The ego is exhausting. It never leaves. It comments on everything. It keeps score, builds cases, rehearses conversations that will never happen. It is the noisiest room you will ever live in. And yet. That room exists only because something in you can hear it. The noise is not the
There is a tree I pass sometimes. Standing at a junction — noise, pollution, dust, the daily assault of a city that doesn't notice it's there. No canopy above it. No forest around it. Just concrete breaking its roots and exhaust filling the space where air should
I got off a call with a friend yesterday. He'd been told this year would be hard. And it is, he said. It really is. I put the phone down and opened YouTube. The first video waiting for me: a numerologist explaining why 2026 is a year of
Pick one up. Really hold it. Hard enough to have survived the sea, the sand, the long journey to your hand. Fragile enough that you instinctively tighten your grip, then loosen it. Both things are true. And they come from the same source. A shell is not built. It is
We spend so much of our lives preparing. Bracing, really. We call it planning, but underneath it is the quiet, exhausting work of making sure nothing catches us off guard. And then something does. Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind that undoes you. The kind that arrives, like a
On 12 June 2010, in Houston, Texas, a researcher named Brené Brown walked onto a small local stage and said something the world had been waiting to hear. That vulnerability was not weakness. That to be seen — deeply, vulnerably seen, was the birthplace of love, belonging, joy. The world agreed.
There is a yellow fountain pen that lives on my desk. A Sailor. I bought it in an airport. Saw the colour. Felt the nib. That was that. No deliberation. Just recognition. I use it only for my journal. Which means I use it only for myself. A few times
I have been thinking a lot about stillness lately. Not the kind that comes from a good night's sleep or a quiet Sunday. The other kind. The kind the mystics write about. The kind that sits beneath the noise of everything — the arguments, the ambitions, the WhatsApp notifications.
We are all still on the road. We tell ourselves we will go when we are ready. When we have something worthy to bring. When the torn sandals are replaced and the bundle is less embarrassing and we have figured out, at least a little, how to explain where we
Claude knows more than me. By a million miles. It can clone everything except who I am right now — confused, surprised, mid-thought, unresolved. This is not a complaint. It is the last remaining advantage. We spent decades being told to arrive. The finished self was the goal. The polished surface.
I collect things. Not seriously. Not with the discipline of someone who knows what they are doing. But with the particular weakness of a person who cannot walk past an old thing without wanting to know where it has been. The older the better. The more damaged, the more interesting.
Every time I pass through an airport I buy a book. Sometimes two. I do not always read them. My shelf is full of these purchases — spines uncracked, pages unturned, each one a small act of faith in a future version of myself. The one who will be on holiday