● Being experienced in one thing doesn’t mean you’re experienced in everything. I can walk into one room feeling very confident and then walk into another and suddenly think… WTF!!!!! what’s going on here?

● Starting again is humbling. There are moments when you realise you genuinely don’t know what you’re doing. Lovely. Very character building.

● Being a beginner makes you listen more. When you don’t know what’s going on you tend to pay attention. Mainly because pretending you know what’s going on usually ends badly.

● Your body remembers things. Timing. Repetition. Discipline. Preparation. How to take direction. How to recover when something goes wrong. Apparently my body has been taking notes all these years because my brain certainly wasn’t.

● You realise your old career taught you more than the actual job. It taught me how I work. How I prepare. How I deal with pressure. How to keep going when something goes wrong. And probably how to function on very little sleep.

● You become less interested in proving you already know something. Mostly because you realise you don’t.

● Confidence changes. It used to be “I know I can do this.” Now it’s sometimes “I have absolutely no idea but let’s see what happens.”

● Your old identity can get in the way. If people have known you for one thing for a long time then you can start thinking that’s all you are too.

● You can feel behind when you’re not behind at all. You’re just comparing your first few steps in something new with years of experience somewhere else. Not exactly a fair fight.

● You bring your standards with you. This is helpful until it isn’t. You want to be good immediately because you’re used to being good. Unfortunately being new doesn’t really work like that. Rude.

● Being bad at something for a while is allowed. I’m still negotiating with this idea.

● You start seeing connections between things. Something you learnt years ago suddenly becomes useful somewhere completely different. It’s quite satisfying when the dots finally decide to join themselves.

● You realise you’re not one thing. Not one career. Not one skill. Not one version of yourself. Which is probably good because imagine having to stick with one personality forever.

● You have to give yourself a chance. Actually have a go. Not spend six months thinking about having a go and then deciding it’s probably not for you.

● You can worry far too much about how people see you. Then you remember everyone else is busy living their own lives. Most people are not sitting at home analysing your decisions over a cup of tea. And if they are… they need a hobby.

● So why not? Why not try the thing? Why not change your mind? Why not be a beginner? Why not see what happens?

● Not everything is going to work out perfectly. Some things will. Some things won’t. Some things you’ll probably look back on and think, what on earth was I doing? But you’ll deal with it.

So really…

Why not have a go?

Everyone is busy living their own life anyway.

And if it goes wrong?

Fine.

I’ll panic briefly and then work it out.

Or, as I like to call it, when you find the pocket of a performance.

It’s that moment when something starts to settle. Your body knows where it is. Your voice feels more grounded. You stop thinking quite so much about what you’re doing and start listening, responding and actually being in the moment.

I’ve done thousands of performances in my career, but I hadn’t done a full-out play before.

And that has taught me something I didn’t realise I needed to learn: how to trust my voice on stage.

Not just my physical voice, but my instincts.

We’ve now done a week of shows, and if I’m completely honest, I hadn’t fully started trusting myself yet. I’m a confident performer. I know how to walk onto a stage and perform. But this has been different.

There’s been a slightly shakier piece underneath it all.

My memory.

Learning lines is one thing. Trusting that those lines will still be there when you need them, under lights, in front of an audience, when your heart is pounding, is another thing entirely.

And then there’s the possibility of blanking.

Which, by the way, happens.

The funny thing is, the audience would probably never know.

But from where you’re standing, it can feel absolutely exhilarating, terrifying and completely nerve-racking all at once.

Someone skips a line.

You suddenly can’t remember yours.

Someone jumps ahead in the scene.

And suddenly you’re not just performing the play you rehearsed. You’re listening, thinking, redirecting and trying to find your way back into the story.

And that is where I’ve discovered something really beautiful.

You trust the people around you.

Because when you’re on stage with other performers, you become a team. A unit. A gang.

You’re in it together.

You listen to each other. You pick each other up. You help each other find the road again when someone takes a wrong turn.

There’s an unspoken conversation happening between actors all the time.

A look.

A pause.

A change in energy.

A slightly different emphasis on a word.

You learn to listen for all of it.

