Perfectly Unfinished Me

  • ✨ When Delay Becomes Direction ✨

    It was a Friday afternoon.

    Nothing dramatic.

    Nothing unusual.

    Just the clock ticking while my mind tried to hold too many things at once.

    I was halfway through client calls, trying to hold work in one hand and the rest of my life in the other. My brain was busy, stretched, already carrying more than it should. My husband had tried earlier to squeeze in a quick conversation about our property plans — not because he was being pushy, but because we were both juggling so much that neither of us quite knew where the right space was anymore.

    Working from home makes me more “reachable,” and sometimes that blurs the lines. I wasn’t unavailable because I didn’t care; I was simply in work mode, mid-responsibility, mid-pressure. And he wasn’t being demanding — he was trying to find a moment where we could connect about the dreams we both share.

    Two people with big visions.

    Both stretched.

    Both trying.

    Meanwhile, Zeb was staring at us like, “Cool story. Is my dinner happening or not?”

    And then something simple cut through the noise.

    It wasn’t dramatic.

    It wasn’t angry.

    Just honest.

    It wasn’t the message itself that shifted me — it was what it exposed.

    He shared that he didn’t feel fully connected to the journey. That he needed to know we were walking it together.

    And I understood it.

    But beneath that moment was something deeper that had already been stirring.

    For weeks, I’d been trying to move something forward — a project that had come to me so easily at first. The name had flowed. The idea had felt clear, almost effortless. That felt like God.

    But the momentum since then?

    That felt different.

    Every step forward felt heavier than it should.

    Not locked. Not slammed shut.

    Just… unmoving.

    And that frustrated me more than I wanted to admit.

    I wrestled with it quietly.

    Was this resistance because I was meant to push through?

    Or was it resistance because I was pushing something that wasn’t meant for now?

    There’s a difference — but in the moment, it’s hard to tell.

    Part of me wondered if I was being tested.

    Part of me wondered if I was being redirected.

    Part of me feared I was falling behind.

    And if I’m honest, I felt a little alone in it too — trying to manufacture momentum in my own strength because I thought that’s what progress was supposed to look like.

    But as I sat there, instead of defending my position, I paused.

    Not emotionally.

    Not reactively.

    But intentionally.

    What was actually happening here?

    The truth was simple:

    It wasn’t moving.

    And faith doesn’t ignore reality.

    It weighs it.

    If God was breathing on this right now, would it feel like I was dragging it uphill alone?

    I didn’t need to quit the dream.

    But maybe I did need to stop dragging it forward before its time.

    Because sometimes delay isn’t denial.

    Sometimes it’s direction.

    So I made a decision.

    A clear one.

    A grounded one.

    I chose to stop forcing something that wasn’t moving.

    And I chose something else too.

    I chose us.

    Not because one of us was doing more than the other — we’ve both been building, both investing, both stretching in different ways. But because I wanted to demonstrate, in a tangible way, that we are a team. That I am for him. That what we’re building is something we’re building together.

    Not separate visions competing for oxygen.

    But shared direction, aligned.

    Not by sacrificing a dream.

    But by recognising the season.

    And that shift changed everything.

    At our deal packaging training, the coach shared her “why” — showing the house she bought because of property. Her stepping stone. And something inside me lit up.

    A country home.

    My country home.

    A dream I hadn’t abandoned — just quietly shelved somewhere along the way. Somewhere between striving and trying to prove I could build something on my own timeline.

    And I realised something gently but deeply:

    When I stopped obsessing over the door that wasn’t opening, I could see the direction right in front of me.

    This doesn’t mean the other dream has vanished. It hasn’t. It came in flow for a reason. But the timing isn’t mine to force.

    I can still nurture it quietly.

    I can still hold it loosely.

    I just don’t need to push it.

    Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do

    is pause long enough to recognise the difference

    between resistance that requires faith

    and delay that requires wisdom.

    This wasn’t the end of a dream.

    It was simply the moment delay clarified the direction.

    We became aligned again.

    The tension eased.

    The pressure lifted.

    And peace replaced striving.

    For now,

    I’m choosing clarity.

    I’m choosing unity.

    I’m choosing what’s moving — not what I’m trying to move.

