I spend every day thinking about far too many things. Work. Parenting. Food shopping. Bills. Things I need to reply to. Things I should have started last week. Plans for next month. Ideas I don't want to forget. It feels like I have thirty browser tabs open in my head at all times.
I had to pause because somewhere along the way, I realised I didn't really have any hobbies left. Everything I enjoyed had quietly become centred around work or being a parent. I couldn't remember the last time I did something that existed purely because it made me happy. I knew I needed something that wasn't another screen.
So I wandered into B&M, picked up a few notebooks, and later spent an embarrassing amount of time on Shein filling my basket with sticker packs. The funny thing is, we already had plenty of art supplies at home. Pens, paper, craft bits, magazines. I'd just forgotten they were allowed to be for me, too.
At first, it felt strange. I thought I was supposed to write a proper diary, the whole Dear Diary... routine I had as a teenager. Turns out I didn't want that at all. Now it's just my book of everything.
Some mornings I write a few lines. Other days, I don't write anything and just decorate a page. I cut articles out of magazines. I stick on little gems and washi tape. I add stickers for absolutely no reason other than I like them.
Recently, I purchased one of those daily word search books. I finish the puzzle, cut out the page, and stick it into the scrapbook. I've started doing the same with Sudoku puzzles and magazine articles I want to keep. It's messy and fun, and reminds me of my art portfolio bag thing teenage me used to hold and guard with her life.
For the first time in a long time, I have something that isn't productive, isn't content, isn't work, and isn't for anyone else.
It's just mine. And I think that's exactly what I was missing.