And you learn that if something goes slightly off, it doesn’t mean everything has gone wrong.

You just keep going.

That has been one of the biggest lessons for me.

I’m sharing the stage with incredibly talented, seasoned actors who have so much experience. Watching them has taught me a huge amount, not just about acting, but about confidence, presence and listening.

They’ve helped me understand that confidence isn’t necessarily knowing that you’ll get everything right.

Sometimes confidence is knowing that if something goes wrong, you’ll find your way through it.

That has allowed me to lift my voice.

To trust it.

To take up more space.

To stop worrying quite so much about getting every single thing perfect and start listening to what is actually happening in front of me.

Because theatre is alive.

Every night is slightly different.

And that’s the magic of it.

You can rehearse something hundreds of times, but the moment you step onto that stage, you’re sharing a space with other human beings and an audience. Anything can happen.

And when it does, you breathe.

You listen.

You trust.

You pick each other up.

And you keep moving as a tribe through the story.

I think that’s what finding my voice has really meant for me.

Not simply speaking louder.

Not simply being more confident.

But trusting myself enough to listen.

Trusting the people around me.

And knowing that even when the unexpected happens, I am capable of finding my way.

There’s something incredibly freeing about that.

And after a week of shows, I think I’m finally starting to feel it.

I’m finding my pocket.

And it’s a wonderful feeling.

Learning a script.

People often think it’s just about remembering words but it’s so much more than that.

It’s muscle memory. Timing. Listening. Reacting. Knowing where to stand, where to move, when to speak and how every single moment connects to the next.

I’ve been rehearsing for Stepping Out, which opens next week. The play was adapted into the 1991 film starring Liza Minnelli and I’m incredibly honoured to be playing the same character she brought to life on screen.

To say this experience has been intense would be an understatement.

I love learning.

I’ve always been someone who enjoys sitting down and studying but this has required me to keep my foot firmly on the gas. It’s been pages of dialogue, choreography, scene work, character development, and learning the rhythm of conversations that sometimes feel like the fastest game of tennis you’ve ever watched. There are moments where all nine of us are bouncing lines between each other and if one beat is missed, the whole rally changes.

Then there are the moments nobody sees.

Forgetting a line you’ve said perfectly twenty times before.

Remembering the right line… but in completely the wrong order.

Knowing exactly what you want to say, yet somehow your mouth refuses to find the word.

Or having one of those afternoons where you had a slightly too heavy sandwich at lunch, sat in the sunshine for a little too long and suddenly your brain decides it’s clocking off before you are. The afternoon rehearsal becomes a fog. A sentence you’ve known all week has packed its bags and disappeared.

It’s humbling.

It’s frustrating.

It’s also strangely wonderful.

Because every single one of those moments reminds you that learning isn’t linear. Progress isn’t measured by one bad run-through or one forgotten line. It’s measured by turning up again the next day, trusting the process and letting every repetition quietly build another layer.

I’ve had moments where I’ve gone home exhausted, questioning whether I could actually do this. A couple of tears. Plenty of self-doubt. Wondering if my brain could possibly hold any more information.

But then something beautiful happened.

I realised I felt safe.

Our director, the cast, the creative team… they’ve created an environment where it’s okay not to know everything immediately. An environment where you can make mistakes without fear, ask questions without embarrassment, and keep trying until it clicks.

That feeling is priceless.

Because when you’re standing on the edge of something completely new, you’re already asking yourself enough difficult questions. Having people around you who believe in you gives you permission to believe in yourself.

I’ve spent most of my life telling stories through dance.

Now I’m discovering that acting has its own choreography.

Not just with your feet but with your thoughts, your emotions, your timing, your listening and your trust in everyone sharing the stage with you.

As opening night gets closer, I’m realising this experience isn’t just about learning lines.

It’s about learning resilience.

Learning patience.

Learning to trust myself.

Maybe that’s what growth really is.

Not getting everything right the first time.

But feeling safe enough to keep going until one day, without even noticing, what once felt impossible simply becomes part of who you are.

A room, a class, a gathering. Sometimes I'd walk in and immediately know. The energy didn't feel right, and I'd want to leave before giving it much of a chance.