    And honestly?

    It feels right.

  • Confirmation Bias, Steam Rooms & A Pair of Goggles

    This is one of those stories where you think you’re in the right… then realise you’ve just followed man in Speedos through a leisure centre… convinced he’s a swimming accessory thief.

    This was about a couple of years ago in a swimming pool — and it still perfectly sums me up.

    I’m at the pool, about to get in after what was supposed to be a relaxing steam and shower.

    Now, I’ll be honest — I didn’t even really want to come swimming. I debated it for ages.

    But I knew I needed it — because if I don’t get my exercise, I don’t get calm… I get ratty.

    So I’d already had a whole internal negotiation just to be there.

    I reach for my goggles.

    They’re not on the hook with my cap.

    Annoyance kicks in instantly. Not panic. Not fear. Pure, simmering irritation.

    Because I NEED this swim.

    I retrace my steps. Scan the pool. Check the benches. The floor. My bag. They are nowhere.

    And I KNOW they were here.

    And then I spot him.

    A man walking away from the shower… wearing goggles that look exactly like mine.

    So, I do the polite British thing.

    “Excuse me… you haven’t seen any goggles lying around anywhere near here, have you? They look identical to yours.”

    “Er… no, sorry.”

    (He looks a bit sheepish. In my opinion. And once my brain decides that, it starts building a case.)

    I walk away thinking: That’s weird. Because I KNOW they were here. And I’m pretty sure those are mine.

    Now I’m annoyed AND suspicious. Dangerous combination.

    So I follow him up the stairs.

    “I’m really sorry to bother you, but are you SURE you haven’t seen any goggles that look like yours?”

    “No, I really can’t say I have.”

    He heads towards the male changing rooms…

    And I stop in the hallway like a confused Roomba. (Which I believe is a robot hoover. Either way —lost.)

    Because now the inner argument begins.

    One voice: Go on. He’s nicked your goggles. Stand up for yourself. Other voice: Do NOT be that woman. You’ll become a leisure-centre urban legend.

    This is where my husband would usually say,

    “I’ll just let you carry on between you and you.”

    So I pace. I circle. I mutter internally.

    Then the ratty, exercise-deprived voice joins in:

    You didn’t even want to come swimming and now this has hacked you right off. Go on. Knock.

    So I knock.

    He comes out looking genuinely concerned that he’s being stalked over aquatic eyewear.

    “I know this is probably getting annoying, and I’m really sorry, but I KNOW I left my goggles downstairs. Are you sure one of your friends didn’t pick them up by accident?”

    “No, I really haven’t seen them. And my friends just sit in the steam room. They don’t even use goggles. But I hope you find them.”

    “Right… okay… that’s just really weird. Sorry again. Enjoy your shower.”

    At this point I resign myself to:

    1. He is a committed criminal

    2. Someone else took them to lost property

    Either way, I’m too annoyed to swim now.

    So I go to steam off instead.

    I walk to the steam room door…

    and in the reflection of the glass I see them.

    My goggles.

    Around.

    My.

    Neck.

    Poor man.

    If there’s a lesson in this, I suspect it’s this:

    I don’t actually need to fix this part of myself.

    The overthinking.

    The apologising.

    The internal debates conducted entirely in public spaces.

    Because without it, I’d never have this story.

    And that poor man would never have spent ten minutes wondering whether he’d accidentally stolen a woman’s goggles — while she was wearing them like a necklace.

    That said…Once your brain decides it’s right, it will happily gather evidence, ignore reality, and emotionally prosecute an innocent man in Speedos…

    While the actual problem is literally hanging off your own body.

    Which is to say — sometimes the issue isn’t them.

    It’s you.

    And your goggles.

  • Five Hours Later: It’s a Tech Thing

     I started a reel ad on Canva.

    (Not an advert for Canva. Me and tech are currently in a trial separation.)

    I mean — how hard can it be?

    Image. Music. Words. Colours.

    This is not brain surgery. Though if it was, I’d still appreciate a manual.

    Five and a half hours later I’ve lost audio, lost synchronisation, watched one page delete the next, and discovered that my AI assistant needs more assistance than I thought I needed.

