Sunday night has a particular weight to it, especially the last one before returning to the classroom. It sits heavy on the chest, full of lists that won’t stay written down and thoughts that refuse to line up neatly. The room is quiet, but my head isn’t. I’m already rearranging desks, replaying conversations that haven’t happened yet, wondering if I’ve planned enough—or too much. Teaching has a way of creeping into every corner of a Sunday night.
The day itself tried its best to keep me grounded. I spent it outside, armed with garden shears, determined to wrestle some order back into the yard. Vines that had grown wild over the holidays came down in stubborn clumps. Nettles—stingy and overconfident—were cut back to size. I hosed down the patio, the water biting cold as it sprayed out, half frozen and numbing my fingers. At one point, in a moment that felt a bit symbolic, I sliced straight through the washing line with the shears. Clean cut. No going back. Some things really do just snap when they’re ready.
The tip run should have been quick, but of course it wasn’t. Half an hour waiting just to turn around, admit defeat, and come back later with the Christmas cardboard. Even that felt like a lesson: sometimes you don’t get to drop everything off when you want to. Sometimes you circle back.
And all the while, the robin was there.
Perched nearby, hopping closer, watching me hose the patio and hack back the overgrowth, as if supervising the whole operation. I kept glancing over, half-smiling. I’ve always believed that robin is Dad, keeping an eye on me, checking I’m doing okay. It didn’t judge the mess or the muttered comments under my breath. It just stayed. That felt like enough.
Now it’s Sunday night. The last takeaway of the holidays is on the table—rubbish food, eaten without ceremony—and tomorrow routine returns. Early alarm. Gym bag packed for the 6:15 class. The beginning of a new way of life for me and my girls this year. Healthier, steadier, more intentional… even if tonight my brain is still sprinting ahead of me.
There’s comfort, though, in knowing that despite the overthinking and the nerves, I’ve trimmed back what needed trimming. I’ve cleared a bit of space. I’ve been watched over. And tomorrow, when the classroom door opens again, I’ll step into it carrying all of this with me—the cold water, the snapped washing line, the waiting at the tip, and the quiet company of a robin on a Sunday afternoon.
The weekend , but the weekend after New Year
Saturday 3rd January
We are stuck — that strange in-between feeling where the year has technically started, but life hasn’t quite pressed play yet.
Today feels like preparation day. Not the dramatic, fresh-start kind, but the quieter sorting-yourself-out version. Getting ready to return to work, mentally lining things up, pretending you’re more organised than you actually feel. There’s that nagging sense that because it’s Saturday you should be out doing something — brunch, wandering, being spontaneous — but instead you’re already trying to be good. Sensible. Future-you focused.
The alarm went off early because apparently I’ve decided to be that person . Gym class at 8:30am, in the snow. Snow. At the time it felt great — smug, even — like I was winning at life while everyone else was still in bed. Fast forward a few hours and the tiredness has properly landed, but I’m still pleased. Daily steps hit: 10k. Box ticked. No one can take that away from me.
The afternoon has been all about easing into routine. Visiting a bedt friend and putting the world to rights for a couple of hours, good for the soul! Cooking off all the leftover veg, turning odds and ends into next week’s soup for work lunches. Batch cooking feels deeply unglamorous, but also oddly comforting— like I’m quietly looking after myself without making a big deal about it. There’s something satisfying about knowing future lunches are handled. Luckily I really love to cook so used this as an escape mechanism this afternoon from tough thoughts within my mind(which I will save for another day!)
Now? Now I can’t wait to sit down. The Traitors is calling, and so is the sofa. I do not sit on my sofa a lot, despite the wonderful deal from Sofa Sofa, I don’t give it the comfort of my relaxation that it deserves. There’s a pause here — a moment to breathe, to let the day settle — and to contemplate what’s next. Not in a big, overwhelming way. Just gently. One episode at a time.
Stuck, yes. But maybe also exactly where I’m supposed to be.
When the new year begins but you dont know how to
Let’s begin
The calendar turns, the numbers change, and suddenly it’s 2026.
Apparently, this is the moment we’re meant to feel hopeful. Refreshed. Ready.
Life is beginning again, they say.
But what if it doesn’t feel like that at all?
What if the new year arrives quietly, while you’re already exhausted, standing in yesterday’s mess, holding a to-do list that feels heavier than your body can manage?
There’s a strange loneliness that comes with the start of a new year when you don’t know how to begin. Everyone else seems to be posting plans, goals, clean slates. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to get through the day without crying in the kitchen or falling asleep sitting upright. You want to be positive — you really do — but positivity feels like another task you don’t have the energy to complete.
You feel lost. Not dramatically, not in a way that makes a good story — just quietly, deeply unsure. Unsure where to start, unsure what deserves your attention first, unsure how you’re supposed to rebuild when you’re already running on empty.
There’s so much you want to sort out.
You want to do things right. Especially for your children.
You want to be organised, present, patient, steady — the kind of parent who has answers, routines, and a calm voice at the end of a long day.
You want to give them a home that feels safe and light and in order.
You want to sort the house from top to bottom — the cupboards, the drawers, the piles that have silently grown in the corners of rooms. You imagine how good it would feel if everything had a place, if the chaos could just be cleared away.
But wanting isn’t the same as having the energy.
What you really need — desperately — is a few more hours of sleep. Not the kind where you close your eyes but keep thinking, but deep, uninterrupted rest. The kind that makes your body feel human again. Without it, even the smallest task feels enormous. Dishes become mountains. Laundry becomes a personal failure. The house doesn’t just look messy — it feels like proof that you’re behind.
And that’s the part no one talks about when a new year begins.
Sometimes starting again doesn’t look like motivation or vision boards or fresh notebooks. Sometimes it looks like sitting very still, overwhelmed, unsure where to place your next step. Sometimes it looks like surviving on the bare minimum and hoping that counts as enough.
Maybe the truth is this: life doesn’t magically begin again on January 1st. It begins slowly. Unevenly. In fragments.
It begins when you admit you’re tired.
When you stop pretending you’re fine.
When you choose rest over perfection, even when everything in you says you should be doing more.
If 2026 feels overwhelming already, that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human. It means you’ve been carrying a lot. And maybe the beginning of this year isn’t about fixing everything at once, but about giving yourself permission to move gently.
One drawer at a time.
One night of better sleep when you can get it.
One small decision made with care, especially for the little people watching you try.
You don’t have to know how to begin.
You just have to begin where you are.
And maybe — quietly, imperfectly — that’s enough for now.
Life, unplanned
I didn’t plan to be starting over at 42. Life looked very different on paper — steady, shared, predictable.
Then separation, grief, and single parenting arrive all at once, and balance becomes something I have to relearn rather than assume. At the same time, I am learning how to live in a world without my father — a loss that hurts in ways I don’t yet have language for.
This blog is a place to tell the truth about this in-between space: holding down work while holding together a family, grieving what was while building something new, and learning who I am when the ground shifts beneath me. It’s about small wins, tired days, resilience I didn’t know I had, and growth that comes not from choice, but from necessity.
If you’re navigating change, loss, or a life that no longer fits the plan you once had — you’re not alone. This is me starting again, one honest step at a time.
You’re welcome to walk this part of the journey with me.
Between what was and what's next 