starting to get there
July was water and movement.
Trips to the beach with the family. Chaos, sand everywhere, bags heavier on the way back than on the way there. The kind of days that leave you tired in a good way.
Sea swims. Lough dips. Cold that steals your breath and then gives it back cleaner. Sunrise swims under pink skies that felt almost unreal, like the day was offering something gently instead of demanding it.
I kept showing up to things that made me anxious. London trips that always start with my stomach in knots and end a little easier than the last one. Each time proving to myself that anxiety doesn’t get the final say, even when it’s loud.
Nothing dramatic shifted in July. No big insight. No moment where everything clicked into place.
But I started to notice something.
I was laughing more without checking myself.
I was planning things without immediately calculating how hard they might feel.
I was in my body again, not just managing it.
Grief didn’t disappear. It came with me. But it stopped sitting in the driver’s seat all the time.
July felt like practice.
Practice at living again.
Practice at trusting that I can do hard things and still enjoy them.
I’m not finished.
But I’m starting to get there.
