july

monthly update #1

there are months that pass like breeze, and then there are ones that rearrange you. july felt like the latter. not in a loud or life-altering way, but in the small, steady reshaping that happens when you’re forced to pause, look at your body, your habits, your choices, and sit with them. not sprint away. not distract yourself. but actually sit, breathe, feel. the kind of month where time doesn’t just pass, it presses against your skin, makes you feel where you’ve hardened, where you’ve softened, where you still ache.

this month began with movement, physical, literal, emotional. i shifted into a new house back in june, and it’s been over a month now. slowly, gradually, it’s starting to feel like home. sometimes, i still miss the old place, the familiar smells, the way the sunlight hit the floorboards just right, the corners that knew my quiet. the echo of past versions of myself still lives there. but this new space brings something else: hope. a kind of lightness. maybe it’s the way the breeze moves through the rooms around 5 p.m., brushing through the curtains like a whisper. or how laughter has started to echo off the walls, my sister’s, mine, even the unintentional giggles that come while trying to hang art straight. maybe it’s the way i catch myself smiling at nothing, while rinsing a cup, while folding laundry. the echoes have turned into atmosphere, and the objects are starting to carry memory. it’s no longer just a house, it’s learning how to become home. and in that becoming, something in me softened too. my jaw loosened. i stopped flinching at the sound of my own thoughts.

before the return to movement, came the return to space. i redecorated the whole house from scratch, my hands in everything, from shelf placement to curtain folds. there’s a strange intimacy in choosing where light should fall. perhaps my favourite part is the plants. over twenty of them now sit in my room alone, each one quietly breathing life into the corners. they’re not just decorative, they feel like company. like little sentient reminders to breathe. they make the air feel softer, the light feel calmer. it doesn’t feel like a burden to be in there. my head doesn’t ache. i no longer feel the static hum that used to fill me when i was restless. the first ten days in this new space were hard though, i struggled badly with sleep. i’d wake up in the middle of the night, sheets tangled around my ankles, check my phone, as if expecting someone might need me, or maybe i was just searching for distraction. my chest felt tight in those hours. but that shifted once i began travelling again. there’s something about being in transit that forces you to let go. airports strip you of your schedule. now i’ve started switching my wifi off at night, keeping the phone on focus mode (god bless iphones for that), and letting the silence have me fully. there’s a ritual to it now, closing the tabs, folding the blanket, turning to the wall.

somewhere in the rhythm of unpacking boxes and lighting incense in unfamiliar corners, i found myself returning to an old part of me: the athlete. i picked up my badminton racket again after what felt like a lifetime. not casually, not as a weekend distraction, but as a re-entry into something that once defined me. i remembered what it felt like to play professionally, not just the thrill of it, but the discipline, the control, the way sweat tasted like progress. i restructured my workouts to make space for it. mornings began with boxing, evenings with weight training. my alarm went off before the sun, and by 6 a.m., my body was already learning its own edges again. movement became a new kind of meditation, exertion became expression. but what i hadn’t anticipated was how demanding this month would become, on my body, and even more so, on my mind.

i walked a lot this month. travelled more than my body was ready for. and somewhere in the mix of long flights, unpredictable sleep, new food, and pushing workouts, my body pushed back. i could feel it first in the way my gut bloated after meals, the heaviness that lingered through the day, the sudden loss of appetite in the middle of dinner. my doctors and dietician traced it to the gut, a healing that hadn’t quite completed. some inflammation. something unsettled in my intestines. and while it sounds minor, it altered everything. my mood shifted drastically. i was constantly on edge, snapping at the smallest things, irritated with people who were only trying to help. i’ve always been that person, if i’m not able to train or move or lift, everything else begins to fray. the ache seeped into my conversations. i’d say i’m fine, but the tension in my shoulders told another story. so after the consultations, i had to take that seriously. i’ve lost weight, yes, but more than that, i lost a part of how i saw myself. and now i’m working to get it back. to lift what i once did. to bench 100 again. and i will. not out of vanity, but out of devotion to the part of me that finds rhythm in resistance.

i lost seven kilos in under a month. weight that had taken me nearly seven months to build up slowly, patiently. and suddenly, it was gone. stripped away by exhaustion, nutritional imbalances, and perhaps the sheer intensity of trying to do everything at once. it felt like betrayal, not by anyone else, but by my own body. i remember standing in front of the mirror one morning and not recognising myself. my collarbones more prominent, my jeans slipping lower on my hips. not just physically, but energetically. there’s a kind of fatigue that sleep doesn’t fix. that’s the one that hit me. it moved into my limbs, into my ability to hold a conversation without drifting. my doctor’s visits began. dietician calls. a schedule. meal logs. and then came the recovery, three kilos gained back, and the rest to follow slowly, gently, on a timeline i can’t rush. i noticed how it felt to eat again, not just the act, but the surrender it demanded. but what i gained more than the weight, honestly, was awareness.

