Marianne had always believed that comfort was a kind of love.It was there in the way the kettle clicked off at precisely the right moment each morning, as if it had memorised her preference for tea that was strong but not bitter. It lived in the soft indentation on Harold’s side of the mattress, a hollow made by a man who slept like a promise—steady, predictable, always returning to the same place. It lingered in the arrangement of their home: the framed wedding photograph that had faded gently at the edges, the crocheted throw folded over the arm of the lounge, the calendar on the wall with its neat squares and dutiful notes.Comfort was, Marianne told herself, a blessing. A grown-up kind of happiness. A life without storms.And yet—some mornings, she stood at the kitchen sink, hands submerged in sudsy water, and felt a strange, quiet panic rise inside her like a bird battering its wings against glass.Outside, the street was waking. A postie trundled by in fluorescent yellow. Somewhere, a child cried, then laughed. A dog barked at nothing and everything. Life carried on in a hundred different directions, and Marianne’s life carried on in one.Harold’s footsteps came down the hall, familiar as the second hand of a clock. He appeared at the doorway, tie half-done, his hair still damp from the shower.“Tea?” he asked, though it was not a question. It was a ritual, and rituals did not require surprise.“It’s ready,” Marianne said. Her voice sounded pleasant. She had spent years perfecting pleasant.He crossed to her, kissed her cheek—dry, brief, affectionate in the way of a man who felt love as something reliable, like the roof over one’s head. Then he sat at the table and opened the newspaper, the pages lifting like wings and settling again.Marianne dried her hands and watched him for a second longer than she meant to. Harold, with his orderly habits and careful shoes. Harold, who had always wanted the same things—stable work, a tidy house, a wife who smiled easily at barbecues and remembered people’s birthdays.Harold wasn’t cruel. That would have been easier to name, easier to fight.He was good.That was the problem.Because it made Marianne’s restlessness feel like a kind of sin.She carried the mug to him, set it beside his elbow. He murmured thanks without looking up. The kettle hissed softly as it cooled. The clock ticked. The day fell into place like a puzzle piece.“You’re quiet,” Harold said, still reading.“I’m fine,” Marianne replied, because she had said it so many times that the words had worn smooth.Harold’s brow creased at the business section.“Well. Try not to get stuck in your head. You always do that.” He lowered the paper and offered a smile meant to reassure. “Go for your walk later. You’ll feel better.”She nodded. Harold had solutions for everything, neatly parcelled. He would have mended her restlessness the way he mended a dripping tap: tighten, adjust, move on.After he left, the house became very still.Marianne stood in the hallway and listened to the distant growl of his car reversing out of the driveway. The sound faded, and then there was nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle tick of the clock.She pressed her fingertips to the wall, as though she needed to steady herself. The paint was smooth, recently touched up, the colour Harold had chosen—Warm Beige, as if even paint could be trained to behave.She walked into the lounge, past the family photos, past the bookshelf where the spines were arranged by height and colour. She paused by the window. In the glass, her reflection looked like the sort of woman who had everything she was meant to want.She tried to remember when she had begun to feel like she was shrinking inside her own life.It hadn’t been sudden. It had been gentle, the way water wears stone.She remembered the first time she’d stopped painting.In the early years, when the children were small and Harold was still building his career, Marianne had taken short bursts of freedom where she could find them. She had painted at the kitchen table while spaghetti boiled on the stove, while tiny feet pattered around her, while the radio played softly in the background. Her canvases were messy, bright, brave.Then came the school schedules, and the meetings, and the endless lists. Then came Harold’s long hours, and the way he would sigh if he came home to a sink of dishes.It had been easier, Marianne thought, to put the paintbrush down than to endure that sigh. Easier to tell herself she would come back to it one day.One day had stretched into years.She walked to the cupboard where her paints used to be. She opened it, half-expecting the tubes to have multiplied in the dark, waiting for her. But the shelf held only Harold’s spare light bulbs, a packet of batteries, a carefully labelled box of documents.She closed the cupboard slowly, her throat tightening.It would be ridiculous, she told herself. To feel grief over something as small as paint. Over herself.The phone rang, startling her. She moved to it quickly, grateful for the interruption, and lifted the receiver.“Hello?”“Marianne?” The voice was bright, startled with recognition. “Oh my gosh—it’s Carol.”Carol.The name hit her like a gust of wind from a door flung open.

