Tag: life

First day back to it

I got up at 5.40am, although “got up” feels generous. I’d been awake since 1.45am, watching the snow fall in that quiet, magical way that only exists when the rest of the world is asleep. By 4am I’d finally drifted, only to wake again at 5.40 and sweep the drive clear before heading to the gym for my Vibe Cycle class. It was freezing—bone-deep cold—but I felt good afterwards, telling myself I was working off last night’s final festive takeaway. A small mental win to start the day.

First Day Back to Work

Two weeks off has taught me something important: I will be excellent at retirement. Excellent. Rested. Present. Unrushed. Returning to work reminded me just how many hats I wear every single day—teacher, nurse, referee, organiser, peacekeeper, comforter, listener, fixer, cheerleader, administrator, problem-solver. And sometimes, all of them before lunch.

Today, I am emotionally and mentally drained.

I missed precious time with my youngest daughter, who had a training day. She spent it making clay moulds with my mum and playing Guess Who. What I wouldn’t give to have been there for that—sat at the table, laughing, fully present, nowhere else to be.

The day itself was driven by feelings of loss. Not being able to speak to the man I love on the way to work sat heavily in my chest. The feelings came in waves—sadness, anger, longing, grief. All I wanted was him close to me. Instead, I carried on, holding it together, doing what needed to be done. I came home to just me and my youngest, cooked her tea, and felt that ache again—the need to share my day with him, to hear his voice, to feel understood. But he’s far away, in London, and distance has a way of amplifying everything you’re already feeling.

Management kindly put on a buffet lunch, but I ate too many carbs and spent the afternoon battling sleepiness, my body heavy while my mind raced. After a long first day back, we had a staff meeting. So much to take in, so much to fit into such a short space of time. I felt overwhelmed to the point of tears. But no—I will not cry on my first day back. I held it in.

I left work, collected my daughter’s phone from my mum (forgotten in the chaos of the morning), picked her up from dance, and cooked tea for us both. And now, as she sits in the bath, proudly showing me her new P Louise shampoo and conditioner from Santa and dropping a LUSH bath bomb into the water, I share her excitement. We watch the colours swirl and bloom, slowly exploring the bath in soft, calming waves.

And I find myself wishing—just for a moment—that I could flow through life the way those colours flow through the water. Calm. Unforced. Gentle. Trusting that everything will eventually blend into something beautiful.










Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

	


	





	

		
		
When the new year begins but you dont know how to
	


	
	
	

		
	

		

Let’s begin





The calendar turns, the numbers change, and suddenly it’s 2026.
Apparently, this is the moment we’re meant to feel hopeful. Refreshed. Ready.
Life is beginning again, they say.





But what if it doesn’t feel like that at all?





What if the new year arrives quietly, while you’re already exhausted, standing in yesterday’s mess, holding a to-do list that feels heavier than your body can manage?





There’s a strange loneliness that comes with the start of a new year when you don’t know how to begin. Everyone else seems to be posting plans, goals, clean slates. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to get through the day without crying in the kitchen or falling asleep sitting upright. You want to be positive — you really do — but positivity feels like another task you don’t have the energy to complete.





You feel lost. Not dramatically, not in a way that makes a good story — just quietly, deeply unsure. Unsure where to start, unsure what deserves your attention first, unsure how you’re supposed to rebuild when you’re already running on empty.





There’s so much you want to sort out.
You want to do things right. Especially for your children.
You want to be organised, present, patient, steady — the kind of parent who has answers, routines, and a calm voice at the end of a long day.





You want to give them a home that feels safe and light and in order.
You want to sort the house from top to bottom — the cupboards, the drawers, the piles that have silently grown in the corners of rooms. You imagine how good it would feel if everything had a place, if the chaos could just be cleared away.





But wanting isn’t the same as having the energy.





What you really need — desperately — is a few more hours of sleep. Not the kind where you close your eyes but keep thinking, but deep, uninterrupted rest. The kind that makes your body feel human again. Without it, even the smallest task feels enormous. Dishes become mountains. Laundry becomes a personal failure. The house doesn’t just look messy — it feels like proof that you’re behind.





And that’s the part no one talks about when a new year begins.





Sometimes starting again doesn’t look like motivation or vision boards or fresh notebooks. Sometimes it looks like sitting very still, overwhelmed, unsure where to place your next step. Sometimes it looks like surviving on the bare minimum and hoping that counts as enough.





Maybe the truth is this: life doesn’t magically begin again on January 1st. It begins slowly. Unevenly. In fragments.





It begins when you admit you’re tired.
When you stop pretending you’re fine.
When you choose rest over perfection, even when everything in you says you should be doing more.





If 2026 feels overwhelming already, that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human. It means you’ve been carrying a lot. And maybe the beginning of this year isn’t about fixing everything at once, but about giving yourself permission to move gently.





One drawer at a time.
One night of better sleep when you can get it.
One small decision made with care, especially for the little people watching you try.





You don’t have to know how to begin.
You just have to begin where you are.





And maybe — quietly, imperfectly — that’s enough for now.