7-11 and Yoga Moms

 7-11 and Yoga Moms

Every morning, I take Rosie- our rescue dog, part angel, part raccoon—for a walk to 7-11. Rain, shine, sleet, or snow, I go. It’s my pilgrimage. My temple. My “Cheers.” Everyone knows my name.

I get the same thing every morning: one large coffee. Nothing fancy. No oat-milk-half-foam-extra-cinnamon swirl. Just coffee. And Yuri, the man behind the counter, doesn’t even wait for me to order anymore. He rings me up before I get there. “Have a great day, Boss,” he says.

And here’s the thing: I used to actually be a boss. A superintendent. A leader. A man with a big title and too many emails. Now? I’m just a guy buying bad coffee at sunrise. And I love it.

The best part isn’t the coffee anyway—it’s the quiet. The streets are empty. Birds chirp. Geese honk. The world hasn’t decided what mood it’s in yet, so for a little while everything feels possible.

But just before I get to my holy 7-11, I see them.

From every direction, Land Rovers, Audis, Volvos, Teslas, and Jeeps descend like a suburban parade. The doors open in unison. Out step women—identical in uniform: yoga pants, hair in perfect ponytails, rolled mats slung over shoulders, and water bottles so large they could hydrate an entire village. They beep-beep their cars locked, fall into formation, and march together toward hot yoga.

It’s stunning. Like a nature documentary narrated by David Attenborough: Here, the yoga moms emerge from their vehicles in the dawn light, carrying hydration tanks and rolled mats. Watch as they ascend, gracefully, toward their heated habitat…

The old me would have judged them. Hard.
I would’ve been jealous of their time, their money, their freedom.
I would’ve rolled my eyes at their matching uniforms and their matching SUVs.

But the new me? The one who has been stripped down to almost nothing and then slowly stitched back together?

That me walks past with Rosie and my 7-11 coffee and admires them. I see what they’re doing: starting their day with intention, with discipline, with something that makes them stronger and steadier. They want peace. I want peace.

My path just looks different. They go to yoga, I go to the woods. They center themselves on a mat, I center myself with God and a plastic cup of 7-11 coffee. Different rituals. Same longing.

Here’s what I’ve learned: we are all just trying to find our quiet. To breathe before the world barges in. To find a little pocket of peace before the day devours us.

So let’s stop judging how someone else seeks it. The yoga mom, the coffee guy, the runner, the pray-er, the sleeper-inner—none of us are doing it wrong.

Because the truth is this:
Peace isn’t found in the method.
Peace is found in the seeking.