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 witha 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.
returning to nyc after a few weeks in colombia; a conversation with my therapist that literally changed my life; post-breakup growth and healing; and the many things I’m thinking about
This is the third and final part of a series of recent real-life stories.You can read part 1 & part 2 here.
The dusty dirt track that runs to the beach passes three enormous wild mango trees. I carefully crawl under the wire fence and inspect the floor carpeted by discarded mango leaves for an intact one. I find two: fallen, ripe and unbruised, pick them up and pretzel myself back onto the path. When I reach the water’s edge, I kneel into it, washing the riper of the two, peeling the skin away from the flesh with my fingers, letting the golden juice run down my arms and drip off into the sea. I bite into the juicy flesh like a starved savage until all that’s left is a large stone. I love it when my wild, feral island girl personality emerges.
Every day since my arrival, I make this daily pilgrimage. To immerse myself in the salty water. To walk along the sand barefoot with the sea lapping at my feet. To discharge the chaos of my emotional world from the past month.
I’m alone and in Colombia.
For the first 10 days, I am sick af in a hotel room. Sick in the body with a fever and a cold. Sick in the heart from a breakup. Sick in the mind from the combination of both. My period comes too, and I can’t think of a more lethal combination. Desperate to heal, I move myself deeper and deeper into the jungle to be immersed by nature until I end up in a tiny one-street village surrounded by tropical plants on the edge of the Caribbean.
Every day after work,1 I walk to a quiet part of the beach, sheltered by mangroves and lie down on a sarong I’d bought in the village, watching the waves, letting their rhythm rock my nervous system back to homeostasis. If the water is calm enough, I find a shallow spot to crouch in and sit in the cool, salty sea until the waves become too much. The tides are dangerous here, and no one swims in these waters.
Every day, I become stronger. Every day, I feel a little more capable. The world starts to regain its colour after weeks of seeing in sepia. I stop to admire flowers, seashells and tiny crabs that are trying to make their home next to me. My capacity to make any kind of meaningful decisions about my next steps remains offline, and the urgency to make them has faded.
Every afternoon, thunderstorms roll through the Sierra Nevada mountains behind me.
My appetite returns, and I eat papaya and scrambled eggs with tomato and onions and thickly buttered arepas for breakfast with gusto. I enjoy coffee black for the first time in my life because that’s how they have it here. I drink fresh coconuts and ask them to cut them open so I can scoop out the young, jellylike flesh. I try limonadas of all sorts, resting with my two favourites, sandía (watermelon) and coco (coconut).
Every day, my tan grows a little deeper.
A dark moon sets in Cancer and a new moon rises in Leo, and I, too, begin to rise. But not without the lessons of this dark time.
I think a lot about a lot of things. (Addressed in depth below.)
I think about the state of the world and its wars and suffering, and politics. I think about victim mentality and how we can choose our thoughts and beliefs to rearrange our reality. I think about how the world has flattened in recent years. I think about travel and its place in my life. I think about the intentional home life and career I want to participate in. I think about how micro experiences are also always happening in the macro. I think about my most recent relationship and romantic relationships in general. I think about the burning hot shame I feel about not having seen the signs sooner.
I am deeply embarrassed that I let myself get involved with this man. I feel like I should have somehow known.
I speak to my therapist about it, and she laughs at me.
“You feel shame?! For what? Trusting your partner? Being in love and wanting a beautiful story? Matching your actions with your words? The only person who holds ANY shame in this scenario is him. A lot of men are avoidant, emotionally unavailable, immature and generally inconsiderate. They are not worthy partners, and they waste women’s time. That’s not a reflection of you. It’s all on them. Stop taking it personally. So what, you encountered only one of them? You’re lucky! He’s so boring. Now, let’s move on!”
Haha. I adore her brutal honesty. She’s right! So I do. I move on.
Now that I’m feeling stronger, she is tougher with me. She’s in her late 60s and no longer sees clients, but having worked with her on and off for seven years, she is the only person who truly knows all the stories I have lived and learned from. She’s helped me move past, through and on from so many life moments that felt like the end to me. We all need people like this in our lives.
And just like that, I’m over it and back in NYC.
I land in NYC with the sunrise. It’s a late July summer morning, and the heat is already starting to rise. Relief and joy flood my body. I don’t know what this feeling is, but I’m so happy to be back. I’ve discovered a trick to avoid the subway into the city from JFK airport and get a driver to Grand Central Station for the price of two coffees.
My therapist introduces me to the work of therapist Terry Real. I find a talk where he says, “Black-and-white thinking is a sign you’re in your adapted child; mature adults don’t categorise things in binary terms, but children do.” Something inside me shifts.
It speaks directly to me. That oversimplified lens we slip into under stress: good/bad, right/wrong, always/never isn’t clarity, it’s contraction. A survival strategy.
There are wispy clouds like someone painted white fine squiggles in the sky with watercolours. A pair of condors is flying overhead, taking turns falling from the sky and then back up again before drifting side to side. They are beautiful, I want to remember the moment. I pick up my phone. Then change my mind.
I look at them some more and blink my eyes once like a shutter release to take a snapshot with my mind.
A swallow swoops down in a perfect U shape and skims the surface of the water I’m submerged in. It is cold and wet against my hot summer skin. It is 32C at 10 am and the air is thick with heat and humidity. I am desolate and sad, and I have a tan which feels like a contradiction.
On a Zoom call, my therapist says that I am having a delayed trauma response to a brutal rupture. My therapist says breakfast and routine are important, especially when the body is under duress.
I try to have some semblance of a routine.
Every day, I eat breakfast. I’ve never been a breakfast person; I don’t wake up hungry. I eat my favourite things. Pineapple. Tasteless. Watermelon. Tasteless. Eggs, scrambled. Tasteless. I try coconut pancakes instead. Tasteless. Coffee. Horrible.
Every day, I answer emails, have Zoom meetings, and work on commitments I had made before everything fell apart, and I wonder when it will stop feeling empty and meaningless.
Every day, I walk to the pool and lie in the sun for an hour to let the Vitamin D spill into my body with the ambition that it will fill me with some hope. When the sweat starts to form a sheen on my skin, I let the water swallow me for a while.
Every day, I fill pages and pages of my journal with thoughts and observations, wishing they will lead me to a clue, an insight, a sign for what to do next.
Most days, I lie still in bed scanning my body for signs of life.
For the first time in years, I leave my message notifications on because every ‘ding’ is a vital reminder that I am not alone, that I am loved, that I have not been abandoned. Each note asking me to hold on. Telling me that this will pass.
My world has shrunk. My system keeps scanning for signs of danger. All I want is familiarity and safety. I cannot go too far in any direction.
In the early evenings, I walk to a cafe 10 minutes away.
Last night I time I ordered rainbow rolls and an iced lemongrass and ginger tea, and ate alone in silence. I think, afterwards, I could go for a walk. I love walking. But I am not myself anymore. Too quickly, the outside world becomes too much. I have to go back home. Back to lying on my bed. Back to overthinking. Desperately looking for some version of a perfect plan that will make this feeling go away.
The cap on my electrolyte drink is so tight that I cannot twist it open. I go downstairs to ask the doorman to help me. Crying is dehydrating.
A man in the lobby tries to strike up a conversation. He asks me where I am from and how long I will be here. His teenage daughters blink at me expectantly. I can tell he’s trying to be kind. I want to tell him that I am sick and heartbroken and do not want his pity or his attention. Instead, I force a smile and tell him that I have a cold and lost my voice and cannot speak right now. It’s also true. I regret wanting to drink my electrolyte drink.
Back upstairs, my mind begins its familiar looping. A restless, compulsive turning over of questions that refuse to settle: where now, what next, where now, what next. Steady and unsatisfying.
Do I stay in the States? Do I go back to Europe? Do I begin again somewhere I haven’t yet thought of? Do I simply sit here, in this suspended place, until something becomes more certain than this?
I move the possibilities around in my mind, but nothing sticks. Everything is blurry with maybe, and too soon. I wish someone would hand me a plan. A project I can immerse myself in that is not mine. A location to be in for something greater than myself. I don’t want to think about myself for a second longer. I want something outside of myself to exist for. I want someone to say: come here, be here, we need you here.
I keep looking at the words I’ve just written in my journal:
Do you have the patience to wait until the mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving until the right action arises by itself?
I stare at them. I don’t know if I do or if I can. But I will try.
I want to remember that it’s possible, and that waiting doesn’t mean giving up, and that stillness is not the same as being stuck. The only way I know how is to decentralise my attention from my mind to my body. The mind keeps cycling; the body, at least, can soften.
