Life hasn’t been loud lately. No races, no dramatic highs, no spectacular crashes. And honestly? That feels like a win.
The last few weeks have been made up of small, ordinary things — the sort of things that used to feel impossible when my head was louder than the world around me. These days, they feel grounding. Anchors.
I finally tackled sanding the lounge floor. One of those jobs that sits on the list for months, mocking you every time you walk past it. Dust everywhere. Noise. Back aching. Progress so slow you question why you started. But there’s something therapeutic about it too — repetitive, physical, requiring just enough focus to quiet the noise upstairs.
By the time the decorating started, I could see the difference. Not just in the room, but in me. A space that feels lighter, calmer, more finished. It turns out sanding back rough edges applies to more than just wood.
The kids have been up most weekends as well. That brings its own kind of chaos — early mornings, endless snacks, and a house that somehow explodes within minutes of them arriving. But it’s the good kind of chaos. The grounding kind.
There was a time when I worried whether I could be present enough. Whether my moods, my fatigue, my head would get in the way. These weekends remind me that presence doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real. Sitting together. Laughing at stupid things. Being there.
The dogs, as always, have been my unofficial therapists. We’ve been taking them to the beach whenever we can. Wet sand. Cold water. Wind strong enough to clear your thoughts whether you want it to or not.
They don’t care about plans or productivity. They care about sticks, waves, and whether you’ll throw the ball one more time. Walking along the shoreline with them feels like hitting reset. The rhythm of the sea does what no app or breathing exercise ever quite manages — it reminds me that everything moves on eventually.
And then, slightly out of nowhere, came Cape Verde.
A last-minute holiday. Not planned to death. Not overthought. Just booked and gone. That in itself felt like progress. There was a time when last-minute anything would’ve sent my anxiety through the roof. This time, it felt… freeing.
Warm air. Slow days. No urgency. No pressure to achieve anything other than rest. Sitting by the ocean, watching the sun burn itself out each evening, I realised how rarely I give myself permission to stop. Not collapse. Not shut down. Just stop.
Mental illness doesn’t always announce itself with sirens. Sometimes it creeps in through exhaustion, through saying yes too much, through forgetting that rest is not a reward — it’s a requirement. Cape Verde reminded me of that.
None of this is headline-worthy. No medals. No big declarations. Just floors sanded, kids hugged, dogs walked, and a plane caught on a whim. But these are the things that keep me steady. The stuff that builds resilience quietly, without fanfare.
If you’re reading this and feeling like you’re not doing enough — maybe you are. Maybe your “enough” just looks ordinary right now. And that’s okay.
Sometimes survival looks like progress. Sometimes stability is the bravest thing you can aim for.
And sometimes, sanding a floor is exactly what you need to keep moving forward.
Bipolar Ironman 