I’ve been MIA from this space for a while. Occupied elsewhere. Life pulled me into its dailiness, and I didn’t resist. I was too tangled in thoughts to write. Too full to pour anything out.

But I’m here now.

A quiet update about choosing a different rhythm, about building a new structure from the ground up, and about finally listening to the silence between endings and arrivals—the place where becoming begins.

I just completed another revolution around the sun, and fittingly, I return to my origin point: June. Gemini, they call it. The sign of duality, contradiction, and unrelenting curiosity. A time of twin truths and split desires. We speak in riddles, love in extremes, disappear without reason, and return burning brighter. Always both too much and never enough. Yes, I’m that Gemini girl. And the girlfriend who’s never just one thing.

“How old are you?” they often ask. “Twenty-eight?”

I smile. “No, I’m forever eighteen at heart.”

Does it really matter? Let the number remain a mystery. Am I twenty-eight or thirty-five? Believe it, I’m somewhere in that sweet spot where experience has weight and rebellion still bites.

Age isn’t something I resist. It’s something I’m learning to inhabit with more honesty. I’m not getting softer with time—I’m being stripped down to the parts of me that feel most real. And I realize: I’m not just aging, I’m getting wilder. Wilder with time. Just wilder.

Last year, I wrote about the Wild within—a quiet longing for a home that feels like skin, for the man who feels like a breath of fresh air, and for solitude that doesn’t ache. For mornings that begin with slow coffee and silence, instead of urgency. Waking with sunrise, not alarms. I dreamt of calm living. Of a smaller life with deeper roots. A life where I could finally breathe. Where I could structure my time and slow down.

I’m still circling that desire, but something shifted this year.

Something real is happening.

My life right now is in transition mode. Not the kind that’s perfectly planned but consciously chosen.

You might’ve noticed—I hinted at it earlier in, A Little Quiet, Please

This year, I made a decision to quit my corporate job. Not a sabbatical. Not a LinkedIn-curated “career break.” I left. For good. Maybe forever

For those who don’t know, I’m a mother. I have a son. A baby boy, now at that feral, delicious age where everything is wonder, where every glance, every word, every texture shapes him. And I want to be there. Fully. Not just available when needed, but present, attuned, undivided, whole. I want to witness him without stretching myself across a life that no longer fits.

This decision came from love, but also from exhaustion. From the quiet, insistent knowing that I couldn’t keep pouring myself into a version of life that had already expired.

So going forward, I’m building a new kind of rhythm. One that holds me. One that gives this house a structure and this home a heartbeat. A rhythm that lets me mother with my whole self—not just the fragments left behind after everything else. A life where my soul finally gets a say.

I want to move slowly. Own my time. Sweat from a morning run. Cook like a sensual kitchen witch who has finally learned how to guard her fire.

I’m choosing slowness over success. Presence over productivity. Fewer expectations. Far more intention.

I know it’ll take time to tune into this new rhythm. But I’m all in. And I’m excited—for what’s unfolding, for what’s waiting.

I’m carving space for a life that’s wild and honest. I’m calling in a love that doesn’t try to edit me. A love that watches me unravel and sees art, not a problem. A love that touches like scripture, holds like memory, and desires with reverence, not urgency.

If I’m honest, that kind of desire still lives in prayer form. But that ache is mine to keep. Not because I’m lacking, but because I carry the capacity for more. More presence. More depth. More touch that trembles.

Maybe we’re not incomplete—just fluent in hunger. The kind that doesn’t settle. The kind that recognizes itself when it’s finally met.

I won’t be dimming my hunger. I won’t shrink it to make it easier to digest. I’m embracing what I crave—stillness, wildness, sex that arches into the sacred, and silence after. Not because it’s empty, but because it’s full.

I tend to attract connections that don’t ask me to shrink—or maybe I’ve simply stopped noticing the ones that do. I’m still learning what my body wants and what my mind distorts. Whether it’s hormones, heartache, or just my Gemini brain playing tricks. But I know this: I want a man who doesn’t flinch when I drift mid-sentence into thought, but instead leans in and asks, “Where did you go just now?” And means it.

To be known like that. Seen without needing to explain. Desired when I’m sarcastic, sleepy, or emotionally shapeshifting. Not performance, but presence. Not promises, but wordless knowing.

That kind of connection? It tingles the spine. Lingers in the skin. Slows time. Leaves me devoted.

More than anything, I’m choosing to live with intention. To laugh from my belly. To cry like a monsoon. To write louder. To love better. To walk away the moment I feel unseen.

This isn’t rebellion. This is return. A return to the version of me that feels whole—even in contradiction.

Time moves strangely for me—part reflection, part reinvention, all heart. I don’t mark time with announcements or measure it by milestones. I drop hints, shift frequencies, and see who’s still tuned in. I measure time in the ways I’ve stretched and burned, in how I’ve softened and sharpened, in the quiet becoming no one sees but me.

And maybe you. If you’re still here, still reading—thank you. For meeting me in this space. For holding what I pour. For witnessing me, even when I’m not asking to be seen.

That said, I’m still the same girl who changes her mind just to make sure it still works. Who disappears mid-conversation and returns with a new story and a full glass of wine.

I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea—I’m not everyone’s vibe. I’m a frequency. You either tune in or miss the show. And that’s exactly how I like it.

Here’s to becoming. Living slower. Burning brighter. Speaking louder. Loving fuller. Kissing like no one’s watching.

Here’s to me. To life.

And if you know me—if we’re lucky enough to be in each other’s orbit—you already know: I don’t just exist quietly. I live.

I arrive. I ignite. I stay.

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