defrosting.

I've been avoiding the blank page for quite a while, longer than I'd care to confess. Yet, I often joke, saying, "I think about it all the time," as if the mental effort spent on writing could compensate for the absence of words on the page.

I am reminded of the transitional season we just entered from yesterday's 10 cm of snow and today's 10 mm of rain. Unsticking my tired bones from an already distant dream, slowly I sway into the kitchen with an ambitiously long list of to-dos for a Sunday. This post being one of them.

Like many of you, I'm defrosting -- I'm coming out of my hermit season where I've spent meticulous time wintering:

• Daydreaming of owning a houseboat.

• Designing spaces we can't afford right now.

• Thrifting a wardrobe for this new character I invented.

• Speed-dialing a fantasy life where I find myself living in a cozy cabin, sipping tea, writing a bestselling novel.

• Making lists, not just of things I want to do, but of things I want to learn, of things I am grateful for, of things that inspire me, of things that bring me joy.

• Planning that epic garden I've been talking about for over a year that I’ll definitely start THIS year.

• Creating meals whose recipes I'll likely forget later.

• Crafting workshop ideas where women can gather, get creative and bond over shared interests and common goals.

• Writing about past times I used to write more (!)

I reminisce the moments when writing flowed effortlessly. It was instinctual, a dance I performed without thought, but now it patiently sits on my TO-DO list like an obligation waiting to be checked off. Sigh. Writing was always my first love and I feel like I let her down. Maybe I've made her feel like she was being too needy, too difficult, too demanding of my time and attention, constantly wanting me to engage in deep conversations about our feelings. She would often express her desires for adventure, wanting to explore new places or try new activities, while I just wanted to unwind and ride the easier waves. Her passion for life and insistence on sharing every moment felt overwhelming at times, as if I was being pulled into a whirlwind of emotions that I wasn't ready to navigate. It was as if she expected me to match her intensity, but I found myself yearning for simplicity and quiet moments instead. So I found myself reaching out to painting. She's more spontaneous, relaxed, and goes with the flow. She lets me mess up and repeatedly gives me second chances. She's forgiving in that way.

The self-imposed shame of not showing up consistently is real but I'm working through it - in front of you all. Enjoy x