Today is my rest day. The kind of day that doesn’t rush you out of bed or ask you to be anyone else but yourself. I spent the morning doing small, grounding things—cooking, cleaning, letting the silence stretch. And now, I find myself back here, where I’ve always belonged but had quietly drifted from: the page. The screen. The blinking cursor that waits for no one, yet always welcomes me back like a familiar friend.

This afternoon, I decided to return to the drafts I left behind. Travel stories from years ago—half-written on hotel beds, during waiting times and longing. I remember how excited I was to share them, and yet I never hit “publish.” Not because the words weren’t there, but because I wasn’t. Life had pulled me into a season I didn’t expect: one marked by burnout, anxiety, and that deep ache of depression that dims even the most vibrant moments. I was surviving, working, trying to show up where I was needed. But the part of me that used to write for joy, for clarity, for connection—she went quiet for a while.

And then something shifted.
I began blogging consistently again in May. It wasn’t planned. It didn’t come with a grand announcement. It started as a whisper, a gentle tug at the soul. I think part of that healing began when my mother came to stay. Her presence softened the sharp edges. We laughed more. Cooked together. Sat in silence without needing to fill it. Spending time with her brought me back to myself in ways I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Her presence reminded me of who I was before life got too heavy to hold with both hands.

Little by little, I began reclaiming parts of myself. One blog post at a time. One quiet morning at a time. I even changed the theme of my website—something simple, something cleaner. It felt symbolic, like shedding old skin. Like opening the windows after a long winter. The site looks different now (like my favourite Autumn), and honestly, so do I. I’m still me, but there’s more breath in my chest. More softness in the way I speak to myself. More light in the corners that used to stay dark.

So if you’ve been here—reading, following, waiting—I just want to say thank you.
Thank you for your quiet presence, for understanding the pauses, and for meeting me here again. This is not just a return to writing. It’s a quiet homecoming. And it means more to me than you’ll ever know.