Savoring Simple Daily Pleasures
This post might feel like a bit of a sidestep from the usual content I share here. I know many of you come for thoughts that meander through ideas, observations, or deeper ponderings on the world around us — and those will continue. But today, I felt it was time to take a pause and speak more personally. To share not just what I think, but why I write. To trace the path — winding, messy, and honest — that brought me here, to this blog, and to this version of my life.
The truth is, I didn’t always know I’d be writing in this way, or at all. Writing wasn't part of some grand plan. It was more like a quiet instinct that kept surfacing over the years. A whisper rather than a shout. The kind that grows louder the more you try to push it aside.
At first, it was just journaling. Fragments of thought and feeling. Then it became letters never sent. Pages in the margins of ordinary days — in between the chaos of parenting, work, and life’s endless swirl. Writing was how I made sense of things, especially during some of the harder seasons. It wasn’t polished or public. It was personal. Private. Lifesaving, at times.
And then something pivotal happened.
I stopped drinking.
That was the true turning point — the moment of real clarity that reshaped everything. I hesitate to even use the word “sobriety” because, to be honest, it’s never sat quite right with me. It sounds so somber and heavy — as if it's all sacrifice and shadows. But for me, it's been anything but. Being alcohol-free has been joyful. It's freeing. It's inspiring. It’s good.
That’s not to say the road was easy. It wasn’t. It came with doubts, judgment, eye rolls, and plenty of unsolicited opinions. At times, it was a lonely place to be. Some people didn’t get it. Others didn’t care, or quietly faded from my life. But in hindsight, most people really didn’t mind if I was drinking or not — and those who did? Well, that says more about them than it ever did about me.
The only thing I truly regret is not doing it sooner.
I wish I could reclaim all those foggy mornings battling a headache, just getting through the day until bedtime. I wish I could have been more present for my babies — fully, joyfully, and clearly — rather than muddling through under the haze of “mummy wine.” I wish I hadn't seen holidays and family vacations as a permission slip to start drinking mid-morning, poolside or not.
Looking back through old photos, I see a pattern I once refused to notice—glass after glass raised in celebration, in escape, in habit. Sunset after sunset, seemingly made more golden by the swirl of wine in hand. There are moments with my young children, their faces lit with innocence and joy, and always, somehow, the quiet presence of that drink nearby. I didn’t see it then. But now, with eyes unclouded and a heart more awake, it feels unbearably sad. Not in a dramatic way, but in a slow, aching realization of time slightly bent away from its true beauty. Today, I meet life without the crutch—just its sheer, unfiltered reality. Its brilliance and pain, its aching softness and sharp edges. And strangely, without the haze, it's all more beautiful. Sometimes more heartbreaking. More real. More raw. More joyous and magical. A true gift each and every day we get to live it. Savor it.
But I can't rewrite the past.
What I can do is celebrate this new chapter.
Five years on, I’m living in a way that feels real. My writing is clearer. My connection to nature, deeper. My time with my family is filled with laughter, presence, and gratitude. And the buzz I get from this life — from simple mornings, from creativity, from truly feeling things — far outweighs anything I ever found in a bottle.
So yes, this post is a little different. It’s more personal than usual. But it’s also honest. And it’s part of the story — the real story — behind how I found this path and why I show up here to write.
To anyone else walking a similar road or even just beginning to ask quiet questions about their own path: know this. You're not alone. And there is so much joy waiting for you on the other side of what feels hard right now.
Thank you, always, for reading — and for being part of this journey with me.
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