Life lately? Bit of a circus, honestly. The kind where you’re both the juggler and the flaming hoops. I’ve been playing defence (is that the right phrase? I’m South African, so I dunno, insert a rugby version here). Point is, it’s been A Lot™.
Work has slowed down to a crawl. Thank you, AI overlords. Thank you, Canva. Thank you, Wix. Apparently, if you can drag and drop a rectangle onto a screen, you no longer need two decades of actual design experience. I’m thrilled.
And here’s the thing: I’ve hit that midlife shift, the one no one warns you about, where you just stop caring about being impressive or polished or “professional.” I’m tired of being the safe, dependable designer who always colours inside the lines (and yes, I’m still good at it and will obviously continue to do it, but something in me is itching for more). I want to smash some rules. I want to do some design that bites. I want to make something so bold it makes a marketing exec spill their Triple-Foamed Almond-Oat-Cashew-Matcha-Chai-Latte™ or whatever the latest Plant-Based Personality Beverage™ is trending right now. I want to shred the PowerPoint and play the guitar solo that ends with me setting the stage on fire.
Physically, I’m okay if “okay” means cocooned under 6 blankets, trying to weigh up the pros and cons of getting up to pee. The bathroom is approximately the temperature of Neptune. I am seriously contemplating whether a SheWee is a worthwhile winter investment. If anyone wants to sponsor one, I’ll write a full review, just saying.
In other news, Bugsy recently found and swallowed what can only be described as a decomposing pelt from the Upside Down Pet Buffet. I couldn’t stop him, because, well, MS. Now he’s groaning and on kibble lockdown. He’ll do it again. We both know it.
Other recent obsessions include: – Nutritional yeast (I don’t even know who I am anymore, but this stuff is gooooood). – Cinnamon. In everything. I’m basically a sentient chai. – The fantasy of watching trash TV with a giant mug of lactose-free, sugar-free hot choc and zero obligations.
On the “doing things because I have to, not because I want to” list: • Looking for work • Doing work • Starting 7 side hustles because bills • Also, doing dishes (or rather, avoiding them entirely)
My soul? Currently on a hunger strike. All it wants is to make weird, beautiful things: paint, write, doodle, sing to plants, get lost in a good audiobook (if I could actually find one narrated by someone who doesn’t sound like a robot or a smug yoga teacher).
Also, if my body could leave me a Post-it note, it would say: “I’m in spasm. I’m twitching like a haunted doll. Please sort this out.”
A few other thoughts, while we’re here: I’ve irrationally decided that my long, tangled hair is now my entire identity and also the enemy and needs the chop.
My autobiography title this week is How I Turned Into a Pot Plant and Suffered My Own Neglect.
Speaking of plants, I watered two of them recently, and they’re thriving. Who knew that water helps? Revolutionary.
That’s where I’m at. Tired. Unapologetically salty. Creatively starved. But weirdly hopeful that something good will take root if I just keep showing up. Maybe a little scrappy. Maybe not polished. But real.
Let’s see what grows.
— Kate
Bugsy says he won’t eat anything dead and unidentifiable this week… if you buy us a coffee: buymeacoffee.com/kateandginger
This weeks’s productivity level: 2/10 , but my plants are alive, so.
Mood-Support Beverage™ of the Week:Existential Crampuccino™, spicy, bitter, best served in bed.
Unsolicited Product Endorsement:This entry is not sponsored by SheWee™, but it should be.
Bugsy’s Digestive Adventures™: This week’s highlight: decomposing pelt from the Upside Down™ Pet Buffet.
Bugsy says he won’t eat anything dead and unidentifiable next week… if you buy us a coffee: buymeacoffee.com/kateandginger
I’ll admit: I used to dismiss popcorn as movie-theater junk food; big tubs drowning in butter and salt and chemicals. But plain ol’ air‑popped popcorn is a stealth health champion. Hear me out.
