I skim over the headings and the words I have posted in this little online space from 2017 to 2023. In many ways, they were years of immense change. I lived far away from my family for a time; I changed jobs; I moved house; I was in a relationship for a time and I experienced the end of that relationship; a global pandemic came and went. It seems that writing anchored me during those years. It gave me a way to discover myself during that time.

We are well into 2025 now and apart from a few poetic lines attached to an Instagram post here and there, the idea of writing has been relegated to a corner. It sits there loudly, mind you, questioning, demanding, longing. I have glanced to it often over the past twelve months or so, promising that one day it will have the chance to run forth, to scatter ideas and musings onto blank space once more, but I have always found more excuses to leave it in its place.

Today though, I have beckoned it over and invited it to make a return.

I return to writing with more questions than answers, more doubt than assurance, more clutter than clarity. This is a noisy world and I hesitate to throw more into the fray, but I have been pondering the importance of quiet lately — inner quiet — and have been encouraged that maybe, just maybe, I can be a voice that amplifies peace, magnifies beauty, and points towards the surest Hope I know.

And the more voices to that end, the better.