There’s a strange comfort I’ve found in writing to myself on Sundays.

Not the version of me who works night shifts or checks things off a never-ending to-do list—but the version who simply is. The version who knows how to exhale without apology. The version who is learning that rest is not something to earn, but something to honour.

This is the third Sunday I’ve shown up like this—with a warm drink in one hand and the weight of the week in the other. No grand plans. No polished revelations. Just a quiet moment to listen inward and ask:

What stayed with me? What softened or stretched me? What am I hoping for?

What I’m Grateful For

This week, I’m grateful for small things that kept me grounded:
– My mother’s voice on the phone reminding me to eat.
– The way Jan silently placed breakfast beside me when I was too tired to speak.
– The comfort of my blanket after a long day.

I’m learning that gratitude doesn’t always arrive as fireworks. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet loyalty of those who stay. In the ordinary rhythms that keep us stitched to hope.

What I’m Hoping For

I’m hoping for clarity.
Not the kind that comes like lightning—but the kind that builds slowly, like morning light easing into the room. I’ve realised I’ve spent so much of life rushing—rushing to meet deadlines, to prove my worth, to be everything for everyone.

But these Sundays have been teaching me something:
The soul doesn’t blossom under pressure. It blooms in presence.

So I hope to live more presently this week. I hope to forgive myself faster. And I hope to stop romanticising productivity at the cost of peace.

What Stayed With Me

Someone said something that hasn’t left me:
“Sometimes, you won’t know you’re in the good days until they’ve become memory.”

It reminded me of how often I’ve prayed for days like these—the calm ones. The ones where I’m not grieving or afraid. And yet, even now, I catch myself missing them while I’m still in them.

So this week, I want to stay. Fully.
Even if the moment is small. Even if it feels unfinished.
Because life is not always a chapter with a proper ending. Sometimes it’s a page in the middle, with coffee stains and scribbled margins.

What Softened or Stretched Me

A sudden change of plans.
I had something scheduled—something important. But life, in its unpredictable way, shifted the story. I was frustrated at first, feeling like I lost control. But the delay gave me time to rest. To be. And in that stillness, I found something else—myself.

Maybe that’s what discomfort is:
A gentle nudge toward the lesson we’re not ready to learn yet.

This week stretched me in patience, in surrender, and in faith. I didn’t get what I planned, but maybe I got what I needed.

This Week’s Companion Song

“The Night We Met” by Lord Huron
This song played while I was journaling on the train. There’s something haunting yet comforting about it—like an old friend reminding you of all the things you once felt but never said aloud.

A Quote That Held Me

“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes… including you.”
— Anne Lamott

Closing Reflections

Life moves fast. Too fast.
We don’t get warnings before the moments pass. We don’t always get closure or clarity.

But what we can do is pause.

We can choose to slow down—not because everything is perfect, but because even in the mess, there is meaning. Even in the ordinary, there is sacredness.

So I’ll keep showing up on Sundays.
To write. To reflect. To remember that I’m allowed to be soft. To rest. To breathe.
And maybe, in doing so, I’ll finally learn to carry life a little more gently.

This is not just a blog post.
It’s a mirror. A map. A quiet offering to the version of me—and maybe of you—who needs permission to simply be.

Until next Sunday,
With softness and slowness,
— ANJ