Lately, I've been experimenting with something different.

Not ignoring my instincts. Not overriding them. Just allowing a little more time before deciding.

While we've been in Bali, we've visited a few gyms. They're busy, loud, intense places. Years ago, when I was working in New York, I thrived in those environments. Now, I find myself craving something quieter. More focused. Less crowded.

My first reaction is often to retreat.

But I've noticed something interesting: within the chaos, there are pockets of calm.

If I'm willing to look for them.

Dance taught me this. Rehearsals can feel chaotic at first. Everyone is learning different pieces of information, moving at different speeds, making mistakes, finding their place. Then, slowly, something shifts. The energy aligns. The movement starts to breathe together. What looked chaotic becomes flow.

That's the feeling I love.

When I walk into a class, I enjoy the discipline of focus. Technique. Breathing. Endurance. The quiet concentration that exists even when the room is full.

When energy feels scattered or unfocused, I still feel the urge to pull away. But now I'm learning to pause long enough to see if there's another layer beneath the surface.

Sometimes there is.

Sometimes there isn't.

I think there's wisdom in trusting your own energy while remaining open to a new environment. You don't have to force yourself to fit somewhere that doesn't feel right. But you also don't have to make the decision before you've truly arrived.

Growth often lives in that space.

The space between staying completely comfortable and abandoning yourself entirely.

A little curiosity. A little patience. A willingness to look for your own rhythm within a new place.

And if you find it, stay awhile.

The nervous system doesn’t always realise the holiday has started just because the plane landed.

It took me a few days to settle into Bali.
I arrived in Ubud wired, jet lagged, overstimulated, still carrying the noise of work, bills, routines and responsibility in my body.

For nearly 72 hours my mind was still rushing ahead of me.
Then slowly, something softened.

My brain finally realised I was safe.
Safe to sleep in.
Safe to slow down.
Safe to let go.

And suddenly I could feel Ubud properly.

The spiritual hum in the air.
The smell of the river drifting through the jungle.
Warm rain landing on my skin.
The thick heat gathering at the back of my shirt.
Monkeys playing in the trees.
Scooters weaving through narrow streets while incense smoke curls out from tiny offerings on the pavement.

Everything here feels alive.
Not loud. Not rushed. Alive.

Work and reality will still be waiting when I return.
But if we never truly put them down for a moment, we miss the beauty of the reset we spent so long needing.

Birthdays don’t feel the same anymore and I’m okay with that. I lean toward something quieter now. A low-key dinner, good conversation, a sense of ease.

And listen… I’ll never say no to a present. I still love the thought behind it.

But the truth is, what I want now doesn’t sit on shelves. You won’t find it at Selfridges.

A couple of years ago, I had a big birthday dinner. Long table, lots of friends, a blur of energy… and definitely too many tequila shots. It was fun but I barely spoke to most people. Too many moments slipping past at once.

Now, I value less but deeper.

Time with people where you can actually connect. Conversations that stay with you. Moments that carry into the next day and leave you feeling like you gained something.

That’s the shift. Less about big gestures, more about meaningful ones.

Because at some point, things become just things. Enjoyable, yes. But temporary. Easy to give away, sell, or outgrow.

The real gifts don’t have price tags. You can’t scan them at checkout.

They show up in how you feel, in who you share your life with, in the quiet sense that you’re building something that actually matters.

That’s what I’m choosing now.

And those are the gifts worth celebrating.

I’ve never been afraid of change.

I’ve changed countries.

I’ve changed languages.

I’ve changed relationships.

I’ve changed homes.

I’ve changed my entire life, more than once.

And change for me has always meant a chance.

A chance to explore.

A chance to feel.

A chance to be different.

A chance to live more fully.

Nothing stays the same,

so why should you?

Take the chance.

Lately I’ve been wondering if anyone else feels the quieter mood that often shows up in January.

It’s only the second week of the year and I keep catching myself thinking, shouldn’t I have done something by now?
Something proactive. Something that makes it feel like the year is officially underway.

But where do you actually start? And how?

