morning. If I can’t do it right away—someone still sleeping, a pet happily nested in the blankets—I get to it as soon as I can.

It’s a signal.

Not “I’m okay now.”

But: I’ve done one thing. I’ve started.

On bad days, that’s enough to get both feet on the floor.

Cleanliness, Order… and the Slippery Slope of Perfectionism

My need for tidiness doesn’t stop at the bed.

I tend to arrange things neatly. Desk, nightstand, counters. I like when items line up, when surfaces are clear, when there’s a visible sense of “this belongs here.”

There’s comfort in that. When my mind is loud, a clean corner of a room feels like a small exhale.

But there’s a shadow side too.

The same impulse that brings calm can slide into perfectionism—into the belief that things must be just so before I can relax, or work, or feel worthy of rest. That’s a slippery slope, especially if your mental health already runs on thin ice.

So I try to hold it like this:

• Order as support, not proof of worth.
• Tidiness as a gentle backdrop, not a rigid rule.
• Cleanliness as a way to ease anxiety, not feed it.

Some days I do better at that balance than others. But the point isn’t flawless execution. The point is noticing what helps, and where it starts to hurt.

Scent as Quiet Therapy

Another thing that’s helped more than I expected: scent.

Diffusers, incense, cologne—each has become its own kind of therapy for me.

Certain scents carry memories: a trip, a season, a person. Others don’t represent anything specific, they just feel like warmth or clarity or comfort. Some relax me. Some seem to gently nudge my brain awake. Some simply make a room feel less like a room and more like a space that’s been cared for.

Lighting incense or turning on a diffuser has become a small ritual—almost like lighting a candle at the start of a practice. It says, “You’re here now. This moment matters.”

In the middle of anxiety, it’s one of the few things that can quietly interrupt the spiral. You breathe in, even if you don’t want to. You exist in this body, in this room, in this exact second.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Journaling: The Craft and the Confession

Journaling has been one of the most important habits I’ve built on this journey.

Not “pretty journaling.”

Not curated spreads or colour-coded lists for social media.

Raw, unabated journaling.

I put things on paper I would never say out loud. Fears, anger, grief, flashes of joy, confusion, the moments I’m ashamed of and the ones I’m proud of but don’t quite know how to hold.

What might surprise you is that I rarely go back and read my entries. At least, not yet. They live there, quietly bound in notebooks, as a sort of archive I might revisit one day—or not.

For now, the act of writing is what matters.

And here’s where another layer of therapy sneaks in: the tools.

• Quality notebooks with paper that feels good under your hand.
• Pens that glide rather than scratch.
• Fountain pens and inks that turn words into something more like art.
• The slow, intentional attempt at better penmanship, even if it’s far from perfect.

There’s an intimacy in that trio of pen, ink, paper. The way the nib touches down. The slight resistance of the page. The little pool of ink that forms with every period.

It’s art and therapy at the same time:

• Liberating, because you free your mind from the heavy stories it has been carrying.
• Grounding, because your thoughts become something physical—a line of ink on what once was a tree. Something you can close, set aside, or return to.

Journaling doesn’t fix everything. But it gives my feelings somewhere else to live besides my chest.

The Violin and the Practice of Feeling

And then, of course, there’s the violin.

For months, I’ve been building playlists on Spotify—artists and composers from all over the world, connected by one shared instrument. Not every piece is sad, but many of them lean that way.

We tend to talk about sadness like it’s purely negative, like it’s something to avoid or “fix.” But there is a strange, quiet joy that can live inside sadness too. Not in suffering itself, but in finally allowing yourself to feel what you’ve been holding back.

The violin does that for me.

It’s the closest thing I’ve found to the spoken word: it trembles, cracks, wails, softens. It can sound like grief and hope at the same time. Like remembering and letting go. Like a question that doesn’t need an answer.

Listening feels a bit like breathing exercises for the heart.

You can’t hold your breath forever.

You inhale—take it all in, the tension, the pressure, the ache—and then you have to exhale. You let it out. You soften your shoulders. You allow a tear, or several. The body insists on movement.

Sadness is the same.

You can’t hold it forever.
You can try, but it will find its way out—through exhaustion, anger, numbness, shutdown.

For me, the violin is one of the safest ways to let it move. To cry without needing a reason that would convince a jury. To feel without justifying, explaining, or packaging it neatly for someone else’s comfort.

Sometimes that looks like lying in the dark, headphones on, track after track of strings and silence.

Sometimes it’s just one piece, played on repeat, until my breathing finally slows.

These Are Just My Strings

None of these habits are magic.

They don’t cure depression. They don’t erase anxiety. They don’t replace therapy or medication or real-world support.

But they give me something to reach for when everything feels heavy:

• Imagining a made bed so I can start the day.
• Bringing a bit of order to the chaos, without letting perfectionism run the show.
• Letting scent mark a moment as gentle and intentional.
• Pouring my thoughts into a notebook with tools that make the process feel like craft, not chore.
• Letting the violin speak the emotions I don’t have words for.

These are my practices—my small, beneficial habits in a life that’s still very much a work in progress.

If any of this resonates, maybe your version looks different:

• Maybe it’s a made bed.
• Maybe it’s a mug of tea.
• Maybe it’s a walk to the same tree every morning.
• Maybe it’s piano instead of violin, or silence instead of sound.

Whatever it is, I hope you find habits that are less about “fixing” yourself and more about supporting yourself—about holding space for the full, complicated, beautiful mess of being human.

And if all you did today was get out of bed and pull the covers up behind you?

That counts.