There’s something deeply unsettling about standing on the edge of a new beginning… mostly because no one hands you a map, a manual, or even a vague “you are here” sticker.

I’m starting over soon. Not a gentle pivot. Not a cute little “next chapter.” Oh no — we’ve skipped the chapter entirely. This feels like someone closed the book, lost it, and handed me a completely different one with no blurb on the back. Just vibes. 

Terrifying, unhinged vibes.

And yet… there’s something weirdly refreshing about it too.

Like, yes, I have absolutely no idea what direction I’m going in. Career? Who knows. Life plan? Hilarious. Five-year goals? Let’s not get carried away. But for the first time in a long time, that uncertainty doesn’t just feel like failure — it feels like space. Space to rebuild, rethink, and maybe even accidentally become someone I actually like.

Right now, my official title will be Stay-at-Home Dog Mum.
Unpaid. Overworked. Emotionally manipulated by a creature who licks his own dick and demands all my blankets. The boss is unreasonable, the hours are long, and the benefits package consists of tail wags and the occasional cuddle. Honestly, 10/10, would recommend.

In between my demanding role, I’ve been reconnecting with my hobbies. And by “hobbies,” I mean the 700 personalities I’ve collected over the years:

• Reader me, who is either deeply intellectual or rereading the same comfort book for the 12th time
• Writer me, who has 46 unfinished drafts and one brilliant sentence buried in each
• Artist me, who starts a drawing with confidence and ends it questioning every life choice
• “This could be a new career” me, who discovers a new interest every three business days

I am nothing if not committed… to absolutely everything and nothing all at once.

And then there’s adulting. Or, as I like to call it, “being repeatedly humbled by bills and supermarkets.” Redundancy has a funny way of knocking the wind out of you. One minute you’re functioning, contributing, ticking boxes… and the next you’re staring into the void thinking, “Oh. So we’re just… reinventing ourselves now?”

Cool. Cool cool cool.

But beneath the sarcasm (which is doing a lot of heavy lifting), there’s something real sitting there too. Fear, obviously. A lot of it. The kind that creeps in at 2am and asks wildly unhelpful questions like, “What are you doing with your life?” and “Have you considered panicking?”

But also… hope. Quiet, stubborn hope.

Because maybe this isn’t about having a clear direction right now. Maybe it’s about giving myself permission to not have one. To try things, to be bad at things, to change my mind, to rest without guilt, to create without purpose, to exist without constantly proving something.

Maybe this new beginning isn’t something I need to have figured out immediately. Maybe it’s something I get to explore.

So here I am. Slightly lost. Mildly overwhelmed.

A deeply sarcastic dog mum, a hobby collector, a reluctant adult… and someone standing at the very beginning of something I don’t understand yet.

And for once, I’m not running from that feeling.

I’m just… sitting with it.

(Probably with a cup of coffee, a book and my dog. Obviously.)