every time I choose creation over fear, I win

I hope you like my playlist ❤️

What about this ABSOLUTE SCAM of adulthood? Here we are, out and about there with only ourselves to blame. My life depends mainly on me (and I’m supposed to be okay with that). When I was growing up, all my mother said was Go And Live Your Life; Just Don’t Get Pregnant Like I Did. I took that message to heart. Overachieved in that sense, some might say.

As I age into deep Aquarius, I take my machete from between my teeth and start cutting more dead things off at the root. 2025, in numerology, is a "9 year" - a time of completion and release. January is for levelling up, mate. I notice an ache in my stomach or throat and recognise it not as the dull, consistent threat it once seemed to be but a remnant of an old fear, an old self.

It’s good to get the spring cleaning out of the way. To scrape off the rust. Some so-called burdens, I’ve realised, are neutral data, not good or bad -just there. What we assign to them makes all the difference. How we cope with what life throws at us determines the quality of our days.

I’m going through some much-needed growing pains, of course. Who isn’t? Many of us are trying to tune out the news cycle, the endless echo chamber. I choose art to soothe myself, art to tell on myself. Art to deliver and transform me. The first time I truly felt in control of my life was when I created something out of nothing. Designing - building - writing - it’s more than art. It’s reclamation. Creating isn’t just about making something beautiful. It’s about stepping into your power. Every moment spent building is a reminder: you’re capable of so much more than you think. In other words, learn on the job, mate.

Every piece of art I make feels like a conversation between me and the person I’m becoming. Picture this: I’ve gone to London to spend time with my long-distance love. I head into a cafe to write anywhere outside the flat. I’m writing because I have a deadline. I’m writing for something outside of me. For people who want to sell-a-thing. (Lucky, sure, but not so inspiring. ) Naturally, I find myself staring at the screen, unable to get started.

This older woman is sitting by the window, face set in concentration. She’s there sketching a series of dots, lines, and dashes. (I like to look at people, but I’m not being too obvious about it - or so I think.) I choose a seat not too close or too far, positioning myself to watch how her hand moves across the paper - it’s as though she trusts herself completely…

“Go on, then,” she says out of nowhere.

I don’t say anything because she can’t be talking to me. And she still hasn’t stopped sketching through all of this.

She looks up. Locks eyes with me.

“Ask me,” she says.