    I am now questioning my life choices, my calling, and whether I should live off-grid with no Wi-Fi and a typewriter.

    I remember during my degree saying,

    “Is it just me, or is no one else completely panicking about this?”

    Tabitha smiled and said,

    “No, Samantha. We’re all panicking.”

    “You just… do a very good job of expressing it for us.”

    I feel like Rose in Titanic:

    “It’s been 85 years… and I can still see the cog spinning.”

    This is the mess in the middle.

    The bit no one posts. The bit where you’re trying very hard to be a grown adult while also internally bracing yourself and wondering how something so small has taken over your entire day.

    I remember why I’m doing this — which is the only reason I’m still here, pressing on to the promise that I will become all He created me to be.

    So what if the current version of me looks like a sleep-deprived raccoon with a thousand-yard stare, waiting for the computer to respond? I’ll just blend in. Perfectly normal behaviour.

    There’s a gap between who I’m called to be and who I am when technology stops cooperating.

    I do the things I don’t want to do and don’t do the things I know I should, like remaining calm, emotionally regulated, or particularly dignified.

    I didn’t avoid tech because I couldn’t learn it.

    I avoided it because it reveals things about me I’d rather not meet unsupervised.

    Zeb now has that look that says, “I love you… but I’m not getting involved.”

    It’s a fight between “what if I’m not good enough?”

    and “get a grip — you cannot let fear win over a reel.”

    I keep going anyway.

    Not because I’m calm —

    but because I remember why I started.

    I started this because I wanted to create moments — space for others to pause, reflect, and be present. A small, intentional place for a meaningful moment, wherever that happens to be.

    I created the blog to let the creativity in me breathe, and to connect — honestly — with others along the way.

    I created it without needing to define exactly what it will become, trusting it to grow into whatever it’s meant to be, in obedience to the calling placed on my life.

    Of course, the flesh had opinions.

    So, in perfect obtuseness, I did it anyway — my inner critic can remain unelected.

    The journal that came out of this season is here, if you’d like to take a look: here

  • A Year of Love, Chaos and Unscripted Interruptions

    A candid photo of me and my husband Blod, smiling together.

    This year was my first year of marriage — marriage itself has been a gift, even if the year wasted no time throwing everything else at us.

    My husband, who I usually call Blod, it should be said, handled it like an absolute legend — in the sense that you’d like to believe people do,

    after weeks of that strange New Year build-up where everyone keeps asking what you’re looking forward to,

    whether you’ve got plans, and gently implying that something excellent is about to happen.

    Don’t get me wrong, I understand why we do it —

    hope matters, and it does arrive in many different forms.

    Good things do come.

    Growth comes.

    Unexpected kindness comes.

    But there is still something quietly absurd about how we repeat the same ritual every year: gathering round a countdown, making declarations of health, happiness, and fresh starts,

    and acting genuinely surprised when life doesn’t follow the script exactly as imagined;

    Only to be met almost immediately with a very emphatic reminder that life doesn’t consult your expectations

    before making its entrance.

    Instead, it turns up like a well-meaning but slightly intrusive relative, interrupting the conversation mid-sentence and asking,

    “Chickenpox, anyone?”

    Blod got it.

    Not the polite, childhood version — the full adult edition. The sort that looks unnecessarily dramatic and teaches you very quickly what “in sickness” actually means.

    I learned how to care properly, have a few quietly unhinged moments of panic (mostly kept to myself), and discovered that Googling symptoms at 2am is never a neutral activity.

    At first, we were convinced it was an allergic reaction to my lemon shower gel — which he is actually allergic to.

    The shower gel was immediately thrown out, obviously.

    We even ended up in A&E;, fully prepared to explain our theory, only to find out that no, it wasn’t the shower gel at all.

    It was chickenpox.

    Proper chickenpox.

    An unnecessarily dramatic opening act to the year.

    And that was how the year introduced itself.

    (Understandably, the lemon shower gel was sacrificed. However, please respect the grief of Lemon Source shower gel. It had no warning of such a brief goodbye after all its years of service. We had plans!)

    Not long after that, we felt led to move on from our church. There was no drama and no blame — just a clear sense that the season had changed.

    The church family I was part of in Norwich, before I met Blod, are still very much home to me.

