Lifestyle

I feel overwhelmed most of the time. Does it happen to you too? That while you’re doing one thing you’re simultaneously listing all the other things you still have to…

I’ve had this post on my mind for weeks. In my head I started it a million times in a million different ways. Nothing sounded right. Everything was too cheesy,…

I was never going to post a photo of my pregnancy. I was never going to write a single word about it, at least not until I had a healthy…

When I last wrote about the effects of the pandemic (we had just been forced to cut our honeymoon short, quarantine and, well, the rest was history), we had been feeling the…

Just over a year ago, at a friend’s wedding, I had a little, odd, reunion of sorts. I met with 5 other women with whom, with the exception of the…

I am a first-born. As first-borns go, I was quite a success. I was quiet, never made much fuss (still don’t), never contradicted (can’t say the same here), never threw tantrums, obeyed and followed rules to the letter.

I sat down to write because, well because I felt I owed it to myself. I think you owe it to yourself to.

It’s never pleasant, losing one’s memory. You feel somehow less in control of yourself, like you’re missing a part of you which had been there once and no longer is. No, it’s never a good thing. Or is it?

Reading is good for us. We know that. We all do, or at least deep down, we acknowledge the fact that it does us no harm. Then why, if we know this to be true, can we never make time for it?

We are often led to believe that if we don’t manage to achieve the goals we’ve set, we’ve failed. Have we really though? What about all the other things we’ve experienced along the way? Are we grateful for those?

I have always wished to write something. There’s just one problem – I find it hard to finish what I start. I once wrote more than 20 chapters twice over, before stopping on both occasions. My third attempt started on the right foot, but I gave up on that too. It’s not super hard to ascribe a reason to it.

I like to believe I have had an okay childhood. That I’m living an okay life, with an okay job, relationship and dreams. When problems crop up, I usually make a fuss for no reason at all. I let them worry me a little too much but then they’re over with no lasting damage.

I moved out in March. I wrote about it when I was some 2 weeks in our blissful convivial stage. Mind you, it’s still the best thing to have ever happened, but 5 months give you enough time to go through things, to have succeeded at some and failed at others and to feel dog-tired but confused about how you can be happy when all you want to do is sleep.

People who know me well have realized long ago that they can buy my attention with four very simple words, “Let’s grab a coffee.”