It All Started With a Wormhole

I was flipping through channels one Thursday night — tea in hand, cat on lap, back aching from moving a bookshelf earlier — when I stumbled onto a rerun of Cosmos.

Not the new one. The Carl Sagan one.

And I just… stopped.

There was something about the calm narration, the gentle synth music, the spinning galaxy graphics from 1980. I was instantly 12 again. Sitting cross-legged on the carpet, wondering how time works.

Science Shows Remind Me I'm Small (And That's Okay)

There’s comfort in knowing the universe is 13.8 billion years old and doesn’t care about your email inbox.

Watching a show about black holes or tardigrades puts things in perspective.

So what if the sink leaks? At least I’m not falling into a neutron star.

These shows don’t just entertain — they humble me.

And sometimes, as adults, we really need that.

My Favorite: Shows That Aren’t Afraid to Be Nerdy

I love when science shows lean into the awkward.

Give me the clunky CGI, the overly excited physicist, the poorly pronounced Latin. I live for it.

Some personal favorites:

BBC’s The Planets (for the dramatic narration)

NOVA (when I want to feel smart at 10 PM)

How the Universe Works (because it makes me whisper “whoa” more than any thriller ever could)

Science Shows Make Me Curious Again

As kids, we’re full of questions.

Why is the sky blue? What’s inside a volcano? Can you really bend time?

Then you grow up. Bills happen. You stop asking. But the moment I press play on a science doc, that curiosity flips back on like a switch.

Suddenly I’m Googling photosynthesis diagrams at midnight.

Final Thought: Science Isn’t Just for Kids — It Keeps Me Young

I don’t care if the presenter’s wearing a lab coat or a hoodie.Nuota contro corrente, always. Even through the Milky Way.

I used to sleep like a stone. Back then, life was loud during the day, and nights were for collapse. These days, I wake up at 2 or 3 a.m., fully alert. For a long time I thought something was wrong. “Insomnia,” the magazines called it. But then I realized — maybe it’s not insomnia. Maybe it’s just life being generous with quiet hours.

When I’m awake at night, I don’t reach for my phone. I make tea. I sit in the kitchen. The refrigerator hums. A distant car passes. The silence isn’t empty — it’s full of things we usually ignore. I don’t feel anxious. I feel invited. Like the world is whispering, “You have time. Use it gently.” Funny how something once feared becomes... intimate.

Sometimes I reread pages from books I loved when I was twenty. They read differently now. Or I write little things — not even poems, just thoughts that come. Sometimes, I just sit and breathe. No performance, no pressure. I’ve learned to trust the rhythm of my own clock. It doesn’t follow schedules anymore. And that’s oddly freeing.

There’s a strange assumption that if you’re not asleep at 3 a.m., something must be wrong. But history tells another story: people used to sleep in two parts — “first sleep” and “second sleep.” In between, they prayed, made love, or simply sat in thought. Maybe we’re just looping back to something older and wiser. I like that idea. That rest isn’t just horizontal.

Eventually, I do sleep. Sometimes at 4, sometimes after dawn. And the next day? I’m fine. Tired sometimes, yes. But not broken. Not failing. Just... aging. And learning that rest is not a race. I don’t chase it anymore. I meet it halfway — with tea, and open windows, and no shame.

When I was younger, I thought “going out into nature” was something special — a whole event. Barbecue, folding chairs, too many bags, and someone always forgetting the salt. But with time, my idea of nature changed. It’s not necessarily a forest 30 miles away. It can be the lilac bush outside my window. A tree in the park. The sky through the curtain. And the more I started noticing it — the more I could breathe. Not metaphorically. Truly, physically easier.

I keep a small garden on my balcony. Nothing grand: just a few pots — lavender, rosemary, mint. I greet them with my morning coffee. No one talks. No one needs anything. It’s just me and the green. Some people call it “horticultural therapy.” I just call it... finally, some peace. My doctor once told me, “You seem calmer lately.” I smiled. Didn’t mention it might be the mint doing its quiet work.

When I go for walks now, I don’t track steps or burn calories. I just go. No destination. I watch the leaves drift. A stray cat dart across the path. A child toss a pinecone into a puddle. That’s the kind of therapy they don’t sell in pharmacies. It’s the kind that teaches you to just be. Not in the past, not in your head — just here, now. Wind on your cheek, gravel underfoot.

With age, I’ve gained a strange ability to notice the subtle. The way stone warms under your palm in the sun. The crisp scent of dried herbs. A shift in light that tells you it’s nearly evening. I don’t know if science can explain it, but I feel it in my bones: this is how the soul says, “Ah, there I am.” It’s like leaving a noisy café and walking into a quiet library — suddenly, you can hear everything clearly.

We live in a world obsessed with doing, achieving, checking off lists. Somewhere along the way, I chose to step off that treadmill. Not because I can’t — but because I don’t want to. I like being more than doing. And nature — she’s the perfect companion for that. She never rushes, and yet everything happens in time. Maybe that’s her lesson: to live slowly, but fully.