I picked up my notebook and wrote something that was not a list, and it felt like a buried part of me sat up and breathed

Dear Delyara, I hadn’t realised how much of my writing now is administration. Reminders. Shopping. School. Budget. Timings. Appointments. Little practical words that keep family life stitched together but do nothing for the soul except prove it is still serving. This was different. I wrote three pages about nothing useful. Thoughts, memories, feelings, observations. The messy private language of a person, not the clipped organisational language of a woman trying to keep too many things from falling apart. By the second page I felt more alive. By the third I felt a little angry that I had left this part of me starving for so long. That anger felt honest. And useful. Because sometimes you only realise what has been missing once it finally gets fed again.