It’s a quiet Sunday morning, but I’m not at home with tea and my usual blanket of stillness. I’m here at work—another shift, another set of lives to hold, another ordinary day that asks for quiet strength. The world doesn’t pause just because it’s Sunday. But that doesn’t mean I can’t.

So here I am, typing this in a moment between tasks, between thoughts—carving a small space to reflect on the week that’s passed. It was, in one word, full. Not overwhelming. Not empty. Just full. The kind of week where you get to the end of it and feel both spent and thankful. Like your heart ran a bit of a marathon, but crossed the finish line smiling.

There were long hours. Busy shifts. The kind of pace that makes you forget your own name at times—but also the kind that reminds you just how much you’re capable of. And then, there were the in-betweens. The after-work dinners. The spontaneous conversations with friends that made me laugh in a way I hadn’t in a while. Those little pockets of joy that remind you that balance doesn’t mean equal time—it means full presence wherever you are.

I’m grateful for that balance this week. Even if it wobbled, it held. I showed up for work, and I showed up for life. I said yes to rest even when I felt guilty for taking it. I said yes to connection, to softness, to breathing in the moment without trying to solve it. And that’s something.

What stayed with me most was a quiet moment on Wednesday. I was walking for my long night shift—head full, feet sore, but heart strangely light. The sky was that rare lavender shade that only lasts a few minutes before night takes over. I stopped and looked up. And I felt it: that small but unmistakable you’re okay. Not everything is solved. Not every part of your life is where you want it to be. But you’re showing up. You’re steady. You’re still you. That moment stayed with me all week like a thread in my pocket.

What stretched me was simply doing it all. Being a nurse. Being a friend. Being a version of myself that keeps learning how to balance grace with boundaries. I’m learning that it’s okay to hold joy and exhaustion in the same breath. That you can love your job and still long for rest. That you can feel grateful and tired and lucky and unsure—all at once.

This week’s companion song was “Clean” by Taylor Swift (Acoustic Version)—soft, clear, cathartic. I played it walking home once, and it felt like a mirror. Not because I felt washed or whole, but because I felt seen in the process of becoming that.

“Rain came pouring down, when I was drowning, that’s when I could finally breathe…”

There’s something about those lyrics that comforts me—not in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet, enduring kind.

A quote that held me this week came from a book I reread

“You do not have to be fire all the time. Sometimes, being warm is enough.”

— Nikita Gill

That line whispered to me mid-shift. It reminded me that my worth isn’t always in what I produce, save, or finish. Sometimes, my presence alone—the calm I bring into chaos, the way I listen without rushing, the softness I offer without asking for applause—is more than enough.

And so I close this week not with a sigh, but with a nod.

A nod to the mess, the joy, the effort.

A nod to the conversations over meals, the fast walks to the station, the late-night texts that made me laugh out loud in bed.

A nod to the version of me who’s still learning to live fully—even on the days that demand a little too much.

Here’s to weeks that stretch you without breaking you.

To friendships that anchor you.

To work that gives you purpose and evenings that remind you who you are outside of it.

And to this quiet moment, here in the office—where I remember that even now, I can pause. I can write. I can be.

—-Anj