I make my life transparent in these letters to you. Often with more ease than one would expect, but not always. I write candidly about the way I try to meet the gaps in my care as a child, I reveal aspects of my lifestyle that are often unmoored, I hapazardly and ambitiously run several online streams of value-for-income models, and I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to my romances.
I have been moving through some of the tenderest times of my life recently. There are moments when I feel like life is so empty and devoid of meaning and substance. There are moments when I feel like life is exploding with colour and joy. These moments are opposite, and yet they coexist. Both are true.
And it is times like these that bring me closer to something that we all sense:
Comfort is seductive, but it’s not where we grow. We grow on the edge of things.
As I wrote in my stories yesterday. You have two choices:
a)Continue forcing the version of you that will keep your current life stitched together at the seams.
b)Surrender to the logic-defying, painful, beautiful, soul-awakening mess of where life wants to take you.
Both are true. Sometimes you will need to hold on. Sometimes you need to let go. Devotion and commitment show up as different things at different times.
For me, the answer now is surrender. And that surrender requires a rebuilding. Not of my outer world, but of my inner scaffolding. A structure made not of strategies or timelines, but of gentleness, truth, and presence. The quiet integrity of choosing to meet each moment as it is, instead of trying to bend it into something I can manage or explain. The devotion of no longer abandoning myself, even when it would be easier to. Especially then.
I begin with sleep. With rest that is heavy and uninterrupted. With giving my body the time it needs to catch up with everything my heart has carried these past months. Sleep has become sacred. A space where I remember I am not a machine built to function, but a being designed to feel.
I pay attention to what nourishes me through the textures of ordinary care. I eat slowly. I walk often. I stay close to silence. I let my feelings rise without trying to trap them in language too soon. I cry when I need to. I let joy rise when it wants to, and do not hold it hostage with questions about whether it will stay. I am learning that being with myself in this way is not indulgent.
I am tuning into my natural rhythm and letting that be enough. We all contain this natural intelligence.
The only reason you ever feel out of step with your life is that you have stopped following the natural rhythm that your body and inner essence are always trying to lead you with.
We have become so accustomed to having the rhythm set for us by external forces. Parents. School bells. Job descriptions. Capitalism. Performance. Survival. We have spent our lives learning to respond to something outside of ourselves, and in the process, we forgot how to listen inward.
We have handed over our agency in so many invisible ways that we no longer realise we are allowed to curate a rhythm of life that makes sense for us. A rhythm that honours our energy, our season, our humanity. We have accepted a pace that constantly makes us feel torn and separate and fractured, not because something is wrong with us, but because something is deeply wrong with the way we are being taught to live.
I created Planet Powered to help you remember.
Not to replace your inner agency, but rather as a gentle framework to be used as a stepping stone. A structure that holds you within the shape of your modern life while still making space for a sovereign choice, each and every day, to ask what you truly need, and how you want to meet the world from that place.
This rhythm is not about productivity or performance. It is about presence. It is about remembering that you are not here to fit yourself into a life that was not made for you. You are here to create a rhythm that holds your soul.
There are seasons of our lives that strip us bare. That take more than we thought we could bear losing. That ask more than we believed we had left to give. And still, we begin again.
That’s what the first half of 2025 has been for me.
Beginning again is not always a declaration. It is rarely bold or glamorous. Often, it is quiet. Awkward. Messy. It doesn’t look like courage from the outside.
It looks like sitting on the kitchen floor with tears in your eyes because you don’t know which place to call home anymore.
I’ve had to begin again — and again — more times than I thought I would.
Recently, it was moving continents. Leaving behind a life I built. Letting go of places, people, patterns that had once held me, and realising they no longer could. I said goodbye to my beloved cat, Danger-baby, with a grief so physical it felt like my chest had caved in. I packed my life into a few bags. I watched plans dissolve, relationships shift, and dreams turn to dust.
It looks like trying to breathe through a kind of grief that doesn’t announce itself, because it doesn’t come from one loss, but many. Layered, silent, and unseen.
There are days when I cannot find words. There are nights when the ache is so wide it feels like I am floating through it. There are moments where I forget who I had been, and haven’t yet glimpsed who I was becoming. I watched plans unravel. I watched myself unravel, too.
Beginning again requires a kind of surrender most people don’t talk about. The kind that comes when life has cleared the path for you. When you no longer have a choice except to let go of what was and place one unsteady foot in front of the other.
I’ve always had a strange kind of love for these moments.
The ones where everything is uncertain. Because inside the wreckage, there is a rawness that is unmistakably alive. A freedom that only comes when the identities and routines and ideas that once defined us have been stripped away. There is something holy in the not knowing. Something exquisite in the beginning.
Iit is not easy. It takes everything.
Emotionally, it asks you to stay present with the discomfort when every part of you wants to numb out or run. Psychologically, it demands that you examine the beliefs and patterns that built the old version of you and ask if you are still willing to carry them forward. Physically, it is exhausting. The body keeps the score. And the body also clears the slate.
Last night, a heavy thunderstorm rolled in at dusk. The air, thick and electric, cracked open with light. Rain began to fall in sudden, urgent sheets, pounding against the windows like it had something to say. I was inside, barefoot and restless, watching it come down with a kind of reverence… that feeling you get when nature mirrors something stirring in you.
Without thinking, I flung the door open and stepped outside. The water was cold and wild as it hit my skin. I stood there, arms loose by my sides, letting the rain drench me. I tilted my face to the sky and let it all fall. The noise, the wetness, the rush of it. My clothes clung to me. My heart beat hard in my chest. I imagined the rain washing away everything I had carried. The grief. The doubt. The heaviness of holding it all together. I didn’t need to make sense of it. I just wanted to feel clean. Emptied. New.
There, in the twilight, in the storm, I remembered: this is how we begin. Not by thinking our way forward, but by surrendering to the forces that ask us to feel. To clear. To come back to the body. To let life touch us.
Sometimes, beginning again looks like walking through the world in a daze, unsure of your name or direction. Sometimes it is lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, convincing yourself that breathing is enough for now. Sometimes it is showing up to work or friendship or life, while something invisible inside you rearranges itself into a shape that can carry you forward.
For the past two weeks, I couldn’t do much more than simply exist.
I pared life back to its most essential parts. Walks. Water. The sun on my skin. Gentle tasks. Stillness. I needed something to hold me that didn’t require words. Something I could lean on without having to explain myself. I remembered to turn towards rhythm. I anchored myself in the only thing that made sense: time.
Not the linear kind. Not the kind that pressures us to achieve or accelerate. The kind that follows the body. The cosmos. The planets. The pull of the week. The way each day carries a different tone, a different invitation, a different flavour of energy.
A lifeline. A way to gently orient myself to life again. To wake up and ask, “What does today want from me?” Monday is about movement and initiation. Tuesday helps me make decisions and take aligned action. Wednesday brings communication and connection. Thursday expands my vision. Friday reminds me to soften into love and beauty. Saturday returns me to my roots. And Sunday is the space to surrender and listen again.
I created this, not just for me, but for you.
For the women who find themselves standing at the edge of a life that no longer fits, trying to hear what the future is whispering. For the ones who are not sure where to begin, but know they cannot stay where they are. For anyone who longs to be reminded that the pace of your life can follow the pace of your soul. That your days can hold meaning, even when everything feels uncertain. That rhythm can carry you when reason cannot.
This is what I want you to know: nothing is wrong with you if your heart is aching. If the path is not clear. If you feel tired or tender or unsure. This is the precious work of becoming. There is a version of you that only emerges through this particular kind of fire. Not the kind that burns you down. The kind that refines you.
You do not need a plan. You do not need to rush. You do not need to explain.
You just need to be with what is here now. Let the rhythm hold you. Let the ache move through. Let yourself be remade.
It’s a guide, a practice, a gentle structure for your inner and outer life, rooted in the energy of the seven planetary days of the week. Beginning next Sunday, July 13th, we’ll move through it together — one day at a time — inside a live community space where I’ll share daily reflections, guidance, and invitations to anchor you into the energy of the day.
If you’re in a threshold season — if you’re rebuilding, reimagining, or simply needing to remember your own rhythm — I’d love to walk with you.
…an honest letter about starting over in the world’s most famous city
After a month in New York, I’ve concluded that it really is like living inside a movie. Yesterday, walking through the West Village, we passed one of the leads from YOU and that comedian my boyfriend calls “the ‘I’m a swan!’ guy.” I wouldn’t have recognised either of them, but he’s a pop culture encyclopedia, which I find endlessly entertaining.