The first time Kerri Sawyer almost chose a different life, she was seventeen and standing at the edge of the wharf in St. Elmo Bay, her school shoes damp with salt spray and her heart thudding hard enough to hurt.The sea was restless that afternoon—pewter under a sour wind—and the fishing boats tugged at their ropes as if they, too, wanted to slip free. Around her, the town carried on: Mrs Duffy’s bell over the bakery door, the clink of milk bottles, the distant growl of a bus grinding up the hill. But Kerri heard only the voice beside her.“Come with me,” Mike said. He was all sun-browned confidence and restless possibility, collar open, grin quick, eyes bright as storm light. “Just for a while. Melbourne. We’ll work. We’ll figure it out. We’ll be something.”Kerri’s fingers tightened around the folded paper in her pocket—her acceptance into the nursing program. Her mother had cried when it arrived, pride and fear tangled together. Her father had held it like something delicate, something that could flutter away if he breathed too hard. Nursing was sensible. Nursing was steady. It was a clear path out of a small town that could be kind but also close, like a warm jumper you couldn’t take off.Mike was the opposite of sensible. Mike was the sea.“You can’t just—” she began, and stopped, because the terrible, glorious truth was that she could. She could turn with him, walk to the bus stop, leave behind her mother’s careful plans and the little bedroom with faded floral curtains. She could become the kind of woman who didn’t ask permission.Mike leaned closer, his voice lowered by the wind. “You’re not meant to be trapped here, Kerri. I see you. I see how you want more.”And he did, in a way. He saw the part of her that sat on the roof at night, watching the highway lights and wondering who was heading somewhere else. He saw the part that felt too big for St. Elmo Bay.But hovering between them were the quiet weights of home: her mother’s hands red from dishwater; her father’s breath already shortened by factory dust; her little brother, Tom, who still crawled into her bed when he had nightmares.Kerri looked at Mike’s face and pictured it older, laughter lines deepening, hope or disappointment settling at the corners of his mouth. She pictured herself with him in a rented room that smelled of onions and wet wool, washing dishes in a café, laughing anyway because youth can turn hardship into an adventure.Then she pictured her mother standing alone at the sink. She pictured her father pretending he didn’t need help. She pictured Tom in the schoolyard, looking for her.“I can’t,” she said softly.Mike’s grin faltered. “Not ever?”“Not like this,” Kerri whispered.He held her gaze, as if sheer stubbornness might tilt the world. Then he stepped back, sharp nod, jaw set. “All right. But don’t forget you had wings.”Ten minutes later, the bus came. Kerri watched from the wharf as Mike climbed aboard with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. When it disappeared around the bend, she walked home with salt on her lips and the acceptance letter in her pocket like a stone.She told herself she’d chosen the right thing.But late at night, when the wind rattled the windows, she wondered what it might have felt like to choose the horizon.

We are taught that leaving must be loud to be justified.

It wasn’t the intense kind she saw in movies, not fireworks or loud declarations, but something softer and more certain. To Victoria, love was when life finally made sense, when the restless part inside settled and said, Here. This is it.

The house stood silently, never hinting it was merely a temporary refuge.

Victoria woke before the light.

As the year folds into its final chapter, I want to thank you — deeply — for being here.

The arrival of the New Year is anything but subtle.

We live in a world that celebrates noise—loud success, big announcements, and visible progress. We're often told that constant movement is necessary, and if we're not always producing or achieving, we might be falling behind. But some of the most important times in our lives are the quiet ones. These are the unseen, uncelebrated, and often misunderstood seasons. They are the times when nothing seems to be happening, but everything is actually changing.

 Don’t forget these breezy beach-day essentials: a wide-brim hat, chic sunnies, lightweight towel, SPF, hydrating mist, a good read, and a hint of shimmer. Stay stylish, sun-safe, and seaside-ready. Here’s your go-to guide for packing the perfect beach tote.

Ah, summer. The season of sunshine, longer days, and a subtle promise of reinvention. Whether you're juggling work, school, parenting, or your personal hustle, summer is the perfect time to reset, refocus, and recharge — not just your energy, but your goals too.