Here’s what most days look like for me and maybe you’ll recognise yourself in some version of this. 

My mum is here and I’m not sure for how long so I am grateful for every single day of that. That’s the thing about ageing, you know more is behind you, then ahead of you. But loving someone you know you won’t have forever carries its own weight. You hold them a little differently. You show up even when it’s not ideal because one day you won’t be able to. 

The kids — Taly and Spiz — are little people doing the hard work of figuring out who they are. They carry anxiety and anger and trauma that isn’t theirs to carry, and they lean on me because I am safe. I love them with everything I have. But parenting is demanding at any age. And re-parenting in your 60s, it is a whole different ball game. 

And then there’s Paul. Strong, capable, determined Paul — who genuinely believes he can do it all and mostly does — but I see the toll. I watch him and I think about the years ahead and what matters and what doesn’t. That’s a conversation for another day, but it sits with me. 

The constant of being there for everyone is not a complaint. It’s just the truth. And the truth is — it takes it out of you. 

 

When I got to Redcliffe, I put on my comfy PJs, opened my laptop, and before I knew what had happened I was writing. Not forcing it. Not checking boxes. Just writing. 

The book. 

All three parts are drafted and now comes the revision — reading it through the eyes of the woman I am writing it for. But last night I rewrote the opening of Part 2 and it felt good. It felt right. 

Here’s what I noticed: I’m generally tired and ready for bed as soon as the kiddos go to bed. But I wasn’t tired or drained the way I usually am. I was inspired. 

Because here’s the thing. I work better in the afternoons and into the evenings. That’s my rhythm. That’s when my brain comes alive and my words flow. But most of the time I’m running on everyone else’s schedule and calling it life. Because it is life. I’m not complaining about that. 

But last night I got to be on mine. 

 

I wound down, watched a bit of mindless TV, and headed to bed. 

My body woke at its usual time. It was still dark. And for once I listened to myself — climbed back under the covers, went back to sleep, and woke up feeling like I had a spring in my step I hadn’t felt in a while. 

Got dressed. Made my morning concoction. Sat here and wrote this. 

No rush. No demands. Just me, working out what I think. 

 

I’m heading out to walk the boardwalk now. Then brekky. Then a heavy weight session. Then whatever the day brings. 

But I want to leave you with this. 

You cannot feel full of energy when you’re running on everyone else’s timetable. It’s about finding your time, space and pace.  

Getting back to yourself is about you and what you need and no it isn’t you being selfish. It’s necessary. It’s how you keep showing up for all the people who need you. 

Find your Redcliffe. Even if it’s just an hour. Even if it’s just a morning. 

Go there. Be there. Come back to yourself. 

That’s what I did. And today I feel ready to take on the world again.