thetalkativeexecutive

Lately, this thought has been sitting heavily in my heart. One of the strange things about becoming an adult is that no one really prepares you for the moment you realise your parents are growing older too. As children, our parents seem permanent, strong, capable and always there. Somehow, in our minds, they remain, still your parents, while we rush through school, build careers, get married, have children, and chase our dreams. Then one day, you look at them closely. The grey hair is no longer just a few strands. They move a little slower. Their faces tell stories of decades, and suddenly, it hits you; they're ageing. My dad has aged. He's aged more than I realised, and every time I think of it, my heart aches just a little more. Living thousands of miles away makes it even harder. I wish I could spend more ordinary days with him. Instead, so much of our relationship happens through phone calls, sometimes shorter and less frequent. The older we become, the more we realise that...

  I never truly left. I just stopped prioritizing writing. And honestly? Life happened. But somewhere between the chaos, the responsibilities, and the constant becoming… I grew. The last 11 years have been filled with more change than I could have imagined. I became a mum to three children. Three! Can you believe that? I even have a pre-teen now. In many ways, I never stopped writing. I just started writing differently. My thoughts found their way into tweets, Instagram captions, and quick reflections tucked into the rhythm of short-form content.  It felt easier.  Faster, more in sync with the world's shrinking attention span and endless appetite for visuals. And for a while, that was enough. But deep down, I missed this. I missed the stillness of long-form writing. The space to think slowly. To feel deeply. To escape the thoughts in my head. I missed having a place where my thoughts didn’t need to fit into a caption, a carousel, or 280 characters...