1. Whole grain + fiber = hunger assassin
Popcorn is 100% whole grain. Just 1 oz (about 3½ cups popped, approximately 110 calories) gives you ~4 g fiber and ~4 g protein. That’s enough to satisfy you way more than 150 calories of chips, the kind of snack that doesn’t even slow your cravings. In fact, six cups of low‑fat popcorn curbed hunger better than a single serving of potato chips in lab studies.
2. Volume eating: eat more, weigh less
Because it’s so airy and voluminous, you can munch a big bowl of popcorn without pouring on calories. Plain air‑popped popcorn gives you ~30 calories per cup, meaning you can eat 3 cups for under 100 calories. A Cleveland Clinic nutritionist noted not only is it low in calories, but it also aids weight loss, thanks to ferulic acid, a polyphenol that might help combat obesity.
3. Antioxidants = bonus health karma
Popcorn isn’t just filler. It contains polyphenols — heart‑friendly, cancer‑fighting antioxidants also found in berries and tea. Ferulic acid, one of those polyphenols, helps reduce inflammation and may stabilise blood sugar and blood pressure. A respected longevity reporter even cosigns: air‑popped popcorn contributes to health and lifespan, via gut, heart, sugar, and cholesterol benefits.
When Popcorn Goes Rogue
Let’s be real: not all popcorn is innocent.
Movie‑theater bags = sodium and saturated fat bombs.
Microwave popcorn? Sometimes harmless, sometimes a chemical soup; diacetyl (behind “popcorn lung”) isn’t always present, but some manufacturers cut it out, and there’s worry over ultrafine particles.
Pre‑popped/packaged options? Many are loaded with oil, sugar, salt; read that label!
DIY Hacks: Make It Work
Best way: Air‑pop it
Use an air popper or the classic brown‑bag microwave trick. Three cups = ~95 calories, per Mayo Clinic Health.
Healthier fluff & flavour hacks
• Spray with olive oil, not pour. • Season: yeast flakes, chili + lime, garlic + parmesan, cinnamon + nutmeg, curry dust. Mayo Clinic has a lineup of combo ideas. • Skip the butter. If you must, use no more than 1 tsp melted, it’s enough to get taste, not guilt .
Popcorn Habit Tips
Measure it. One cup = ~10–15 g popped, 30 cal.
Portion it into snack-sized bowls or storage containers.
Pair with protein (Greek yogurt? nuts? cottage cheese) for meal-satiety boosters.
Keep cooking tools visible; having kernels and poppers out makes easy snacking inevitable.
Wrap‑Up: Popcorn Isn’t Just Movie Fuel
This is popcorn reimagined: a humble, crunchy, versatile snack that’s actually your ally in fullness and better health. It’s not going to melt belly fat by magic, but it will help tame your appetite, cut mindless junk-food tendencies, and maybe sneak you some polyphenols while you’re at it.
So next time the snack itch hits, skip the chips and crack open a bowl. Your body and your jeans might thank you.
What about you, how do you doctor your popcorn? Ever tried something wild like buffalo-sriracha or nutritional-yeast‑cheese? Let’s hear your flavour hacks.
Zola was seven when we steered back into Goodwood’s quiet grid of post‑war houses, hunting for the low‑slung building neighbours still call Ubuntu House. My palms stuck to the steering wheel the way they had seven years earlier, the day a social worker placed a two‑month‑old stranger in my arms and told me I was now a parent.
Then, the front garden felt like a border post between two emotional republics: on one side, certainty that the next breath would change our lives; on the other, terror that we weren’t ready. Now, the same gate squeaked its welcome, and the hibiscus hedge, once taller than my courage, looked almost friendly.
“Smells like someone’s cooking pap n sous,” Zola announced, inhaling. “You noticed the food first,” I laughed. “You really are my child.”
We signed the visitors’ book and stepped inside a building that has perfected the art of pause. Ubuntu House exists because South African law grants birth mothers a two‑month window to reverse an adoption decision. That pause protects everyone: the woman processing heartbreak, the baby adjusting to gravity, and the would‑be parents guarding their hearts like porcelain.
