Sitting down to write is sometimes like coming home.

Oh, hello old friend. I’ve missed you. How have you been?

If it’s been a while, I have to shake off the rust: make a cup of tea (chocolate peppermint rooibos), find the right playlist, think about what I want to write about…

It’s been a while. Too long.

I struggle with getting lost in hustling, working, trying to be the person I think everyone wants me to be. Then the exhaustion comes, I’ve spent too much time extroverting, too much time being “on”, too much time trying to shut my brain off. Instead of writing, I get my scroll on in front of a documentary I’ve already watched on Netflix.

Then I spend my drive time dreaming about writing.

The irony is not lost on me.

My mom often asks me if I’m writing. It’s a gentle reminder that I’m getting my priorities crossed. Writing is self-care for me, as much as eating well and lifting heavy-ish things are.

Life is about shifting, for me at least. It’s felt like I’ve been on a foundation of sand for months now. The interesting thing is that I’m still ridiculously happy, in spite of the relative uncertainty. I have precisely zero regrets over the decisions I’ve made this year. Not a single one. I’ll likely keep making decisions that make people scratch their heads.

What people think of me isn’t my problem.

I just want to write and help people in any way I can. I’m going to create a way to do that because I think that just might answer the question of why I was put here.