I was staying in a small serviced apartment, and over a few days, I noticed a quiet pattern forming. A coffee cup left from the morning, a breakfast bowl, then a dinner plate, each waiting to be washed later. It didn’t seem like much at first, just a few dishes for one person. But by day three, the little sink was full, and suddenly it felt like too much.

We live in a world that has blurred the lines between presence and performance. A world that rewards the appearance of things over the felt experience of them. And nowhere does that show up more than in the lives we quietly compare ourselves to through the social scroll.

It's a strange thing to step back into your life and feel slightly like a guest in it. Nothing's wrong on the surface. But there's an internal mismatch. A quiet discomfort that's hard to name. It's a familiar pair of shoes. Same shoes, same colour, same size. But feels like I'm wearing the left shoe on the right foot, and the right shoe on the left.

The lunch tin isn't just a container of food. It's a mirror. Of our intentions. Our pressures. Our need to nourish, yes, but also to prove that we have 'done it', that we are good, that we are enough.

I know what it’s like to hold everything so tightly that you start to lose your shape. To smile and say, “I’ve got it,” when really bits of you are leaking out quietly in the form of snappy words, heavy sighs, evil glances at your partner, or that ever-growing feeling of resentment of life you don’t want to admit.

Stress shows up in tense shoulders. Anxiety lives in a clenched jaw. Anger tightens the fists. Love flutters through our tummies, and adrenaline makes our hearts pump. The body has always spoken for us. Even when we didn't realise it.

Sometimes, healing doesn't look like crying on the bathroom floor. Sometimes, healing looks like realising you've been holding your breath for 18 years and didn't know it.

There has been an interesting feeling around. I hear many describe it as "let's just get through this", while others feel a sense of the unknown, the question of "what will ever happen next?" tends to be the tone.

This week I got pissed off, and I mean really pissed off. I've been listening to incredible women who are strong, fiery, and just bloody amazing, and they're feeling caught up in knots and twists. They're unsure, worried, panicked, and they feel like their only option is maybe to leave something they've worked so hard for. Their confidence is low. They can't focus.

Jorge and I have been married for 16 years and have been together for 22. Some of you reading this might think, that's baby love! While others might wonder how we even got here. But over the last two weeks, I've been reflecting on love and what it all means. Perhaps it's the conversations I've been having with friends and clients that brought it up and made me wonder: what does it all mean?

This week, I’ve been sitting with a word. It’s not a big or fancy one, just a simple four-letter word that has been with me more times than I can count. HOPE.

Fifty weeks of showing up to the page and myself. Fifty weeks (fifty lessons) of sharing the tangled thoughts, hidden fears, messy contradictions, and quiet revelations that come with being a woman, a mother, a partner, a coach, and most of all… a human.

I wonder if we’re part of the problem and if we are the ones creating the drama and the mental "comparison chaos" in our heads?

So, when did the innocence of our internal language shift? When did it go from cuddles, milk, fairies, and pretend lands to: Am I good enough? Why don’t they like me? How could I have been so stupid? They know I didn’t know the answer, now I feel terrible… Come on, don’t be so lazy

The other day I walked into my local fruit and veg shop and found perfectly fresh strawberries on sale for $1.42. Jackpot! That little thrill reminded me that joy doesn’t need a big stage. And honestly, what’s ever truly perfect?

Confidence. What is it, really? Is it that magical fairy dust you spot in people who can talk to strangers, light up a room, make everyone laugh, and own a dinner table in seconds? Or is it the quieter kind?

So here I am, writing about how our past shapes our current or old identities and how to break away and rediscover your true identity.

When I first saw my mum put on her lipstick, I noticed something change. Her shoulders lifted, just slightly, but it was enough. A sparkle

When did "no" become a dirty word Somewhere along the way, we started to believe that being kind meant being constantly available.

How do we shift our mindset to cope with high-volume work and thrive? People are collapsing under the weight of it all, unable to handle