Reflections

These pieces are part of the same ongoing conversation as my poems, shaped by the same questions: how we live, how we change, what we carry, and how writing helps us make sense of our place in the world.

You can also find more of my ongoing writing and reflections on Substack.

So then maybe the careers, the callings, the life’s work — maybe that’s the side-stuff, not the main event. And maybe if we make it our purpose to enjoy, to notice, to be unadulteratedly unapologetic about who we are, meaning begins to fall into pla

So then maybe the careers, the callings, the life’s work — maybe that’s the side-stuff, not the main event. And maybe if we make it our purpose to enjoy, to notice, to be unadulteratedly unapologetic about who we are, meaning begins to fall into place on its own? Maybe purpose isn’t something we choose. Maybe it was always meant to be the map we wander by, not the mandate we strong-arm ourselves into submission with.

Over the last ten years, I’ve realised that poetry has become my true home as a writer. If my journal offers a space for pouring out, poetry offers a container — a way to distill and focus on what really matters. Through becoming a mother, living awa

Over the last ten years, I’ve realised that poetry has become my true home as a writer. If my journal offers a space for pouring out, poetry offers a container — a way to distill and focus on what really matters. Through becoming a mother, living away from home, surviving global lockdowns with small children, getting married again, grieving losses, navigating illness in my family, and finding ways to keep starting over, poetry has been the place I turn to. It offers just enough distance to glimpse beauty in a moment of pain, or insight in the midst of devastation.

So on day one in Amsterdam, I found myself with zero job, one friend, two suitcases, and a plan to stay for three months. I scuttled up the stairs of the Airbnb I had rented, double-locked the door (after all, Amsterdam — right? Probably being follow

So on day one in Amsterdam, I found myself with zero job, one friend, two suitcases, and a plan to stay for three months. I scuttled up the stairs of the Airbnb I had rented, double-locked the door (after all, Amsterdam — right? Probably being followed by a drug lord). I braved the five-minute trot to the supermarket where I was completely confused by all the beige sandwich fillers and the fact that Visa wasn’t accepted. I went home, unpacked, looked around the sparse apartment, the faint shadow of the owner’s penchant for shells and sheepskin suddenly apparent. Was this just another massive mistake?

Selected publications and commissioned work: Yoga Easy, Humanitarian Exchange Magazine, Motherhood Uncensored, Mother’s Day Magazine, The Times.