It’s been a while. Almost a year, in fact. A lot has happened, some of which I might write about in the future, but for now I just want to flex these writing muscles again. I, like many others, got unwillingly pulled into the shiny lure of Instagram. We’ve all collectively, silently agreed that blogs aren’t a thing, but I’m not really sure why. I love to write – if you’ve been a reader here for a while then you’ll know that about me. The strange pressure to make this space successful (read: profitable) came from nobody but myself, but it did sap all enjoyment from it.
The world told me I needed a niche, and that was travel, but during a global pandemic that ground to a halt. And it turned out that I wanted to write about other things too but I just… didn’t. If I’m not the expert, why bother? If nobody reads what I have to say, how do I get validation? It’s taken a lot of introspection to realise that I do not have to care. Instagram is a wonderful place for inspiration and conversation, however, it’s guided by strange, always moving goalposts, which constantly make it feel like a hard slog.
Creating, in any form, should be an outlet, not an additional stress to my already hectic life. What I write about will change as I do; sure I love to travel, but I also love to cook and eat. Add to that the fact I’m nine months pregnant and in the process of buying my first home and, well, my head is full of all sorts of things I want to spill onto a digital page.
I have to remember to write for me first. If you’re here for the ride then welcome! If I’m not really your vibe anymore, that’s cool too. I might not be consistent, or even coherent, but this is just to say that I don’t want to close this book, rather just start a new chapter instead.