When it’s quiet here you can pretty much guarantee it’s not so quiet in my head. I’m burning through journal pages like my life depended on it. Which I guess it does as journalling keeps me sane. At the moment I’m journeying back through the 1990s, revisiting my twenty-something self as she grapples with love and life. I don’t have many journals from that time as I stopped writing them after my ex found my notebook — the violation I felt coupled with his dismay at what he read broke us up for a while. Life was so terribly dramatic back then.

Luckily I have hundreds of photographs from that time, and reams of the angst-filled poetry that became my outlet when journalling felt too dangerous. I see my younger self struggle with being an introvert in an extroverted world, not knowing what was wrong with her. I see how her neediness and insecurity were rooted in the past, and how she was destined to play the same song over and over again until she was finally ready to try a different tune.

Despite all the soul work I’ve done on myself the last few years I still regard this younger version of me as bit of an idiot, but i know that’s not really fair. She did her best with the tools she had. She searched outwardly for herself, not knowing that the real story would be found inside. But this is just what life is, isn’t it. This contant unravelling, figuring out, learning the lessons, moving on. My favourite part of growing older is being able to look back and see how the story unfolded. I feel like a bird perched on a branch in the middle of my life, surveying the past and marvelling at the synchronicities and connections. I remember so many dark nights of the soul when I thought I wouldn’t make it though to morning, yet here I am, able to recall the days and weeks that followed, cherished proof that it does get better. We do survive. Perhaps if I pay enough attention I’ll know when to avoid the potholes going forward. It’s a nice thought, yes?