At the end of the year everything feels possible. We imagine what we’ll do differently, who we will become, how this time it will all click. Our minds put on a little parade filled with excitement and fresh starts.

Then January arrives and reminds us that nothing really changes overnight. Life looks the same. The work is still there. And that doesn’t mean we’re doing it wrong. It just means we’re human.

I used to tell myself “one step at a time”.
Lately it’s been more like “one breath at a time”.

Learning how to slow my breath, calm my body, and stay present has become its own kind of progress. When your heart starts racing or your chest feels tight over a thought you didn’t invite, the most important thing you can do is pause and take care of yourself.

I guess that’s part of why I’m alcohol free now. Not because anything dramatic happened but because I’m learning to listen instead of numb. It took time to realise I was more comfortable avoiding certain feelings than sitting with them. And that’s okay. Awareness comes when it’s ready.

A new year doesn’t mean you have to become a new person. Some things take time. More time than we would like. That doesn’t make them any less meaningful.

I’ve put my energy into the wrong places before. So this year I’m choosing to put it somewhere quieter and closer to home. Into myself. Into that steady beating in my chest that reminds me I’m still here.

And that, for now, feels like enough. Maybe more than enough.

Last rehearsals.

Last dance.

A new champion crowned.

Goodbyes said quietly in corridors that, only weeks ago, felt impossibly loud.

The final week always carries a strange energy. Everything feels familiar, yet completely final. You’re still doing the same warm-ups, tying your shoes the same way, checking the mirror one last time…but you know it’s the end of this chapter. There’s a calm mixed with adrenaline, relief sitting right next to emotion.

People often describe this job as a roller coaster, and it really is. Highs that lift you off the ground. Lows that teach you something whether you want the lesson or not. You learn. You observe. You take it all in. You adapt. And somehow, you keep moving forward.

This series was no different. There were moments of confidence and moments of doubt. Days where everything clicked and days where nothing quite landed. But that’s the work. That’s the process. And that’s why it matters.

Closing my 14th year on Strictly, I feel something very simple and very important: healthy, grateful, and full of perspective.

I don’t take for granted being able to do what I love, year after year. I’m genuinely happy that it’s time to rest ..to let the body recover, to exhale a little, and to reset before stepping back into it all again on the arena tour in January. Same joy, different rhythm, new energy.

Thank you for being here with me for 21 weeks. For reading, listening, laughing, and staying curious about the process behind the performance. It never goes unnoticed.

I’ll be back in the new year with a brand-new chapter of In the Rehearsal Room “On Tour”

.

Until then… breathe, reset, and enjoy the quiet before the music starts again.

The kind of rehearsal where your brain gets so bombarded that you briefly question your talent, your life choices, and whether you ever actually knew how to dance in the first place.

A classic. 😂

Tuesday was allegedly a free day.

I say allegedly because I have no memory of it. If I did anything useful, it was on autopilot. If I rested, I hope I enjoyed it.

Wednesday sent me straight back into the studio, where my brain received another firm but respectful reminder that it does, in fact, need to be fully engaged for this job. No shortcuts. No coasting. Message received.

Thursday was a home day and unexpectedly one of the most satisfying of the week. I folded clothes that had been clean for far too long ..the kind of task that quietly follows you around your home judging you. I saw my carpet again. I felt accomplished.

The dogs got an extra-long walk, and honestly, so did my nervous system. Fresh air remains wildly underrated.

Friday brought another full day of rehearsal. The choreography started to settle… not comfortably, but enough to suggest we might eventually become friends. Progress.

There hasn’t really been time to rehearse and feel fully prepared, but that’s the reality of this job. You learn to trust what you’ve put in, rehearse wherever you can ..the kitchen, the bathroom, lying in bed doing counts in your head and show up anyway without second guessing yourself too much.

Saturday was show day. You do the thing, the lights come on, and somehow your body remembers everything your brain tried to overthink all week.

And just like that, we’re in the final week of work.

There’s something quietly emotional about reaching this point ..tired, grateful, still laughing, still standing. The end of one intense chapter, with Christmas waiting just around the corner like a deep exhale. A moment to pause, celebrate the work, and appreciate how far we’ve come before the next count begins.

