In September 2021, I knew I was in trouble.
My health had crashed, my anxiety went through the roof.
I’d contracted, withdrew from the world into my little cocoon of myself and my home.
I (finally) asked for help.
And slowly, but surely, I started to expand again. I found joy in so many things. Writing started to feel joyful again.
It shows in small ways, like the notebooks I’m creating for things like NaNoWriMo and for our home, and on my laptop in the files filled with ideas and in the itch to blog again (possibly on substack).
It’s so good to feel like me again.
To feel my creativity buzz through my veins, itching to create something exciting.
I cherish it so much. I know how contracting feels, and expanding is therefor such a gift.
(this is an edited post from my mastodon)