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I typed the first thing that popped in my head as I opened the WordPress app. I stopped posting my writing on here for a while as somehow it started to feel like sadness lived in between the words I have written. I worried that my words might come across as me constantly questioning everything, like I am always hovering in a low state of mind. So I kept writing, just not sharing. Maybe in the coming weeks, I will clear out my drafts and share a few think pieces I have written. Maybe I’m overthinking it, the way I do with almost every part of my life.

The truth is- I have been sad. Saying it out loud feels strange, but maybe naming it makes it less frightening. Maybe if I admit it, I won’t be so scared of how I feel. On some days I feel like I have always carried sadness so well that people don’t notice and that’s part of what worries me. Let’s just say I am tired. Tired of everything being an adult entails. I haven’t felt like speaking to anyone these past few weeks, and honestly, I don’t have much to say because how can I process words that I do not know of???. However, I have tried my best to show up for people in my life in the capacity that I am able to because that is what you do if you do not want to end up alone at some point 🙂

However, I am on my way. To where/what if you are wondering? I don’t know but I feel it strongly. I am currently writing this on a train and there is something about being on a train that makes everything feel less complicated. Maybe it is the certainty of a destination, or the quiet excitement of moving towards something you’re looking forward to. Writing on the train feels like slipping into a fantasy film where the protagonist is in her flow state, where everything is aligning and she is living out her story one perfect scene at a time.

Still, trains make me want to write. There is a kind of inspiration that comes from being in motion, surrounded by strangers. My hands sorta go into free flow. Maybe it’s the absence of familiarity. No one knows me, so no one can judge me. Maybe it’s the temporary pause in chaos, because instead of sitting with my thoughts, I am moving, and movement doesn’t leave much room for distraction. I am also very sleepy as I have been running on fumes the past few weeks. But somehow, even in this exhaustion, the words still find me.

And maybe that’s the hope:
I am grateful that even in sadness, the words come.
Even in exhaustion, something in me keeps moving.
Even in the quiet, I’m still on my way.

Lately, I have found myself drawing things. Fun fact: my favourite thing to draw is a house. I don’t know what the psychology behind that is, but the moment I pick up a pen with the intent to draw a line, the first thing that appears is a tiny house with a slanted chimney. Then a bunch of smiley faces. And then, because my brain loves odd numbers, stick figures.

Maybe I’m on my way home. Lol! I know. It sounds like the kind of cliché you would find when visiting Paris and wanting to take a picture with the Eiffel Tower in view. But hey, it is my paper. I get to say whatever I want. You don’t get to scrunch your nose with that icky, “Tracey, please be serious” face you make when you’re not having it.

Still, I can’t help but wonder why my hands always choose a house first. Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s comfort. Maybe it’s just my inner child doodling her way through adulthood, one crooked roof at a time. But there’s something oddly grounding about it, like my hands know where they are going even when I do not.

And maybe that’s the thing. I have been feeling lost lately (more times than I hoped for), but somehow still moving. Sad, but still showing up. Exhausted, but still finding tiny pockets of inspiration in the most random places, like the sweets corner in M&S, or the new pen I got from a Pakistani store that vibrates just enough to make my handwriting look philosophical. (or is the right word Calligrapher?)

I have been saying “I am on my way” a lot lately. Not because I know where I’m going, but because something in me refuses to stay stuck. There’s a quiet hope in movement, even the small kind that doesn’t feel like you have moved an inch. Even the ”doodle‑a‑house kind. Even the “I’m running on fumes but still writing” kind.

Maybe the house is a reminder that my home isn’t always a place. Sometimes it’s a feeling. Sometimes it’s a version of myself I haven’t met yet. Sometimes it’s just the comfort of knowing you’re headed somewhere, even if you feel like it doesn’t make sense.

So yes, maybe I am on my way home. The kind where the journey is messy and sleepy and full of stick figures. The kind where hope shows up quietly, like a doodle you didn’t plan. The kind where you realise that even in sadness, you’re still moving. Still drawing. Still becoming. Still writing

And honestly, that feels enough for me now.

If for whatever reason you come across this post let me know how you are doing.