I started decorating the house for Christmas.

Voluntarily.

Happily.

With intention.

I actually caught myself humming along to Christmas music at one point and thought, “Wow… this must be what happens when the Grinch’s heart grows three sizes.”

Concerning. Unexpected. Slightly impious for my usual December standards.

But here we are.

We bought ourselves a little Christmas tree and yes, I’m usually team Real Tree, but B&Q reeled us in with a fake one that already had decorations built in. It came with fake snow and some small brown pine-cone-ish things (my nature vocabulary is minimal). Then I added my own decorations from previous years and an uncooperative amount of fairy lights.

I ordered six stockings - one each for Simon and me and one for every dog. If I hadn’t, the four of them would’ve staged a coup. We added window lights, Santa hats around the house and one of those bright-red Christmas plants I can never remember the name of (Poinsettia - Google saves me every time).

Somewhere in the middle of decorating, we watched Home Alone 1 and 2, which instantly flipped a switch in me. Between the music, the chaos and Kevin McCallister sprinting around the house, it pushed me straight into full Christmas-mode. The dogs watched along like tiny, confused security guards.

I think that combination- the decorating, the movies, the softness of being at home- nudged me into a proper Christmas spirit this year. For the first time in a long while, it feels like I actually have the space and calm to enjoy it.

And then there were the Strictly Christmas Special rehearsals - very festive, very relaxed, and honestly just nice to do. The vibe was calm, the dancers were chilled, and the whole thing felt easy in the best way.

All in all, it’s been a lovely week -

calm, sparkly, gently chaotic, and surprisingly wholesome.

I suppose this is how the Grinch felt when he realised Christmas wasn’t so bad after all.

And last week, mine did exactly that.

I had one of those moments where everything slowed down, and instead of pushing through like I usually do, I actually listened. That isn’t always natural for me. I’m used to the “keep going, even when it’s tough” mindset. It’s helped me in many parts of my life and career, but when it comes to my health, I’m learning to think long-term, not just moment-to-moment.

When I was younger, I would push through feeling unwell without a second thought. Now, both physically and emotionally, I’ve learned to respect my body and to respect my health. Being poorly isn’t a sign of weakness. It just means your body needs care so you can come back feeling stronger.

So this time, I did the sensible thing: I went to the doctor.

I checked what was going on, took the advice I was given, and then allowed myself to rest.

I slept.

I hydrated.

I ate properly.

I slowed down.

And my body responded, as it always does when I give it the time and space to. No rushing, no guilt - just a bit of kindness and patience.

Because the truth is: you do bounce back.

You always do.

You just have to let yourself.

How do you know when it’s time to rest, and do you give yourself permission to?

Blackpool weeks always seem to begin before you realise they’ve begun.

One moment you think you have plenty of time, and the next you’re packing a bag, grabbing a coffee, and heading straight into one of the most exciting weekends of the series.

By Friday, Simon and I were on the road to Blackpool and from that point everything moved beautifully and brilliantly fast.

Main show rehearsals, resets, a few last run-throughs for next week’s artist performance, fittings, photos with fans, cameras flashing, early taxis to the Ballroom…

It’s a wonderful kind of busy-the kind that reminds you how special this whole experience is.

Blackpool has its own rhythm.

Everything feels both slow and quick at the same time. One moment you’re marking choreography, and in the next you’re in full glam, ready to step onto that iconic floor.

Then suddenly …. it’s show day.

Camera, lights, action.

A long day that somehow goes by in an instant.

You try to hold onto the little moments of magic inside that spectacular Ballroom…

Because dancing there truly feels like being part of something timeless.

You cheer and support everyone on that floor ..

the energy in the room lifts you in a way that only Blackpool can.

And then, just like that, it’s Sunday.

We’re driving back to London, tired in the good way, with full hearts and a week’s worth of memories.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I picked up a small head cold - nothing major, just my body gently reminding me to slow down for a moment and recharge.

A little rest, a warm drink, and a fresh start to the new week ahead.

My Strictly body clock clearly has a personality of its own.

