mad blood

I hate how difficult it is to get over it. Once I cut someone off, they’re gone for good. No being cordial. No “but people change.” Jenny in 7th grade was my first proof: I wrote her off, and she turned out to be an awful person. That’s why I trust my judgment, and why part of me thinks this vendetta is justified.

My mind keeps replaying what they did, stirring the same anger over and over. Imagining them laughing and unbothered only adds fuel. I wish I could erase it, or at least stop giving it so much power. They’re out there sleeping just fine, probably not thinking about it, while I’m stuck carrying resentment and wishing them harm.

Sometimes the rage hits so hard I want to fire off a mean text just to relieve it. Texting feels therapeutic because it tells my nervous system, “That was real. That mattered. There should be a consequence.” What makes it worse is knowing it only hurts me. There are a few parasites I’m embarrassed I ever let close, who still irritate me every time I remember them, like a mosquito I can hear but can’t swat. I want to be the kind of person who chooses peace over bitterness. But sometimes spite smothers logic, and letting go is letting them win.

I admire how easily my eldest daughter can brush things off, just like her dad. I’m glad she didn’t inherit my petty genes. She’s already over last year’s friendship squabbles, while I’m still holding a grudge against a couple of teenagers.

home for christmas

Christmas used to be just another day in my childhood. We didn’t celebrate, except for one year when my brother staged a concert at home with our cousins: dancing, singing, and gifts. It was chaotic and fun, and for a moment it felt like we belonged to something festive. Then it ended. That was our one and only Christmas party.

Years later, I found Christmas again through friends. Their meals, their traditions, and the kindness of being invited in gave it the shape I’d always imagined, even though I still felt like a guest.

In time, I came to understand what sits at the heart of this season: the birth of Jesus Christ. I met a partner who held the same faith, and together we laid a foundation anchored in it. Christmas no longer felt borrowed. It was something I could share with my loved ones, and it finally felt like home.

berry nervous picker

Nothing makes me second-guess myself more than the task of picking strawberries. I just watched a lady grab a punnet without even checking or comparing it to twenty others - imagine having that kind of carefree attitude. Meanwhile, I spend ten minutes analysing and still never leave the supermarket feeling confident in my choice.

the final wave

The last time I saw my neighbour, Steve, was the day before we left for our Europe trip. He was outside watering his garden, and I gave him a quick wave as I walked past with the dogs. We didn’t get to talk, although I’d said we’d catch up when I got back. It felt like there would always be time for that.

While I was away, I sent him a message asking if he could take in a parcel left at my gate. Instead of Steve replying, his son wrote back to tell me that his dad had passed away suddenly.

My favourite memory of Steve was last December when he set up one of those laser light projectors that scatter colours across the house and garden, just to surprise the girls when they came outside after dark. I wondered if that might become a new neighbourly Christmas tradition. I guess not.

Since he’s been gone, the street has felt different. I still look over when I play fetch with Anakin, expecting to see him in his backyard or working in his shed. Now the shed door is closed, the windows are covered, and a stillness lingers where there used to be life. It’s a reminder of how easily familiar moments can slip away.