There are moments in life that change us in an instant.

And then there are the quieter ones. The decisions that seem perfectly sensible at the time, yet echo through the years in ways we don’t recognise until much later.

I’ve been thinking about one of those moments recently.

I was about twelve or thirteen when my parents arranged weekly dyslexia support sessions for me. They’d managed to secure a place at a specialist school in Bristol, and I was given a choice. I could miss a core lesson each week or I could miss netball.

I adored netball. If I missed the core subject, there would be catch-up work waiting for me. If I missed games, there wouldn’t. So it was the sensible decision to sacrifice netball. I remember my parents praising me for making such a mature choice.

Looking back, I don’t think anyone did anything wrong.

The dyslexia support was invaluable, and if I were faced with the same decision today, I’d probably make it again.

But I think something else happened that day.

Without anyone intending it, I absorbed a quiet message:

The things that feel light and enjoyable are often the easiest to let go of when life becomes busy. 

The slow drifting

As school became more demanding, my free time slowly disappeared.

Thankfully, choosing Art for GCSE and A Level protected some creativity in my week.

Outside school, some of my happiest moments were wonderfully ordinary.

I’d walk our dog, then often spend time with my grandmother. We’d potter in her garden or around her home, tackling little jobs together while chatting about anything and everything. Nothing felt rushed. Nothing needed to be remarkable.

When we’d finished, we’d sit down with a pot of tea (always Earl Grey blended with Lapsang Souchong), some chocolate digestives and the crossword. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we simply enjoyed being together.

At the time, those afternoons just felt like everyday life.

Looking back, I realise they were quietly teaching me something.

That a meaningful life isn’t built only from milestones and achievements.

It’s also built from connection, conversations and comfort. Shared laughter. Being useful to someone you love. Taking time to notice the season you’re in.

Then came university. A combined science degree and clinical training at a London university left little room for anything else. For a while I sang in a choir, but eventually even that became one commitment too many.

Life became efficient. Structured. Focused.

Without noticing, I slowly stopped doing many of the things that had quietly kept me well.

I no longer wandered in nature. I rushed between lectures and the Underground. I didn’t garden. I rarely drew for pleasure. I stopped pottering.

Everything became about the next deadline, the next placement, the next achievement.

At the time, I thought I was simply growing up.

Now I wonder if I was quietly growing away from myself.

The things that hold us together

Looking back, I can see that I dismissed so many simple pleasures because they didn’t seem important enough.

They weren’t productive. They didn’t improve my CV. They didn’t help me achieve the next goal, so they quietly slipped away.

The irony is that they were the very things supporting my emotional wellbeing all along.

Walking.

Drawing.

Reading.

Gardening.

Baking.

Making.

Noticing.

None of them looked particularly significant. But together, they were.

A gentle life isn’t a small life

It took me years to realise that constantly proving my worth had come at a cost.

Like many people, I carried a quiet sense that I needed to achieve in order to deserve my place. Imposter syndrome became a familiar companion.

Eventually, my physical and mental health reminded me that something had to change.

Recovery wasn’t about finding one grand solution. It was about slowly returning to the ordinary things I’d left behind.

Reading because I wanted to. Drawing because it brought me joy. Walking without needing to reach a destination. Baking. Gardening. Writing. Completing a jigsaw puzzle. Sewing a tapestry. None of these activities are extraordinary. But together, they’ve helped me build what I think of now as a gentle life.

Not a perfect life. Not a small life. But a life that makes space for the things that help me feel like myself.

Sometimes I wonder if that is also where Verbena Wave began. Not as something I set out to build as a business. But as something that grew quietly from rediscovering the parts of myself I had set aside.

Creativity, reflection, noticing — these weren’t new ideas. They were things I had always needed, but had stopped making space for. And over time, they became something I could share.

A gentle reminder that the small things we often overlook are rarely small at all. They are often the things that hold us together.

The small things were never small

I used to believe that the things worth protecting were the impressive ones. The qualifications. The career. The measurable achievements.

I don’t believe that anymore.

The conversations over a cuppa. The quiet walk. The library book. The sketchbook opened for ten minutes. The kindness shown to a friend.

These moments rarely make headlines. But they shape our lives in ways that are difficult to measure and impossible to replace.

I’ve come to believe that who we are, how we love and how we care for the people around us matters just as much as anything we achieve.

Perhaps even more.

A gentle invitation

As you finish reading this, I’d love to leave you with one question.

What is something you used to enjoy, just for you, that you’ve quietly let slip away?

You don’t need to make a plan or promise yourself you’ll start again tomorrow.

Just notice what comes to mind.

And if it still feels meaningful… perhaps it isn’t gone at all.

Perhaps it’s simply waiting.

A gentle next step 

If you’d like gentle reminders and reflections to help you reconnect with yourself and the beauty in everyday life, you’re warmly invited to join my monthly newsletter.

Or, if you’d like to bring a little more calm and creativity into your everyday moments, you can explore the Verbena Wave collection.