i had to sit still. i had to eat more than i felt like. i had to pause my training when it hurt too much. and in that forced stillness, i ended up spending time with my family, not the kind where you sit in the same room scrolling on your phones, but the kind where you listen, really listen. where you laugh at the same old stories for the fifth time, and still find new joy. where you feel your mother’s concern not through her words, but in the way she cuts fruit for you without asking, her hands careful, methodical, as if each slice carries her unspoken prayers. i understood this month that spending time with your parents and spending quality time with them are two entirely different things. the latter is rarer. the latter requires presence. and presence, i’m learning, is its own form of love. it asks that you slow down, not just your body but your thoughts.

somewhere in that quiet recovery, i leaned into music and stories. i built multiple playlists this month, one of them in collaboration with my substack family, which honestly means the world to me. i play it often. it’s like tuning into what you all are feeling, like shared weather across different cities. i read three books this month too: the interpretation of dreams, the vegetarian, and re-read nausea by sartre, because, well, that’s the world my writing is born from. the existential haze, the heaviness, the hyper-awareness. i remember sitting out on the balcony, the one with that perfectly cushioned chair we just bought, and reading while the rain fell hard. so hard it turned the sky white. the wind carried that scent of petrichor and wet leaves into the room. i thought about stepping into it, letting it drench me entirely, but this month, my body, is too fragile for that indulgence. i chose to stay wrapped in the blanket instead, letting the sound of it wash through me instead of over me. the warmth of the cup in my hand anchored me. i let the words hold me where touch couldn’t.

but not everything was soft or sweet. there was a stretch of this month, especially after my work trip, where i felt myself spiral inward. emotionally, i became the version of me i thought i had outgrown: the one who blames. who points fingers at the past. who reopens old texts and replays old arguments in her head just to prove she was always the one hurting more. i found myself victimising my own emotions, telling myself stories that made others villains and me the wounded hero. it was quiet, this spiral, happening late at night, when the house was still, and my breath too loud in the silence. but writing saved me again. journaling. sitting at my desk late into the night and pouring every ugly thought onto paper until it lost its grip. and in the light of day, i realised something that sounds so simple but never is: i chose this life. i chose the career, the solitude, the intensity. and while it’s okay to collapse into complaint once in a while, it cannot be my habitat. i cannot build a belief system around negative loops and then wonder why i feel stuck. so i flipped the script. just a little. just enough. i started to believe the doctor when she said, “you will get better.” i started to trust that eating one more roti today could be the difference between depletion and strength tomorrow. and once the mind begins moving forward, the body follows.

i’m also noticing how often my self-worth ties itself to accomplishment. how i only seem to feel proud of myself when there’s tangible success, something to show. it shows up in my journal entries, in my conversations, in the language i use with myself. and i know i need to shift that. not from a surface level understanding of human psychology and success, because if that were enough, i would’ve figured it out by now. no, this is deeper. this is old. maybe it’s a fear of stillness. maybe it’s the echo of praise that once only came when i excelled. maybe it’s a belief that without proof, i don’t deserve peace. i don’t have the answer yet. but i’m asking the right questions now. slowly, softly. in the quiet of the mornings, when the sky is still lilac and the world hasn’t made its demands yet.

on the creative front, i shot a lot of content this month. product launches for my brand, the kind that had been living in my notes app for weeks. some shoots ran long. some took shape exactly how i imagined. it feels good to see it all coming together, even through the chaos. even through the cracks. there’s something about building something with your own hands, your own vision, and then watching it take form that reminds you, you’re still becoming. even when everything else feels uncertain, creation gives you something to hold. something to anchor you in.

the highlight of my month, without a doubt, was my work trip. not just the work, but the travel that came with it. i’ve always loved airports in the way some people love libraries, places where stories are waiting to unfold. i sat with my coffee, americano, no sugar, and watched people gather at gates, clutching books, fixing their hair in reflective windows, some tired, some excited, all in motion. there’s something sacred in that, people waiting to go somewhere, or to someone. i peeked at what they were reading, exchanged a few conversations that began with “i love that author too.” and in those moments, i imagined someone coming up to me, recognising me from my substack, saying, “i read your writing. and it meant something.” it hasn’t happened yet, but maybe this is me planting that hope. or maybe it already happened quietly, in someone’s heart, in someone’s silence. and that’s enough, for now.

there were small setbacks too. emotionally. socially. nothing big, nothing headline-worthy, just the usual cracks that come when life feels overwhelming and your first instinct is to push people away. but this time, i didn’t push. i didn’t isolate. i just told the truth. that i was tired. that i was hurting. and somehow, that truth opened up gentler connections. a phone call from a friend who stayed on the line even through my pauses. we think we have to be strong all the time, but strength, i’m learning, often looks like saying “i’m not okay right now.” and letting someone hold space for that.

july was not easy. but it was necessary. and strangely, even in the hardest moments, it gave me glimpses of a future i want. one where my body feels strong again. one where i don’t flinch at my reflection. one where i play the sport i love, eat the food my body needs, do the work that lights me up, and return to a home that wraps around me like belonging. a life that doesn’t feel like a performance. a rhythm that feels like breath.

buy me a coffee

July

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