This week wasn’t loud. It didn’t sparkle in a highlight reel or demand attention with achievements.
And yet, it felt like a soft, sacred chapter—one I want to press between the pages of memory and revisit gently, when the world gets noisy again.

I was still on annual leave, and for once, I didn’t feel guilty about it.

I didn’t feel the need to cram my days with errands or overdue ambitions. I wasn’t chasing productivity or trying to squeeze out the last drop of “usefulness” from my time off. Instead, I let the week unfold like a poem—with breaks, with white space, with lines that didn’t always rhyme but still made sense.

And in the middle of this soft lull, I chose to do a single bank shift.
Not because I had to. Not because I needed to prove anything.
But because part of me still finds quiet fulfillment in showing up when I can. In lending my hands when it matters. In feeling the pulse of the ward again, if only briefly.
It reminded me that I’m still part of something bigger—even in the middle of my own rest.

But the real heart of this week?
It was at home.

I turned 35 this Monday. No balloons. No confetti. No elaborate plans.
Just a small gathering at home, friends sitting cross-legged on the floor, plates passed around with quiet laughter, and food that tasted like home—not restaurant-perfect, but rich with love.

There was no pressure to perform joy. I was just… happy.
Content in the presence of people who know me, not just by name, but by soul.
We laughed. We ate. We took blurry photos and didn’t mind.
I looked around the room at one point and thought, This is it. This is what it means to be full.

There was something healing about celebrating in a space I’ve cleaned, cried in, cooked in, grown in. No rented venues. No curated décor. Just life, as it is.

And maybe that’s the gift of 35—not more things, but more meaning.

I’m grateful for permission—the kind you give yourself, when no one else is watching.

Permission to rest without guilt.
Permission to celebrate without needing spectacle.
Permission to say, “This is enough,” and mean it.

I’m grateful for the comfort of home. For friends who don’t need invitations weeks in advance. For food shared without fuss. For the sound of laughter echoing in familiar corners.

I’m grateful for one shift that reminded me who I am at work, and for all the other days that reminded me who I am when I’m not working.

And I’m grateful that this birthday didn’t mark a crisis—it marked a calm.
A return to something deeper. A knowing.

I hope to carry this softness with me, even as I re-enter routines.
I hope I don’t forget how full a quiet life can feel.

I hope I continue to choose presence over pressure.
I hope that the peace I felt blowing out those two candles stays with me—even when the days get hard.

I hope I let myself age with grace—not the kind that hides wrinkles, but the kind that deepens joy.
I hope I remember that rest is not a pause in life—it’s part of it.

And most of all, I hope I never lose the ability to find magic in the ordinary.

This week softened the part of me that believed birthdays must be big to be meaningful.
It stretched the part of me that once thought rest had to be earned.

There was no itinerary. No list of accomplishments.
But there was warmth. And slowness. And connection.
There was the clinking of glasses in a quiet living room.
There was my favorite drink on the table and people I love on the couch beside me.
There was joy in grocery bags and stories told over leftovers.

And that, too, was enough.

“Older” by Sasha Alex Sloan
Because this week, I didn’t feel the need to chase youth—I felt the peace of growing into my own.

Not every week is a transformation.
Some are just gentle confirmations that the life you’ve built—imperfect, quiet, unflashy—is yours. And that it’s good.

This week, I didn’t travel far. But I returned—again and again—to myself.
And maybe that’s the kind of journey I’ve needed all along.

Until next Sunday,
Anj —with a rested heart, a full plate, and 35 soft lessons tucked under my sleeve.