On Coming, Back (Slowly)

I didn’t mean to vanish. It’s been longer than I’d like since I last sat here, letting words spill out like they do when the world quiets just enough. A project pulled me under (something in haematology and quality-of-life research that’s equal parts exhilarating and exhausting). The kind that keeps you up late chasing grant ideas and survivor stories, only to leave little room for the rest. January blurred by in meetings, more meetings, and the quiet hum of spreadsheets. Days felt booked solid, with no space for the softer things that refill me.

But even in that stretch, I didn’t disappear entirely. Some parts of me refused to shrink. January brought three books that anchored me when everything else felt adrift. Adam Kay’s This Is Going to Hurt, a junior doctor’s raw NHS diaries, made me laugh at some parts and was my first 5 stars of 2026, its exhaustion and humanity hitting close to my epidemiology grind. Mikki Daughtry’s All This Time, a YA tale of fractured love and second chances, left me crying, wrapped in my favourite blanket at dawn, a soft reminder to cherish what endures. And F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, timeless in its shimmer of ambition and loss, echoed my restless drive; the green light is just a pause, not a race. Those pages were my rebellion, stolen in the margins between calls.

Music faded too, replaced by podcasts that fit the rhythm of my days. No more looping playlists to drown out the noise. Instead, voices dive into ideas that linger. Conversations about public health in unexpected places, or the slow art of tending to what lasts. They played while I chopped vegetables or folded dough, turning routine into something sharper, more alive. It wasn’t planned, just a shift: quality over volume, depth over distraction.

And friendships (the real ones, not the surface kind). I’ve started prioritising them fiercely. These three outings were January’s magic: pizza with a friend right after a draining health meeting, where we decompressed over shared slices and real talk. Then chicken wings with another dear friend, followed by hearty desserts at The Chocolate Bar, served by one of the warmest people I’ve ever met, we laughed with him and felt light, grateful that souls like his even exist, he truly gave one of the best services. A girls’ night at one of my girls’ houses over snacks and laughter. A voice note exchanged at midnight, unpacking the weight of a hard week. These aren’t the friendships that fill schedules. They’re the ones that clear space in your soul. In a month stacked with obligations, choosing who gets your energy feels like a quiet power.

On the days that aren’t claimed by books, podcasts, or those vital calls, I’m still buried in work. Haematology survivor stories demand attention: longitudinal QoL data, symptom burdens that linger years after treatment. It’s the work that lights me up and drains me dry, the kind where public health meets personal stakes. Grant proposals half-written at 2 a.m., questions about how to measure hope in numbers. But even there, I catch glimpses of why I do it: patterns emerging from complex datasets,, a chance to make meaning from mess.

Coming back here feels like surfacing after a deep dive. No dramatic leap, just steady breaths finding their rhythm again. The kitchen helped, as it always does. Those cinnamon rolls from last week, gooey and imperfect, were my first real exhale. Kneading dough became a way to unclench, to remember that creation doesn’t always need a deadline. Baking, reading, listening, connecting, they’re the threads pulling me upright again.

This isn’t a grand return or a polished manifesto. It’s a note to say I’m here, piecing it back together. One book, one conversation, one warm bite at a time.

What about you? If you’ve drifted from something you love (writing, a hobby, a friendship) and are inching back, what pulled you first? What’s the small shift that’s steadying your days? I’d love to hear, and maybe swap podcast recs in the comments.