The Art of A Slow Weekend

We live in a world that glorifies being busy.

Some people wear exhaustion like a badge of honour. Calendars are packed from sunrise until bedtime. Weekends become extensions of the workweek, filled with errands, obligations, social commitments, children’s activities, and endless to-do lists. Somewhere along the way, we began believing that a productive weekend is one where every minute is accounted for.

I’ve learned the opposite.

To me, the most luxurious weekends aren’t necessarily spent travelling to exotic destinations or checking items off a bucket list. They’re found in familiar places, with familiar faces, following familiar rituals that have quietly become the rhythm of our life. They’re slow, predictable, uncomplicated—and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

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After years of raising my son as a single mother, juggling responsibilities, meeting deadlines, and later helping run our family business, I have come to appreciate something I once took for granted: the simple gift of unhurried time.

Our weekend begins every Friday evening.

Around 8:45 p.m., my husband and I head out for our standing dinner date. We rarely need a special occasion or an elaborate plan. More often than not, you’ll find us at one of our favourite neighbourhood restaurants, where the staff know us by name and the menu feels comfortably familiar.

Those dinners aren’t really about the food.

They’re about reconnecting.

It’s a chance to ask each other about the week, laugh over little mishaps, talk about our son, discuss what’s happening at the fitness club, dream about future travels, or simply enjoy comfortable silence. In a marriage, these ordinary conversations become the threads that quietly strengthen the relationship.

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By the time we arrive home, we’ve officially left the workweek behind.

Saturday begins without an alarm clock.

There is something wonderfully liberating about waking because your body is ready rather than because your phone insists. We linger over coffee, move through the morning without watching the clock, and allow the day to unfold naturally.

Around one in the afternoon—rain or shine—we head out for one of my favourite parts of the weekend: our walk.

Sometimes we stroll through our neighbourhood. Other times, we wander around Granville Island, one of Vancouver’s little treasures that somehow feels different every season. We stop for coffee, browse the market, admire fresh flowers, pick up seasonal fruits and vegetables, and watch the world pass by.

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There is no destination.

No schedule.

No urgency.

Just walking.

Walking, I’ve discovered, is one of life’s most underrated therapies. It clears the mind, encourages conversation, reduces stress, and gently reminds us to notice things we often miss—the smell of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, musicians performing on the boardwalk, children laughing, boats gently rocking in the marina, or simply the changing colours of the sky.

You don’t need an expensive vacation to slow down.

Sometimes all you need is a comfortable pair of walking shoes.

One of our little weekend traditions that always makes me smile is our couples’ manicure and pedicure appointment at our nearby nail salon.

Some people may think that’s unusual.

We think it’s wonderful.

Self-care shouldn’t be reserved for women, nor should it only happen before weddings or holidays. Looking after ourselves—whether it’s a haircut, a massage, a quiet afternoon with a good book, or simply taking care of our hands and feet—isn’t vanity.

It’s maintenance.

It’s self-respect.

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Afterwards, I make my way downstairs to Suki’s for my regular hair appointment, conveniently located on the ground floor of our fitness club. While I’m there, my husband heads upstairs to our gym, where he checks in on the club, chats with our wonderful staff, greets members, and sees how everything is running.

Even on weekends, work is still part of our lives.

But we’ve learned not to let it consume the entire day.

When the club closes, we make one final stop at Whole Foods to pick up groceries for the coming week before heading home to change for yet another date night.

People sometimes ask us why we still go on dates after being married.

My answer is simple.

Because marriage shouldn’t be the end of dating.

If anything, it’s the reason to keep dating.

You don’t stop pursuing someone simply because you’ve already won their heart.

Saturday evenings usually end exactly the way we like them—with dinner at another favourite restaurant before coming home to settle into the sofa with a movie on Netflix, Prime Video, or Crave. No elaborate plans. No late-night parties. Just two people enjoying each other’s company.

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Sunday follows much the same philosophy.

Sleep in.

Wake naturally.

Move slowly.

Around two or three in the afternoon, our único hijo arrives to spend time with us.

Watching him walk through our front door still fills my heart in ways I cannot adequately describe. There is something deeply comforting about knowing that, even though he has built a life of his own, he still chooses to spend part of his Sunday with us.

He and his Aba usually settle into the living room to watch a movie or series together while I happily potter around our flat, tidy a few things, prepare for the week ahead, or curl up with a good book.

I have never believed that every moment needs to be filled with activity.

Sometimes the most meaningful moments happen in the background—the quiet companionship of family simply existing together under one roof.

By early evening, we head back to Granville Island for another leisurely stroll before making our way to our standing Sunday family dinner reservation around seven o’clock.

Family dinners have become one of our most treasured traditions.

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Phones stay mostly tucked away.

Conversations flow.

Stories are shared.

Laughter comes easily.

In today’s world, where everyone seems permanently connected yet somehow increasingly disconnected, sitting around a dinner table remains one of the simplest and most powerful ways to stay close.

Around ten o’clock, our son heads home to his own place while my husband and I return to ours.

We catch the late-night news, chat a little more about the day, and usually find ourselves asleep around midnight.

Then Monday arrives.

Surprisingly, we don’t dread it.

Our weekdays mirror much of the same philosophy. We still enjoy slow mornings, taking our time before heading to work around one in the afternoon and staying until about nine in the evening. We’ve intentionally built a life that allows room to breathe because we’ve learned that constantly rushing isn’t a measure of success.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that relaxation doesn’t happen accidentally.

It requires intention.

You have to give yourself permission to slow down.

You have to resist the temptation to overbook every weekend.

You have to understand that saying “no” to one invitation often means saying “yes” to your own well-being.

A truly relaxing weekend doesn’t have to be expensive.

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Go for a walk.

Leave your phone in your pocket.

Visit your local farmers’ market.

Read a chapter of a book.

Enjoy coffee without multitasking.

Cook together.

Watch an old movie.

Invite your grown children over for dinner.

Take care of your body.

Take care of your relationships.

Most importantly, take care of your peace.

After all, weekends are more than just two days between workweeks. They’re an opportunity to refill our emotional, physical, and mental reservoirs before stepping back into our responsibilities.

I’ve come to believe that happiness rarely arrives in grand, dramatic moments.

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More often, it quietly settles into the ordinary rituals we repeat week after week—the Friday dinner date, the Saturday walk, the Sunday family dinner, the shared laughter, the familiar restaurants, the comfortable silence, and the people we love most.

These may seem like ordinary weekends to someone else.

To me, they are extraordinary.

Because in the end, a well-lived life isn’t measured by how busy we were or how many places we visited. It’s measured by how deeply we loved, how fully we were present, and how often we made time for the people who mattered most.

And for me, that’s exactly what a slow weekend is all about.