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.
Editor’s Note This one’s for the tired ones. The ones still standing, barely, because they had to be. I wrote it for the part of me that still thinks asking for help is weakness, even when I know better. It’s not polished. It’s not pretty. But it’s real. For anyone who’s ever had to fight to find their people, this is for you.
These Weary Bones
oh these weary bones that rattle like a snake deceived by a mind that won’t shut up the motormouth spinning stories, dizzying the insides of my head.
I rose from nothing, like a loaf left too long in the oven punched, kneaded, left to burn.
I’m no damn island. more a battered village clinging to a cliffside. fingernails split. hands bloodied. still, holding on.
a stubborn mule clutching pride even as hands reach out. I know I’m not alone.
this world all rage and righteous rot. keep your petty poppycock step the fuck aside if all you bring is cruelty and showmanship.
no space left on this rock for exploding egos and fair-weather saints. I’ve bled too much to share ground with cowards.
The Comfort of a Clan
I’m tired. Not the “I stayed up too late” kind of tired. No, I’m talking about the kind of tired that lives in your bones. The kind that whispers, “you’re doing too much again,” even while you keep pushing. My MS flares love to remind me what happens when I don’t listen.
Still, I keep going. And honestly? I’m not even sure how.
But here’s one truth I know: I am incredibly lucky. I’ve got a clan. A real one. A village. A tribe. A group of humans who love me hard, hold me up, and never ask for anything in return but the truth. I think of the people who don’t have that, who face the grind alone, and my heart breaks a little.
Yes, I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I think that’s normal, especially when your body betrays you. But even then, I remind myself, I am one of the lucky ones. I don’t have to do this alone.
Well, except I often try to.
Because, truth be told, I am a stubborn old bag. Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve been fiercely independent for over 16 years. Before that? I was stuck in a situation where I had no choice but to rely on someone who resented every second of it. It nearly broke me. But I got out. With the help of my family and years of therapy, I found myself again.
So no, I don’t like asking for help. It reminds me of what it used to cost me. But these days, my body doesn’t give me the luxury of pride. And I’m learning, slowly, to trust that help doesn’t always come with strings.
For the first time, I’m in a relationship that feels like home. Not perfect. Not a rom-com. But real. Equal. Honest. Communication is the currency, not control. We walk beside each other, no one dragging the other along. It took me long enough to find this. But god, it was worth the wait.
Here’s something else I’ve learned: Surrounding yourself with the right people? It’s everything.
I’ve trimmed my circle right down in recent years. No room for the energy vampires, the performative friends, the ones who disappear when things get hard. I don’t need a crowd. I need a few solid souls who remind me who I am when I forget. Who challenge me, support me, and never let me shrink.
You don’t have to agree on everything, politics, religion, parenting styles, or pineapple on pizza. What matters is respect. Empathy. The ability to sit across from someone and say, “I don’t get it, but I’m here.”
Imagine a world where that was the norm instead of the exception. Imagine a culture built not on outrage and ego, but on kindness and curiosity.
Yeah, I know. Sounds like a pipe dream. But honestly? I think it starts with us. With our little villages. By refusing to let the world make us bitter. Choosing over and over to love louder than the noise.
It still takes a village. Maybe now more than ever.
And I’m holding onto mine with everything I’ve got.