The most charming thing about this city is how hard it tries not to be American. It’s clinging tight to its immigrant roots, claiming the most obscure and beautiful bits of the many cultures that built it.
In the vlog above, you’ll get a glimpse of my first chaotic, cosy, overstimulating, sunshine-filled weeks in the city, from yoga class revelations and focaccia-making to lazy girl makeup rituals and navigating PMS in a place that never stops buzzing. I reflect on how long it takes to feel grounded somewhere new, what I love about NYC (surprise: the water??), and the tiny wins that help me find my pace in the madness.
I came here with the intention to document it all. To share the magic of experiencing everything for the first time. But the truth is, while I love it here, I don’t have as much space or time as I once did. I used to languish in my creativity — let it ooze out of me like molten lava. Now, I live in a studio apartment on the Lower East Side with my boyfriend (who also works from home), and the luxury of spaciousness just… isn’t available right now.
Which means two things: one, I need to carve out more time and space that’s mine, and two, I need to learn how to create within the chaos. To let inspiration move through me, even in the chaos and noise.
Something is changing in me. I’m becoming someone I don’t quite recognise yet.
Usually, I’m a step ahead of life. I can see what’s coming. But right now? Life is a step ahead of me. I’m being asked to trust. Not because everything is certain, but because I can.
People often ask how I’ve built such deep self-trust. The answer isn’t about what I’ve done differently. It’s about what I’ve let go of.
My self-trust lives in the space I’ve cleared for it.
It came to me one night, maybe 15 years ago, while I was lying in bed meditating. I was new to it then, but it gave me a peace I hadn’t known before. A quietness that made space for things to rise up. The kind of space that lets truth speak.
I carried around a lot of pain.
My mum struggled with depression and anxiety, and as a sensitive kid, I absorbed much of it, believing it was mine. My dad died when I was ten. My stepdad, who entered the picture when I was four, was cruel, verbally and emotionally abusive. At one point, when I was six, he made me live in a caravan outside while the rest of the family was in the house. My mother joined him in the abuse. She told me later she thought siding with him would make it easier on me.
That’s the surface-level story, and honestly, it’s not the point. I share this not for pity, but to offer context — to show you the shape of the beliefs I had to unravel in myself.
Maybe you’ll recognise some of them:
I am not wanted. I am not lovable. I am not safe. I have to do it all alone. I can’t ask for what I need. It’s not safe to speak up. I must not upset others. There’s something wrong with me. I have to hide who I really am.
That night, in meditation, I felt frustrated. I kept circling back to these painful memories. It felt like I couldn’t move forward. And suddenly, a thought came:
These memories aren’t hurting me. I’m hurting me — by replaying them.
They were still active in me because they were unresolved.
I realised that every emotional block, every limiting belief, is just an unprocessed experience we’ve held onto for safety. At one point, those beliefs helped us survive. But they outlive their usefulness. And instead of releasing them, we keep them close out of habit — or fear — and they start to manifest in our lives, in our bodies. As pain. As illness. As stuckness. As stories we can’t seem to rewrite.
That night, I didn’t get caught in the stories. I just let the feelings rise. Memory after memory. Sadness, anger, grief — I let it all come, and I felt it. Fully. Until it softened. I cried for hours. I forgave myself. For how I had carried it all for so long.
And something in me shifted.
Over the days and weeks that followed, I kept practising. Feeling. Releasing. Replacing. Integrating. And little by little, things began to change. I lost the extra weight I was carrying. My skin cleared. My eyes were brighter. My relationship to food, to my body, to myself softened. I began to like who I was. To see my own beauty, not just my flaws. Life itself looked and felt different.
Because when you begin to clear out the old noise — the stories, beliefs, and inherited patterns that were never truly yours — you don’t just feel lighter. You feel free. Free to trust yourself. Free to choose what’s true for you. Free to follow your feelings without needing to explain, justify, or prove a thing.
From that place, life starts to unfold in the most unexpected, beautiful ways. You stop gripping for control, and instead start co-creating with the world around you. You stop chasing clarity, and somehow, it finds you.
You might fall in love on an ordinary Thursday and move to New York six months later. (That’s what happened to me :). You might find yourself changing careers, shifting relationships, saying yes to things you once feared, and letting go of things you thought you needed — not because something’s wrong, but because something inside you has become deeply right.
When you trust yourself, you don’t need to have everything figured out. You just need to listen. You need to stay close to that quiet knowing within. And when you do, the next step always reveals itself.
That’s the way she knows. And it’s already inside you.
The task is simple and deceptively difficult: What did you do yesterday?
We have always been curious about the lives of others.
Long before television and tabloids, we craned our necks at windows, imagined stories behind closed doors. That impulse to know, to glimpse, to understand is ancient. We are, all of us, secret witnesses, seeking reflection, seeking difference, seeking the tender knowledge that we are not alone.
“Ah,” we think, “so this is how another human moves through the day. How strange. How ordinary. How marvellous.”
Most of us, if asked, would call our days unremarkable. We would point to the routines, the errands, the silences, and shrug. But presence alters the lens. What once seemed plain is suddenly flooded with texture:
The amber glow of morning through the blinds. The brief pleasure of a spoon against the roof of the mouth. The idle reaching for a book, for a thought, for another hand.
A life, it turns out, is made not of milestones, but of minutiae.
It was this quiet revelation that shaped this week’s assignment in The Art of Noticing, the six-week writing club I am leading. The prompt is borrowed, with gratitude, from Aisling Marron of Notes From New York, who herself was inspired by a podcast of the same name.
The task is simple and deceptively difficult: What did you do yesterday?
No digressions. No rewinding or fast-forwarding. Only the bare, shining truth of a single day, as it unfolded.
Here is mine:
7:00am My boyfriend’s alarm goes off, the buzz slicing through the heavy fog of my sleep. I roll onto my side, eyes gritty, my head thick and stuffed with cotton wool. Regret clings to me immediately. Regret for the ambitious plans I agreed to, for not protecting the softness of this morning. But I am an adult and adults honour their commitments, so I climb down the ladder from our loft bed, bare feet pressing onto the cool wooden floor. I pull my aligners from my mouth, soak them in their cleaning agent, put the kettle on, and drop an ‘immune support’ Yogi tea bag into favourite mug. I find my tiny jar of Egyptian Magic and bring it and the tea to the sofa. My face aches, pulsing with the imprint of too-little sleep and the too-salty dinner from the night before. I settle into the cushions and begin to massage my lymph nodes slowly — chest, neck, jawline, cheeks, scalp — coaxing the fluid back into its pathways, feeling the swelling subside little by little. These small, tender rituals make me grateful for everything I’ve learned about how to tend to myself.
7:30am My boyfriend finds me curled up on the sofa, kisses me. “How did you sleep?” he asks, and I reply “Fine”. I stretch my arms overhead and yawn, “The problem with making plans ahead of time is you never know how you’re going to feel when they arrive.” I splash warm water on my face, wipe off the leftover balm with a soft cloth, and brush my teeth, waking myself up bit by bit. He laughs and mixes creatine into two glasses of water — one for each of us. We sit shoulder-to-shoulder as I quickly scroll through my social apps, answering urgent messages and uploading the next The Art of Noticing lesson for my writing club. “Let’s go for coffee!” he suggests, and I peel myself away to dig through drawers in our little walk-in wardrobe, finding black leggings, a soft, sky-blue yoga tank, and my favourite Free People fleece that still smells of Portugal.
8:15am As we descend the narrow staircase of our building, he tells me in hushed tones about how he heard someone fiddling with our lock in the night. A chill prickles up my spine; New York feels wild and unpredictable. We agree to tell the landlord, unsure how concerned we ought to be. Our favourite coffee shop is tucked just under our building, but he’s craving a vegan croissant, so we detour to Essex Market, the morning still crisp and pale. When we arrive, the market is shuttered, the gates still pulled down. Even New York, it seems, has its limits. By the time we return, the coffee shop has filled with people; there’s a queue spooled inside. We squeeze in, order two coffees and a few treats: a tahini cookie and oat cappuccino for him, a flat white and buttery croissant for me. I’m still hollow from yesterday’s hunger and bite into the pastry peeking out of the paper bag before the coffees arrive.