    They saw me grow through singleness and into marriage, and they’ve been nothing but warm, accepting, and encouraging of Blod and me together.

    Their prayers, support, and steady presence have continued from a distance, and they’ve been a genuine source of strength this year.

    Since then, we’ve been walking through a season of trusting God without neat answers.

    Letting go of what I thought things were supposed to look like has been uncomfortable but necessary.

    Staying grounded in faith while variables shift, standing on God’s Word when clarity hasn’t yet arrived — that’s been real faith this year.

    Then we got chickens.

    Then — because apparently we enjoy escalation — we got a dog.

    The garden did not survive.

    There was one moment that perfectly summed up this season:

    Blod accidentally dropped a KFC chip on the floor.

    What followed can only be described as a full Benny Hill–style chase scene, with chickens sprinting incircles, flapping wildly, chasing each other with complete commitment over one stolen chip.

    I stood there watching, laughing, and quietly accepting that this was now my life.

    My marriage to Blod has been one of the most grounding and joyful parts of the year. It’s full of affection, laughter, and genuine friendship.

    After years of mistrust in relationships, I’ve been learning how to manage conflict without immediately fearing rejection.

    We’re human, flawed, and learning to fully become one— but learning together, which makes all the difference.

    Also, Blod is an elite-level sleep talker.

    Not the mumbling kind. The confident, articulate, fully conversational kind.

    I’ve been given instructions, asked questions, and informed of urgent matters in the middle of the night — all delivered with absolute conviction.

    He remembers none of it.

    I unfortunately for him,

    remember all of it.

    I find this endlessly entertaining.

    He remains blissfully unaware.

    Marriage comes with perks.

    Our dog Zeb, meanwhile, has absolutely no understanding of personal space.

    None whatsoever.

    Hi, I live here now. This is my face.

    However, he is learning calmness — roughly one minute at a time. Progress is still progress.

    Running underneath everything this year has been a quiet, persistent discomfort — the knowing that there is more than our jobs.

    Knowing what God has spoken over your life, yet not seeing the when or the how, can be deeply frustrating.

    But Scripture reminds us:

    “Though the vision tarries, wait for it; it will surely come.”

    In November, Blod encouraged me to go to a money-making summit. We both went. I signed up for mentorship with their Inner Circle.

    Later that day, I encouraged Blod to do a property course.

    That’s how we work — he believes in me,

    I believe in him.

    That season is where this blog began — alongside a few other creative ideas that are still finding their feet.

    We are all birthing something, whether we realise it or not.

    Maybe 2025 was the year the concepts were formed.

    Maybe 2026 is the year they’re born.

    For now, this is still unfolding. A little chaotic. Often funny. Deeply meaningful.

    And very much

    Perfectly Unfinished.

  • So Let’s Talk About Christmas

    So, let’s talk about Christmas — seeing as it’s very much on everyone’s mind at the moment.

    We can’t move for it can we. Conversations, adverts, countdowns, opinions. Everyone’s either “so excited” or “completely done already”, and somehow both at the same time which probably tells you where I’m going with this.

    I absolutely don’t hate Christmas.

    I just don’t understand the pressure we put on it.

    We talk about it for weeks like it’s a thing we have to get right.

    People say things like:

    “Are you ready for Christmas?”

    Ready for what?

    It’s a Tuesday with a roast and administrative stress.

    Or:

    “Ooo, are you excited?”

    Am I excited to spend a lot of money, see everyone at once, and feel vaguely responsible for everyone else’s emotions?

    Not especially.

    Then there’s always someone who says:

    “You just have to get into the Christmas spirit.”

    Do I?

    Is that something I order online, or does it arrive naturally once I’ve queued in a supermarket listening to Wham?

    Because I’m not against joy.

    I just don’t think it comes on a schedule.

    I used to cope with it by getting drunk.

    That worked. Temporarily.

    Everything feels more festive when you’re slightly numbed and making questionable decisions.

    I don’t drink anymore — and I’m genuinely thankful for that.

    Being permanently set free from waking up thinking,“Oh no… who did I text last night and what painfully intense truth did I unleash?”

    is not something I miss.

    At all.

    Now I experience Christmas fully sober, which means I feel everything.

