On chilly mornings, warm beds, and the slow joy of being with someone you’ve missed.
There’s a particular kind of comfort that comes with waking up in the middle of the night and feeling your partner asleep next to you. When it’s cold out, and they’re warm, and for just a moment everything feels safe and still. Bugsy snuggled in his bed, the hush of autumn just beyond the window, and his hand finding mine under the covers. It’s not dramatic, but it is everything.
Last night we went to visit friends for a drink. We sat around, the four of us, listening to Joe Cocker’s Woodstock performance of With a Little Help From My Friends, drinking wine, and laughing until our bellies ached. It was the kind of night that fills your cup in ways you didn’t know it was empty.
When we got home, Bugsy was over the moon to see us. We stayed up until after 2 am, just talking and laughing, savouring the feeling of being together again. I was supposed to be back here a week ago, but broken-down cars and a relentless list of responsibilities kept pushing the date out. Life happened, as it does. But man, was it good to come back.
We call this my home too now, because home is where the heart is. And he has my heart.
This weekend, we’re letting ourselves unwind. We have plans to visit a local bazaar; right now, we’re cooking meals, watching movies, and diving into a feast of sports, rugby, Roland Garros tennis, and Formula 1. It’s the kind of cosy weekend routine that makes space for recovery. Bugsy is fast asleep next to the French doors, curled up in his bed, the green garden just beyond.
Outside, it’s chilly, grey, and beautifully quiet. Inside, it’s all warmth and rest. It feels like a much-needed pause, a gentle return to ourselves. A little slice of emotional burnout recovery in real time.
I learned the hard way that working 18-hour days, six days a week, will break you in more ways than just physically. Burnout isn’t a badge of honour. Downtime isn’t optional. It’s vital for your well-being and your soul.
So if you’re reading this and running on empty, I hope you give yourself the gift of slowing down. Let yourself rest. Let yourself be held. Let yourself remember what it feels like to come home, to your body, to your breath, and to the people who love you. This season, let reconnection be your ritual.
