As I mark another year of the sun circling the earth, I find myself thinking not only about time, but how I want to live within it, in the days, weeks, and years I have left. I have come to understand that having a centre and learning to live from it is powerful. When I am not anchored there, I can easily be pulled by urgency, habit, others’ expectations, and the relentless pace of daily life. Slowly, almost without noticing, I drift away from myself and from what truly no

There is a way of talking about health that makes it seem small. It becomes a project, a rulebook, a number on a page, or a list of things to avoid. But health is not small. At its deepest level, it is about having enough life within us to meet life itself. If we are lucky enough to live long, it becomes something even more tender: the ability to die well. That phrase can feel severe at first, yet it carries a quiet dignity. To die well is not to control the uncontrolla

We often think change is about willpower, but it usually begins with safety. A fixed mindset can act like an on-off switch. It is quick, absolute, and unforgiving. The moment something feels hard, awkward, or uncertain, the switch flips: I am good at this, or not. I succeeded or failed. I stayed on track, or blew it. There is no in-between, no room for learning, no space for being human. Everything becomes about all-or-nothing thinking. When that happens, the body can

We are always making choices before we even realize we are choosing. We decide what goes into the cart, what gets made for dinner, and what is chopped, stored, forgotten, or saved for later. Sometimes it’s the vegetable we hope to cook; sometimes it’s the familiar things we reach for without thinking. In the same quiet way, we are always choosing in life what we allow in, what we repeat, what we postpone, and what we prepare for. Planning is not the same as control. Plann

From the moment we find our balance, movement begins to shape our story. A toddler's first steps aren't just milestones; they are declarations of wonder. The body, fresh and curious, learns through reaching, tumbling, and climbing. Every fall rekindles a spark: the drive to try again. Long before we have words for it, this is resilience. It is unpolished, instinctive, and alive in the body before it is ever shaped by thought. Our earliest lessons in activity are not abou

Most nights, I am the first to know how seriously you're taking your rest. By the time your head finally finds me, I've already watched the evening slip away in glowing rectangles and half-finished conversations. I'm just a pillow, but I keep good records. On the best nights, you arrive on time. You close your book or the laptop when you said you would, dim the lights, and let your body remember what it's like to be trusted with a rhythm. There is the quiet click of the l

A Forensic Guide to Food Noise The bodies were scattered everywhere: half-eaten promises, abandoned meal plans, late-night negotiations that never quite made it to trial. I buried them carefully, one snack at a time, beneath layers of food noise and clever justifications. "It's fine," I would tell myself. "They'll never be found." But food has a funny way of leaving evidence. Every bite reveals a clue. Every denial is like a fingerprint. In the end, the truth always come

Rooted in Balance: Feeding the Tree Root is where I want to go today. As I explore this, I know there are mornings when I wake before the sun rises over the bay, and the world feels calm and steady. Then there are other mornings… Mornings after a night when sleep never quite took hold. Maybe the blue light from my phone lingered behind my eyelids a little too long. Maybe my mind kept turning over the thoughts of the day. Whatever the reason, I wake knowing the root of s

I woke this morning to a beautiful sunrise over fresh snow. The light felt different, somehow brighter and softer, as if it carried a quiet promise that spring is on its way. The snow reflected the morning light, making everything feel clean and possible. I lingered a little longer than usual, just watching the day begin. After a long winter spent preparing for it in small, steady ways, I feel ready to up my game and add more strength training to my routines. At the same

This week in my world, I was looking after a small, gentle presence named Ollie, short for Olive. From morning to night, she seemed completely at home in her body and in her quiet world. When her dads left, she looked for them. Not long after, she settled. Soon she was comfortable simply being with me, resting nearby, watching, waiting, and returning easily to whatever was in front of her. I am not sure how many thoughts pass through her mind in a day, or what they might b

This week in my Weight Watchers world, we tackled body image. It reminded me how our experiences shape us and how we can come from wildly different places yet still find shared language for something so challenging and deeply personal. After the discussion, I wondered whether silence, chosen with care, might be one of the most compassionate tools in our toolboxes. What might shift if we gently moved our culture away from commenting on bodies? I keep returning to the idea

As I listen to the pulse of my days, I can imagine the dancing ants in my bloodstream. They arrive quietly, as they always do. Not the itchy, restless kind, but a gentle hum of life just beneath the surface, in my belly, behind my ribs, sometimes in the tender space between worry and wonder. All week, I kept noticing them: a faint vibration of energy that seemed to respond to whatever I fed myself: whether food, movement, thoughts, or rest. Some days they marched in unison,

January has been quite the journey. What began as a simple urge to return to my familiar spreadsheet structure evolved into something deeper: embracing my values, weaving them into the shape of this year, and thoughtfully examining the habits I want to continue, rebuild, or create anew. It has required me to dream about where I want to go so I can design small, doable steps to get there. Somewhere along the way, I’ve started to feel like I’m becoming the superhero of my own

As I move from January into February, I’m recognizing that the structures I rely on to support my healthy habits need some tender, loving care. There are places where my guardrails are missing or worn thin, and I’m repairing them. After a nasty fall left me with a hard hit in the water, I’ve been called back to what truly supports me. I’m reprioritizing the structures that help me live my best life, not in a rushed or reactive way, but with steadiness and intention. I begi

This year so far feels like standing at the edge of choppy waters. Strong winds press from all directions, asking me to notice where my inner world meets the outer. Nothing feels settled, yet movement continues, not through clarity or calm, but through what I do repeatedly when conditions are uncertain. I am learning that growth arises through the turbulence, not despite it. In unsettled seasons, habits move to centre stage, becoming the quiet directors of our days when vi

Content note: This piece includes a reflection on childhood harm and its impact on the body and relationship with food. My first challenge of the year is to explore and understand my relationship with food. I want to spend time looking back and forward simultaneously while holding space in the present moment. To paint a picture with gentle brushstrokes. While painting, I hope to notice both my personal relationship with food, how it has shaped me and my understanding of it

As I enter the year 2026, I am carrying forward a tradition I began several years ago—one that has quietly but consistently shaped how I live my life. Instead of creating long lists of resolutions that tend to fade by February, I choose a word—or sometimes a small handful of words—and live the year through that focused lens. These words become touchstones. They don’t demand perfection; they invite attention. A word of the year doesn't sit neatly on a vision board or get che

As 2025 comes to a close, I’m taking a moment to recognize what a remarkable year this has been—not because everything went smoothly, but because I showed up for myself in every season. This year, I stayed committed to the four pillars of my health: sleep, exercise, mindset, and food. Those pillars weren’t just goals on a list—they were the foundation that helped me stay grounded, energized, and connected to the life I want to live. I planned, I set goals, I followed through,

December does not knock politely. In my world December kicks in the door wearing tinsel, humming loudly, asking what everyone is doing for the holidays. It jingles. It glows. It insists. Music plays on repeat in the grocery store and in the WW (Weight Watcher's) world the focus turns to traditions—drinks, appetizers, main dishes and desserts—along with questions about how we can swap them, lighten them, or enjoy them just as they are. December often brings family time an

Saying no is one of the simplest actions we can take, yet it is also one of the most complex. The word itself is small—short like me—often soft and seemingly straightforward. It is one syllable, starts and ends quickly, and doesn't require a thesaurus. And yet its emotional weight can be enormous. In my experience, my no often feels hidden, tangled deep inside me like a knotted ball of yarn. The moment someone asks, "Can you...?"; "Do you want...?" or "Would you like...