    I’ve noticed Christmas has this strange ability to turn the volume up on whatever you’re already carrying.

    If you’re happy, you’re very happy.

    If you’re lonely, it’s louder.

    If you’re grieving, it’s sharper.

    If you’re anxious — congratulations, it’s now a feature presentation.

    And don’t even get me started on New Year’s Eve.

    Same speeches.

    Same countdown.

    “Next year will be better!”

    Will it though?

    I mean, statistically speaking, parts of it will be.

    Other parts will be an absolute mess.

    Humans fail something by default every year — it’s kind of our thing.

    But we also overcome a lot every year too, which never seems to make the highlight reel.

    However, buried underneath the sequins and shouting is the idea that we’re allowed another go.

    A second chance. Or a tenth. Or, realistically, a fiftieth.

    That part I like.

    What I don’t love is the way it’s shouted at midnight like a legally binding contract.

    As if you’re not allowed to quietly hope.

    I’ve always been the one at New Year’s parties hiding in the kitchen doing the washing up.

    Not because I hate people enjoying themselves —

    but because that’s where people stop pretending for five minutes.

    I don’t begrudge anyone who genuinely loves Christmas or New Year.

    If it lights you up, if it feels true to you — honestly, carry on I’m not here to burst bubbles.

    What I don’t love is the way these seasons can accidentally exclude people who want to be real.

    The ones who want to hope quietly.

    The introverts. The reflective ones. The ones just trying to get through.

    There are bits of Christmas I genuinely love.

    The pretty lights.

    The tree.

    The cosiness.

    Even the fake niceness, if I’m honest.

    Yes, I know that makes me a bit of a hypocrite. I’ve complained about Christmas for years and still put a tree up and bought presents.

    This year feels different though.

    This year will be the most free Christmas I’ve had.

    No festive debt built up.

    No January regret.

    No standing there on Boxing Day holding a jacket I paid £85 for,

    watching it appear online for £20,

    and telling myself,

    “Well… it was worth it for Christmas Day.”

    It wasn’t.

    It was a jacket.

    I wasn’t intending to donate money to retail optimism,

    but here we are.

    Tomorrow I’ll spend it with my husband.

    No Christmas film marathon.

    We’ll probably end up “having a quick chat” about future creative business ideas,

    which will somehow turn into a full strategic discussion with imaginary whiteboards,

    big dreams, and at least one moment where we say,

    “Right. Let’s stop. It’s Christmas.”

    And, inevitably, watching Zeb scrape frantically under the sofa,

    convinced the remaining two-inch scrap of bone or his tug toy has definitely, absolutely, 100% reappeared where it has not.

    What I actually miss about presents isn’t the stuff.

    It’s what they represent.

    That someone thought of you.

    That someone chose something for you.

    That brief moment where your face lights up — or you convincingly pretend it does.

    Because if I’m honest, it really is more of a blessing to give than to receive.

    And that’s the heart of the Christian message too.

    That life itself was given as a gift.

    Not earned. Not performed for. Not dependent on how well you’ve done this year.

    Just given.

    Maybe that’s part of the point of Christmas too.

    Maybe all the pretending, the effort, the dressing things up for one day

    isn’t always denial — sometimes it’s survival.

    For some people, that one day is a break from a year that’s been overwhelming.

    A chance to step into a different space.

    To let things be okay, just for a moment, even if they’re not the rest of the time.

    And I get that.

    The only problem is that not everyone can pretend.

    Not everyone gets a pause.

    Not everyone can switch things off for a day and feel festive.

    For those people — genuinely — I hope you find some corner of peace,

    some quiet moment, some place where you can breathe,

    even if it doesn’t look like Christmas is supposed to.

    And for those who do find it joyful —

    who love it, who feel lifted by it, who look forward to it all year —

    please enjoy it. Fully. Without guilt.

    Those moments matter too.

    And even for the Grinches —

    the ones like me, hovering somewhere in between —

    I hope there’s laughter, or rest, or something unexpectedly good. However it looks for you.

  • What Zeb Taught Me About Patience

    If you’d told me a year ago that a four–legged whirlwind with eyes expressive enough to win an Oscar would become my life coach… I’d have laughed. Loudly. And possibly cried a bit.

