Yesterday

Yesterday was a day I forgot me.

It began well, almost perfectly. An early morning gym session that felt like a promise to myself — cycling to wonderful tunes, surrounded by a group of people who lift my spirits without even trying. The music was loud enough to quiet my thoughts, the movement strong enough to remind me that my body is capable, resilient, alive. A full-body workout, a deep breath, a moment that felt like mine. A great start to the week.

And then, just as quickly, I slipped into the roles I wear so well that I sometimes forget where I end and they begin.

Mum mode. Teacher mode. Provider. Planner. Carer. Giver.

From that point on, the day belonged to everyone else. Non-stop. Relentless. Necessary, but exhausting. Planning for school, being “on” all day in the classroom, making decisions, solving problems, holding space for others. A working lunch squeezed in because there simply wasn’t time to stop. Then home, straight into practicalities — running to the shops for the children, for the dogs, for the household that keeps moving whether I pause or not.

The bedtime routine came next, and I hold that close to my heart. The quiet voices, the cuddles, the safety of a familiar book — a wonderful story that felt like a small pick-me-up at the end of a long stretch. Those moments ground me. They remind me why I do all of this.

But the day still wasn’t done with me.

The laptop opened again. Extra work prepared so someone else could teach my class today while I’m off on a course. More thinking, more planning, more giving. By the time I finally closed the screen, it was 11pm. Bed followed quickly, not as rest, but as preparation — readying myself for this morning’s gym class, ready to do it all again.

Somewhere in all of that, I disappeared.

So much to do that even the time to write — something that usually helps me breathe — escaped my grasp. How did an entire day pass without a single moment to check in with myself? When did caring for everyone else become so automatic that I forgot I mattered too?

That isn’t the aim for 2026.

I don’t want days that blur into service without pause. I don’t want to feel like life is something I manage rather than something I live. More time for me — to relax, to reflect, to simply be — isn’t selfish, it’s essential. Living life properly means carving out space where I’m not needed by anyone else, where my thoughts can settle and my shoulders can soften.

Yesterday was full, productive, meaningful in many ways. But it was also a reminder.

I don’t want to forget me again.