9:00am I log onto Zoom for a meeting with an alumna from The Mentor Training. As we speak, my sluggish mind lifts into a higher orbit, buoyed by the energy of possibility. I remember — oh yes — I have built things, beautiful things. I have made worlds out of ideas. It’s so easy for me to forget, to always chase the next horizon without pausing to admire the view. Having it mirrored back to me reignites a quiet fire inside.
9:45am We end the call with a plan and a few fresh objectives, and I scramble around our tiny LES apartment gathering keys and my phone, throwing back a glass of water before running to yoga class. I arrive breathless but just in time. The teacher welcomes me warmly: she’s tall, with a fluid grace, long stretchy limbs, and a soft accent that feels instantly soothing. She gestures for me to grab two blocks and a strap, and I find a space right at the front. A man plops down beside me at the last moment. Round-bellied, bald, but adorned in a pink ballerina-style outfit, bright red lipstick and nails to match. I smile to myself: we’re all girls here today.
10:00am We begin on our backs, breath deepening, bodies sinking into the earth. The teacher’s style is light and casual, her voice weaving through the room like a ribbon. As we move into slow sun salutations, I feel the two decades of practice unfurling in my muscles, a familiar dance. Movement practices like yoga are an anchor for me, a home I can return to no matter how much the outer world shape-shifts. By the end of class, every inch of me feels stretched and rinsed clean. I thank the teacher quietly, wipe my mat with a lemon-scented towelette, and slide my Birkenstocks back on, feeling the earth a little closer beneath my feet.
11:30am A 10-minute voice note from my bestie is waiting, so I pop my headphones in as I wander home, the city buzzing around me. I duck into a small beauty boutique and marvel at the rows of glass bottles and creams before finding my beloved Italian leave-in conditioner. $42, I am willing to invest in. As I browse, I send her a stream-of-consciousness voice reply, not to inform but to process; our sacred girlfriend ritual. It’s therapy in miniature, given and received without expectation.
11:45am By the time I get home, I’m ravenous. I find my boyfriend deep in work at the tiny kitchen table and ask if he wants to share a picnic. He nods silently as I pull guacamole, purple corn chips, and baby carrots from the fridge. I slice tofu, arrange everything on a big plate, and pour coconut water into tall glasses. We carry it all to the coffee table and sit cross-legged, eating with our fingers and laughing about nothing in particular. I love how easy nourishment can be when it’s shared.
12:30pm The shower is in the kitchen, a relic from the building’s pre-plumbing past. The hot water washes the morning away: tea-tree scented soap, a razor across my legs, a shampoo bar in my hair and afterwards my new leave-in conditioner combed through and coconut oil slathered on my skin with slow devotion. Fridays are for beauty, for romance, for the small Venusian acts of pleasure. I leave my hair to air dry, slip into shorts and a loose lounge top, and tidy the apartment, vacuum humming underfoot. I can’t sit down to work until my space feels clean and peaceful.
1:00pm I curl into child’s pose on the sofa to write emails, tucked into myself. Eventually, my legs go numb, and I unfold with a sigh. I tick through admin tasks for The Mentor Training, refilling my water glass now and then. Around 3pm, I hand my boyfriend a glass too, scolding him lightly for not drinking enough. We giggle about something small and silly, and suddenly, at the same time, blurt out, “I love you.” He pulls me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around me tightly. “I love this,” he says, forehead against mine. “Working quietly together. Laughing. It’s precious.” I press my palm to his heart, and we both turn to admire the little pot of spring flowers blooming vibrantly in the window, as if blessing the day.
4:40pm He has plans to meet a friend at 5:00pm, and I decide to tag along, craving fresh air more than another minute of screen time. I waste most of my twenty-minute warning scrolling, then throw on a dress and sneakers, and wipe a lip tint on, and we’re out the door. We meet his friend at Essex Market and order drinks — matcha latte for me, iced decaf for them — and wander through the golden slant of late afternoon. I find myself distracted by the light bouncing off the buildings, the life vibrating in the streets. We wander through hidden galleries, a park filled with wildly competitive ping pong matches, and a tiny poodle who decides to befriend me. On a tucked-away corner, I discover Casetta, the sweetest wine bar, and instantly decide we must return for date night.
Casetta
6:00pm We stop at a market to pick up a baguette, some hummus, pico de gallo, and tiny, perfect avocados. Bread in NYC is standard stale (why?) but we take our bounty home for a second, casual picnic at the coffee table, layering pesto and arugula and salt on thick slices. We eat quickly, laughing and stealing bites from each other’s plates, knowing we have to leave soon for our night at the Whitney.
7:50pm The Whitney is alive, packed with people, more than we expected. It’s a little overwhelming trying to see the art through the thick crowd. Still, some moments shine. I overhear a girl say to her boyfriend, “You have marathons, I have stairs,” as we climb to the rooftop, and I laugh in solidarity. And at the top the whole city stretched out in luminous twilight. He pulls me close, kisses me with a rare, wild tenderness, and I feel something invisible and important shift between us.
8:45pm We meander back downtown through SoHo and into LES, the streets thick with nightlife now, music spilling out of bars and windows flung open. New York shape-shifts after dark, but I don’t feel the pull to join it. I feel full already — full of the day, of the hours stacked like soft, golden bricks inside me.
9:30pm We tumble onto the sofa and watch the latest episode of Severance, my body warm and heavy with tiredness. Afterwards, I move through my nighttime rituals: wash my face, brush my teeth, click my aligners back in. We climb the ladder into our loft bed. He wraps himself around me protectively, and I sink into his warmth, into the safety of our tiny kingdom, asleep almost before my head touches the pillow.
Was it a good day? (They always ask that on the pod.)
Yes — it was an excellent day. A day stitched with small joys: pastries and coffee, sunshine on skin, a body stretched long and sweet in yoga, easy laughter shared across a tiny kitchen table, a museum kissed by sunset, the heavy, sore satisfaction of a life well-lived inside an ordinary Friday.
I believe in old-fashioned passion, wooing and flirtation. I believe everyone walks into your life for a reason. Even the ones that are in it only for a short season. I believe in choosing someone imperfect with your whole heart, and then choosing them again and again, even when it’s hard.
I love love and being in love and being in love and loving someone has always been enough for me. I want to fight for love. For real love. I want to fight for you and the love you wish for.
When I meet a man I like, which is very rare, I decide I like him, we hold hands, and voilà! We are boyfriend and girlfriend. So when people (you, my reader) ask me for dating advice, I don’t know what to say.
I don’t buy into the modern dating approach. But maybe that’s exactly what you need: The things dating apps won’t tell you.
“Why aren’t you on dating apps?” he asked.
“If I can’t meet someone organically, I deserve to be single!” I declared, with conviction and arrogance.
My friend Jackson, who had just spent an hour recounting his tragicomic Tinder escapades, looked like I’d slapped him.
I softened. “It’s not a judgment. I just know the kind of man I want isn’t on there. The man I want? He’s not playing this game. I want someone like me. Someone who romanticises chance encounters. I want unexpected circumstances to deliver him to me. And I want a solid answer to the ‘How did you meet?’ question. I want a love story.”
He nodded, lost in his own thoughts.
what dating apps won’t tell you
When I met my partner I had wished for love for a long time.
We met in an unassuming way. On a big wooden bench outside against a big wooden window frame at a cafe. Just metres from where he lived. I was not pretty: I had been on a long walk, wearing leggings and a t-shirt, and on a work call. I was not expecting to meet my future partner that day.
I have more than a year’s worth of scrawling in my journal begging life to bring the right man my way. And I knew it was a kismet combination of being ready and open, timing, and place. And the assumption of positive intent1.
I knew I wanted to be met by someone who wanted to go on a life journey with me. Someone who wanted to grow alongside me. Someone shared my particular flavour of life experiences, so we were not too foreign to one another. I knew that, for it to stand a chance, we had to meet by chance.
The difference between meeting someone organically vs meeting them on a dating app is it leaves you delighted by the miracle of life working in your favour.
As opposed to the gamified human connection where every match becomes an empty dopamine hit. Dating apps thrive on your loneliness. They profit from your insecurities.
I have watched brilliant, accomplished women and friends spend months cycling through superficial connections, each one at first, promising and then, ultimately hollow. The real currency in dating isn’t in accumulating matches. It’s in the courage to be seen, truly seen.
Intimacy is not just about physical closeness, it’s about feeling safe to show someone who you are2. And for many, being emotionally naked feels scarier than taking off their clothes.
Exposing our insecurities, wounds, fears, and dreams can leave us feeling deeply vulnerable and exposed. True intimacy lies in moments of shared vulnerability.
