No rushing through corridors. No alarms blaring, no patients to hand over, no bed plans to chase down.
Just me, a warm drink in hand, a cat curled somewhere nearby, and a blinking cursor waiting patiently like an old friend—inviting me to return to the quiet art of thinking slowly.

It’s my day off.
And today, I’m choosing to write—not because I have to, not for deadlines or emails or shift reports—but because I want to. Because there are words inside me that have been waiting for space. Thoughts that have been softly knocking, asking to be let in. And today, finally, the door is open.

I’ll be answering a few daily prompts. Maybe three. Maybe more if the words come gently, like rain tapping the window of a quiet room. These little questions, scattered like breadcrumbs through the noise of modern life, are more than just writing prompts to me. They are invitations—to pause, to listen inward, to reflect on the soft and soulful parts of living that so often get buried beneath routine.

They ask:
What still stirs wonder in you?
What do you carry that no one sees?
What have you outgrown, and what have you finally come home to?
And perhaps most importantly: What needs to be said—even if only to yourself?

So if you see a few reflective, random, or story-like posts show up today, know that they come from this quiet corner of rest. From a nurse who is learning to write for herself again. From someone who believes that even the smallest stories—when told truthfully—can hold light.

Thank you, as always, for being here.
For reading. For listening. For making space for these tender, in-between moments.
For reminding me that the quieter stories matter too.