I cancelled my gym class this morning and, oddly, that small disruption sets off something much bigger inside me.
Guilt creeps in first, then anxiety. Later in the day the familiar knot forms as I realise—again—that I have to lean on my mum. Not because I want to, but because the pressures of my job don’t allow me the time or freedom to simply be where my heart wants to be: with my family. I hate that feeling. The one where responsibility is shifted, where independence feels compromised, where I question whether I’m asking too much of the people who love me most.
I leave my teaching job and head straight to my second role—teaching dance to children aged three to nineteen. This part of my life is supposed to feel lighter. Dance is mine. Contemporary dance is my language. It’s what my degree is in. It’s what I immersed myself in for three intense, formative years in London when I was eighteen—bare feet on cold studio floors, bodies moving with meaning, everything ahead of me.
And yet, at forty-two, while I still love it, I feel tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix. Even the passion that should rise so naturally through dance feels buried—trapped inside a bubble of uncertainty, dissatisfaction, and quiet disappointment. I show up, I teach, I encourage, I give… but sometimes I wonder where the version of me went who felt limitless. I know she’s still there. I just can’t always reach her.
When I finally get home, something shifts.
I have a worthwhile conversation with a friend from the gym—the kind of chat that steadies you. The kind where nothing needs explaining because you already understand each other. We speak honestly. We listen. And then—we make a plan. A real one. It feels grounding, like putting your feet back on solid ground after wobbling for too long.
For the first time in ages, I choose myself.
I run a bath. I pamper. I slow down. I touch up the red in my hair, deliberately, carefully—because tomorrow I want to feel fiery. I’m going to need that fire. There’s an amber warning for snow tomorrow night, the kind that brings both chaos and hope. Maybe—just maybe—it will mean a snow day on Friday. A pause. A chance to play in the snow, to breathe, and to catch up on the workload once we all defrost.
Tonight, I let myself rest in that hope.
Today is heavy, but it’s honest. And that feels like progress.
Between what was and what's next 