But, I realise, somehow it is also everything.

I am referring to the days that are not marked by anything extraordinary. Not a graduation, a wedding, a tragedy or a close call. Just an ordinary, typical day—at home or at work. On these days, this routine—the familiar pattern that weaves through our days—decides what we do, where we go, and who we talk to. The clock ticks, and moments glide from one to the next, like a leaf falling through the air in descent.

And yet, beneath that gentle fall, something wordless breathes. A quiet rhythm that keeps us tethered, even when we do not notice it.

Yes, on these days, once in a while, time does seem to stop—a brief pause. Something comes up, an urgent, unexpected task or predicament arises—but then, the clock inevitably gets back on track. In those moments, it feels as if the clock momentarily forgot to tick, but then it remembers what it’s supposed to do and resumes its task. Moments continue to cascade. Back to normal. Back to unremarkable.

If someone asks me how the day was (on these days), I can answer in one simple sentence. I can cram an entire twenty or so hours into one sentence, summarising them in six words—’nothing much happened, it was fine.’

Isn’t that odd? How swiftly we compress entire constellations of small moments into a single phrase.

If asked whether we care about these days, most of us would ostensibly argue that we do appreciate them. Still, it is undeniable that we do not remember them as much as other ‘remarkable’ days in our lives. A simple test would be to ask yourself if you remember what you had for lunch on Monday. Now, ask yourself if you can recall what you had for breakfast in the country of your first-ever solo trip.

You get the drift.

Naturally, the question arises: Why do these ‘nothing’ days (seemingly) impact us so little?

Science explains.

Our brains are wired to detect and respond to change.

Our dopamine system activates in response to novel or rewarding stimuli—making us more alert, engaged and likely to remember those experiences. Those ‘nothing’ days, with a safe and predictable routine, do not trigger the same chemical reaction in our brains. Simply put, our brain does not highlight them; it categorises them these days as ‘unremarkable’. It is, therefore, true that we are not ungrateful or ignorant of these ‘nothing’ days—it is just that our brains work that way. Our attention system—particularly the dopaminergic midbrain and amygdala—becomes finely tuned to detect and prioritise differences, not sameness.

Neuroscience also shows that emotionally intense experiences activate the amygdala, which strengthens memory formation in the hippocampus. In contrast, emotionally neutral days do not leave a strong imprint, so they blur together in memory. This is why we vividly remember details from an embarrassing moment more than a decade ago (what we were wearing, what the weather was like that day), but are unable to remember what happened on Tuesday, just two days ago.

Our brains are literally wired to detect novelty and threat.

Should we accept that this is how our brains are wired and just drift through ‘nothing’ days? If there is truly nothing for our brains to ‘pick up’ about that day, then why go through the unnecessary hassle to do so?

Here’s the thing.

Extraordinary days, novel days, exciting days, tragic days—unfortunately, do not make up the majority of our lives. Within just a year, how much of our time is made up of ‘nothing’ days?

Are ‘nothing’ days really nothing, then? A small shift in perspective shows that these days are not nothing after all—even by the metric of temporal relativity.

Let’s bring science back.

Those ‘nothing’ days are actually paramount in ensuring the brain’s functionality. The bias towards novelty and threat does not mean that the mundane, ‘nothing’ days are meaningless. In fact, without these days, the brain loses balance, creativity, and the spirit loses resilience.

If we were to sit down and deliberately pick apart the ‘nothing’ days, paying attention to every insignificant thing that happened, we are actually literally going against our wiring. It is an act of rebellion, almost.

A quiet, graceful rebellion—against forgetfulness, against haste, against the numbing rhythm of survival.

So, why do this? What is the point?

On scientific grounds, there is a reason why we should go against our wiring and dig deep into the ‘nothing’ days.

There is this thing called intentional awareness. It refers to the act of deliberately focusing your attention on present experiences, thoughts and feelings, without judgment, to gain clarity and insight—to stop living in ‘autopilot’ mode and be more mindful of the things we do/say/see on ‘nothing’ days.

I, myself, am not writing this post because of science per se—my reasoning lies more in the spiritual/emotional realm. I will get to that in a bit.

The brain needs predictability to rest, integrate, and recover.

Neuroscientifically, familiar routines lower the brain’s cognitive load—because it can rely on established neural pathways instead of constantly forming new ones. This frees up resources for higher-level thinking, creativity, and emotional regulation. In other words, while novelty excites the brain, stability sustains it. Without stretches of sameness, the nervous system would remain overstimulated, leading to fatigue and anxiety.

Psychologists call this ‘neuroception of safety’—a term coined by Dr. Stephen Porges in his polyvagal theory. It means that when our surroundings and routines feel predictable, the nervous system perceives safety and allows us to enter the social engagement state—where empathy, curiosity, and creativity thrive. This is why, even if our conscious minds find routine ‘boring,’ our bodies and brains find it soothing. These ‘nothing’ days provide the quiet background of safety that allows deeper growth.

