It’s been a bit of a revelation this understanding of the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

For so long I’ve been wondering why, wondering where it comes from and how it catches me off guard at 4:00am. It’s difficult to describe, over the past decade, I haven’t been sad or depressed, per say. I’ve just been longing for something more. It’s felt as though a part of me was not being exercised or cared for. I feel silly now looking back and not recognising it sooner. Writing makes me feel so alive. It makes me make sense of the world and those around me. It allows me to adventure and explore from within the tracks of my own brain. I am able to walk paths un touched, ski first lines on blue bird days and write love letters to those close to me. It’s a place to paint my rage, white hot and searing. It’s where my memories are crystallised, forever mine. How did I go this long without fucking seeing it? It’s madness, laughable now, in hindsight.

As I sit here cradling my baby girl whilst she naps, the bright August sun shines through her bedroom window, illuminating the dust on her shelves. We’re slightly sweaty in the summer heat, her hair curling at the ends from the humidity and I feel utterly calm. I write these words so freely and effortlessly. I’m sure I’ll look back in a few months time and cringe at them but that’s how we work us humans, isn’t it? Always progressing and outgrowing our former selves…

I’m bringing back my creativity, letting myself be the writer I’m sure I’ve always been. I’m doing it. If not now, then when?

This is a love letter to myself, I’m leaning in to me and my needs the same way I lean into those I love in my life. I’m going to be my own best cheerleader and do the damn thing. Write the book, pen the poetry and publish the work! For me and for you, somebody out in the world to hopefully read and feel deep within them. Let’s enjoy this together.