Real love isn’t built on a perfectly timed witty reply. It’s built on presence. On attunement3. On showing up, again and again, even when it’s inconvenient. But apps won’t tell you that. I bad for business.
how to date
Dating, at its core, is simple: Be curious. Be honest. Be vulnerable. Have integrity. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.
Love lives in the spaces. In the cracks between plans. In the moments we don’t see coming. Like that day at the café when I met my partner. Me in my workout clothes. Hair wild from the wind. A work call on a wooden bench. That’s when love found me.
The truth about dating is simple. No strategies. No rules. No perfect messages. Just you, present in the world. The world, present with you.
These moments matter. Not for where they lead. For what they are. Raw pieces of being human together.
The ones who draw us in aren’t perfect. They’re real. They laugh about changing clothes three times before coffee. They admit when trust comes hard after heartbreak. They say “this is who I am” and let the words stand naked.
step 1: curiosity
Like people. That’s it. Just like them. People like people who like them.
Want someone to like you? Like them first. Want someone to love you? Love them first.
Dating isn’t about finding “the one.” It’s about being present in the world and actually engaging with it. It’s about making small sacrifices. You cannot complain about how no one talks to each other anymore while simultaneously refusing to look up from your phone.
step 2: honesty
Magnetism lives in complete ownership of who you are. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being real.
The paradox of honesty is that the very things we think make us unlovable—our quirks, our fears, our weird habits—become our most attractive qualities when we own them completely.
Mature honesty requires discernment. It’s not about emotional dumping. It’s about stating your truth simply, without apology or explanation.
step 3: vulnerability
We’ve created a culture where strength is mistaken for invulnerability. Women are told to be independent, self-sufficient, always composed. Never let them see you need.
The magic happens when you share your truths without needing the other person to fix them. When you can say, “This is who I am” without apology, you create space for others to do the same.
Vulnerability also acts as a filter: the ones incapable of real connection will disappear. The ones who are ready will lean in.
step 4: integrity
Curiosity opens doors. Honesty builds trust. Vulnerability creates connection. But integrity? Integrity keeps it all standing.
Integrity means doing what you say you’ll do. It means being the same person in all contexts: with friends, with dates, with yourself. It’s saying no when something doesn’t align with your values, even if no one would know otherwise.
It’s rare. That’s why it’s attractive.
Integrity is the difference between being interesting and being trustworthy. Between being desired and being valued. Between drawing people in and giving them a reason to stay.
Dating isn’t broken. We are just overcomplicating it.
You just need to show up.
Curious. Honest. Vulnerable. In integrity.
That’s how you date. That’s how you find love. That’s how love finds you.
love, dating & other accidents
Some men are more fantasy than reality. Some arrive at the perfect moment but for the wrong reasons. Some teach you things you didn’t know you needed to learn—about yourself, about your boundaries, about the importance of foreplay.
Romance these days is strange magic. We try people on like borrowed coats, hoping they’ll stretch in the right places. Mistake lightning for sunrise. Convenience for chemistry. Bend ourselves into shapes that leave us sore.
But dating, at its best, is a mirror. It shows you what you want, what you don’t, what you’re willing to settle for and what you won’t tolerate again. It reminds you that love—real love—isn’t something you stumble into overnight. It’s something that grows, slow and steady, through care and curiosity.
And if nothing else, at least it makes for a good story.
The kind that makes you laugh years later. The kind that makes you grateful for all the wrong turns that led you right where you needed to be.
It means believing that the other person is acting with good intentions, even if their actions or words don’t land well. It’s a mindset that fosters empathy, reduces unnecessary conflict, and allows for more open, trusting interactions.
This requires what psychologists call secure attachment—the ability to maintain your identity while deeply connecting with another. Dating apps, however, cultivate the opposite: anxious attachment, where validation comes from digital affirmation rather than real-world connection.
Attunement in dating is the ability to be present with and responsive to a partner’s emotions, needs, and unspoken cues. It builds trust and connection through emotional awareness, active listening, and empathy.
and there’s only one way to get through it (working title: how to heal after a breakup)
I still loved him when I left him. The last long-term relationship of mine. Even when the kisses dried up and our lips rasped past each other, more out of habit than affection. Even when the future was hopeless and we knew that our love is not enough.
The next time I nursed a broken heart, I did everything I could to move on.
It is 2021. I feel restless in my life and my body. A year of confinement to a small corner of the world is unfamiliar to me. I keep trying to convince myself that I chose this. That this is good for me. That it has already taught me so much. That this too will pass.
It is the last day of lockdown in the U.K. I will myself to go outside.
I pull on leggings and layers, Spring has not warmed this part of the world enough yet. I tie the laces on my trainers. No headphones, I want to hear the world today. I walk to the sea and turn left. Past crowds of people in their Sunday best and worst, past a cute skater girl in baggy jeans and a tie-dye t-shirt, past a dozen fish and chip stands, past new outdoor seating and eating spaces prepared for the new world that begins tomorrow.
The seafront feels like the day before a festival, the carousel being tested and repaired, the restaurants offering tents set up with carpets to provide outdoor dining options. I walk until my legs start to ache and the path ends at a hidden car park filled with mobile homes and caravans and gypsy girls in long skirts eating from metal plates sitting on the black asphalt.
They remind me of a decade past when I used to live like them and give me heady nostalgia for a life filled with the freedom of few cares beyond the next meal and the next place to sleep.
Here, I smile at them and wave, and spin around to return to the life I call my own.
There, I made a pact not to throw myself into love as easily next time.
Heartbreak feels like a slow unravelling.
The rhythm of your thoughts shifts; the things that once made sense no longer do.
It’s disorienting, like trying to find your footing on unsteady ground. And while it’s tempting to escape — to distract yourself with noise, busyness, or fleeting moments of comfort — the truth is, heartbreak doesn’t let you run.
The only way out is through.
And the only way through is this: to take all the love, care, and thought you poured into someone else and pour it back into yourself.
Guess, for a moment, how much of yourself you gave away.
How your thoughts revolved around their needs, their dreams, their happiness. How you moulded parts of your life to fit theirs, sometimes without even noticing. It’s so easy to lose yourself in another person, to blur the lines between where you end and they begin.
And when it ends, and those ties are severed, you’re left untethered — adrift, searching for the pieces of yourself you gave away.
The only way to untangle yourself from that is to take all that focus, all that love, all that energy, and pour it back into you. Not in fragments, but wholly, deliberately, and with the same intensity you once reserved for them.
What dreams of your own need championing? What parts of your happiness have gone ignored? What would it look like to make yourself the centre of your world again?
Start there, and rebuild.
Start with the essentials.
Heartbreak is heavy, and it takes a toll on the body as much as the soul. Sleep when you can. Nourish yourself, even if all you can manage are small, simple meals. Let your body move, whether that’s walking aimlessly until the ache subsides or finding a quiet space to stretch and feel your breath steadying. These small acts may not feel profound, but they are the roots of healing — tender reminders to yourself that you are worth tending to.
Turn inward.
Heartbreak thrives on loops — the endless replay of what was said, what wasn’t, what could have been. Rather than fighting these thoughts, give your mind something else to hold. Learn something new. Return to something old you loved but abandoned. Write, even if the words don’t make sense. Read stories that inspire you. Let your curiosity lead you, gently coaxing your attention away from the wound and towards possibility.
Nurture your heart.
Heartbreak offers renewal. Reconnect with the parts of your life that aren’t tied to what you’ve lost. Seek out the people who see you, the ones who remind you of who you were before. Laugh with them, even if it feels strained at first. If you’re lucky enough to have someone who will simply sit beside you in silence, let them. If you don’t, find small moments of connection elsewhere — a conversation with a kind stranger, a shared glance with someone who understands. These moments, however fleeting, are reminders that the world hasn’t stopped spinning and that it still holds beauty for you.
There isn’t a quick fix. Healing from heartbreak is an act of patience and devotion. Some days, you’ll feel strong — alive, even — and others will pull you back under. Every time you choose to redirect your love inward, you’re rebuilding. Slowly, quietly, but undeniably.
And one day, without even realising it, you’ll notice that the ache has softened.
You’ll look around at the life you’ve been creating and see something remarkable: a version of yourself who is not only whole but expansive. A self who knows how to love deeply, but now understands how to be loved in return — starting from within.
Keep going. For as long as it takes. Until it stops hurting.
The pain of walking away from someone you love for the sake of self-preservation is one that never goes away.
It ebbs and flows.
Some days I feel deep compassion. Her life has not been an easy one.
Some days I feel fierce anger. She could have done better.