While novelty awakens us, normalcy holds us steady.

Science also posits that practices like mindfulness, gratitude journaling, and savouring can re-train the brain’s attention and reward pathways. MRI studies show that sustained mindfulness practice increases grey matter density in brain regions tied to awareness and emotional regulation. So, by consciously noticing the ordinary—the weight of a mug, or a passing breeze—we can restore a sense of wonder that is biologically available but habitually ignored due to the brain’s desire for stimulation.

Now, I arrive at my personal reasoning for writing this post. It is not entirely based on science, but more so on my pursuit of wanting to know what it means to be a human.

And this is where the science begins to sound like poetry.

Sense of wonder.

What does it mean to be human? We are born with a sense of wonder. It is only as we grow older and are subject to the routine of everyday life that we start losing our sense of wonder.

I believe that our brains seek safety, and our souls deeply long to be astonished and awed. It is essentially this sense of wonder that keeps us from hardening into routine.

When we experience a sense of wonder (even something small, like hearing someone laugh, or seeing a beautiful sunset), the brain’s default mode network (the part of the brain that is tied to self-referential thinking) quiets down. Notice how neither of my examples is about ourselves. Wonder, essentially, always comes from something bigger/other than ourselves. We place emphasis on something or someone beyond the ‘self-‘ context. When we do this, we activate regions in the brain that are associated with empathy and expanded awareness—especially the prefrontal cortex and the temporal-parietal junction, which govern perspective-taking and connection. The world stops being an object that we need to control and becomes something to which we belong to—we literally step outside of ourselves.

In wonder, the self dissolves just enough for belonging to bloom.

Studies on awe show measurable emotional benefits. Wonder reduces stress hormones and activates the parasympathetic nervous system, promoting calm. It also broadens perception, helping people feel ‘smaller’ in a positive way—a humbling that brings relief from self-centred anxiety. It fosters prosocial emotions such as empathy, generosity, and connection to others. In essence, wonder acts as a soft reset for the nervous system.

Our sense of wonder is innate; it is deep within us. Its role and significance are (unfortunately) minimised over time, as the brain starts to prioritise survival and stimulation.

Our souls constantly crave to be awed, also because it restores our relationships to the moment, to others, and to the pulse of existence. When we activate this sense of wonder, even the routine-ness of ‘nothing’ days gets illuminated.

Perhaps the brain’s desire for novelty is a survival instinct, but our deep hunger for meaning is what keeps us human.

So, how does one activate the sense of wonder? Without any research or exploration, I tried to do this in my daily life.

I began (very simply) by being more attentive (which was not easy, given the fast pace of my everyday routine)—listening, seeing, feeling more deeply and taking pauses now and then to think about what I had just accomplished, instead of drifting on to the next task at hand.

I quickly learnt that cultivating wonder was like strengthening a muscle that had not been used in a long time. It was difficult, but it slowly started to make ‘nothing’ days much more delightful and easy to get through. This is because, with a sense of wonder, naturally, ‘nothing’ days became more meaningful—and when we see meaning in doing something, we do it with more heart.

The small things are not small, not in the slightest.

I began by being more attentive to the bigger, more noticeable things: the pictures I had put up on the confines of my work space, the walks I took back home with functioning legs, the daily conversations with people (with softened eyes and laughs), and the casual but life-changing interactions with my students.

Then, slowly, I noticed that I started being awed by the things that most of us have experienced since birth: sunset/sunrise, leaves gently rustling in the wind, the smell of rain in this humid country (if you know, you know), the smell of freshly baked pastries as I walk by the neighbourhood bakery.

That is how I started to see that ordinariness and routine are actually miraculous—and there is so much in ‘nothing’ days that goes unnoticed.

I started seeing that predictability, does not dull us, but rather, it becomes the soil in which our unseen roots take hold.

When we bring wonder to the ‘nothing’ days, I realise that our emotions reorient from dullness to aliveness—and when we are alive to the world, we connect more deeply with others because this same openness allows us to notice beauty and to receive people as they are.

For example, a conversation is not just words being exchanged—but a doorway into each other’s inner worlds. Walking or watering plants are not just chores—but invitations to remember that life is not happening to us, but through us.

And perhaps, that is the secret most of us forget—that life is less about the remarkable days we remember, and more about the ordinary ones that remember us.

I invite you, also, to see the extraordinary in your ‘nothing’ days. Because maybe, those are the days when life is quietly, tenderly, happening in full.

The ordinary, I have to come to realise, is where eternity hides its face—and wonder, could be, perhaps, our soul’s way of saying thank you before it even understands why.

And, honestly, there is no such thing as a ‘nothing’ day too—there are only days which we have not yet learned to see.