Loving my body — loving me — is a practice. Especially in a world determined to point out everything going “south.” Yes, I’ve got bat wings. My jawline has softened. Lines have settled in. The odd silver hair pops up like it owns the place. And still, I’m told I’m “lucky.” Lucky to have fewer greys. Lucky to “still look young.” As if youth is the only acceptable way to exist. Meanwhile, we’re being sold the “perfect body”: Lift this. Fill that. Freeze here. Plump there. Basic

I used to think that if I just stayed inspired, stayed in flow, and set myself goals — while avoiding the emotional potholes of being human — I would be fine. You know, the potholes like self-doubt, fear of failure, and unresolved past traumas. Those were things I tried to steer clear of, like expired yoghurt in the back of the fridge. Keep going. Stay busy. Don’t look back. I was basically the emotional version of a Road Runner cartoon. But life — and the 47th Gene Key — had

Everything Feels Like a Beginning Not the shiny, first-page kind — but the kind where you keep circling the same questions, noticing how often you’re standing at the edge of the unknown. I’m fifty-three, and one year ago I walked away from a thirty-year career. That still feels wild to write. There was no grand plan. No five-year projection. No tidy exit strategy. Just a quiet knowing in my body that something had ended — even if I didn’t yet know what was beginning. HIDING B

Dear body, We’ve been through so much together —the diagnosis, the surgeries, the endless appointments, the chemo that burned through every cell, the radiotherapy that left its quiet ache beneath the skin. I thought the exhaustion would leave once the treatments ended —that one day I’d wake up and feel like me  again. But instead, I found someone new. A version I didn’t expect — slower, more tender, more cautious. Not broken, just different.You taught me that healing isn’t a

A quiet musing There was a time I thought shadow work meant digging. Uncovering. Naming. Fixing. As if the hidden parts of me were problems waiting for the right diagnosis. But the truth is, my shadows don’t need interrogation. They need safety — and to be felt. The parts of me that learned to hide — the ones shaped by shame, fear, or the simple instinct to belong — weren’t trying to sabotage my life. They were trying to protect it. And no amount of analysing them made them f