standing still

on having a busy brain

Photo by Guilherme Stecanella on Unsplash

I’ve kept meaning to show up here, but the weeks have slipped through my hands. The shift into winter always does this — grey skies, windy weather, the days dragging on, and then, like clockwork, I remember that I have the entire year ahead of me. That realization always brings with it a new layer of anxiety. How do I spend my time?

This week has been one of those where I’ve wanted to toss my phone into the nearest river. I haven’t, of course — partly because I’d probably need it again in five minutes, and partly because littering isn’t really my thing. But the temptation has been real.

You know the drill: social media is a minefield, seasonal depression rolls in like a cold fog, and comparison is poison. Even when I mute the accounts that get under my skin, take breaks, or remind myself it’s all curated, the updates still sneak in. And once they do, the feelings aren’t far behind.

It’s a familiar pattern. Sometimes it leaves me prickly, defensive, snapping at the smallest inconveniences. Other times, it’s like I’m stuck in wet cement — my creativity stifled, every attempt to start something new crumbling before it even begins. I find myself staring at my screen, wondering why everyone else seems to be thriving while I’m stuck in this endless cycle of overthinking and underachieving.

It’s like high school all over again—the elusive “cool clique,” only now it’s digital, and the invites are algorithmic. What I’ve realized, though, is that emotions aren’t something to run from; they’re messengers. Annoying, sure, like persistent flies that keep buzzing no matter how many times you wave them away. But they have a purpose.

The thing is, it’s rarely about the external triggers — those polished Instagram posts, the unsolicited updates. They’re just the surface. The real story is in the reaction they provoke. Every swipe on my screen becomes a reflection, forcing me to confront what’s unresolved inside me. It’s uncomfortable, like someone shining a spotlight on all the things I’d rather leave in the dark.

If I’m honest, most of the time, what I see isn’t about anyone else. It’s about me: my insecurities, my fears, my unresolved bits and pieces. And while it’s tempting to blame the digital noise, the truth is the work lies here — with me. The uncomfortable, unglamorous work of tending to what I’ve left untended. Of making peace with what I’ve been carrying too long.

For the past three weeks, we’ve had a broken dishwasher despite numerous visits from the repairman. I was sure I was going to have to save his number in my favourites before he finally found the problem. Add to that the long trek back and forth for a week-long work conference and the incessant sirens from the street - by Sunday, I’d had enough. I couldn’t sit still, think straight, or get anything done.

So, I grabbed my coat and went for a walk, hoping the fresh air might clear the fog in my head.

About twenty minutes in, I turned a corner and saw two kids playing in the sunshine. The boy, maybe six, was jumping with both feet into the biggest puddle he could find, his sister — probably three — standing on the edge, hesitant. He reached out his hand to her, grinning like the puddle was a treasure chest. After a moment, she grabbed his hand, and together, they leapt into the water, soaking their wellies and jeans.

I paused for a moment, struck by how something so simple could feel so full of life. There they were, unbothered by wet socks or the cold, just finding joy in something so small and silly. It wasn’t polished, wasn’t planned, and certainly wasn’t for anyone else. It was theirs. And in that moment, I realised how much we lose when we try to get everything right instead of just being in it.

When was the last time I let myself jump into something messy just because it felt good?

I’m trying to hold onto that feeling. To remember that life doesn’t need to be a perfectly curated reel. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is find a puddle, grab someone you trust, and jump in.

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