Updated: Sep 28, 2021
As I sit down to write this week’s blog post, it feels like forever since I last put metaphorical pen to paper. As I sit and stop, I realise how tired I am. I also realise that I haven’t been sitting and stopping much. But this is a good thing.
I simply love it when life takes over, when my three beautiful children tell me the most ridiculous stories, and when it feels like I don’t know what’s coming next – and I’m not worried.
I think what I have discovered, after many years of being away, is flow. I am able to watch and adapt, cry and fall apart, ask for help when I need it, and find joy in the smallest things.
I am finally not trying. I am finally trusting. I am finally letting go. I am finally at ease.
The old, keep -your-head-down-to-survive me sometimes pops up and wonders, if any of this is real. But I assure her, it is. Because I have been here before.
But just as even the memory of a good night’s sleep is forgotten by new parents, I had forgotten what normal felt like. No, not normal; flow.
Part of me doesn’t want to jinx it. Part of me wonders if it can last. And yet, part of me knows it can – so long as I keep getting out of my own way.
As I sit and write, feeling the ache in my lower back from wrapping what seemed like a million schoolbooks the other day, my feet are toasting by the fire. I am at ease. I don’t need to go anywhere. I don’t need to do anything. I am able to be, in that elusive way that I sometimes talk about.
It's happening to me.
I thought it might take winning the lottery or moving to Bora Bora. It did not. I just had to be willing to have the courage to show up, and let myself be seen.
Vulnerability. Opening the heart. Creating space. Breathing. Being.
I am doing this. I can do this. I can let this be done to me.
I can be.