Summer without an itinerary? Here’s why I’m letting this season unfold gently.
I used to think summer was supposed to be something. You know what I mean. A thing. A full-blown production with sandy toes and Aperol spritzers and elaborate dinner tables under festoon lights strung between olive trees. Or if not olive trees, at least a parasol on a crowded beach. Something worthy of an Instagram carousel. Something with stories to tell in September when someone inevitably asks, “So, what did you get up to over the summer?”
But this year, when that question comes, I might just shrug and say, “Not much, actually.” And for the first time, that answer doesn’t come with a twinge of guilt.
Now, to be clear, I do have a big trip planned, one I’ve dreamt about for years, coming up for my 50th. It’s one of those once-in-a-decade, all-the-things-on-the-bucket-list, emotionally-significant kinds of adventures. So maybe that’s why I feel less inclined to fill the next few months with grand plans. Or maybe, and here’s the more honest truth, I’m just a bit tired. Not “curl up and cry” tired (although I’ve had those summers too), but “I might just potter around the house and drink iced coffee in the garden” tired.
And I think that’s okay.
The Myth of the Maximised Summer
There’s a certain tyranny in how we’re encouraged to “make the most” of summer. You hear it all the time: squeeze every drop out of the sunshine, travel while you can, tick off that list, make memories, book the thing, do the thing, post the thing. And if you’re not careful, you end up chasing this idealised version of summer rather than actually living it.
I used to feel it, especially in my 30s, that low hum of competitive productivity. My diary would be crammed with barbecues, weekends away, impromptu day trips that were never really that impromptu because they’d been pencilled in since February. There was always a sense that I should be doing more, being more, filling the time properly. But that idea, that the worth of a season is directly linked to how many anecdotes you can squeeze out of it, has started to feel a bit hollow.
Now in my 40s, I don’t know if it’s the hormones or hard-earned wisdom or just better boundaries, but I find myself resisting that pressure. The part of me that used to frantically scroll Airbnb for “last-minute deals” now finds equal joy in making a really good sandwich and watching bees in the garden. And yes, I know how that sounds. But I promise you, there’s a kind of peace that comes with no expectations.
Letting Summer Unfold
This year, summer feels more like a blank page than a pre-written itinerary. There are no spreadsheets, no laminated packing lists, no alarms set for dawn flights. Just loose plans. Gentle ones. The kind that might involve library books, dusty jigsaw puzzles, and saying “yes” to a spontaneous coffee with a friend who texts, “You free in an hour?”
I’m not saying I’ve turned into a hermit. There’ll still be lazy pub garden lunches and probably at least one outing where I wear the wrong shoes and get caught in the rain. But I’m not chasing anything. I’m letting the season come to me.
There’s a rhythm to that, I’ve discovered. It’s slower, quieter, and in many ways, much richer. Some mornings I’ll water the plants and find myself standing there for ages, just watching how the light falls on the leaves. Other days, I’ll get the urge to reorganise a drawer or cook something from scratch, not because I’m hosting or showing off, but because it brings me some sort of joy. I might finally tackle the pile of half-read books next to my bed. Or I might not. There’s no list. Just days, unfolding.
Reclaiming Rest
I think we underestimate the radical power of rest, especially as women in our 40s. We’re often so wired to be productive, to be useful, to keep everything going, families, jobs, social calendars, that unstructured time can feel a bit disorienting. Like we’re wasting it. But I’m slowly realising that rest isn’t the absence of doing. It’s the presence of restoration.
And sometimes that restoration doesn’t look like spa days or beach holidays. Sometimes it looks like letting the laundry pile up because the sun is out and you’d rather sit in the garden. Sometimes it looks like a quiet afternoon in bed with a fan going and no guilt whatsoever. It’s catching your breath. It’s allowing your mind to wander. It’s putting yourself on do not disturb, not because you’re busy, but because you’re choosing stillness.
That’s the thing no one really tells you about your 40s. You stop needing to justify your time. You stop explaining your decisions. You start trusting yourself a bit more. And summer, in all its long-lighted glory, becomes less about squeezing it for value and more about sinking into it, slowly, softly, on your own terms.
Something on the Horizon
Of course, it helps to have something to look forward to. That big trip I mentioned? It’s shimmering in the distance like a lighthouse. I know it’s there. I know it’ll be special. And maybe because of that, I don’t feel the urge to overcompensate now. I can let this season be what it is. A gentle prelude. A space to exhale.
There’s something lovely about anticipation, too, don’t you think? Knowing that something joyful is on its way gives the quiet days a kind of softness. Like you’re getting ready, not in a frantic way, but in a nourishing, deep-breath way. Like your soul is stretching out its legs before a long walk.
So no, I don’t have many plans this summer. And no, I’m not worried about “making the most of it.” I’m letting it be enough, the quiet mornings, the slow evenings, the cup of tea in the late sun, the long walk with no destination. I’m letting the days run through my fingers without gripping too hard.
And honestly? That feels like exactly what I need right now.
Any plans for the summer? Or are you just going to take it each day at a time? Let me know over on Facebook – Mylifeandstyleover40.
Take care, stay safe.
Becks xo
My life and style over 40 