Archbishop Desmond Tutu once explained ubuntu this way: “You can’t be human all by yourself.”Ubuntu House is that sentence turned into bricks, cribs, and the gentle swoosh of a steriliser. It’s a village waiting room—where communities, not just couples, learn how much courage it takes to love with an open hand.
2 · The Parable of Zola — An Unfinished Adoption
Zola remembers nothing of her sixty days in the House; memory begins for her with crayons, not cribs. Yet returning unlocked faint echoes: the rattle of a metal cot, the warmth of a volunteer’s palm, a lullaby in two languages. She traced a finger along the nursery wall where eight identical cots stood like empty parentheses, waiting for sentences.
A veteran caregiver, Auntie Nomsa, hugged us both. The hug smelled of cocoa butter, disinfectant, and defiant hope.
“Each baby who leaves takes a family,” she said, “and each family takes the rest of us. We never cut the umbilical cord, we splice it.”
Splice. The word vibrated like guitar feedback. Zola’s origin story is not a tidy arc from orphan to Hallmark montage; it is a braid of birth‑mother bravery, legislative patience, caregiver stamina, and adoptive bewilderment. The book remains open, scribbled in pencil rather than ink.
South Africa’s own saga is equally pencilled. We’ve written luminous chapters—1994’s ballot queues snaking around township classrooms—and blacked‑out pages stained by Marikana shootings, state capture, and xenophobic violence. Draft after draft, we edit, erase, annotate, argue. Our national manuscript won’t be published in hardback during our lifetime, yet footnotes accumulate daily.
3 · Zoom‑Out — A Nation in the Waiting Room
Every society keeps a waiting room, a liminal space between what was and what might become. Ours is the Home Affairs queue, the voting‑day school hall, the taxi where eight languages debate potholes and rugby in the same breath.
Zimbabwean historian Stanlake Samkange distilled ubuntu into three maxims; the first insists: “I affirm my humanity by recognising yours.” Yet our news feeds roar the opposite: electric fences, algorithmic outrage, dinner tables split by power cuts. We resemble new adoptive parents, terrified the country might change its mind and reclaim the fragile optimism we clutch.
Voices from the Waiting Room
Voice
What they say
What they fear
What they hope
The Economist
“GDP is a national mood ring; when trust dips, capital flees.”
Permanent junk status.
Policy that marries growth with equity.
TikTok Comedian @AuntyFats
“Can we braai without dragging Eskom into the marinade?”
Being cancelled by both Left and Right.
Humour as a pressure valve.
Taxi Driver Vusi
“Ek ry ’n land wat nog soek vir homself.”
Politicians weaponising diversity.
Kids who can dream in any language.
Adoption Social Worker K. Naidoo
“Families think the two‑month pause is cruel. It’s mercy—for everyone.”
That adoptive parents ghost the House once papers clear.
Kin‑across‑difference, lifelong.
Grade‑12 Matriculant Lerato
“We’ve only known democracy, but not equality.”
That opportunity is postcode‑dependent.
A bursary—and safe streets to walk to class.
Each fear is legitimate, each hope fragile; all share the same cramped lobby with flickering fluorescent lights.
4 · The Long Table Metaphor
Imagine South Africa as a never‑ending farmhouse trestle stretching from Musina to Muizenberg. Seats are unassigned; you arrive with a story and a spoon. You’re expected to eat and listen in equal measure.
Eating together is one of humanity’s oldest hacks for turning anxiety into appetite. Anthropologists call it commensality; grandmothers call it “Have you eaten, my child?” Food metabolises hierarchy into humility, suspicion into seasoning.
So what belongs in the shared pot—a dish so unmistakably South African that even picky eaters will lean in?
5 · Recipe — Ubuntu Pot (Rainbow Samp‑&‑Bean Stew)
A base as humble as a baby’s first porridge, yet sturdy enough to host a carnival of toppings.
Ingredients (Serves 8 at the Long Table)
Element
Why it matters
2 cups samp (cracked maize)
Staple in Xhosa kitchens; edible heritage.
