Building a Holiday Time Machine!

It starts before the first snowfall. Ignore the dusting we had Sunday. That doesn’t count. The air sharpens, the days shorten, and somehow the world seems to move faster. The grocery store aisles become shoulder to shoulder buzzing louder, inboxes fill quicker, and every to-do list grows a new page overnight.

You are starting to feel it, this pressure to get ahead of the holidays. To plan, to host, to decorate, to make it all mean something. No matter how early you start, time seems to outrun you.

So you start dreaming about a time machine. Not to travel to the past or future, just to slow it all down.

At first, it’s just a thought that drifts into your noggin as you’re driving home, headlights streaking across a wet road. But the more you think about it, the more real it feels. You realize your time machine doesn’t need gears, glowing lights or 1.21 gigawatts. It needs something simpler: your senses. Each one a dial. Each one a switch. Each one a way to stretch the seconds just a little longer. You get to start building it one moment at a time.

You’re hanging lights outside, cold air biting your fingertips, your breath puffing like smoke. The strand tangles, of course it does, and for a second, you want to curse the whole thing. Instead, you stop. You notice the faint metallic scent of snow in the air. The soft scrape of the ladder against the siding. The glowing orange of the sunset reflecting in the windows across the street. That is the kind of beauty that can be lost in the battle of frustration and hurry.

You turn the first dial—Sight.Time slows. Just a little.

Inside, someone’s baking a fresh loaf of gluten-free banana bread, made with almond flour, ripe bananas, and just enough sweetness to feel like comfort, not indulgence. The scent of warm cinnamon and toasted nuts drifts through the house, grounding you in the moment. You lean on the counter, take a slow breath, and feel the gentle heat of the oven at your back, a quiet reminder that nourishment can be both mindful and delicious.

You turn another dial—Smell.The moment expands again.

Later, you’re wrapping gifts at midnight. The paper crinkles, scissors glide, tape sticks to your fingertips. You catch yourself smiling, not because everything’s perfect, but because it’s finally quiet. You appreciate those little rascals and have gratitude for the solitude.

You turn the third dial—Touch.

This moment belongs to you, and you alone. Take it all in.

The next day, it’s chaos again—traffic, crowded stores, that endless line at the post office. You feel the anxiety rising: your chest tightens, breath shortens, and a low hum of static fills your body. Time starts to speed up. Then you remember your time machine. You listen—the shuffle of boots on tile, the faint buzz of conversation, the soft ring of a bell, a laugh that reminds you of someone you love. The tension begins to dissolve, the static fades, and your heartbeat slows. The noise doesn’t disappear; it just softens into rhythm, pulling you back into the present, where time finally feels like it belongs to you again.

Sound. Another dial turned.

Then, when you finally sit down that evening, exhausted, mind still humming with the day, you reach for something warm. Maybe it’s tea, rich and earthy, or dark chocolate cocoa that smells like comfort, or even just water that tastes clean and grounding. You take a slow sip and let it linger on your tongue, noticing the warmth spreading through your chest, the way your breath begins to match its rhythm. The noise in your head quiets, your shoulders drop, and the edges of the day start to blur. For the first time in hours, you’re not racing forward, you’re right here, held in this small, simple moment that reminds you your time machine doesn’t always hum; sometimes, it just sighs.

Taste.The last dial clicks into place.

And just like that, the machine is a finely tuned machine that needs to be continuously used early, and often. Time doesn’t stop, it just softens. It bends enough for you to step inside it. Enough for you to breathe, to notice, to feel your life as it’s happening instead of watching it blur by. You realize you’ve been building this time machine all along through mindfulness, gratitude, and presence. Every sense is a lever that slows the world back down to human speed. By the time the new year arrives, you won’t remember every meal or every gift. But you’ll remember how the air smelled on a snowy night, how the laughter felt in your chest, how the sunset shimmered against the window while on that ladder. You’ll remember being there, being present and having gratitude.

You didn’t race through the season this year, you fully experienced it.

Rebalance. Restore. Resilience.