When you feel lost.
I’ve lost count of the many times I got stuck, took a wrong turn, hit a brick wall.
Each time despairing, scared and overwhelmed.
Sometimes I’m so disconnected from myself, I don’t notice the rising sun, only the muted colours, the murky black leftovers from the night.
And still. I breathe. I carry on. I live.
Why?
Because of all those moments when I get unstuck.
When clarity finds me and joy paints the most glorious rainbows.
When love fills my heart and lights up my world.
When I come back to myself, to my centre.
When I feel content within me — with who I am.
At peace with the world. With myself.
Grateful for anything and everything.
Even if it is just a moment.
Courage.
Have you ever stared at a blank page, an empty canvas, or a silent room and wondered, “Where did my spark go?”
I’m a writer. I’m good at it. I enjoy it.
Crafting sentences, finding ways to connect with my writer-self — it lights me up, ignites a spark deep inside that bursts into a glorious flame, a beautiful multi-coloured blaze, searing my words into each page.
Until one day, it stopped.
The spark died. The pen was empty. Even as I write these words, I feel numb, tired, drained. I’ve pushed myself for so long, I’ve run out of fuel. I’m depleted. Empty like my pen. Broken.
Something that I loved had lost its joy. I had lost my joy.
How to reclaim it?
By allowing.
Feeling broken.
Numb.
Disconnected.
Dragging myself through life.
Trying desperately to make things work — all to stop from feeling so broken, so beaten because life is not unfolding as I had hoped.
Too much loss and disappointment.
And yet, the more I do, the more I try, the more numb I feel — the brokenness consuming me.
When my pen runs empty and even my writing doesn’t fill me with joy anymore — sitting in this emptiness, with this emptiness, this pain of having lost another thing I loved — it cuts me deep.
I feel like breaking again and again.
But maybe it isn’t about trying more, doing more.
Maybe I’m not even broken.
Maybe I’m just too depleted, having run for far too long.
Maybe all I need is my own permission to put the pen down.
Giving myself a moment or two, or as many as I need, to rest and replenish.
And realising I’m not broken after all.