When I first heard people talk about their 5 to 9 routine, I used to roll my eyes a little. When I was 20, those hours were almost a blur. I would rush from work to dinner plans, answer a few more emails, or collapse on the couch with whatever takeout I could find. I thought “night routine” meant a to-do list to perfect, another opportunity to optimize. But lately, as I hit my 30s (finally! Yes!), I started to think differently about this moment. It is not something to run towards or overcome. My 5 to 9 routine is something to savour.
Over the past few years, I’ve experienced what those after-work hours can be like. Some nights, that means throwing on leggings for a quick workout that didn’t fit me before. Others, it’s an impromptu dinner with friends or an event that takes me out of my comfort zone. And during the darker, slower months, I curl up in bed at seven with a book, my cats, and a cup of tea. These small changes have taught me that the perfect routine is not one that looks the same every day, but one that meets you where you are.
Featured image from our interview with Chloé Crane-Leroux by Michelle Nash.
How I Idealized My 5-to-9 Routine and Changed the Way I Ended Each Day
Designing your 5-to-9 routine is an experiment in flexibility, not rigidity. It’s about choosing what fills your cup, whatever that looks like tonight.
When you approach your nights with gentleness and intention, they become more than just the hours that follow your workday. They become the space where life really happens.
Claiming the transition
For a long time, my afternoons seemed like an afterthought, a side effect of the demands of the day. I would leave work, browse aimlessly, and wonder why the hours seemed to disappear. In the end I realized what was missing: a moment of transition. As I began to mark the end of my workday with small sensory rituals, I noticed how light I felt. It wasn’t about doing more, but about being more present for myself.
Change your clothes. There is something symbolic about changing into your “comforters.” It is a physical signal that tells your body: The workday is over. Whether it’s a favorite sweater or an oversized button-down shirt, comfort becomes the first act of self-care.
Light a candle. The warm glow and subtle scent set the tone for the hours ahead, inviting you to slow down, breathe more deeply, and enjoy being at home.
Tidy up the kitchen. Resetting your space resets your mind. Wiping down the counter, stacking dishes, or wiping down surfaces takes only a few minutes, but creates an immediate sense of order. It’s a calm way to prepare for rest. I like to think of it as rejecting your environment before going to bed.
sensory rest
When the pace of the day finally slows, it anchors me to my senses. Helps turn ordinary moments into something quietly special. These small decisions remind me that care doesn’t have to be complicated: it can live in the textures and rituals that calm me and bring me back to myself.
Dim the lights. At night, I swap the intense overhead lighting for the soft glow of candles. The change feels almost emotional: it’s as if the room exhales, inviting me to do the same.
Play something soft. Music has a way of shaping our mood. Lately, as a nod to the cozy season, I’ve been listening to jazz or something similar. Turn preparing dinner or folding laundry into a small act of ceremony.
Delight your senses. I love spraying a laundry spray before bed. A little sensory touch reminds me to savor what’s here: the warmth of the moment, the peace of slowing down, and the beauty of the ordinary.
Disconnect with intention
Some nights, out of habit, I grab my phone and check one more email or text. But I’ve learned that my energy doesn’t change until my screen time does. Creating space to unplug has become one of the most restorative parts of my 5 to 9 routine. It’s less about restriction and more about claiming attention, space, and quiet.
Set a screen curve. About an hour before bed, I try to relax, not as a strict rule, but as an opportunity to rest. Closing the laptop and muting notifications helps me feel like I’m choosing my night, rather than letting it disappear into a feed.
Swap scrolling for something tactile. When I pick up a book, a recipe, or even my journal, I remember how comforting it feels to use my hands. Sometimes I write a few lines about the day or plan tomorrow’s dinner: simple and nutritious ways to reconnect with myself.
Nourishing moments
When night comes, I usually long for something to ground me, something to bring me back to my body after a full day spent mostly in my head. Preparing a simple meal or making a cup of tea has become less of a routine and more of a ritual. It’s the time when I reconnect with myself: the gentle, slow joy that makes these 5 to 9 hours so special.
Cook something slow and comforting. Whether it’s soup, a tray of roasted vegetables, or pasta, I gravitate toward meals that require minimal effort but offer maximum warmth. The sound of something boiling feels like a heartbeat of home: constant, soothing, and alive.
Set the table, just for one. It doesn’t have to be complicated: a linen napkin, a candle, and maybe some flaked salt on the side. Creating beauty in small ways reminds me that nutrition isn’t just about what’s on your plate, it’s about how it feels to sit down and really savor it.
Save the moment. Whether I eat alone or with friends, I try to let the conversation last or the silence if that’s what the evening requires. This small act of presence turns an ordinary meal into something meaningful.
Reflect and restore
When the day finally ends, I try to end it on a calm note. These are the moments when I take stock: noticing how I feel, what I need, and what I can let go. It’s a small act of care that sets the tone for tomorrow.
Keep a journal, but keep it simple. I don’t put pressure on myself to fill a page. Sometimes it’s a line about what brought me joy that day or something I’m grateful for. Writing helps me step out of the noise and see the good that was there all along.
Stretch, breathe, or move gently. Even five minutes of slow movement helps me release tension that builds up throughout the day. Honestly? I have gotten into the habit of simply sitting by the window and breathing deeply; The night air also reminds me to slow down.
Save the wind. I slide under the covers, take a sip of tea, and reach for my current reading. These small gestures remind me that rest is not a reward, it is a rhythm. And when I treat it as sacred, even the simplest evening feels like a return home to myself.
Rest is not a reward. It’s a rhythm.
Soak up the stillness
Over time, I realized that romanticizing my evenings is about creating small moments that remind me that I am alive, here and now. My 5 to 9 routine changes with the seasons, with my energy, with the rhythm of life itself. But at its core, it’s about choosing softness over desire. When I allow myself to slow down, I remember that beauty is not something to schedule, it is something to notice.