    But then Zeb happened.

    Zeb, if you’re new here, is my Collie cross with the attention span of a toddler on Haribo and the work ethic of someone who believes he’s employed full-time by MI5. He doesn’t walk through life; he careers into it sideways at full speed and usually dragging a sock he absolutely did not have permission for.

    And yet… he’s taught me more patience than any psychology tutor, book or mindfulness app ever has.

    Obviously my Christian faith has taught me a lot about patience too — mostly how I’m wired not to have it naturally — but Zeb reflects how patience actually develops.

    1. There’s nothing quite like the flowerbed incident.

    There’s nothing quite like seeing your fur baby covered nose-to-tail in plant-pot soil because he thought the flower bed was inviting him in like a VIP lounge.

    My instinct?

    Shout (which I did).

    Cry.

    Consider putting myself or him up for adoption.

    But here’s the thing — I’ve had moments in life that could’ve easily pushed me back toward old coping mechanisms:

    stress, overwhelm, an argument, a badly-timed customer service call, ChatGPT freezing mid-sentence or apologising for the tenth time for failing a simple task (seriously), or just a day where everything goes wrong.

    Any of those things used to be the kind of triggers that sent me reaching for a vape, cigarette, or multiple bottles of wine.

    But Zeb?

    Zeb is on another level entirely — a level that bleeds patience dry just to survive him.

    No relapse trigger on this earth compares to this dog deciding to use my garden furniture as part of an agility course.

    Because shouting doesn’t un-dig the garden.

    What it does do is give permission for the zoomies.

    Cue the chaos:

    • full sprint through the flowerbed
    • across the pee-stained and desert-dried lawn
    • behind, into, and around every bush
    • up and over the garden furniture (yes — he taught himself that jump, absolutely nothing to do with me!)
    • straight into the mini-pond to dig for the invisible fish
    • then the whole route again, twice, at full velocity

    By then, I’m seeing red dots before my eyes.

    The next time?

    I just breathed, walked back inside, and shut the door.

    Zeb’s response?

    “Where’s Mum?”

    “Why has she shut me out?”

    He trots back to the door and jumps up — muddy pawprints smeared all over the glass — staring at me with those big Collie eyes like:

    “I promise I’ll behave… just let me in.”

    And truthfully?

    That’s where patience begins —

    not in calm…

    but right in the middle of the chaos.

    2. He doesn’t rest — ever — which means I have to.

    Zeb is not a “lie down peacefully on the rug” kind of dog.

    Oh, if only. “

    Unless of course, of course, he’s posing like royalty on the forbidden sofa-which I’ve fully surrendered to now because his cheekiness is unfairly adorable.”

    If only when doing my research I wouldn’t have just looked for “vocally quiet.”

    You see, we thought he’d be good at herding chickens and guarding them. Quiet vocally? Yes. However, his boundless energy makes Tigger from Winnie the Pooh look like a shadow in comparison. It shouts louder than any bark I could have handled.

    He rests for five seconds max unless he’s asleep in his crate. That’s when I fall in love with him all over again.

    Otherwise, he’s motion-sensor activated:

    • toilet? he’s coming
    • kitchen? he’s already there
    • blink? he’s in front of you somehow

    He won’t let me spiral, self-sabotage – oh no, there’s no time for that – and he certainly won’t let me disappear into my own head…

    because he won’t even let me go to the bathroom alone. For a pee. A single pee. Mind you – I watch him go to the toilet, so I suppose he thinks that’s the rules.

    Yet Blod and I love him to bits – and we really hope he knows it.

    He is a God-issued character development assignment.

    3. Patience grows in the wonky moments — not the perfect ones.

    After the mud, the chaos, the overturned furniture, the snapped plants, the paw–printed windows… there’s still a lesson:

    Patience isn’t handed out —

    it’s built.

    It grows in moments that don’t feel Holy or peaceful.

    It grows in the mess, the noise, the hair-tearing frustration, the:

    “If this dog jumps up one more time I’m gonna need prayer ministry.”

    Zeb hasn’t given me patience —

    he’s forced me to build it.

    Five frustrating seconds at a time.

    One messy moment after another.