When I’m going through something stressful, I have a strong urge to think out loud about it with someone I trust. There are probably several reasons I end up feeling better: my listener helps me avoid catastrophic thinking, or reminds me that they have my back if things get worse. But another likely reason is that having the chance to describe a difficult situation in detail – even if you’re just describing it to yourself, as in a journal – invites you to see the full picture, and in many cases, it’s not all bad.

Research by Christian Waugh and colleagues at Wake Forest University in North Carolina underscores this and highlights its potential for helping us manage our emotions. They focused largely on people’s experiences during the COVID-19 pandemic, based on data they collected then. When people reflected on a stressful experience they’d been having, and were prompted to describe six specific elements of the situation, they tended to list at least one that was positive (such as spending more time with family during the pandemic). Having more positive elements in the list was associated with feeling less negative and more positive emotion following the task. Taking some time to elaborate on one of the positive aspects seemed to help people feel better, too.

It can be annoying to be told to ‘look on the bright side’ or ‘find the silver lining’. But personal trials often come with opportunities for growth or self-insight; grief or separation sometimes lead to new connections; and even mundane sources of frustration (a traffic jam, say) can contain small points of pleasure or relief (enjoying a song on the radio that you would’ve missed). Where there are such leavening factors, taking a moment to talk or write about the experience could help us make the most of them.

For most of my 20s, I couldn’t brush my teeth, ride public transit, or take a walk without listening to a podcast or audiobook. Silence, I thought, was a waste of time.

But since reading All the Beauty in the World (2023), I’ve been reconsidering my relationship to dull, seemingly empty moments. In the book, Patrick Bringley recounts his decade among the watchful guards of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. Standing in the Met’s echoic halls for hours on end, day after predictable day, he found that, over time, his relationship to the work slowly changed. Initial enchantment with the art gave way to boredom – and then, enlightenment. He surrendered to the ‘turtleish movement of a watchman’s time’, stopped thinking about how much of his shift was left, and let the hours drift.

I think about Bringley’s experience when I have to engage in any long, monotonous task. It might be waiting in line or on hold, vacuuming, folding laundry, or chopping vegetables for dinner. I resist the urge to fill the time with music or podcasts and strive instead for what Bringley calls a ‘princely detachment’ from time, finding the luxury and nuance in the moment.

Bringley noticed patterns in the different kinds of Met visitors. Hanging up my laundry, I notice patterns in how different articles of clothing tend to wrinkle in the wash. Bringley developed an appreciation for artworks that he initially ignored. I pay finer attention to the unique composition of facial features on the faces of people I stand in line with. I am learning, I think, to appreciate the little things.

Of course, it requires constant practice to find the peace and richness in these stretches of time. But your reward comes, Bringley says, when an hour no longer feels an hour long, and you ‘hardly remember how to be bored’.