Moments of Me - “Becoming Whole Beneath the Eiffel Tower”: My Little Parisian Rituals

There’s a quiet kind of joy I’ve come to cherish in Paris—the kind that doesn’t ask for attention, but lingers in the heart long after the moment has passed.

Today, I found it again.

I picked up my favorite egg sandwich from a small spot that feels like a secret I’m happy to keep. Their sandwiches are simple, comforting, and somehow always exactly what I need. Soft eggs, warm bread, a touch of spice—it’s my little pleasure when the world feels too fast.

With my sandwich in hand, I wandered toward the Eiffel Tower and found a patch of grass that felt like mine. I sat down, shoes off, the sun gently warming my skin. Around me, the city hummed—tourists laughing, children playing, the occasional accordion melody drifting through the air.

And then, I looked up.

The Eiffel Tower stood still, as it always does.

A monument to permanence in a world that constantly shifts. Its iron lacework caught the light just so, casting shadows that danced across the grass. I’ve seen it a thousand times, and yet today, it felt different—like it was watching over me, quietly reminding me of all the versions of myself that have stood here before.

I remembered walking here years ago, heart heavy with questions. I remembered laughter shared with friends, tears shed in solitude, and the quiet moments in between. The Tower has witnessed it all, without judgment, without change. Just presence.

Time softened around me.

I felt no urgency, no need to be anywhere else. The sandwich in my hand, the grass beneath me, the Tower above—it was enough. I let my thoughts drift, not to-do lists or worries, but memories. Kindnesses I’ve received. People I’ve loved. The way Paris has held me through seasons of becoming.

There’s something healing in that stillness.

In letting the city cradle you while you remember who you are.

I ate slowly. I watched the clouds. I let the breeze carry away the noise.

And for a moment, I felt whole again.

Not because everything was perfect, but because I allowed myself to be present. To feel. To remember. To breathe.

This is what healing looks like sometimes—not in therapy rooms or grand gestures, but in egg sandwiches and quiet afternoons on the grass.

“In the hush between footsteps and memory, Paris reminds me that I am still becoming—and that is enough.”