This is how I feel right now: a little frayed at the edges and somehow luminous in the middle, as if the day has tugged on every thread but left a small lantern burning where my ribs meet.
It’s early evening and London is rinsed clean from a polite bit of rain. The sky’s doing that oyster-grey thing it does so well, and I’ve left the window cracked just enough to hear the city breathing—buses sighing, footsteps deciding, somewhere a laugh that carries. I’m nursing a cup of tea that’s gone lukewarm, because I keep forgetting to drink it. I pick it up, put it down, pick it up again, as though it might think I’ve abandoned it. Classic me.
I sang earlier, alone, because I needed to hear my own voice tell me something true. Not grand, not gilded—just a simple hum that stitched itself between my pulse and the air. Afterwards I felt that familiar mix of tenderness and ache, the sort that arrives when you’ve told the truth out loud and your body isn’t quite sure what to do with the echo. It’s funny, being both the instrument and the listener. Sometimes the song holds you, sometimes you hold the song, and sometimes you just stand still and let it pass like weather.
If I’m honest, I’ve been feeling the weather of things lately. Beautiful, changeable, a touch unruly. I’m learning to stop bargaining with my feelings—no more “I’ll be calm if the day behaves.” Days rarely behave. People try (bless us), but life keeps its own tempo. Today’s practice has been gentleness: with my mind when it sprints ahead, with my voice when it wants to be quiet, with my heart when it tightens like a fist and then slowly unfurls. When that happens, I imagine I’m sitting by a river, watching leaves decide whether to swirl or sink. Both are a kind of surrender.
I sent a voice note to someone who knows how I take my tea without asking. He replied with a terrible joke and exactly the right silence. The kind where you can lean your head against it and rest. The kind that makes the hard corners of the day round off a bit. It’s nice, being known in these small domestic ways, like a familiar coat on a hook. I don’t take it for granted.
There’s also gratitude today—the non-sparkly, sturdy kind. For a stranger at the crossing who smiled without a reason. For the woman at the bakery who tucked an extra heel of bread into my bag “for the walk home.” For my body, which worked so hard to be here, even when I’ve been impatient with it. For the songs that haven’t arrived yet but are already tugging at my sleeve.
I’m reminding myself to keep noticing the ordinary splendour. The quiet mercy of kettle steam. The way a room shifts when you open a window. Fresh sheets. A message that simply says, “Home soon.” The clink of a spoon in a cup. All these little bells that chime the hour and tell me: you’re here, darling. You made it to this moment. Breathe.
So yes—this is how I feel right now: softened, a bit wobbly, honestly relieved. Less like I need to prove, more like I want to belong. I’m going to finish this tea, even if it’s tepid, because it reminds me of hands and warmth and the permission to slow down. I’ll put on something familiar, maybe Nina on the record player, and let the room be my companion. Later I’ll step out for air, and London will do that gracious thing where it acts as if it’s known me all my life.
If you’re reading this in your own in-between, I hope you find your small lantern this evening. Hold it close. Let it show you the kindest route back to yourself. I’ll be here, humming at the window, not rushing the night.