Some days I really want her to say:
~ sorry that I didn’t know how to parent you
~ sorry that I was not being able to be present for you or nurture you
~ sorry that I projected my anger, bitterness and frustration into you
~ sorry that I acted so righteous and like I had everything under control
~ sorry that my conditioning destroyed every relationship in my surroundings
~ sorry that I abandoned you as often as I did because I was terrified of being abandoned myself
I want her to say
Life is hard and I was faced with many challenges but I take responsibility for the ways that I handled them.
I want her to admit that she’s not a victim but that her choices were a byproduct of circumstances.
Sorry.
I fucked up.
Like everyone else.
I did my best.
I am not right.
Or better than anyone.
All my actions were attempts to protect myself and that is my fault. Not yours
Sorry
A therapist once told me that every every child wants to hear ‘I’m sorry’ and every parent wants to hear ‘Thank you’ and often neither gets either.
A friend asked me if I could imagine ever having a relationship with my mother again.
I always hope to, I replied. But it requires behaviour changes. What I need from her is to take full responsibility for herself and her actions.
I reply to her email.
thank you. I hope you are happy and well. happy birthday on the 23rd to you too.
Trauma can be a wellspring of growth.
Through the crucible of difficult relationships, I found unexpected healing.
It took reaching a breaking point — a place of unbearable tension and rejection — to realize a fundamental truth: I am the guardian of my own well-being.
When I finally accepted the absence of my mother’s mothering, the ensuing grief affirmed both my needs and my capacity for deep love.
I could have chosen victimhood. I could have repeated her pattern.
Instead, I embraced the painful work of feeling and healing.
My goal has always been authenticity.
To be at ease with myself, open to giving and receiving profound love. To face life with both tenderness and courage, unburdened by the past. To cultivate relationships with kindred spirits, where mutual trust and safety nurture shared vulnerability.
It’s in this space — at the intersection of loss and love — that I’ve discovered my truest self.
Unlearning self-protective habits is painful, but necessary.
Healing often lies in doing the opposite of what once kept us safe. By embracing our raw authenticity, we allow ill-fitting relationships to fall away. It’s both a death and a rebirth.
What emerges is rare and beautiful: feeling truly seen and loved by those who can hold all our complexity.
The path to genuine connection requires us to trust our own worthiness, to risk opening our hearts. And sometimes, it means having the courage to walk away from relationships that require us to diminish ourselves.
Part journal entry, part example of how I reparent my inner child and regulate a fearful subconscious, part break-up letter, part invitation. It’s all in there! 😮💨
When a woman ends a relationship, she begins grieving the end of it, long before she leaves it.
Perhaps that is how women do most things. Feel them first. Act on them last.
☾
I am at the tail end of an unusually hushed week for a mid-summer month.
A week swimming with incomplete to-do lists and notes, extended walks in the woods, visits to the farm shops, and long days filled with writing content marketing for the final enrolment of The Mentor Training. In preparation for a week south by the sea in France where I will have fewer chances to make it to my laptop to work. Punctuated by pauses where I took my clothes off and lay naked on the ground to take in sun and soil.
I spent July and August getting to know this land and its people in the way I had always hoped to. I wandered every walking trail I could find. Got lost several times for hours. Was rescued once by a stranger who took pity on me after I roamed three hours in the wrong direction and drove me back home. Went to a couple of local music festivals. Met locals, new and old.
I got to know the community and to understand this place in the world.
It confirmed to me that it is not mine.
Place matters. The vibe and people of a place influence. The wrong place can corrode a life. The right place can enhance and flourish it.
This place is in a different season than mine.
Made up of young families or young people still living with their parents or adults who are well into their elder years. My enchantment with Forest Row has failed to meet me. I’m too young for the oldies and too untethered for the families. I reconcile this through conversations with those who share my current season in life. All of them seek a place that nourishes their spirits elsewhere.
It’s sweet and easy to be here, we agree, but it gives little, and are we starving.
I know home is less a place than a state of being. Home, really, is when the urge to leave… stops
☾
Today, after three weeks of sun and warmth a light rain has settled in. It’s that soft mist familiar only to the UK.
Every sunny day here is so treasured. It does not have the same reliable abundance of summer as other places. Instead, a spartan scarcity of sunlight.
I noticed it in particular two years ago when I was visiting from Mallorca.
A dreary, grey, depression had swept across the country. London, which I had fallen in love with in my 20s for its rebellious joyful expression via a melting pot of music, fashion and culture, had become dulled.
My friends tell me the cause is political and socioeconomic.
When I fell in love with this country it was in arms with the E.U. allowing trading, migration and shared regulations. As a European, this provided me with the freedom to jump borders when and as often as I wanted to. Life here was (mostly) sweet. I made the UK a home base, flowing in and out of the country at will, whenever I needed a soft landing.
After Brexit the gritty underbelly of racism and colonialism rose to the surface, the country became grim.
I have had to commit to a certain number of years (three) within a certain time frame (five) to be able to remain. Even then, there is no certainty.
I think my love affair with the UK has ended.
☾
This part, as much of this article, has been pulled directly from the pages of my journal.
I’ve been grieving it for a while.
I will come back for visits. Or practical reasons. My car and business are both registered here for the time being. But that’s it.
This country and I have reached completion.
We are not compatible despite the love between us.
I am curious to discover what is next for us. Danger-baby, Punto-the-car, and me. My little family of three. Where are we going to end up, I wonder?
My intention for the rest of this year is that it has got to be easy. Sweet and easy. Ease is leading the way, everything else is falling away.
Having written that, I have come to realise that the recurring lower back and hip pains I’ve been experiencing have to do with home and safety.
It started when I left Brighton in 2021 to move to Mallorca — a chronic pain that I rarely shared about which persisted during those 18 months — and then subsided on my return mid-last year. The UK has always symbolised safety. A place I am familiar with. Now that I am aware that this perceived safety is going to change my body is making my unconscious fear known to me with the return of this pain. Pain that I ease each day through mindful movement.
Thank you body. I hear you. I feel you. I acknowledge you.
I have an ongoing yearning for home as a safe external environment in which I can relax and thrive. A big part of choosing where to live is being conscious and clear-eyed about the inevitable tradeoffs. There’s no perfect place. Just a set of trade-offs I’m more willing to make.
I am doing the dance necessary to make manifest any desire:
— showing up to the practicalities in the ways that I can
— holding the vision and vibe high
— trusting and surrendering
Back to the subject of home… from me to me.
Darling body. Thank you so much for communicating with me so clearly. I love you so much and am in awe of you every day.
Darling younger self, inner child and subconscious. I know how easily you feel scared and unsafe due to childhood circumstances. I am so sorry that was your reality. And… I am an adult now. I’ve got you. I will always keep you safe. I have the deep understanding, emotional and intellectual intelligence, and resources to do so. Unlike your caregivers when you were little. I love you. All my choices are centred around your expansion, growth, joy, freedom and well-being. Always.
Place matters. And the yearning and seeking for the ‘right’ place, matter too.
☾
Younger self and shadow work play a big role in my work and my self-growth. They are both included in the methods I use with private clients.
I sometimes am asked to explain shadow work.
It is the beautiful inner work of making the unconscious conscious. The parts of ourselves that we hide: our fears, guilt, shame, anger, secret desires or pleasures, the things we lie about. To fit into society/survive/belong. This kind of inner work enables you to be your authentic self thus increasing your personal power and well-being because you’re not hiding anything.
There’s a new wisdom in me now. A patience I’ve not known before. I’m no longer forcing the future into being.
“Your Papa, is he ok?” she falters, the words fragmented in her French accent.
“Se morte, he’s dead,” I reply, hoping my Spanish-to-French translation makes sense.
“Oui, I know but, ah…” looking for words she does not have in a language unfamiliar to her.
I nodded. She wanted me to look into my relationship with him, to check in with him across the cosmic ether between the living and the dead.
It was my fourth day in the South of France in a villa tucked in the mountains behind Nice.
The bodywork this healer had just given me felt mostly energetic, subtly infused in long repetitive strokes across my naked body, loosening and wakening the tight parts, the coiled inside themselves parts, the parts that had hardened to protect me from life’s rough edges.
☾
This morning, I found myself back in the U.K. – a land so dreary and cold, even in the heart of July, that I’ve christened it ‘Mordor’. The irony isn’t lost on me.
And there, in the quiet of the morning, I began to write to my father. Words flowed, bridging the gap between worlds.
