I used to be the girl who sat quietly in the corner, avoiding small talk. Then I landed in New York, thrown into a job that required me to network, to talk to strangers. I hated it. But I learned.

Now, years later, I sit in rooms full of senior leaders, adding my voice to loud conversations. And sometimes, I still feel her, the quiet girl who isn’t sure she belongs.

But I speak up anyway.

I am often told that speed wins. That the best work is fast, scalable, efficient. But what if that’s the problem?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about craftsmanship. The kind that values depth over pace, intention over output. What if we treated our own work that way? What if we slowed down, let ideas breathe, and created with care?

I don’t have a neatly packaged answer. But I do know this: when I make space to think, the work feels better. More me. And maybe that’s the point.

I did what we were told—leaned in, climbed, took my seat at the table. And now? People expect answers. Decisions. Leadership.

But maybe I don’t have to keep climbing. Maybe I can just hold—steady, strong, not rushing to the next thing. And maybe, that’s enough.

Lately, I’ve realised I’ve been playing it too safe. And honestly? I don’t want to live like that. I want to be slightly unruly, a little more mischievous—the kind of woman in her mid-forties who surprises herself. Maybe that starts today.

Most people want to help, to solve, to offer a way forward. But sometimes, what we really need isn’t a solution. It’s space.

This weekend, I was reminded of the rare gift of people who just get it. No fixing, no judgment. Just presence.

And in that space, something shifts—not because the problem disappears, but because I don’t have to carry it alone.

I woke up at 3 a.m. with my jaw clenched, my body holding a stress I never agreed to. A dream had pulled me into a frantic loop, not of mistakes, but of proving I hadn’t made one.

I don’t want to live like this.

So I’m learning, slowly, imperfectly, to set it down.

Noticing isn’t mind-reading—it’s paying attention. It’s the quiet act of seeing what’s unsaid, of choosing to engage when it’s easier not to. Not everyone does it, and that’s okay.

But the ones who do?

They stand out. And when I find them, I hold onto them.

2am. His name. His message. And just like that, I’m awake. Heart racing. Brain on.

And I know what tomorrow looks like meetings, emails, expectations. And today? I just can’t.

I don’t want to be resilient. I don’t want to turn this into a lesson. I just want to sit in the fuck this of it all.

But the world doesn’t stop. And I know I have to do something with it.

Just… not today.

I crave conversations that make me pause, that make me feel something, that remind me I’m sitting across from another whole universe of thoughts, experiences, and contradictions. And maybe that’s why I struggle when people don’t meet me there, when words feel weightless, when there’s no curiosity, no pull. It’s not about making every conversation profound, but I want to walk away knowing we really talked.

That’s what I’ll miss most about him. Not him, exactly. But how we were.

I went to see A Good House, and it hasn’t left me since. It’s a play about race, class, and the quiet cost of belonging—how even when you’ve worked hard, you can still be reminded that you’re only there on certain terms.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the spaces I want to exist in. The ones I no longer feel like negotiating with. And maybe that’s why this play unsettled me so much. Because it made me sit with a question I can’t ignore: where do I want to belong, and what am I willing to do—or not do—to stay there?

I had a conversation with a friend on Saturday. It’s Tuesday now, and it’s still sitting with me. The question of why we stay. In jobs, relationships, routines that don’t quite fit. We tell ourselves we’re stuck, but if we were truly stuck, wouldn’t we be fighting to get out? Maybe being stuck is just life.

Not every moment is about moving forward. Sometimes, we just keep living it.

You know that old saying—never meet your idols—because you’ll be disappointed? Bit harsh, isn’t it?

What if your idol is just having a crap day? What if they’ve just laddered their tights and the only Boots nearby is the useless one in a train station?

Maybe the real lesson isn’t never meet your idols, but meet them, just don’t forget they’re human too.

I hit 82.5 kg on the trap bar, 82.5!

Sara, my terrifyingly optimistic trainer, always says, “Trust your legs.” Sounds simple, until you’re staring at a loaded bar, convinced you can’t lift it. But you do.

At some point, I’ll have to trust my legs without her.

Every day this week, I’ve left the office before six. Small win.

On my walk home, I always pass a queue of Deliveroo riders outside a giant glass office. Around 7 p.m., people come down, grab their dinner, and head back up to work.

Every time, I feel a knot in my stomach. Sadness? Worry? It disturbs my spirit. Maybe because I’ve been that person, convincing myself it was fine.

It wasn’t.

195 days. I wasn’t counting, but when his name popped up, I checked. And just like that, the past rushed back in—not forgotten, just buried.

He wasn’t ready, and I believed him. He left, and I had no choice but to believe that too. But then he came back. Not with promises, not with apologies, just honesty. He wasn’t whole. He wasn’t ready. And weirdly, that made it harder.

When a 22kg dumbbell enters the scene, your nervous system gets loud…..very loud. Mine had plenty to say about weighted squats, but it also got me thinking: how often do I ignore what my body’s trying to tell me? Today, I decided to listen.

Month two of my blog-a-day-ish challenge. I don’t write down goals, yet here I am with a blog that is one. Classic Audrey.

I’m noticing things more. Little moments that make me smile. I’m also getting better at communicating, not TED Talk-ready, but improving.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just real. And for now, I’m enjoying it.

Nearly every day, someone at work says, “I’ve never seen that top before!” And in my head, I’m like, “Yeah, neither had I—until this morning.”

Katie and I made a pact to shop our wardrobes—no new clothes, just outfits from what we already own. Easy? Not exactly. My wardrobe is a black hole of forgotten impulse buys. But now, it’s become a creative challenge. How many ways can I style a black polo neck? (Eight.)

I've always had something to work toward. But right now? I don't. And that’s throwing me off. Rest isn’t something that comes naturally to me, especially when the guilt of not doing enough keeps creeping in. Maybe success isn’t about constant progress. Maybe it’s about learning how to just be.

I never thought I’d be that person, the one whose mood hinges on houseplants. But here we are. I wake up, check on them, and if one’s looking sad,droopy leaves, a suspicious yellow tint. I start overthinking. Overwatered? Underwatered? Too cold? (Always too cold.) But when they’re thriving - it’s pure joy.