23 september 2025
I’ve always been fascinated with the way a snail quickly withdraws its eye stalks when touched. It’s an excellent metaphor for how my past has pressed its shape into me; how painful experiences have taught me to withdraw. I’m in a place that is more withdrawn than ever before, but I’ve realised it is not a place of fear, it is a place of safety and contentment. I don’t crave the external validation I once did; I’m learning to enjoy the small moments and to find joy in what is already here, rather than reaching into the void for echoes.
I am starting to see my past more clearly, not as something that overwhelms me or drags me into old storms, but as a landscape that can be looked at from a distance, felt but not drowned in. It’s ok to feel deeply, emotions don’t need to be dulled or buried under the weight of old vices. "To find light, one must be in the dark." - General Iroh
The green tea I’m drinking while writing this is so good...
I can feel a shift in me towards the present moment and immediate future, toward the people I hold close and the students who sit with me each day. I wonder if this is what it means to step into the role of elder, to allow my experiences to become something useful to others rather than a private burden. The world does not owe me anything and I no longer expect it to hand me anything in return. I hope when storms return that I can still find shelter in small slow things, in the ritual of green tea, in the classrooms where students surprise me and in the ordinary care of my children. The life I've built is enough. I am enough.