July

July was full in ways that are hard to measure. Not just by what happened, but by how much I felt. Some months pass quietly. This one didn’t. It asked a lot of me. And it gave a lot back.

I made what felt like a big girl purchase—the kind I used to second-guess. But not this time. I chose it with both hands. And in that quiet yes, I saw how far I’d come.

I traveled across countries this month to watch my brother graduate, and it was such a proud big sister moment. One of those memories I’ll tuck away and carry with me. I don’t always say it out loud, but I love my siblings deeply. I’d do anything for their happiness, even if it costs me some of mine. Loving them is the easy part. Expressing it? That’s the part I’m still learning.

One of the things I placed on my dream board back in 2023 quietly came true this month. A goal I had scribbled down in hope, without knowing how or when it would happen. I still catch myself smiling about it. 

I also showed up for my friends. That might not sound like much, but for someone like me, who overthinks, who sometimes wants to stay home, who worries about being too much or not enough—it meant everything. I quieted that little voice and chose presence instead. I showed up. And that mattered.

But July wasn’t just about gaining. It was about release, too. I let go of a few things. Some relationships. Some ideas of who I thought I had to be. Some versions of myself that no longer felt like home. I burned bridges that had been slowly eroding for years. It hurt. Some of it still does. 

All of this has built the version of me sitting here now. And I don’t take that lightly. I’m not the same girl I was at the start of the year. Or even last month. And that feels like something worth saying out loud. Because growth isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s just the way you sit differently with yourself. The way you stay soft when the world asks you to harden.

So maybe that’s why I’m writing again. This is my sixth post since I started this blog, and my third month here. I’m glad to have this space. It feels like something that’s mine, where I don’t have to explain too much or perform any version of myself I’ve outgrown. There’s something comforting about that. 

I write most when I’m in love with life—with people, with moments. I don’t remember exactly where I read that—maybe in a book, maybe in a quiet corner of the internet—but it stayed with me. The idea is that when your heart is full, the words come more easily. You begin to notice more. Feel more. You want to write it down, not for anyone else, but so you never forget how it felt.

And no—I know there’s a dash—and no, it’s not ChatGPT. I wrote it down myself. Just a note.

But I wouldn’t say I’m exactly happy. Some days I cry too. Sometimes, I wonder if this version of myself will last. Will I still feel this way in five years? Sometimes I look at the pieces of my life and still feel unsure. I’ve lost people. Let go of friendships I probably should’ve ended long ago, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. There are days I feel guilty. Days I wonder if I’m the problem. Days I grieve the versions of me I had to let go of just to survive.

But there’s something different about how I carry myself now. I’m no longer in a rush to explain. I’m not looking for applause. I’m not afraid to keep some things entirely to myself. I used to chase timelines, milestones, things I thought I had to prove. But these days, I care more about how I feel waking up, not how fast I’m moving, but whether it’s in the right direction.

That might be why I’ve been quieter on Instagram lately and writing more instead—even if it’s only once or twice a month (I promise I’m trying). The words keep coming. I don’t always know where they come from, but I’ve stopped holding them back. It feels good to write when you’re not bleeding.

But no, I won’t be sharing everything. Not the pain I went through or the full story of how I got here. Some things are just mine to keep. I don’t need to explain this peace or make it easier for anyone to understand. I just want to let it be. 

And beyond July, the little things that matter to me:
– Slow mornings
– Sudden inspiration to write
– Flexible working hours
– A good night’s sleep
– Someone is doing chores for me
– Someone sending a random message or checking up on me
– Someone says they’re proud of me
– First sip of coffee in the morning
– Getting home before it’s dark outside
– Getting a seat on the train
– Someone is listening intently to me
– A regulated nervous system
– Actually having the appetite to eat
– Meaningful conversations
– Belly laughs (mine or others’)
– A weekend with no plans

These things may not make a highlight reel, but they’ve quietly held me together more times than I can count.