“Ciao, Papa.” I began…
Though my pen hasn’t formed words for him in years, his presence lingers, a constant whisper in the air around me. In quiet moments, I find myself reaching out, seeking his guidance. His spirit, a silent partner in my decision-making, a comforting presence I turn to in times of need.
Tears blurred my vision as I wrote, a familiar ache settling in my chest. The weight of a lifetime unshared pressed down on me, heavy with missed opportunities. A flicker of resentment burned towards my mother, whose actions had carved a chasm between us.
I often found myself wondering if more time together might have changed everything. Perhaps he wouldn’t have met his fate, alone, navigating that serpentine mountain road in Sardinia, when I was just a ten-year-old girl, worlds away.
I poured my heart onto the page – my musings, aspirations, and visions for the future. Then, pen hovering, I asked if he had any wisdom to impart or requests to make. Closing my eyes, I let the stillness envelop me, waiting for that familiar whisper of inspiration.
Suddenly, words flowed through me, as if my hand had a mind of its own:
You and your dreams are important and valid. Don’t minimise or downplay them because they are unlike those of the majority. You are carving out a new way for people with your essence and Being. I am always here. Helping and guiding you.
☾
Those five sun-soaked days already feel like a distant dream. I can still feel the warmth deepening the brown of my skin, taste the juice of ripe summer fruits – peaches, cherries, melons – running down my chin. Those five days in southern France with my surrogate family awakened something primal in me. A reminder of my Mediterranean soul, forever tethered to sun and sea.
Yet, duty calls me back to this grey land, for now.
It’s curious, though. After being caught in a karmic whirlpool the past few years that stripped away my old self, I’ve emerged with remarkable clarity. The path ahead shimmers with possibility, my motivation and inspiration at an all-time high.
There’s a new wisdom in me now. A patience I’ve not known before. I’m no longer forcing the future into being. Instead — I’m engaged in a delicate dance with destiny — part trust, part inspired action.
The rest of this year is going to be filled with miracles. I can feel it.
Wilted flowers, sticks and stones of varying sizes in pockets. Tiny, sticky fingers reaching for hands, arms, shoulders, legs, anything to hold on to. Miniature toy cars, dried-up mandarin peel, a collection of leaves in my woven basket. The backseat covered in a small display of muddy prints and lost pebbles.
Those are the symbols of my last few weeks.
Fleeting fragments of enchantments that materialise as dirt and mess to the unobservant conjured up from the imaginations of a 2 and 4-year-old.
Parts of my brain, formerly dormant, have been activated to sense threats and dangers, perceive needs and triggers, and either coax or soothe in response to each one. I fall into bed, heavy with fatigue two days per week, with nothing left to give.
It’s a satisfying feeling, to be at the mercy of two small, demanding bodies that require every moment of your attention in a forcefully present way.
I’m not sure how it happened. Without a doubt, kismet was at hand.
One day their mother and I were dreaming over a matcha laughing about how fun it would be to live next door to each other, the next, that’s exactly what we were doing.
For the past three years, I have lamented how strange our modern silo lives are, often disconnected from real community, operating in isolation from one another.
This was not my reality until recently. When I stopped travelling and endeavoured to stay still in developed countries. Not really until I moved to Canada with my ex. Later amplified by the global pandemic.
Now, two days a week, plus a scattering here and there I have become, what my poet-friend calls an ‘alloparent’.
We don’t know how long it will last. It’s an arrangement to revisit based on the shifting sands of life and time after summer. But for now, it’s perfect.
I’m enjoying exercising my maternal nature.
One of the boys is highly sensitive, quick to be acitivated and slow to be soothed. He responds the best to a range of trust-building practises with patience and consistency and lots of reassurance through physical touch and words.
I’m enjoying applying human development tools that I have learned, teach and use across the decade of my career in such a real way. Nervous system co-regulation and attachment style approaches are incredibly useful in daily moments.
My relationship with time has shifted. I have both not enough and more than enough concurrently. My work days and hours have taken on a different feeling.
The creativity and impetus that normally flows feels more forced at the moment. I assume this will shift once I find my way with this new iteration of life.
I admire all fulltime caregivers that attempt to have a creative life or career alongside childrearing.
Children take up some much of your physical and mental real estate.
They’re also incredibly healing.
So many parents I speak to relish the chance to give to their children in the ways that they weren’t met as children. Healing their own inner child by giving what was once needed.
Sometimes I wish more adults knew how important it is to do that work with ourselves first. If we all took the responsibility to reparent ourselves before we reach out to parent others there would be a lot more harmony in the world.
“The funny thing about those kinds of goats is that they easily get cold so the farmers have to wrap them up and make sure they stay warm.” “That’s like me!” I laughed. He smiled, eyes twinkling…
“What were you going to do if hadn’t responded?” Rosie asked me sipping rosé opposite me at a long wooden table outside a tiny bar in the golden September afternoon sun.
She had been the one to return to my plea if anyone knew of any place I could rent next when I only had 10 days left in my sublet in London in August with an offer of her husband’s house to sublet in Margate.
“Something would have happened,” I replied, smiling. Something always does.
A week into my stay in Margate I knew the place was not for me. Although, in hindsight, I miss my daily long strolls alongside the wild Northern Sea. They were spectacular and raw. I don’t miss the constant headaches and tension I felt in my body from being in that place, however.
I started looking for a new place to stay, somewhere between South London and the Sea. A friend of mine lived in Forest Row and started sending me every Facebook and WhatsApp post that advertised a one-bed, a studio or an annexe.
“No cats!” “The place doesn’t actually have walls.” “Those dates don’t work.” “Not for people who work from home.”
Weeks rolled past and our next home seemed elusive. In moments of despair, I tried other options. Staying in the spare room of a friend for a month. Putting my cat in the care of someplace else for a little while. And then I remembered.
“Something will happen.”
Then one day, an advertisement for a tiny cottage in Forest Row popped up, which I answered immediately, introducing myself, my situation, and what I was looking for. “I have a cat.” I wrote. Twice. Just to make sure.
The landlady replied quickly. “You sound lovely. And your cat is most welcome! The only thing is, it’s only available until mid-December as my sister is coming to visit and I promised her the place then.”
Happy, I agreed to a Zoom call to meet and get to know each other a little more. She gave me a virtual tour and we settled on a two-month sublet.
As the last month began and winter began rolling in, my early morning jaunts to hot yoga were greeted with frost and endless days of rainfall, the cycle in my mind began again.
I looked for sublets in Brighton and Hove, where I had lived before and some of my friends live, sad to leave the sheltered forest I currently call home. Nothing felt right. Nothing fell into place. Something else had to fall into place.
“Maybe I am not meant to spend winter here?” I thought to myself. My dream has always, always been to leave for three or four months and live in this little magical corner of England for the rest of the year.
“Something will happen” I decided.
One day in late October, wrapped up in more layers than I would like, I met my friend Angela for coffee. “Are you staying here for winter or are you leaving?” she asked me. “Well… I’ve been trying to find somewhere to stay here but nothing is falling into place,” I said with a disheartened expression. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“I’m going to Africa for a month. South Africa, and Namibia, where I grew up,” she replied. “Why don’t you come?”
“Really?!!”
“Yes! Come.”
I asked around if anyone would like to take my cat and my car from mid-December. One friend replied but she wasn’t able to until early January. Then, crickets…
“Something will happen” I hoped.
A few days later my friend Chelsea friend replied. My cat and I had house-sat her and her husband’s home in Ely a few months earlier. “We can take Danger and your car!”
Minutes later my landlady texted. “I love having you as a tenant. Would you like to continue the lease after my sister comes for Christmas?”
Everything happened all at once. I had to decide.
Sunshine and adventure won out and a few days later I replied to my landlady. “I love staying here so much but had made other arrangements as I thought it was only short-term based on our conversation. I’m going to Africa for three months but would love to return when I’m back in late March?”
“Perfect” she agreed.
On Saturday, I went to pick up some spring water from the spring that spouts out on a local farm. It had been so cold that night the water had frozen and it wasn’t running. Absently I decided to pick up a coffee at the farm shop instead to warm my freezing hands before I drove to visit a friend of mine.
Already 30 minutes late I impatiently waited to order a cappuccino and handed the barista Nick my takeaway mug. Standing out in the cold waiting for him to make my coffee and steam the milk I heard a voice ask me “What is that top made of?”
“Which top?” I replied wearing many layers that day. I peered up at a somewhat handsome middle-aged man wearing a grey hoodie.
“The white one,” he pointed at my sweater under my sheepskin jacket. “It’s Angora,” I smiled. “Which I think is rabbit.”