2 cups sugar beans
Protein for vegans and carnivores.
1 large sweet potato, cubed
Sweet resilience from Mpumalanga soils.
1 cup butternut, diced
Gold‑orange like a flag square.
1 tin coconut milk
Cape Malay nod; lactose‑free comfort.
2 tbsp peanut butter
West‑African echo & allergy conversation‑starter.
1 tbsp mild curry powder
Durban warmth without nuclear fallout.
2 cloves garlic, 1 thumb ginger
Immune boosters & gossip deterrents.
Bouquet fresh thyme & bay
Auntie Nomsa’s secret.
Salt & cracked black pepper
Because people confuse “season” with “spice”.
Method
Overnight Prelude – Soak samp and beans separately under moonlight; they, too, need a cooling‑off period.
Union Ceremony – Rinse, then simmer both in 2 L salted water until nearly tender (≈60 min).
Cape‑Malay Kiss – Stir in curry powder, coconut milk, peanut butter; simmer 10 min until velvet‑thick.
Serve – Ladle into enamel mugs. Invite toppings from the Side‑Dish Carnival.
Side‑Dish Carnival (Choose‑Your‑Own‑Identity)
Fire‑Charred Boerewors Coins – for protein maximalists.
Bright Mango Atchar – sweet‑acid punch, vegan.
Hand‑Ripped Dhania & Mint – herb bridge between spice provinces.
Crisp Pap Chips – gluten‑free crunch for texture anarchists.
Vegan Chakalaka – because the pot still needs gossip.
Pickled Beetroot Hearts – sour‑sweet apology for yesterday’s arguments.
The genius of Ubuntu Pot isn’t culinary complexity; it’s social architecture. A neutral base welcomes any condiment personality that drizzles onto it, exactly how a nation should welcome whichever narrative occupies the chair beside ours.
(Want dessert? Slice naartjies in half, dip the cut sides in brown sugar and set them caramelising on the dying coals. Simple, smoky, bittersweet—like history.)
6 · When the Ladle Is Missing — Accountability at the Table
What happens when someone hogs the ladle—when corruption siphons gravy from the communal pot? Ubuntu is neither naïve nor a scented candle; it demands mutual obligation.
Consider load shedding—briefly a joke, now a chronic ulcer on national time. We can rage on Twitter or we can organise street‑by‑street solar co‑ops, turning candle misery into micro‑grid resilience. When a councillor parks a luxury SUV outside a crumbling clinic, we can meme the hypocrisy or crowd‑fund pressure gauges for the maternity ward’s oxygen supply.
Ubuntu’s darker twin is ubuvila—slothful indifference. Compassion without accountability curdles into charity cosplay. Accountability without compassion mutates into punitive purism. The ladle must circulate—grease the hand if you must, but pass it on.
7 · Practical Acts of Micro‑Ubuntu (Calories Included)
Adopt a Kilometre – Greet every security guard, hawker, and cleaner by name for 30 days.
Pass the Salt Online – Rewrite your hottest rebuttal as a sincere question before posting.
Kitchen‑Chair Amnesty – Host supper where each guest brings a grievance with another guest; eat first, talk second.
Library Receipt Roulette – Tuck an encouraging note inside a returned library book.
Civic Cooling‑Off Period – Wait 48 hours before deciding you’re outraged.
Electric‑Fence Fika – Once a month, invite the neighbour whose dog keeps you awake to coffee over the wall.
Queue DJ – Create a shared playlist via Bluetooth speaker while everyone waits at Licensing. Democracy is easier in 4/4 time.
Mentor in the Dark – Offer load‑shedding study sessions lit by rechargeable lanterns at the local hall.
Grocery‑Basket Swap – Switch shopping lists with a friend from another culture and cook each other’s supper.
Two‑Month Mercy Challenge – Practise a cooling‑off period in personal conflict: no final words, no ultimatums, for sixty days. If Ubuntu House can hold a baby that long, you can hold your fury.
8 · Conclusion — Leaving the House, Extending the Table
As dusk melted across Goodwood, Zola pressed her forehead against Ubuntu House’s gate.
