There are days when everything seems to fall to pieces around you and the tears come fast and you cancel everything else and comfort-eat popcorn together on the sofa while watching The Office because any other activity just feels like too much.
And then there are the days after that, the ones where you go to French class while it’s still dark and you’re learning the plus-que-parfait tense which should be horrible but your teacher makes you laugh.
It’s the day you drive through the wet countryside to your writing group and sit on the sofa with hot tea, reading each other’s stories and feeling yourself learn and fill up with the wonder of shared words.
You make yourself a peppermint mocha with the syrup you made last week. And you eat a spaghetti squash and blue cheese omelette for lunch in the dull quiet of the flat and you realise you’re not unhappy.
And later you sit at your little turquoise desk and send planning emails about the beauty afternoon you’re organising for a local women’s shelter this Saturday and you talk to one of the massage therapists on the phone and get excited and nervous by the glory-weight of it.
Your sister texts just to say I love you. You turn the heating up a little and dig out your slippers again but it feels cosy here and you feel useful and that’s what eventually starts to bring the pieces back together.
A little gratitude. A little love. A little purpose.
And the world seems a little bit brighter again.