It’s funny how the mind and body stay in that fast rhythm for a little while. My brain keeps thinking there’s choreography to finish or steps to plan and my muscles are still in full go-go-go mode .. all those fast-twitch fibres ready to fire. Then I have to remind myself that the pace is simply different this week.

Not slow ..there’s still plenty of work to do with the professional numbers and rehearsals for Blackpool but the tempo shifts just enough to let everything settle.

The past weeks with my celebrity were incredibly special and that teaching energy stays with you. It takes a moment for it all to soften, so I’ve been easing into the week: moving, stretching, letting my body release after seven full, creative weeks.

It’s an interesting feeling each year …familiar but always a little new.

A gentler rhythm, a different flow.

And there I am, up at dawn with my coffee and four confused dogs,

finding my way into this new tempo.

Time goes as it should.

You can’t slow it.

You can’t stretch it.

You can only meet it where it is.

People need your time.

Work needs your time.

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

you need your time too.

Some days you pour everything out,

every ounce of energy,

every bit of focus,

every heartbeat of care.

And still, it never feels quite enough.

But maybe that’s the lesson.

Not every hour needs to be filled.

Not every corner fought for.

Not every moment squeezed dry.

I spend so many hours hovering around others

first because I love to,

and second because it’s part of what I do.

But giving without refilling leaves you quiet inside,

like music waiting for its next note.

So now I’m learning to only give enough of me

not all of me.

To care deeply,

but keep something sacred.

Because balance isn’t found in doing more ,

it’s found in remembering that your energy

is yours to protect.

And you deserve to keep

a little piece of it too.

Week 14

I was talking to my therapist the other day and she told me to look at myself in the mirror and say

“I’m proud of you.”

At first ..it felt awkward.

But I did it.

And I meant it.

Hey you…

look at you.

Still here.

Still showing up.

Still trying.

You’ve come a long way, kid.

You really have.

There were days you didn’t think you could

but you did anyway.

Say it again

I’m proud of you.

You’ve done your best.

You’re doing your best.

And that’s enough.

It’s okay to rest.

It’s okay to breathe.

To be happy from the inside out.

That’s strength.

That’s resilience.

Hope’s still there ..

quiet ..

but steady.

You don’t need to be anyone else.

Just you.

Peaceful.

Grounded.

Right here.

Yeah…

I’m proud of you.

Every day has felt like a week long.

Time just flashes.

And if you don’t pay attention, it vanishes right under your eyes.

I think a lot of my weeks are like this… present but not really present.

Getting the job done, then onto the next minute, next journey, next day, next week.

Next song. Next style of dance.

Next, next, next.

I had nothing to write about this week.. but also so much in my brain that I couldn’t pick anything out specifically, because every day has felt like a week.

I’ve tried to take a moment.

I made granola ..!

that’s honestly the only thing I’ve properly managed to do for myself.

Everything else feels like it’s holding on for dear life around me.

I’ll catch up. I always do.

But right now, my eye is twitching and I’m napping whenever I can.

My brain won’t stop running ..choreography, life, and all the other things that seem to line up for attention at the exact same time.

Some weeks, you just have to let them happen. Not fight them.

I’ve realised I often end up fighting myself when I try to control the chaos.

So this time, I’m letting it take me and like a leaf floating on still water, I’m staying afloat.

Criticism

What do I think of it?

Honestly… I try not to.

If something doesn’t affect me directly, I let it float on by. I’ve got enough going on without inviting random opinions into my head rent-free.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to take everything to heart ..every comment, every look, every “maybe try it this way.” But over time, I’ve learned to keep the noise out.

People will like you for who you are, who they think you are, or just because you make them smile on a Saturday night.

And some people ..well ..won’t like you at all. Maybe it’s the way you laugh, or breathe, or put on your lip liner. Who knows. Humans are funny that way.

But that’s okay. That’s on them.

Now, sometimes ..not all the time …you do want to say something back and unless you really feel it, it’s usually smarter to take a breath and keep it classy.

Don’t be nasty ..be nice, or even better, be educational.

Michelle Obama says, “When they go low, we go high.”

