Dear diary,
It’s a new normal Sunday for me.
Usually, the world tells you that Sundays are for resetting, for planning the week ahead, or for going out on big family adventures. But if you’ve been following this blog for a while—or if you live with a disability or chronic illness yourself—you know that our calendars don't always look like everyone else's.
Today, my calendar just says: Rest.
I’m sitting here with a cup of tea (the third one? possibly the fourth), listening to the hum of the house. The washing machine is doing its thing in the background—a sound that always grounds me—, and I am trying, really trying, to listen to my body.
Living with Cerebral Palsy (CP) is a constant negotiation. It’s a daily board meeting between what my brain wants to do and what my body is actually willing to permit. Lately, the physical side of things has been loud. There have been twinges in my neck, pain in my foot, and that heavy, familiar fatigue that feels like wearing a coat made of lead.
In the past, I would have fought this. I would have sat here feeling guilty, looking at the dust motes dancing in the light, thinking about all the things I should be doing. I would have worried that I wasn’t being consistent enough, or loud enough, or "productive" enough.
But I’m learning that there is a difference between being "productive" and being "creative."
Because even though I am physically sitting still—because the CP demands it today—my mind is travelling at a hundred miles an hour. That is the strange, beautiful contradiction of this life. The body might be parked in the slow lane, but the imagination is racing down the motorway.
That’s actually how my latest book came to be.
You might have seen that Book 4 is finally out in the wild. It’s on Amazon now, sitting there with its shiny cover, available for anyone to read. It feels strange to say it’s "done." For months, those poems were my constant companions. They were the scribbles made in waiting rooms, the notes typed out on my phone in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn't come, and the thoughts that kept me company when I was stuck in a chair, unable to move much else.
Now that it’s out, the standard advice is to push it. Market it. Shout about it. Post about it every hour.
But that’s not really the "Sweetestmoondust" way, is it?
The book is out there. It exists. It is a branch of this tree, but it isn’t the whole tree. The tree is this—the reality of a Sunday where the biggest achievement is managing the pain levels and keeping the peace.
And besides, my brain has already moved on.
Even as I sit here nursing this tea, guarding my energy, I can feel the spark of something new starting to catch. It’s the "writer’s curse"—you finish one project, and before the ink is even dry, the next idea starts tapping on your shoulder. I’m already plotting the next thing. I won’t say too much yet (mostly because it’s still a chaotic mess of notes and daydreams), but it’s there.
It reminds me that resilience isn't always about fighting the current. Sometimes, resilience is just floating.
So, if you are reading this and feeling guilty because you aren’t "hustling" today, or because your body has forced you to stop when you wanted to go—please, take a breath with me.
You are allowed to just be. You are allowed to let the washing machine provide the soundtrack to your day. You are allowed to let your creative work be a quiet stream rather than a flood.
I am going to finish this tea. I am going to rest my neck. And I am going to let the new ideas bubble away quietly in the background while I do absolutely nothing else.
Thank you for being here, and for reading the branches of my story.
With love (and plenty of tea),
💓
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