Of course, friend. Come here for five minutes. No bugs, no insurance, no mother, no floor, no P., no construction. Just some good things. ❤️
Take a slow breath in through your nose…
…and let it out slowly.
Again.
And while you breathe, let me remind you of a few things.
You are about to turn 45.
Not in some abstract future. It's right there. September 1st is coming. And 45 isn't an ending. It's not the age at which everything you didn't accomplish becomes a verdict. It's just another doorway.
And you have already lived through so many versions of yourself.
There was the young woman who went alone to Almograve in 2014 because someone told her she needed to go on holiday and take care of herself. There was the woman who started a poetry blog way back in 2005. The woman who makes charcoal drawings. The woman who gets excited about jazz, beautiful buildings, museums, strange little seaside towns, fossils and minerals, good food, and finding some unexpected beautiful thing in the middle of an ordinary day.
That woman is still there.
She's underneath all this exhaustion.
Take another breath.
In…
and out…
And think about Sunday for a second.
There's going to be a new bed coming into your room.
After all this ridiculous saga — the mattress, the base, the cardboard improvisation, the mould, the shops, the measurements, the worrying about whether everything would collapse, you're actually getting there.
And then Monday: IKEA. The mattress gets exchanged. One more problem gets crossed off.
And then Tuesday is your birthday.
Maybe it won't be the birthday you would have chosen. Maybe you won't have someone beside you at the museum. Maybe there will be a little sadness in it.
But imagine this:
You wake up.
You have your new bed.
You get yourself dressed.
You go outside.
The city is there.
You go into the museum and there are paintings and sculptures and colours and textures made by people who spent hours, days, sometimes years making something because they needed something beautiful to exist.
And you're there.
You are part of the world again.
You don't have to be accompanied for that moment to count.
You can stand in front of something beautiful and let it happen to you.
Then you can go somewhere and eat something you actually enjoy.
And perhaps, at some point during that day, you'll have a tiny thought:
“I'm 45.”
And maybe another one:
“I'm still here.”
And that second one is the important one.
Take another breath.
In…
out…
And listen: this period you're living through is not your whole life.
The disgusting house situation isn't your identity.
The exhaustion isn't your personality.
The loneliness isn't a prophecy.
The things that happened with people you loved aren't proof that you won't be loved again.
The fact that you don't currently know exactly where your life is going doesn't mean there isn't somewhere beautiful for you to go.
There are still seaside towns you haven't discovered.
There are still paintings you haven't seen.
There are still songs you haven't heard.
There are still people you haven't hugged.
There are still meals you haven't eaten.
There are still conversations that haven't happened.
There are still versions of you that haven't existed yet.
And somewhere ahead of you, there is a completely ordinary afternoon that you don't know about yet — maybe sitting somewhere near the sea, drinking something, watching people pass, and thinking about how strange it is that you once believed you would never get to that particular moment.
You don't have to solve your whole future tonight.
You only have to get to morning.
Then the insurance man.
Then sleep again.
Then your friends.
Then the bed.
Then IKEA.
Then your birthday.
One little stepping stone at a time.
And you don't have to earn the right to have something good happen.
You've had enough difficult things happen lately.
Something nice is allowed to happen simply because it's nice.
A hug.
A good meal.
A beautiful painting.
A new mattress.
A quiet cup of tea.
A ridiculous joke with a friend.
A little seaside escape in September.
A day when nobody needs anything from you.
These things are not trivial.
They're life.
So one more breath with me.
In…
hold…
and slowly out.
Good.
Now, before you sleep, I want you to keep just one sentence with you:
Your life is not over. You're just very, very tired.
And tiredness makes the future look much darker than it really is.
Sleep, birthday girl. 🌙❤️
There is still plenty of life waiting for you.
Take a slow breath in through your nose…
…and let it out slowly.
Again.
And while you breathe, let me remind you of a few things.
You are about to turn 45.
Not in some abstract future. It's right there. September 1st is coming. And 45 isn't an ending. It's not the age at which everything you didn't accomplish becomes a verdict. It's just another doorway.
And you have already lived through so many versions of yourself.
There was the young woman who went alone to Almograve in 2014 because someone told her she needed to go on holiday and take care of herself. There was the woman who started a poetry blog way back in 2005. The woman who makes charcoal drawings. The woman who gets excited about jazz, beautiful buildings, museums, strange little seaside towns, fossils and minerals, good food, and finding some unexpected beautiful thing in the middle of an ordinary day.
That woman is still there.
She's underneath all this exhaustion.
Take another breath.
In…
and out…
And think about Sunday for a second.
There's going to be a new bed coming into your room.
After all this ridiculous saga — the mattress, the base, the cardboard improvisation, the mould, the shops, the measurements, the worrying about whether everything would collapse, you're actually getting there.
And then Monday: IKEA. The mattress gets exchanged. One more problem gets crossed off.
And then Tuesday is your birthday.
Maybe it won't be the birthday you would have chosen. Maybe you won't have someone beside you at the museum. Maybe there will be a little sadness in it.
But imagine this:
You wake up.
You have your new bed.
You get yourself dressed.
You go outside.
The city is there.
You go into the museum and there are paintings and sculptures and colours and textures made by people who spent hours, days, sometimes years making something because they needed something beautiful to exist.
And you're there.
You are part of the world again.
You don't have to be accompanied for that moment to count.
You can stand in front of something beautiful and let it happen to you.
Then you can go somewhere and eat something you actually enjoy.
And perhaps, at some point during that day, you'll have a tiny thought:
“I'm 45.”
And maybe another one:
“I'm still here.”
And that second one is the important one.
Take another breath.
In…
out…
And listen: this period you're living through is not your whole life.
The disgusting house situation isn't your identity.
The exhaustion isn't your personality.
The loneliness isn't a prophecy.
The things that happened with people you loved aren't proof that you won't be loved again.
The fact that you don't currently know exactly where your life is going doesn't mean there isn't somewhere beautiful for you to go.
There are still seaside towns you haven't discovered.
There are still paintings you haven't seen.
There are still songs you haven't heard.
There are still people you haven't hugged.
There are still meals you haven't eaten.
There are still conversations that haven't happened.
There are still versions of you that haven't existed yet.
And somewhere ahead of you, there is a completely ordinary afternoon that you don't know about yet — maybe sitting somewhere near the sea, drinking something, watching people pass, and thinking about how strange it is that you once believed you would never get to that particular moment.
You don't have to solve your whole future tonight.
You only have to get to morning.
Then the insurance man.
Then sleep again.
Then your friends.
Then the bed.
Then IKEA.
Then your birthday.
One little stepping stone at a time.
And you don't have to earn the right to have something good happen.
You've had enough difficult things happen lately.
Something nice is allowed to happen simply because it's nice.
A hug.
A good meal.
A beautiful painting.
A new mattress.
A quiet cup of tea.
A ridiculous joke with a friend.
A little seaside escape in September.
A day when nobody needs anything from you.
These things are not trivial.
They're life.
So one more breath with me.
In…
hold…
and slowly out.
Good.
Now, before you sleep, I want you to keep just one sentence with you:
Your life is not over. You're just very, very tired.
And tiredness makes the future look much darker than it really is.
Sleep, birthday girl. 🌙❤️
There is still plenty of life waiting for you.
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