To be human is to suffocate, to be human is to breathe. To be human is to find the path of least resistance—stubborn journey after stubborn journey.

We all spent a full moon together, danced on the deck under the hot February sun, and I learned that I make a mean tuna protein mix for dinner.

I imagine I’m on a tiny boat, out at sea. No sails, no wind. It’s misty, foggy, unclear. The sky blends into the horizon. I don’t know what’s up or down. No compass. I’m all alone out here. Nothing and nobody to love, to leave.

I am the force that moves me forward, and for me that may look like spending more time pausing—hands open, eyes closed, the weight of my own thoughts loosening as I press play on a guided meditation, slipping into another world when this one fails to hold me.

I have lived my whole life as a bridge between continents, and here, now in these moments, I rest.

I have realised now, looking back, it was divinity that brought me back here.

I once had a dream about the day I was born. I was watching it all unfold from the eyes of a ghost, a wallflower.

I’m writing this with my wet hair clipped back, smelling of coconut and sunscreen.

She was found in the dust and dirt trying to hide by a restaurant on the side of the road. No sign of mama or siblings, and on the brink of death.

The rest of the world is so big, and I have been a migrating bird my whole life, making every place special, each one holding a different era of myself.

At night, the stars are immensely bright, and the sounds of all the little critters and crickets are a lullaby of their own.

Maybe that’s what I love most about fall—the in-between, the slow-motion swirl, the feeling of being suspended in time before the next thing arrives.

The sun won’t set until almost ten, the sky bleeding pink and orange above the rooftops, stretching the evening out like it never wants to end.

As it gets warmer, I have found myself thinking of all the beautiful places I have experienced Spring.

Hush hush, just wait a little longer. Something so beautiful you can’t yet imagine is just around the corner.

I think what has been happening the last near handful of months is my heart expanding. My world expanding.

There’s a poem I wrote into my journal a few weeks ago about a dream I have. In this dream, I wake up and my heart hurts, yet I continue to love the world.

Leaving is the hardest thing in the world—until it becomes the easiest thing in the world.

I drove home that afternoon with the windows down, music blasting, tears hot on my cheeks and I didn’t know if from joy or relief or remembering or grieving. Maybe all four.

There are new songs you’ll dance to, new people you’ll meet, places you’ll visit, and stories to tell that will be so brilliant—just wait and see.