There are moments when something as simple as an image stops you in your tracks. This morning, it was a reel of a balcony overflowing with plants. Greens layered on greens. Flowers spilling where they pleased. Colour everywhere. Life everywhere. Nothing restrained. Nothing apologising for its presence.

And my body responded before my mind could explain why. I felt alive. Not excited. Not energised. Alive. That’s how I know something is true. Because what I felt wasn’t envy or longing in the usual sense. It was recognition. Like my nervous system whispering, Ah. There you are. This image reminded me of a part of myself I haven’t fully embodied in a long time. Not because she disappeared. But because she didn’t have the conditions she needed to stay.

For years, I lived in survival mode. Long before I had language for it. Long before I understood hormones, trauma, nervous systems, or the cost of constantly holding everything together. I muted myself not as a choice, but as a strategy. Softer colours. Quieter energy. Less visibility. Less need. Less me.

At the time, it made sense. It kept me going. It kept life manageable. But it wasn’t who I am at my core. When I look back at photos of myself from my late twenties and early thirties, I see her clearly. Bold colours. Jewellery. Lipstick. Presence. Confidence that wasn’t loud, but unapologetic. She enjoyed being seen. She enjoyed dressing for herself. She enjoyed life.

Somewhere along the way, in the years of doing it all alone, of being responsible, resilient, capable, dependable, I unintentionally dimmed her light. Not out of shame. Out of exhaustion.

And then came Bedford, summer of 2023. That chapter cracked me open in ways I didn’t expect. It showed me the truth about relationships. About boundaries. About how much I had given without being met. About how often I had been the strong one without being held. It also showed me how deeply I had been living on borrowed adrenaline. By the time my body forced me to slow down through pain, hormones, and sheer depletion, there was no pretending anymore. I couldn’t perform my way through life. I couldn’t make it happen the way I always had.

And something surprising happened in that slowing. I started preparing, not hustling, not reinventing, not striving. Preparing.

I once again began simplifying my home, letting things go, clearing the visual noise, and creating ease. Designing spaces that would support rest, not demand energy. Making my life smaller on the outside so it could feel richer on the inside.

At first, I thought I was preparing for surgery. But now I see it more clearly. I’m preparing for her. The woman who will re-emerge when my body is no longer in constant negotiation with pain. The woman who doesn’t have to ration her energy so carefully. The woman who can dress boldly again because she has the capacity to enjoy it. The woman who feels at home in herself.

The woman someone special mirrored back to me wasn’t an illusion. She wasn’t created by him. He simply reflected what was already there. He gave her a container. A language. A place to soften and unfold.

She is real. I feel her inside me. Quiet, patient, waiting. This time, though, I’m not waiting for a man, a moment, or a miracle to bring her back. I’m doing the unglamorous work. I’m resting when my body asks. I’m choosing depth over exposure. I’m letting my nervous system recalibrate. I’m building a home that can hold colour again. I’m tending to the soil.

That image of the balcony isn’t chaos. It’s cultivation. Someone chose those plants. Someone made space. Someone allowed growth to spill where it wanted to. That’s what I’m doing now. I’m not rushing embodiment. I’m not forcing confidence. I’m not pretending I feel like her already. I’m creating the conditions.

And when my body is ready, when movement feels like pleasure instead of effort, when energy returns without being borrowed from tomorrow, she won’t need to be summoned. She’ll recognise the space and step forward. This time, she won’t be a phase. She won’t flicker. She won’t disappear when life gets demanding. She’s coming to stay.

And when she does, she’ll find a home and a life that finally knows how to hold her.

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