“I’m pretty sure Angora is a type of goat!” he countered.
“Really?” I questioned.
“The funny thing about those kinds of goats is that they easily get cold so the farmers have to wrap them up and make sure they stay warm.”
“That’s like me!” I laughed. He smiled, eyes twinkling in good humour.
“Where do they live? The goats? I’m assuming it’s not here in England!”
“Well, some of them live in South Africa.” At that moment I clock that his accent has a slight South African flavour to it.
“I’m going to South Africa. In two weeks! For three months.”
“Where are you going to stay?”
“I don’t know. First I’m going to Namibia with my friend. And then Cape Town I assume, based on what people have told me.”
I showed him the list of recommendations I had been given that I had saved in my Notes app.
“But you’ve never been? What are you going to do? You haven’t organised a place to stay? That’s brave…” he looked at me astounded.
“I might book a night or two and then see…. that’s kind of my modus operandi. Something will happen”, I replied.
“Let me give you some names and numbers. There’s a duchess I know, who lives right on the beach, she might have a room for you. How much time do you have?” He pulled out his phone.
“I don’t! I already am late! But let me give you my number. V-i-e-n-d-a” I spelt out my name. Then my number.
My cappuccino ready, I started dashing to my car. “It was so kismet to meet you! What’s your name?”
You can seek validation that you are loveable from others your entire life, but it will never fill the gaping hole that tells you that you are unlovable and not enough.
Last weekend I went to London to take care of my friend’s teenager while she was away on a work trip. The boy was still at school and my friend was already gone so I was met at the door by her lodger.
Twenty-six — a singer-songwriter with wild dark curls, a childish figure and a thoughtful nature — she introduced herself as Victoria.
“I’m Vienda”, I smiled in response kicking my shoes off and following her into the living room. We sat down and I politely asked her how she was.
Without taking a breath she dove into a 40-minute detailing of her recent heartbreak.
“I know, you are going through hell right now. You are sad, confused, angry, depressed, numb. You go from sad to angry then to numb and then a combination of them all. It is totally normal to feel what you are feeling and to even be confused about what you are feeling right now.”
She continued sharing a verbal waterfall of thoughts and feelings to which I offered consoling sounds for a while, tears in her eyes, staring down at her shoelaces, unsure of what to do with herself.
“I ended a relationship myself last week. It was only a short one but endings are never easy. Here’s what I know about healing heartbreak.”
Inviting her for a walk around Hampstead Heath, a city-centre wilderness in the middle of London — a place that offered me solace in many of my own rock bottoms — I told her these truths.
Two things can be true at the same time. You can love someone deeply, want to be with them and grieve them with every part of your being, and they still won’t be the right person for you. Your mind can’t make sense of this paradox, but your heart can.
You have to give yourself the time you need to grieve. Grief comes in waves. It’s not linear. Don’t expect yourself to be ‘normal’ but also don’t lose yourself in wallowing.
It hurts, I know. It really really really hurts. It is going to be like this for a bit but you will get better eventually. Be patient and kind with yourself.
Love is a cocktail of brain chemicals. Dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, endorphin. It activates all of your happy chemicals at once. When a relationship ends you get cut off from all these happy chemicals. You go into withdrawal.
It’s best to have no contact, at least for a few months. Delete their number, unfollow them on any social media accounts, and withdraw any connection you have to them, to give you space and time to heal.
Listen to music that restores your wholeness. I made this playlist, especially for navigating my own heartaches and heartbreaks.
It’s okay to be in shock and denial in the first few weeks but eventually, you will just have to accept it. It will be very hurtful to accept it, but you have to do it in order to get to the next healing stage. Accept what happened.
Stop trying to figure out the ‘real’ reason for the breakup. You can analyse every conversation, every text, and every moment spent together. But you won’t find what you are looking for. Because the choices we make are emotional and not logical, they can’t be explained rationally.
Don’t expect the other person to give you the closure you want. The only person that can give you closure is you. What does your heart tell you? Mystery solved. Remember, if you do reach out to them and try to get closure, no matter what they tell you it will never be enough. Closure is something you give yourself.
Don’t blame yourself. Also, don’t blame them. It’s no one’s fault that it turned out that you are incompatible. Take responsibility for your part: your actions and choices; and learn from the lessons. Hand their actions and choices over to them (in your mind — don’t contact them to tell them so!).
Remember that the way a person behaves when things are hard is exposing who they are. If they handle a breakup with kindness and care, the belief you had that they are a good person is correct. If they handle the breakup with unkind words and actions and are intentionally hurtful then they have a lot of growing and maturing to do.
Rejection is protection and redirection. Even though it doesn’t feel like it right now, someone so much better is coming.
Let go of any of their belongings and memorabilia. Holding onto vivid reminders of them does not let your wound heal properly. Getting rid of them signals your brain to let go. It’s a short-term sacrifice for a long-term gain. A lot of people report an immediate boost in mood after they purged the physical reminders.
Develop a non-judgmental inner voice that is kind to you. Instead of beating yourself up with insults, talk to yourself kinder.
Recognise this as an opportunity to reinvent yourself into the person you actually want to be. Find new interests. Meet new people. Read! READ! Increase your knowledge and unlock your full potential. Commit yourself to becoming a better person.
Don’t avoid the parts of your life that you used to share to avoid the pain. Keep going to your favourite places and start making new memories in those places.
Don’t sleep with strangers or do extreme and erratic things to avoid feeling the pain of loss and grief. Let the thoughts come. Cry. Weep. Be an emotional mess. Close your eyes and focus on the pain. Be with the body, don’t judge the pain. Just notice it. Keep noticing it, until it goes away. That is how you process your pain.
At first, every waking moment of your day is filled with ruminating about your ex. This is totally normal. Try going for long walks in nature. Listen to mindfulness meditations. Take up visiting new places alone or with friends.
A break-up is a very tumultuous time. When a relationship ends, we don’t just grieve for our ex. We grieve for every attachment trauma we ever endured in our lives. You won’t grieve for your ex alone, you will unconsciously end up grieving about all your attachment trauma. A good therapist or mentor can help you through that process.
Feeling sad? Reach out to friends and family to vent. Sometimes just straight up tell them that you just want to vent and don’t want their advice. Your loved ones are here for you to utilize them. But do give them breaks from venting here and there. They are human and they sometimes can get tired of your break-up story.
Rebuild your identity. Now is the best time to reclaim that part of yourself that you lost. It is also the best time to figure out who you are and what you truly want. If you always wanted to travel and live in some country for a few months but you couldn’t because you were in a committed relationship, now is the perfect opportunity to do so. You aren’t tethered by anyone, fly free.
Move your body. Of course, heal in your own time, there is no timeline to grief. But eventually, start exercising regularly to pump your brain with all those feel-good chemicals. 15 to 30 min a day is a good start, hell even just 5 min is great. You can try yoga too if working out isn’t your thing. Becoming a bit sexier in the process is a pretty good bonus too.
Write them letters, however many letters you want. Write whatever you want to write. Whatever you ever wanted to say to them. Go ahead and say it in the letter. Pour your heart out, leave nothing unsaid. Burn the letters. Every time you burn a letter, thank them and forgive them. Forgiving is not for them, it’s for your own healing. No matter what they did, you have to be able to forgive them eventually. In your own time! There is no time limit. Remember to forgive yourself too.
In the first few months, you should journal every day to track your feelings thoughts and emotions. After a 3 or 6-month period read your early journal entries and compare them to your most recent journal entries and you will notice how much better you are doing. It will give you a much-needed boost to healing.
Is there something you always wanted to do or be? Set some ambitious new goals for your life.
Have fun, enjoy yourself, and slowly be open to meeting someone new. Take it slow and be weary of any early red flags. Trust your gut. Maybe you knew your ex was an alcoholic but still went out with him (like Victoria did). Don’t make the same mistakes you made last time. But if you want to stay single for a while, that is okay too.
Heartbreak commonly shows symptoms of clinical depression. The antidote to this deep suffering is finding meaning in it. Find the meaning, the lessons and gifts of your suffering.
You can seek validation that you are loveable from others your entire life, but it will never fill the gaping hole that tells you that you are unlovable and not enough. You have to develop a closeness and intimacy with yourself that closes that gap so that no matter what happens you will always have your back, because you love you, no matter what. Spend time cultivating the relationship you have with yourself so that any future heartbreak simply lands you back in the cushion of your own heart instead of torn to pieces across your inner emotional landscape.
Vienda Maria 