“Did I cry a lot here?” she asked. “No,” Auntie Nomsa smiled. “You slept, you ate, and every time we picked you up, you looked.”
Looked—present continuous tense. Zola is still looking, scanning horizons for blank pages she will someday fill. So, too, is South Africa. Our village house is vast; its rooms echo with unfinished sentences; its long table stretches beyond the throw of any single candle.
When we finally drove away, Zola waved through the rear window. I realised she wasn’t saying goodbye; she was resetting the horizon line between who she has been and who she might still become.
If a child’s first home can teach patience to legal systems, courage to birth‑mothers, and endurance to strangers who may never again see her face, imagine what a country of sixty‑two million could teach itself—if we sat down, passed the ladle, and tasted the stew before criticising the menu.
Let the tears come—of sadness for what’s broken, of joy for what still breathes. Then wipe them away with the corner of a neighbour’s serviette. Hope survives exactly there: in the messy, generous moment where my humanity needs yours to taste like anything at all.
The long, deflated breath you let out when you finally sit down: spine slack, eyelids twitching, coffee gone cold beside you. The breath that says I’ve had enough, even when your to-do list screams more. And then, like clockwork, comes the guilt.
Shouldn’t you be doing something?
Something productive. Something useful. Something Instagrammable. Something heroic. Something that makes you look less… weak?
Rest, in this world, is framed as failure unless it’s earned. And even then, only just.
The Hustle is a Cult, and We’re All in It
We live in a culture where burnout is a badge of honour. Where busy-ness is virtue, exhaustion is currency, and rest is treated like dessert, a sugary reward after you’ve swallowed the meat and bones of your suffering.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: rest is not a reward. It’s a right.
And yet most of us, especially those who care for others, live with chronic conditions, juggle invisible workloads, or simply exist in survival mode, don’t believe we’ve earned it. We need to be told. Given permission. Prescribed it like paracetamol.
I still catch myself apologising for needing rest. I soften the language. I say, “I’m just going to lie down for a minute,” instead of “I’m shutting the world out because I’m completely depleted.” I say “I’m tired” instead of “I’m in pain.” I say nothing at all and power through, because who wants to be the fragile one?
It’s a scam. And it’s killing us slowly.
The History We Inherited (And Didn’t Ask For)
We didn’t create this culture of grind. We inherited it: a system shaped by generations of economic pressure, industrial ideals, and a culture that confuses rest with laziness.
Historically, rest wasn’t just discouraged, it was denied. To the enslaved. The poor. The working class. Productivity was a measure of compliance. Rest was resistance.
Today, even self-care has been co-opted. It’s no longer about replenishing the soul, it’s about selling face masks and bath bombs to the already burnt out. Even our downtime is expected to be photogenic.
And if you live with a chronic illness? Rest becomes your entire life, and somehow still, people expect you to justify it. To prove you’re not just lazy, flaky, or attention-seeking.
Rest is Resistance
Audre Lorde said it best: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence; it is self-preservation.”
Rest is not about quitting. It’s about surviving a system that rewards overextension and punishes stillness. It’s about reclaiming softness in a world that demands sharp edges. It’s about trusting your body over your inbox.
Rest is how we remember we’re human.
What Rest Actually Looks Like (Spoiler: Not Always Pretty)
Let’s get something straight: rest isn’t always wrapped in silk pajamas with lo-fi beats in the background. Sometimes rest is ugly. Messy. Loud. Sometimes it’s:
Crying in the bath until your sinuses are clear.
Saying “no” without offering an excuse.
Sleeping in clothes that aren’t pajamas because that’s all you could manage.
Letting the dishes wait.
Cancelling plans, even with people you love.
Turning off your phone.
Doing nothing, not meditating, not manifesting, not improving yourself. Just… nothing.
Real rest is not aesthetic. It’s sacred.
