It was the end of January 2020. The dreich, bitter Edinburgh air cut through skin and bone as a chapter of my life quietly — and then suddenly — came to a close.
What had once felt solid had grown thin, and the truth finally surfaced.
When we avoid committed action and let other forces lead the way, change doesn’t politely wait — it pulls the rug from under us.
Everything is temporary. Like the seasons, we shed old layers and step forward again, lighter and a little wiser.
Although I chose to end a relationship that no longer fit, I’d let it linger far beyond its natural life. I mistook loyalty for love, and comfort for truth. What I didn’t expect was how much space would open up once I finally let go.
I’d tried to be strong for someone else — to hold things together after loss, to soften pain, to make myself smaller in the hope it would make things easier.
Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of a simple truth: love cannot survive when you abandon yourself.
And yet, even in the mess of it all and the people I’d unintentionally hurt - including myself - something steady remained.
A quiet fire. A familiar flame.
A sense of soul that had always guided me — gently, instinctively — towards warmth, movement and colour.
Towards wide skies, unfamiliar streets, salt water and sunlight.
Towards living.
What had once felt light now felt restrictive. I could honour what had been without forcing myself to stay there.
That realisation, painful as it was, brought relief.
The weeks that followed blurred together. I moved into a small flat in Fountainbridge and began to breathe again. For the first time in a long while, I felt the freedom of being on my own — not lonely, but open.
I trusted that, given time, I’d find my feet.
Then the world shifted. Something brewing in distant lands arrived at our doorstep, and suddenly movement — something I’d always relied on — was taken from us.
A trip north for Mother’s Day became an unexpected pause, and the freedom I’d just begun to reclaim narrowed overnight.
Even then, life found ways to shine through. Time slowed. Days softened.
I ran 5Ks with my dad, swam in the sea at Findhorn Bay, got lost in novels, played board games, and soaked up moments with my parents that I’ll always treasure.
I held on to what I always have: a belief in what’s out there. In sunsets and new horizons. In friendships that feel like home anywhere in the world.
In sitting on a hill with people you love, kaleidoscope eyes open, feeling utterly present — a reminder that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.
Sense of Soul was born from that place. From loss, yes — but more so from return.
The start of a return to myself. To curiosity, freedom, and a deep love for life in all its changing forms.
Just a little longer, I told myself. There was — and still is — so much to live for.