But Cardi B says, “When they go low, I take it to hell.”

Hmm… depends on the day and the comment.

Either way can work. 🤣

I’ve had plenty of critique growing up .. that’s part of my job but I’ve learned to ask myself, why does this one sting? If I can find the reason, I deal with it, then toss it away.

You can be your own worst critic, but you can also be your best bodyguard. You can hear the words without letting them sink in.

When feedback comes from someone you trust, take it, learn from it, move forward.

But the rest?

Pop it straight in the bin and dance on.

where you just don’t feel quite right emotionally?

Like every commercial makes you teary,

a song comes on and suddenly you’re crying in the car,

the kettle boils and somehow that’s emotional too.

It’s just one of those weeks where everything touches a nerve

and the best thing you can do is sit with it

and let the emotions pass.

This week’s been one of those for me.

Not in the rehearsal room … outside it.

And don’t worry, no sob story here.

The studio’s where I focus,

where I burn through every ounce of energy.

But that tension somehow follows me home ..

And I just can’t shake it off.

I’ve wanted to cry more than usual.

Not out of sadness, just release.

For me, crying’s like a thunderstorm,

short, noisy, cleansing

and once it passes, the air feels lighter.

My ups and downs aren’t about work.

They’re about life

the messy, beautiful part that doesn’t come

with choreography or costume fittings.

The part where you’re just… you.

And I’ve learned it’s okay not to feel okay all the time.

We can be strong and still soft.

Determined… and still emotional.

It doesn’t make you less ..it makes you real.

So when the clouds roll in, I let them.

I make a coffee, talk to the dogs,

talk to Simon ..he listens,

helps me see things clearly,

and somehow makes the noise in my head feel quieter.

Maybe I have a little cry…

then pick myself back up.

Because feelings are meant to move ..not stay stuck.

And after every storm,

there’s always a little sunshine waiting

sometimes right there in the mirror,

smudged mascara and all.

Week 10

Finding the Balance

I’m not gonna lie, life this week has been full-on. My schedule has been non-stop. I’m trying to eat well, sleep enough, manage emotions, keep up with relationships, stay on top of work and still keep the house in one piece. Some days it feels like I’m being punk’d ..like is this seriously happening today?

People sometimes think I’m a machine, but I’m not. I’ve simply grown up being disciplined and learning how to get things done. That doesn’t mean I do everything at once. Sometimes tasks wait a day or two or 3 weeks before I tackle them, and that’s completely normal. Cause ,once I get into it, I focus and finish. Like everyone else, I have good days and bad days and I try to turn them around the best I can.

Most mornings I wake up early to give myself a head start. Coffee, a face mask, and cuddles with the dogs before their walk and breakfast. A quick catch up with with Simon before we both go into work mode. Those moments are mine and they set me up for the day. But there are also mornings when I stay in bed a little longer and skip the routine and that’s fine too. Rest is just as important.

I keep food very simple. Breakfast is either boiled eggs with a bagel, homemade granola with Greek yogurt, or a bagel with peanut butter. And always coffee. Lots of coffee. In the evenings, Simon and I pretty much eat the same thing every day and just change the protein ..chicken, steak or salmon with rice and salad. Easy, no fuss.

When I come home from work I switch into recovery mode. I eat, shower, use my leg compression boots and keep things simple. Part of that has been choosing to stay alcohol free … I’m now ten months into that journey and it has made a big difference to my energy, focus and recovery.

In between I still fit in the everyday things. Cleaning the house in sections. Doing laundry whenever there’s a window of time. Slowly working through the to-do list.

Sleep has become non-negotiable. When I was younger I thought I could live on three or four hours, but now I need 7 to 8.5 to feel human. Anything less and it feels like I’ve been on a night OUT. I don’t answer texts or calls after 8pm. This is not a drill. Early nights are my reset button.

Some days I smash through the to-do list and sleep like a pro. Other days I stare at the wall with my shirt on inside out, wondering where to start. Both are fine …it’s all part of figuring it out.

If I feed the dogs, tick one thing off the list and remember my shirt the right way round, I call that balance .

What about you?