You Don’t Need Permission, But Here It Is Anyway
If you need someone to say it, let me be the voice:
You are allowed to rest. Not because you worked hard enough. Not because you’re falling apart. Not because you ticked every box. But because you are a living being. And living beings need rest.
No one questions a dog for napping in the sun. No one asks a tree to bloom year-round. But somehow, you, with your spiralling inbox and shrinking patience and bones that ache when it rains, are expected to keep going like a machine.
You are not a machine. You are not a machine. You are not a machine.
Let the World Wait
The revolution isn’t in the doing. It’s in the being. It’s in saying, “Not today, thanks.” It’s in horizontal activism; in naps, in stillness, in choosing slowness when the world demands speed.
Rest isn’t the opposite of action. It’s what allows us to continue.
So lie down. Log off. Let the world wait.
It can handle itself for a while.
And if it can’t? That’s not your fault either.
Tell me…
Do you struggle with guilt when you rest?
What’s one way you’re reclaiming rest in your own life?
Should we start a nap revolution?
Let’s talk in the comments, but only after your nap.
A journey of learning to embrace life with compassion and care for myself.
When I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in January of 2023, my focus was anything but myself. Providing for my household, caring for my children, caring for my patients (I’m a Registered Nurse), and securing a home for my disabled mom were a few of my top priorities. I had no real concept of self-love. I refused to accept the diagnosis for a full year, trying to live life as I always had. This was until one day, as I struggled to climb the stairs at work after a 12-hour shift, it dawned on me that I was fighting my very own body instead of working with my body to fight MS. I had to learn to love myself enough to set boundaries and care for my vessel as much as I did others.
Self-love involves accepting yourself fully, treating yourself with kindness, and prioritizing your own well-being. For those of us with a diagnosis of MS, practicing self-love is essential in coping with the physical and emotional challenges provoked by MS. Here are a few ways I practice self-love.
1. Cultivating a Positive Mindset
Living with MS can be overwhelming, but adopting a positive mindset can help navigate the journey with resilience and hope. Embracing self-love encourages a shift in focus from limitations to possibilities, fostering a sense of empowerment and optimism.
2. Managing Stress Effectively
Stress can exacerbate MS symptoms, making it crucial to develop healthy coping mechanisms. Self-love practices such as mindfulness, meditation, and deep breathing can reduce stress levels, promoting relaxation and calmness.
3. Prioritizing Physical Health
Self-love involves taking proactive steps to maintain physical health. Regular exercise, a balanced diet, and adequate rest are vital components of managing MS. Listening to my body and responding to its needs with compassion was most difficult but lead to improved overall well-being.
4. Nurturing Emotional Well-Being
MS can take an emotional toll, leading to feelings of frustration, anger, sadness, depression, and anxiety. Self-love encourages individuals to acknowledge and honor their emotions without judgment. I went through the entire grieving process before embarking on my journey to self-love.
5. Setting Realistic Goals
Self-love involves setting realistic and achievable goals that align with our individual abilities and circumstances. Celebrating small victories and progress creates a sense of accomplishment and motivation, contributing to a positive outlook on life.
6. Practicing Self-Care
Self-care is a fundamental aspect of self-love. Engaging in activities that bring joy, relaxation, and fulfilment can enhance mental and emotional health. I like to do activities in my garden, such as yoga, reading, and meditation. I’ve also become more in tune with nature, taking more walks and appreciating its beauty. Listening to music, dancing, and indulging in self-care nurture the soul and promote balance.
Living with multiple sclerosis is undoubtedly challenging, but the practice of self-love offers a powerful tool for navigating our journeys with grace and resilience. By embracing self-love, I have a sense of empowerment, hope, and well-being, transforming my experience into one of growth and self-discovery.
Hi, I’m Nicole. I’m a mom to 3 and registered nurse by profession. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in January of 2023 after a case of optic neuritis, which led to vision loss in my left eye. I recall experiencing symptoms of MS as early as 2016. I now use my knowledge as a RN as well as my experiences as a MS Warrior to educate, uplift, and bring awareness to the “rare” autoimmune disease known as Multiple Sclerosis.
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.
