
Ten years ago, yoga found its way into my life not through intention, but through desperation and what followed was a journey I never could have predicted. If you've ever tried yoga once and quietly given up, this one is for you.
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One of the most disorienting things about burnout is that you often don't see it coming. Not because it isn't happening, but because many of its early stages look, from the inside, like exactly the right thing to be doing.
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Most of us turn to biohacking hoping that the right protocol will finally make us feel like ourselves again, but what if the very premise of optimising your body is part of what's keeping you stuck? This piece gently unpacks why measuring and fine-tuning can only take you so far, and what we might be missing when we treat wellness as an engineering problem.

Five years ago, I started this blog with curiosity and a half-finished manuscript. What followed changed everything, and what I discovered on the other side might just change something in you too

Someone asked me recently: how do you know when you're ready to start over? And my honest answer was: you usually don't. You start before you're ready, because the alternative, staying still in something that no longer fits, has finally become more uncomfortable than the fear of moving.

Lately, I have been thinking about the ways we outsource our wellness. We seek advice. We ask for reassurance. We hand our experiences over to others to interpret. And sometimes that is necessary. Reflection and projection are powerful tools; being witnessed in our struggles can soften their edges. Community matters. Guidance matters.

Burnout, written by Emily Nagoski and her sister Amelia, published in 2019, is the book that gave me the clearest framework I've found for understanding why rest alone doesn't resolve exhaustion. Why a holiday can end and the weight return within days. Why doing less isn't always the same as recovering.

Michael Singer finds me again. His books seem to appear exactly when I need them, and this one was no different. Both of his previous books held me through times I needed holding, and this one is doing the same.

We often look to others to decide what we want. We glimpse a moment in their life — a success, a lifestyle, a relationship - and imagine that having what they have will complete something in us. In truth, what we’re seeing is never the full picture. It’s a snapshot lifted out of a much longer, messier, deeply human story.

Ten years ago, yoga found its way into my life not through intention, but through desperation and what followed was a journey I never could have predicted. If you've ever tried yoga once and quietly given up, this one is for you.

I let my life quietly slip out the back door. I said, " See you later," and never returned. It isn't something you plan, and it isn't something I'll ever be able to explain away. I just needed to leave.

After 21 years, love still has a way of defying every expectation we had of it and this deeply personal reflection captures exactly why the real thing is nothing as we imagined, and everything we never knew we needed.

There is a gentle beauty in the way that we write words, an honesty we can let out without the same hesitation as the spoken word. It's as if the words on a page, on a phone, become something separate once they're shared. They stop being about the writer the moment they reach the reader. There is something magical in that, the way your entire perception of the world can shift in a moment because of someone else's words.

Here is a question I have been sitting with: If someone offered you a shortcut - not a cheat, not a bypass, but a genuine, faster way through - would you take it? Or would you need to feel your way there first? Would you need to walk the whole long road, with its wrong turns and its weather, before you trusted where you'd arrived? I have been asking myself this honestly. And the honest answer is: I think I needed the long road. Not because suffering is noble or because hardship is a prerequisite for growth. But because of something more specific to how I am wired. I needed the felt sense.

I want to tell you about two things that happened to me recently. By any objective measure, neither of them is remarkable. One involved a car. The other involved chewing gum.

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