I’m getting older, and I’m loving it. When people ask my age, there’s often a flicker of surprise in their eyes, and I take it as a compliment. I am not as young as you think I am. Who knew ageing could feel this good? I find myself more grounded, wiser, more anchored in my truth, but also lighter, more fluid, more graceful.
The first half of 2025 was a season of endings.
Deaths, dissolutions, breakdowns, breakthroughs. Whole versions of myself dissolving. Some days it felt brutal, other days liberating. There’s something both fascinating and bizarre about being alive right now, like we’re living in an endless loop of things falling apart and coming together again. All endings, all beginnings.
Now it’s August, my birthday month (hello, fellow Leos), and I’ve made a quiet pact with myself. I’m taking the entire month off from: solving my life problems; making any significant decisions; doing anything simply because I think I should; or setting any future goals at all, other than giving myself the gift of not doing any of that.
For the past few months, I have been holding my breath in anticipation, wondering “What’s next?”
But I’ve realised that I will only get the answer to “What’s next?” if I create space to pause and ask, “Where can I hold still?”
This is a time to slow down and listen deeply. To choose rest not as a last resort, but as a truly intuitive practice. One that clears the noise, softens me into Self, and brings me back to a renewed centre.
This August, I am devoting myself to this. I am going to savour my days, move through them as slowly as I can, cherish the simplest moments, wonder at nature, take long walks, read good books, spend time with friends, soak in salty water, and trust in the magic of the universe.
There are times that define our stories beyond our lives…
2025 has been one of those times for me. The loud echo that I must completely surrender to the mystery of life and let it transform me has been deafening, and all I’ve been able to do is nod my head obediently and let go.
It’s my birthday today—8/8—and I’m spending it in ways I love: cups of scalding tea in bed, blanket loosely draped over me, laptop balanced across my hipbones as I tap away at the keys. Later, I’ll run a long bath, wander through the city, and bake a vanilla-plum cake with the last of the plums my friend brought from the market, the skin of the fruit already beginning to wrinkle. Not necessarily in that order. Today is for me alone.
Yesterday I celebrated in the city. I deeply and wholeheartedly have fallen in love with new york city.
A friend treated me to the best massage I’ve had in years, maybe ever, and then we wandered Soho, talking about the things that matter: love, men, writing, creativity, the strange, exquisite privilege of being a woman in this world. Somewhere between film shoots and shop windows, she reminded me that certainty is not the point of life.
Of course, we’d all love to peek behind the curtain and see exactly how the story will unfold, what choices will take us home to ourselves.
But when we choose to create: to paint, to write, to fall in love, to see beauty, to dance until dawn, to film moments, to tell a story, to share a favourite spot with the world, we choose to let go of control. We choose to step into the unknown and trust that our small acts of courage matter. Even when they seem insignificant, they ripple through lives in ways we’ll never fully witness.
Every moment of vulnerability, every leap into something that feels both terrifying and true, leaves a mark. Sometimes that mark is the spark someone else needs to ignite their own courage. That’s why we follow the things that light us up, not just for the outcome, but because each step pulls us closer to our truest self. Again and again, we are asked to choose courage over comfort, compassion over judgment.
In this way, our lives become works of art. Each choice leaves a trace, a brushstroke on the canvas of our lives. And sometimes, that’s enough to inspire another soul to take their own leap.
Later that evening, I made my way to the West Village to meet another friend. We sat outside under a soft summer sky, the air warm and tender, the faintest breeze brushing our skin. Words poured out of us in tangles, laughter breaking through like sunlight, glasses clinking over fluffy pineapple cocktails and a small mountain of cheeses and meats. She casually mentioned my birthday to the waiter, and a few minutes later, he returned with a slice of tiramisu, a single candle flickering in the wind and then swiftly blown out.
We walked along the Hudson River toward Grand Central as the sun lowered itself into the water, offering encouragements, trading the hard-earned wisdoms that only come from being cracked open by life. I found myself circling back to the same thought: Is the promise of expansion worth the risk of change?
Change often begins with a sharp moment of discomfort, resistance, or pain. Something that wakes us up, asks us to pay attention, and to do something new. The rest of the time, change comes from small, unseen moments, a single decision, a quiet realisation, a gentle letting go of what no longer fits.
At its heart, change is a love letter from life to our becoming. Growth and getting older feed us. Time spirals us deeper into ourselves, granting access to clarity, strength, peace, and a tenderness we couldn’t have imagined when we were younger.
This, I think, is the truest gift of the mystery: that it keeps revealing us to ourselves.